Page 1 of The Gentleman's Confession
CHAPTER 1
London, England—December 1821
With a sizable inheritance toher name, Jemma Fielding had
intended to be a fine spinster, advocate to the poor, and lady champion of justice. However, such dreams rang vastly unimportant to her now, deteriorating at the same rapid pace as the health of her grandmother. The pale, slender person tucked under a lavender quilt hardly resembled the strong, vibrant woman who had raised Jemma from the tender age of three. Jemma’s sole dream now was for Grandmother to be well again. Nothing else mattered.
Softly stroking Grandmother’s age-worn hand, bent knuckles and corded veins from a lifetime of living and loving, Jemma whispered yet another prayer, then said, “Please, don’t abandon me.” She was the only mother Jemma had ever known.
Grandmother stirred, and Jemma lifted her bowed head. She hastily pushed aside her rumpled brown hair falling from its chignon in long, straight strands, then leaned forward in anticipation of meeting any need that might arise.
Grandmother’s heavy lids blinked slowly open, connecting with Jemma’s. “You’re still here.”
“Of course I am.” Jemma had spent seven weary days as a permanent fixture at Grandmother’s bedside and would commit to many, many more without a second thought.
The drapes were parted a few inches, and the early rays of sunshine poked through, alerting them both to the news that another day had passed without improvement.
“I told you to rest,” Grandmother whispered.
“And I didn’t listen.”
Grandmother’s laugh came out in a weak huff of air. “You always were a headstrong little thing.”
“I intend to apply the same will to seeing you better.” She smoothed Grandmother’s white, matted hair.
Grandmother’s head gently swayed from one side to the other. “No, dearest. Not this time.”
“You mustn’t speak so. I will do whatever I need to help you. Don’t you dare give up.” Jemma captured Grandmother’s hand again.
Grandmother closed her eyes, breathing so softly that Jemma thought she’d drifted off to sleep again. “Jemma ...”
“Yes?” Jemma slid off her chair and perched on the edge of the bed so Grandmother would not have to speak louder than necessary.
The translucent blue of Grandmother’s eyes peeked through again, half-lidded, as if the subtle movement exhausted her. “I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“About leaving you. I know it’s my time, and I cannot keep holding on. You have to let me go.”
Guilt snaked around Jemma’s aching heart. Unwittingly, she had kept Grandmother suffering to satisfy her own needs. If God willed Grandmother to return home like He had Jemma’s parents, nothing could stop Him. The least Jemma could do was offer Grandmother peace in her passing. She wiped at the sudden moisture dripping down her cheeks. “I don’t want you to suffer.”
“The greatest pain is not in my body but in my mind.” She paused to catch her breath. “The townhome in London is unentailed, and it shall be yours, but leaving you behind, unmarried and alone, torments me.”
“My aunt and uncle will take me in. You know how good they are to me. If leaving me must be done, you can be assured, I will be well taken care of.”
“But you will not be happy there for long. I know you, Jemma. You must have a place to call your own, as independent as you are, and a husband to walk through the ups and downs of this life by your side. I so dearly wanted to see this union and future with my own eyes. I’m afraid my worries about your happiness will follow me to the grave.” Grandmother’s chin quivered, breaking a piece of Jemma’s heart.
How meaningless Jemma’s goals seemed now. She had never intended to marry because she hadn’t the same upbringing as those with two living parents in high Society. Grandmother had given her autonomy, leading her to become a rather well-read bluestocking. The freedom had emboldened her to dedicate her free time to Rebel charity causes—causes her group of friends, known as the Rebels, had embraced. Ideas spiraled from there, and now she was attempting to sell her fashion sketches to magazines under a fictitious name so she might increase her donations. She enjoyed focusing on others’ needs and her own ambitions instead of pining for suitors. Grandmother had often encouraged her to accept a courtship, but Jemma wasn’t interested. Not when it had meant exchanging independence for the role of a submissive wife.
Perhaps being alone was worse than the alternative. Jemma no longer wanted independence. She wanted what Grandmother had given her—a family.
It wasn’t Grandmother’s way to nag or coerce Jemma, which made this last wish all the more impactful. Jemma reached down and kissed Grandmother’s forehead. It was cold, as if her life were fading before Jemma’s very eyes. There was no time to consider it. “Would it ease your heart if ... if I agreed to marry?”
Grandmother’s hand came up and rested on Jemma’s cheek, the effort no doubt exhausting her. “I don’t want you to simply marry, Jemma. I want you to findlove. I know you believe otherwise, but if you can open your heart, it is a relationship unlike any other.” She coughed, and her voice turned shaky. “It’s been twenty-five years since my husband died. It would bring me the greatest happiness and reassurance to see your heart carried up with a good man by your side.”
Jemma could somehow find the strength to marry. But find love? Her? She swallowed. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“He must be someone good and kind. Someone devoted to you and your happiness.”
