Page 93 of Dearest Beast
His daughter fidgeted for a moment in her chair, glancing at her lap then lifting her gaze to him once more. “Miss Adler just seemed a touch… sad, I suppose,” she said finally.
Roger settled back in his chair, contemplating the girl. “How did you deduce that?”
“She still spoke with me as usual and answered all my questions, but her eyes were far away,” Fannie explained. “And when Rose jumped into her lap, she hugged him. She never does that. She scratches his ears instead.” His daughter chewed her lip. “Rose didn’t mind, which was odd, as he minds when I squeeze him, but I think he could tell…” She leaned back in her seat. “I hope she feels better. I don’t want her to be sad.”
“I hope she feels better as well,” Roger murmured, taking another sip. It wasn’t his business, not truly. Yes, they were more than mere acquaintances and had shared some intimacies, but he certainly didn’t expect her to come to him with her troubles. She was private, like him, preferring to resolve things alone instead of wasting the time of others.
Except his time couldn’t be wasted. After all, with her home nearly completed, other than teaching the children, his schedule was rather open. Even if it wasn’t, the idea of her coming to him, of all people…
“You shouldn’t just hope. You should fix her,” his daughter all but demanded.
“You should,” Michael said, bouncing in his seat. “She likes you.”
“She likes you both too,” he told his children.
“I know,” Fannie said, her lips turning up a touch. “And I like her. Even if she isn’t afraid of me.” She turned to him, a knowing gaze coming into her light brown eyes, which reminded him a touch of his late mother. “But she likes you in a different way.”
“How?” Michael asked before sticking his thumb into his mouth.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Fannie said, taking a sip from her own cup, a perfect mimic of his gesture. Roger was so amused by it that he didn’t realize he’d neither probed nor corrected his daughter’s misguided assumption until hours later.
Rebecca lay in bed, staring at the fabric of the canopy above her, counting embroidered leaves on a branch. She’d already done the flowers. She should be sleeping. She had to sleep. If she didn’t sleep, she’d not be at her best for the next call. She needed to be at her best. Her patients deserved her best.
The door creaked opened. With a sigh, she rotated onto her side to see what Marguarite needed. Or more, to find a way to make the woman stop fretting over her. It was too much and made her feel guilty, and—Rebecca could only blink as not the maid but Roger himself stepped over the threshold, dressed formally in his usual austere jacket and vest, dark cravat tied flawlessly around his neck, a tray of food in his hands.
He crossed the room and set it down next to one of the chairs by the fire, then clasped his hands in front of him.
“I didn’t know you were delivering trays now,” she said, pushing herself up against the pillows and pulling the coverlet over her body.
“Important tasks are sometimes performed better oneself.” He gazed at her. “You missed breakfast and luncheon.”
She shrugged, unable able to make her arms, let alone her feet, move enough to stand.
With a small nod, he strode across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I heard you performed a surgery last night.”
“I did.” Her throat tightened for some inexplicable reason.
“That’s a great deal of work,” he said, still gazing at her. “You must be very tired.”
“I am.” She stared back at him for a long moment, the lump expanding as well as the weariness and the clawing guilt that wouldn’t stop plaguing her mind, not just for the mistakes she’d made the prior night, which thankfully did not result in any damage, but for all the ones in the past that had.
Before she quite understood what was happening, she was pressed against Roger’s chest, sobbing into his absurdly perfect cravat, probably ruining the thing. She should stop. She needed to stop. Crying was a ridiculous reaction, especially in the presence of someone who would never understand. Worse, would give her all sorts of advice, including telling her to stop or work less. Advice that she most certainly could not bear to hear, as there was a part of her that was afraid it was the correct solution.
But instead, the man said nothing. He didn’t even shush her. No, he merely allowed her cry, permitting her to soak through his garments, making no movement whatsoever, except to keep her securely in his grip. Not until all her tears were spent and she pulled away from him to wipe her eyes did he let go.
As she watched him remove his jacket and unbutton his wet vest, shrugging it off, her limbs grew heavy once more. She barely had the time to lie on her side, facing the window, before her eyes closed of their own accord. She expected him to leave and permit her to sleep, but instead he lay down beside her, wrapping his arms around her body, holding her to his.
This was… She should tell him to leave, that she didn’t require whatever he thought he was trying to do. She was an adult. A competent, professional adult, something she hadn’t been permitted to be in four weeks, and—but she could not seem to make herself speak the words.
“Do you want to discuss it?” he whispered as she nestled against him.
“No.” She shook her head, pushing herself up a little. She didn’t need this. She didn’t. He had other matters to which to attend. “I—” She swallowed, unable to form the correct words. “You don’t—”
“It’s all right,” he told her, wrapping his arms around her tightly and placing his chin on her shoulder. “I don’t mind.”
To her disdain, she burst into tears yet again. She was almost certainly even more unattractive, her face hot and itchy, while she struggled to once again regain control. It was humiliating.
But the man didn’t flinch. He barely even moved.
