Chapter Eight
JANE CLOSED THE DOOR softly, conscious of the finality of her actions. It was over. That brief period of madness, excitement, and attraction was ended.
Leaning her forehead against the door, she told herself she had made the right decision, done the right thing for them both.
Then why am I crying? Tears slid from the corners of her closed eyes.
She felt them tracking to her chin before they launched to the floor.
Why did she feel so devastated when they had just a short acquaintance?
She allowed herself a few minutes of silent sobbing before squaring her shoulders and ruthlessly wiping the evidence of tears from her face.
She walked around the solitary desk to the abandoned chair, where a few short minutes ago she had been lost in a world of sensual bliss.
She dragged in a breath and forced the sensation of his touch, his strong arms around her, his warm lips on hers from her mind.
She slid into the chair and inched it toward the waiting paperwork.
Jane picked up the sheet on top of the pile and started reading.
An hour later, she had finished her tasks, the ledger now up-to-date, a series of letters ready for the post, and the desk tidied.
There was nothing left to do except to speak with the supervisor, Mrs. Green, before she departed.
She should feel a sense of satisfaction; instead her chest ached with unshed tears.
She found Joe to send him to bring a hackney carriage while she quickly spoke with Mrs. Green.
“Beg pardon, Miss Jane, but his lordship sent his carriage back for your use.”
“Oh!” She hadn’t expected such consideration from him. He had been so angry. She couldn’t impose upon him when she had so brutally dismissed him, and she wasn’t returning directly home. “Send my thanks and let the driver know that I will not be needing his assistance.”
By the time the hackney arrived, Jane waited impatiently at the entrance, anxious to complete the remainder of the day’s tasks and retreat to her bedroom. Joe stepped down and helped her in before giving the address and joining her inside.
Jane stopped briefly in Fleet Street to arrange the printing of her latest pamphlet. Within half an hour she was once again walking across the threshold of her home.
Instead of the usual quiet calm of a well-run household, a scene of upheaval and anguish greeted her. Anna ran to the door as it opened, looking stunned and blanched. “Oh, Jane, at last you’re home.”
“What’s happened?” Jane asked.
Anna gulped. “It’s Papa! He’s had a fall. He was climbing the stairs after the children’s lesson when he stumbled and fell. He couldn’t get up. Kit, Katherine, and I had to help him to his bed. We sent for Dr. Logan, and he is with him now. We are waiting to hear his diagnosis.”
Katherine and Kit hovered in the background.
Jane opened her arms, and they stepped into them. She hugged them wordlessly for a few moments, then tried to calm the situation. “We shall hear what Dr. Logan says before we panic, shall we?” Their bodies relaxed in her arms.
Jane guided them upstairs to her room and sat them on her bed while she stripped off her pelisse, gloves, and bonnet, asking them for details about how their father had appeared before his collapse.
By the time they had finished answering Jane’s questions, she had led them downstairs to the sitting room. Dr. Logan sought them out there soon afterwards. Jane led him into her father’s study so that he might talk unrestrained. Pointing him to the sofa, she perched on a chair opposite.
Dr. Logan, his mouth grim and his graying brows drawn together above his patrician nose, began abruptly.
“Well, Miss Brody, your father is resting comfortably now but he has had a serious brain seizure. He may recover or he may continue to have these episodes, slowly reducing his bodily functions until his passing.”
Jane gasped as the seriousness of her father’s condition sank in. “What can we do to give him the best chance of recovery?”
“There really is nothing except good nursing, keeping him calm, and praying for his improvement. Time alone will tell us which outcome to expect. I’m sorry, Miss Brody, that I can’t be clearer than this.”
“Thank you for all you have done and will continue to do, Dr. Logan.” She hesitated. “Perhaps also, after so many years, you should call me Jane.”
His professional mask slipped slightly, and his lips curved into a slight smile. “Thank you, Jane. Now, I presume you and your sister Anna will nurse him, so I will give you both some instructions before I leave. I’m on my way to a delivery.”
Jane hurried to collect Anna, and together they listened closely to Dr. Logan’s instructions.
A few minutes later, the sisters entered their father’s bedroom to discover him much weakened by his seizure. A flicker of relief crossed his face when he saw them. He found it difficult to talk, but clutched their hands.
***
FOR SEVERAL WEEKS THE two sisters shared the nursing of their father, but as each week passed it became apparent that he wasn’t going to improve.
William, Francis and Charlotte were advised to visit.
The brothers did so, but Charlotte wrote to say she was unwell and therefore her husband forbade her to travel.
Little by little their father’s ability to move his limbs and speak declined.
Late one evening, after his youngest children had made their evening visit to his bedchamber, he had another severe seizure.
Jane sent for Dr. Logan, but he shook his head after examining the reverend, indicating there was no hope.
Jane took her father’s hand in hers. He responded with a faint pressure.
Gradually over the course of the night his breathing reduced to nothing.
All the devastation of her previous experience with her mother’s illness and death weighted Jane’s body.
Numb from tiredness and grief, Jane carried out her duties.
At least, she told herself, she hadn’t been alone in the caring role, and her younger siblings were much older than when their mother died.
The funeral was a well-attended and gloomy event held a week later.
The sisters spent hours making their black mourning clothes—their uniform for the next six months.
A sizeable congregation paid its last respects, which was gratifying.
However, no one from their wider family appeared.
The feud that had existed in their parents’ lifetime would continue into the future.
The following day, Jane marshaled herself to visit the family solicitor to gain some understanding of their financial state.
She was greeted with sympathy and gravity by the wizened and white-haired Mr. Pettigrew.
He ushered her into the visitor’s chair opposite his desk and pulled her father’s will from a drawer.
“Well, Miss Brody, I’m sorry for your loss.
” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “Are you aware of the terms of your father’s estate? ”
“No. Not at all. My hope is that there are sufficient funds to support my three youngest siblings and myself in our family home for the foreseeable future.”
Mr. Pettigrew listened impassively, cleared his throat. “I will read the will to you.”
Jane listened in stunned silence. With each sentence, her stomach clenched tighter. She swallowed to keep the nausea at bay.
“I’m sorry to say, Miss Brody, as you can see, your father has left very little money to support you. He did not expect to pass so young. I’m sorry not to have better news.”
Jane nodded.
“How are your adult brothers situated?”
“William is a former army officer, hoping for work as a politician’s secretary now peace has returned. Francis is a curate. He hopes to be awarded his own parish soon, but the incumbent, although old, isn’t yet ready to retire. Edward and James are in the navy and posted overseas.”
The dour solicitor questioned her about the ages of her younger sisters and youngest brother, Kit, and the family’s hopes for his future.
“My sisters are only eighteen and thirteen. I expect they will marry, but that is some time off. Our father hoped Kit would attend university like Francis, but he is mad keen to follow Edward and James into the navy.”
Mr. Pettigrew pursed his thin lips. “Perhaps you should look into letting him have his wish. He is old enough to be taken on as a midshipman. You must have contacts in the navy to whom you and your brothers might apply.”
The lead weight in her stomach grew heavier. “You don’t seem at all confident that we can continue to support ourselves, Mr. Pettigrew. You must tell me exactly what our financial situation will be.”
“No, Miss Brody. I am not confident. By my reckoning, your total income from all funds is about one hundred pounds per year. Running your home must take up most of that.”
“Yes, it does.” Jane sighed. “I will have to find a way of earning our income, Mr. Pettigrew. Perhaps tutoring or running a girls’ school from our residence?”
He paused, looking closely at her, and spoke in a measured tone. “That would be a possibility. You would need contacts who would recommend you as a suitable person. Your youth and background might work against you, though.”
“My youth? I’m twenty-eight! Quite the spinster. Surely with friends such as Mrs. Courtice I could attract enough pupils from well-to-do families? My sister and I would share the teaching. If it is a day school, there would be less work involved than taking in boarders.”
“It is a plan of attack at least,” he conceded.
“In the meantime, I will administer the funds held in trust for you and your sisters. You will receive quarterly payments.” He stood to show her out.
“My clerk will give you a copy of your father’s will.
If I can help you any further, please let me know. ” He bowed her from his office.