“Yes, you do,” the other woman returned, eyeing her once more.
“I’ll be careful not to spill,” Rebecca promised, turning back toward the staircase.
“I’m not sure he would mind, depending on the location,” she thought she heard the housekeeper murmur, but when she turned around to ask the woman to repeat herself, all Marguarite said was: “The nursery’s on the top floor. Use the first door on the right and continue through the governess’s room. There’s a connecting door.”
Ten minutes later, Rebecca had managed to make her way to the fifth floor while remaining completely dry. Huffing, she moved through the short hall and the empty governess’s room and rapped on the door, from which a great deal of noise was emanating.
When there was no response, Rebecca knocked again, a touch louder. This time, the door opened a crack and revealed Berab, his hair slightly mussed, his yarmulke askew. When he saw her, his lips curved into a soft smile, making her legs wobble.
“I have people to do that, you know,” he said, as he relieved her from her burden. “People with two hands,” he added.
She could hear Fannie continuing to rage from somewhere within the room. She was stomping and pacing, from the sound of it. Oy, the child had energy. And lungs. And a great deal of rage.
“I’m practicing my balance,” she whispered.
They stood for a moment, staring at each other. Or he at her, she, rather inappropriately, at his jacketless form, the outline of his surprisingly muscled lean torso. Something that she should not be doing outside the bedroom. She coughed a little.
“You’re very patient,” she managed to say, rubbing her right thumb with her left.
His eyes widened in surprise for a moment, his face breaking out in a grin, making him look about ten years younger than she knew him to be.
“I endeavor.” He took a deep breath, his broad shoulders rising a touch. “Thank you.”
They stared at each other for another long moment.
“Well, I’ll see you at luncheon,” she told him, moving toward the stairs.
The man’s expression turned wry as another series of screams and bangs erupted from the room.
“One can only hope,” he told her, before lowering his voice once more. “I should definitely have asked for gin as well,” he stage-whispered.
“I’ll remember that next time,” she told him, ducking as a tiny shoe flew over his head.
“I best return to battle.” He sighed. “But thank you again,” he added, his eyes soft as he shut the door behind him, leaving her alone in the hall wondering why he was somehow now more ridiculously handsome than he’d ever been.
An odd thought and not one that could signify anything good.
Two hours later, Roger yawned as he glanced up at the grandfather clock across the room. Fannie’s tirades had become less frequent and softer. Mostly due to the fact the child had strained her voice. While she ate a touch of the food that had been brought for them, she’d not spoken directly to him since the argument at breakfast.
Now she only stormed about expressing her displeasure, mostly regarding the crimes he’d committed, including not being close enough friends with some family named “Molcho,” not having the staff serve enough berries, and, chiefly, not being Lucy or his mother-in-law. Quite the list.
Not an inaccurate one, either.
How could he make his children understand that his role was to provide them with a good future, not to maintain their present? Something he would do. Better than anyone else.
“Papa?” a small voice called, breaking his thoughts.
“Yes, Fannie,” he said, straightening himself in his chair as his daughter crawled out from beneath the table where she’d wedged herself. Rising, she stepped forward. Her hair hung messily around her shoulders, her pins having been removed and tossed upon the floor, her gown rumpled, her sash untied, her face still flushed, and her eyes red.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her lip quivered. “I shouldn’t have shoved Michael,” she told him, bursting into sobs.
“No, you should not have,” he told her as he pulled her into his arms.
“I shouldn’t have said all those horrible things to him,” she continued as she cried against his equally rumpled vest. “Or to you.” She sniffled harder.
Roger stroked her hair. “Why did you?” he asked after she settled against him, keeping his tone as mild as possible. And people thought he was impressive when members of the ton whispered about his family’s past or accused them of malfeasance and greed, or gave him the cut direct.
“I don’t know,” Fannie said, shaking her head as she wiped her eyes on his garments before lifting her head. “It’s just—” She bit her lip.
