Page 2 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

Kneeling by his father’s bed, Harry tried to offer a reassuring smile. He had never been particularly close to the man. For the most part, he regarded his father with distrust and regret, but in this moment, he needed to be supportive and compassionate.

“I’m here, Father. I brought Doctor Hastings with me. Julia’s husband. I want him to look at your wound.”

Nathaniel approached but came no closer than the foot of the bed, clutching his medical bag tightly.

“Hastings?” his father said and turned his fever-bright eyes to the foot of the bed. When he spoke again, he hissed his words. “Get this man out of my house at once. Remove him from this property.”

Harry stiffened and his stomach clenched tightly. “Father—”

“Remove him,” his father shouted, then coughed and sunk into his pillows.

“I can help, Mr. Devon—” Nathaniel said, his voice soft, but he was cut off.

“Be gone,” Devon said, turning to face Harry. “Neeson will see to my needs.”

Neeson came forward and took Nathaniel’s arm, as though to remove him from the room himself. “You are over-exciting my patient, Doctor Hastings, and that will only make his fever worse.”

Nathaniel carefully pulled his arm from the apothecary’s grasp, then looked at Harry with a somber expression. “I cannot help him if he will not allow it, Harry,” he said.

Harry looked from his father to Neeson, who preened like a pompous old goat. “Thank you for trying,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Please tell my sisters of the situation here.”

Shaking his head, Nathaniel shared one last look of sympathetic irritation with Harry before he left the room, bag still in hand.

“How dare you bring him here,” Mr. Devon whispered, his eyes closed tight. “If I live or die, it will not be because that man touched me.”

“Yes, Father,” Harry said, as he’d been trained to do his whole life. He settled into a chair near his father’s bed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Wait.” The injured man pressed his bloodless lips together. “If infection sets in, there will be a fever. The loss of my leg is a possible outcome.”

Though Harry wasn’t particularly close to his father, who possessed a cold and unfeeling nature, the idea of the man dying before his eyes unsettled him. “If it would save you to amputate—”

“Neeson has his orders,” Devon said with a snarl, then he began to pant.

The apothecary shuffled forward quickly. “You shouldn’t upset him, young sir.”

Harry dropped his face into his hands and barely repressed a groan. Then he sat up and removed his coat. If he had to sit in the oven-hot room, with two old men he felt nothing but frustration for, he was at least going to be comfortable.

“It is a shame you were injured today, Father.” Harry forced some lightness into his voice. The atmosphere oppressed him, but with nothing to do but sit, he needed some way to alleviate the building stress. “It is a fine night. My sisters and their families are all well, should you wonder, and anticipate the New Year with great hope.”

His father snorted. “Foolish of them. All poor nobodies, except Rebecca.” He started coughing. “I had hopes for this family. You see how that turned out. Everyone a disappointment to me.”

Harry knew this line of lecturing well enough to give it to himself, though he never agreed with it. Their father’s hopes had been to manipulate each of his daughters into advantageous marriages, enriching his coffers and social connections, with little care for their personal wishes.

In time, Harry would be forced to choose between bowing to his father’s wishes or being cut off. Though used to the ways of a wealthy gentleman, Harry had never really considered taking on his father’s responsibilities.

“Best not to antagonize him, sir,” the apothecary whispered loudly across the room.

“I am sick, not deaf, Mr. Rigley,” Harry’s father muttered darkly, before he turned to cough into his pillow again. “And the boy needs to be aware of his legacy. If I die—”

Harry jerked a little straighter. “You will not, Father. You have a strong constitution.” Imagining his father succumbing to anything, even illness, against his own wishes was a foreign concept.

“Be quiet, Horace.” His father’s frame trembled and he moaned. “You will find everything in order, ready for you to take up your duties when the time is right.”

Swallowing, Harry leaned closer to his father’s side and tried to sound certain as he spoke. “I am still studying, Father. And when I am through at university, I will come home. You will teach me how you wish things to be done.” Of that Harry had no doubt. He would be thoroughly educated in his father’s less-than-savory business practices.

“Foolish boy.” His father squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, though it was a rasping sound that made Harry wince. “Let us hope you are less like your useless sisters than I suspect, or the legacy I leave you will mean nothing.”

The legacy of a callous heart, a man who loved money and position more than his own children, was not one that Harry wanted. In truth, he distanced himself as much as he could from his father in all matters. His friends at school were the men on scholarship, not the sons of lords. His favorite pursuits were those that gave him joy, not income or prestige. His sisters, whom his father ignored, were dearer to Harry than his own life.