Chapter 7
Dressed in a rich blue gown with a delicate net overlay, Dorothea sat inside the gently swaying coach.
The wheels clattered rhythmically against the uneven cobblestones as they trundled through the narrow street, the scent of horses and lilacs drifting through the small window slit.
She turned her attention to the boy seated across from her.
Tristan sat pressed against the window, his face lit with wonder. His breath fogged the glass as he peered out, captivated by the bustle of the Town.
As the coach turned a corner and the looming facade of the hospital came into view, she leaned forward in her seat.
“Tristan,” she said, drawing his attention, “before we arrive, I think it’s best you prepare yourself.
We don’t know how ill your mother truly is.
Her recovery may be slow… or uncertain.”
Tristan’s gaze shifted from the window to her face, his curiosity momentarily replacing his excitement. “Do you think people can see me inside the coach?”
“I do,” Dorothea replied.
He sat straighter, puffing out his chest. “I wonder if they think I’m someone important.”
“You are important,” she responded.
His face fell. “I’m not. I’m just a ruffian from the streets. I lived in an alley with my mum.”
“You must never let your circumstances dictate your worth. A person’s future is not determined by where they begin. With hard work and courage, you could one day live in a fine townhouse.”
His eyes widened. “Do you really think so?”
“I do. Look at Dominic—he wasn’t always a baron. He began as a Bow Street Runner and later served in the Royal Army. He earned every bit of what he has.”
Tristan lowered his gaze to his hands, now folded tightly in his lap. “My father joined the Royal Army to give us a better life, too, but he failed. He died.”
Dorothea’s heart ached for him. She reached across the carriage and took his small hand in hers. “He didn’t fail, Tristan. He gave everything he had, serving with honor. That is not failure—it’s bravery.”
“But we’re still poor,” he whispered.
“Perhaps,” she said gently, “but you still have your mother. I would trade everything I own to have more time with mine. She passed when I was young.”
Tristan looked up, pain flickering in his expression. “But my mum’s sick.”
“She’s not gone,” Dorothea said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Treasure what you do have. Life can change in the blink of an eye.”
He studied her face carefully. “Do you think she’ll live?”
Dorothea hesitated, not wanting to give him false hope. “I can’t say for certain but she’s under a doctor’s care now, and that is something.”
Tristan gave a small nod. “It was awfully kind of Lord Warwicke to bring her to the hospital.”
“Yes. It was.”
The coach came to a gradual stop in front of the hospital’s entrance. Dorothea released his hand as the footman opened the door and offered his arm. She stepped down, then turned and held out her hand to Tristan.
“Whatever we find inside, we’ll face it together,” she said.
He grasped her hand with surprising firmness. “Thank you, my lady.”
Once they were inside, the air was cool and still. An older man with white hair approached, his eyes sharp.
“Good morning, my lady,” he greeted with a small bow. “Lord Warwicke informed us of your arrival. I am Doctor Langley.”
Dorothea inclined her head politely. “A pleasure, Doctor.”
“Please,” he said, motioning towards a door, “follow me. I’ll take you to the boy’s mother.”
Dorothea’s steps quickened. “How is she?”
Doctor Langley glanced over his shoulder with a flicker of a smile. “You can ask her yourself. She’s awake.”
As they entered a long hall lined with neat rows of beds, Tristan suddenly cried out, “Mum!”
He dashed ahead towards a narrow bed where a pale, chestnut-haired woman was propped up against a stack of pillows. Her eyes were sunken but alert, and they lit up the moment she saw him.
“Tristan,” she rasped, holding her arms wide.
He leapt onto the bed, throwing his arms around her. “I was so scared,” he said tearfully. “I thought you were going to die like Father.”
She clutched him tightly. “Never, my love. I’d never leave you, not by choice.”
Doctor Langley approached the bedside. “Tabitha’s recovery has been extraordinary. She was weak from starvation, but once we began nourishing her, she improved rapidly.”
Dorothea stepped closer, her eyes taking in Tabitha’s fragile frame and the renewed light in her expression. “That’s wonderful news.”
Tabitha looked past her son, her gaze tentative. “Are you Lady Warwicke?”
“I am.”
Tabitha reached up to ruffle Tristan’s curls. “Please tell your husband how grateful I am. Without his help, I don’t know where we would be.”
Tristan sat up proudly and tugged at the hem of his clean shirt. “Look at my new clothes! Lord Warwicke had them made for me.”
“You look so handsome,” his mother whispered.
He lifted one foot. “And new shoes! No more holes.”
Tabitha’s eyes welled with emotion. “What can I ever do to repay you, my lady?”
Dorothea shook her head. “There’s no debt here. Just focus on getting better.”
Nestling beside his mother, Tristan announced, “Lady Warwicke wants to hire you as her lady’s maid.”
Tabitha’s mouth fell open. “Is that… true?”
“It is,” Dorothea confirmed. “Tristan told me you were the best there ever was.”
Tristan beamed proudly. “I did! And I told Lord Warwicke you weren’t a thief.”
Tears sprang to Tabitha’s eyes as she pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. “This feels like a dream. I don’t know what to say.”
Dorothea reached out and touched Tabitha’s shoulder gently. “I understand your husband was a soldier.”
Tabitha’s smile faded. “He died on the Continent.”
“My husband and my father were both soldiers,” Dorothea shared. “We must care for one another. Your husband gave everything in service of the Crown.”
Tabitha looked at her through a sheen of tears. “I miss him every day.”
Dorothea offered a warm, steadying smile. “Then let us honor his memory by building something stronger—for your sake, for Tristan’s. You’re not alone anymore.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Tabitha replied, her voice thick with emotion.
Dorothea opened her mouth to reply, but a sudden tickle in her nose caught her off guard. She turned slightly away and brought a lace-edged handkerchief to her mouth, stifling a delicate sneeze.
“Excuse me,” she murmured.
Doctor Langley tilted his head with concern. “Are you feeling quite well, Lady Warwicke?”
She pressed the handkerchief gently to her nose, frowning faintly. “I daresay a cold may be creeping up on me. Nothing more, I hope.”
The doctor stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Would you like me to examine you? Just to be sure?”
Dorothea waved a gloved hand in gentle dismissal. “Heavens, no, Doctor. It is merely the chill in the air or a passing tickle. I wouldn’t dream of troubling you over a trifling cold.”
Doctor Langley moved to a modest chest of drawers near the wall.
He opened one and removed a small glass bottle filled with a white powder.
“If you change your mind, this might at least help you rest more comfortably tonight.” He approached her and extended the bottle.
“A mild dose of laudanum. Enough for a few nights, should the symptoms worsen.”
Dorothea accepted it with a grateful smile. “You are very kind, Doctor Langley. Thank you.”
Tabitha let out a wide yawn and quickly raised a hand to cover her mouth, her cheeks coloring. “Pardon me.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Dorothea assured her. “You need rest more than anything right now. We’ll come again tomorrow.”
At that, Tristan jumped down from the bed with a burst of energy, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Lord Warwicke said I could ride a pony today!”
Tabitha blinked in surprise. “A pony?”
“Yes!” he beamed. “I’ve never even touched one before, let alone ridden! Do you think I’ll be good at it?”
A smile spread across Tabitha’s tired face. “I do,” she replied.
Tristan flung his arms around her again in a quick, tight embrace. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mum!” Then he turned and practically skipped towards the door.
Dorothea moved to follow, but before she could step away, Tabitha reached out and caught her hand.
“You and your husband…” she began, her voice trembling, “you’re a godsend, my lady. I wouldn’t be alive if Lord Warwicke hadn’t found me in that alleyway.”
Dorothea gently wrapped her fingers over Tabitha’s. “I’m grateful he did. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Tabitha’s gaze shifted towards her son, who was now standing with Doctor Langley, inspecting a pair of forceps with fascination. “I haven’t seen him this happy since before his father died.”
“Tristan is a remarkable boy,” Dorothea said, her voice warm. “There’s a quiet strength in him.”
Tabitha nodded, her voice barely audible. “He’s all I have. I stopped eating so he would have enough.”
Dorothea’s heart clenched. She gave Tabitha’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “You won’t have to make that kind of sacrifice again. There will be plenty of food at our townhouse for both of you.”
A tear slipped down Tabitha’s cheek as she slowly withdrew her hand. “I promise I’ll work hard. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” Dorothea replied. “But more than that, I want you well again—for Tristan’s sake. He needs his mother strong and whole.”
Tabitha moved to lay her head down onto the pillow. “I would do anything for my son,” she murmured.
Dorothea offered her a parting smile before she lifted her lace-edged handkerchief again and dabbed at her nose. The dull ache of congestion pressed just behind her eyes. She had little doubt that a few hours of sleep would surely chase away whatever cold threatened to take hold.