Page 40 of Devoted to the Duke (The St. Clairs 1)

Chapter Thirteen

Five years later...

Catherine placed thewet washcloth she’d used to bath her father in the basin of water as Strong dried the earl’s useless limbs. Together, it took some minutes to dress him. She recalled how long the process lasted when she’d first brought him home to Statham Manor after the accident. She and Strong had learned much together as they’d cared for the man they both loved.

Strong combed the earl’s sparse hair, smoothing it down. They’d long ago abandoned the notion of shaving him. It proved too difficult and seemed unnecessary since he never had visitors beyond Doctor Patterson. Edward Crawford had come only once. When he’d seen the state his brother was in, her uncle told her he couldn’t bear to see his flesh and blood that way, so helpless. No longer a man.

His words infuriated Catherine and she’d ordered her uncle out. She’d apologized profusely to her father for his own kin’s harsh words. The earl, who rarely spoke, had wept in silence.

She handed the basin to Strong. “Thank you for your help.”

“It’s my pleasure, Lady Catherine. The earl’s been good to me since I was a boy. I intend to always be good to him.”

The cheerful valet left and Catherine tidied up things as her father dozed. She finally seated herself in the armchair by the window and picked up her pencil. She chewed on the end as she envisioned the next scene, closing her eyes several times to let it play out in her mind. When she had everything worked out, she reached for paper and began writing.

Telling stories had always come as second nature to her. She’d entertained Leah for years with tales she made up on the spot. Some of them Leah begged for over and over and Catherine began writing them down, changing them slightly until both she and Leah were satisfied. Over the years, she’d amassed a large stack of stories. Though she had ample funds in which to run the estate, she found herself growing slightly bored with her quiet life in the country. Though she got out to do some charity work in the nearby village, the bulk of her time had been spent at her father’s side in this bedchamber. He slept for much of the day and so she’d found ways to pass the time.

At first, it had been writing more children’s stories and also reading everything in the downstairs library. She enjoyed going to another time and place since she rarely got out and saw so few others.

Then everything changed with the publication ofSense and Sensibility, writtenBy a Lady. Catherine knew that society considered writing a degrading occupation for women, one that robbed them of their femininity. Any book published by a female was done so anonymously so as not to damage its author’s reputation. No women would openly admit to wanting to become a so-called literary lioness.

When she’d first readSense and Sensibility, it had been over a year since her mother’s death and her father’s incapacitation. Catherine had drunk up the story of Elinor and Marianne, the older Dashwood sisters, as they struggled with poverty and affairs of the heart. Their younger sister, Margaret, reminded her so much of Leah. Catherine had wept as Willoughby shredded poor Marianne’s heart and how the secret engagement of Lucy Steele to the romantic Edward Ferrars prevented Elinor from ever finding happiness. Her heart ached at how Colonel Brandon loved Marianne from afar and Marianne’s callous treatment of the military man. In the end, the author managed to turn Catherine’s tears of sorrow into ones of great joy, with both Elinor and Marianne finding lasting love.

After reading the grand love story, Catherine began one of her own.

She never admitted that she wrote of love because she would never have it for herself. Once, at that ball so many years ago, she’d fancied a time she might find love with Jeremy St. Clair. Fate had intervened, keeping her from pursuing a friendship—and possible romantic attachment—with him. She learned months later from Charlotte’s letters that Jeremy wed the bashful, timid Lady Mary Mowbray before the end of the Season. While she couldn’t picture the dashing marquess with such a shy creature, she knew it had been his choice to make. Charlotte also wrote to Catherine that Jeremy’s father had passed and that he’d become the next Duke of Everton.

She doubted she would ever see him again—and so to try and heal her heavy heart, she wrote of Jeremy St. Clair. Even though the author ofSense and Sensibilitywent on to write new romances, Catherine stopped when she’d finished her single effort. Too many of her private thoughts were spilled onto the page, even if she did disguise the names. She allowed many bad things to occur to the couple in her book in order to make their story more interesting. If she let her couple meet and easily fall in love, where was the story? Instead, she brutally attacked her characters, putting them through misery before she allowed them to find their happily ever after with one another.

If only she had the same in her future.

She stopped after that one effort at romantic fiction and put it away in a box under her bed. Gathering her courage once again, she went back to her children’s tales and decided she would try to become published under the pen name C. E. Lawford. She’d been christened Catherine Elizabeth, hence the C. E. She thought Lawford was close enough to Crawford without giving any clue to her real identity. Since married women in Britain couldn’t legally sign a contract, that was her saving grace. Once she’d turned twenty-one, she was of age and signed with her publisher.

She was more fortunate than most would-be authors. She didn’t have the option to sell via subscription, where a set group agreed to buy her book in advance. That only applied to well-known authors or those with a patron who recommended the book to friends. Instead, she had enough capital to publish on commission and agreed to take on the financial risk. Her publisher paid the costs of publication and then repaid himself as her books were sold, charging a ten-percent commission for each book which left the shelves.

After production costs were paid back, the rest of the profits fell to her. Thank goodness her books had sold well enough to recover the costs—and then some. Catherine kept the funds she earned in a separate account, knowing the day would come when her father passed and she and Leah would be at the mercy of her greedy uncle. Surprisingly, life hadn’t worked out as she expected. Her father still lived, while Edward Crawford had actually been the first to die. She’d received word from her cousin last month of Uncle Edward’s death. Since women didn’t attend funerals, Catherine wrote a short note of condolence. Martin hadn’t bothered to call at Statham Manor in five years. She didn’t want any word from her to change the situation.

Taking up her pencil, she returned to her latest story about a brother and sister who discovered a magic broomstick.

Two hours later, she set aside her writing and stood, stretching her arms high above her head. She went to the bed and heard the usual wheezing from her father. His breathing had never been right since the carriage accident.

Seeing he was awake, she said, “Hello, Papa. I hope you feel nice and clean in your new nightshirt and fresh sheets.”

“Cath... rine,” he said, a faint smile on his lips.

“Yes, Papa. I’m here. Strong helped me bathe you. Do you need turning again?”

They’d learned from experience to move him to different positions for brief amounts of time to keep the bedsores away. Even then, some still formed. She was grateful he really couldn’t feel them.

“I love... you.”

She tenderly cupped his cheek. “I love you, too, Papa.”

He coughed and then his breathing grew more labored. His eyes grew larger and then his breath came in rapid spurts.

“Should I have Strong fetch Doctor Patterson?” she asked anxiously.

“No,” he rasped. “It’s... time.”

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