Page 43 of Dearest Beast
Where was the governess or the nurse?
Or, really, Berab himself?
Not that he would see such as his responsibility, despite the fact that the girl was his offspring. A common attitude both inside and outside their communities. From her observation, most fathers had little interest in interacting with their children until they were old enough that their needs were no longer required to be managed and centered.
Her friend Isabelle’s had been a rare exception, but even he had delegated a great deal of responsibility to nurses, governesses, his loyal valet, and, on frequent occasions, her.
“I turned thirty this past June,” she informed the girl.
“Why don’t you have a husband to care for you?” Fannie asked.
As if a husbands would be particularly useful in such a situation. Rebecca rolled her eyes at the notion. She’d seen plenty of husbands over the years and had never been particularly impressed by any of their instincts for caregiving. At least when it interfered with their other responsibilities and desires.
Rebecca frowned. Well, not “never.” Hannah’s husband, Sol, had been so attentive since he learned of her early pregnancy, it was a wonder that the naturally independent woman hadn’t locked him out of the house.
And, to be fair, Isabelle’s husband, Aaron, had been rather impressive with his elderly grandmother-in-law.
But they were exceptions and not rules.
“I can care for myself quite well, thank you,” Rebecca responded to the girl’s question.
“Not now,” the girl taunted back. “But you still shouldn’t be here.” Her eyes flashed with annoyance.
The child’s displeasure shouldn’t amuse Rebecca quite as much as it did, but one had to take their wins somewhere. Even if the win was more embarrassing than impressive.
“No, but unfortunately, that matters little in the face of current circumstances,” she replied.
“Don’t you have any brothers or sisters?” Fannie asked, pouting, though there was a distinct note of curiosity in her voice as well.
“No, it’s just me and my mother,” Rebecca informed her. “Who, before you inquire, is currently in Brighton, and traveling back in this storm would be ill-advised.”
“You don’t have a papa?” Berab’s son entered the room, wearing nothing but a large shirt, his feet bare.
“No,” Rebecca told both invading children. “He died prior to my birth,” she explained.
The young boy’s eyes widened. “My mama and Oma died,” Michael told her, drawing nearer, sticking his thumb into his mouth.
“Ourmama and Oma,” Fannie corrected, her tone officious. “You don’t even remember them,” she declared, narrowing her eyes at her younger sibling. “You’re too little.”
“I remember them too,” Michael returned, stamping his foot on the floor, not particularly loud given his small size, though enough to startle the cat, who leapt from Fannie’s arms and trotted out of the room, giving Rebecca a backward glance of warning.
Now Fannie was down from the bed, her feet thudding on the ground.
“Do not,” she retorted, her hands on her small hips.
“Do too.” Michael matched her pose, albeit the boy was required to gaze up due to their stark differences in height.
Oy. This could not be good. The last thing she needed was two bickering children. Where were their minders? It was truly a wonder this house wasn’t as damaged as hers.
Rebecca stared at the door for a moment, praying that assistance would arrive, but none did.
Ugh. Apparently, if she wanted something sensical to occur around here, she was going to have to do it herself.
She turned to Fannie. “What do you remember the most about your mother?”
Michael replied instead, showing off his small, slightly crooked teeth. “She had two dimples when she smiled, like me.”
“You can see that from her portrait,” Fannie scoffed, her nose in the air.
