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"You're right. That's a tiny story in a thin book." Rebecca had better stop trying to explain things, or she'd end up totally confusing the poor kid. Then she had an inspiration. "Would you like me to read the story to you?"
"Yes, please." Gillian held out the book, and lay down on her stomach next to Rebecca so she could look at the pictures. Rebecca discovered reading the book consisted of equal parts reading the text, and asking Gillian questions about the pictures. If Rebecca didn't ask questions, or asked the wrong ones, Gillian would stop her and point out all the important things in the picture before letting her turn the page.
"That's the sun, and that's a tree, and that's grass, and that's the puppy, and that's a fence, and that's another puppy," Gillian said, pointing to each object in the picture. Then she looked up at Rebecca and said, "You're sick. You can't see them any more."
"You want me to stop reading to you?"
"No." Gillian shook her head and frowned at Rebecca's inability to grasp the obvious. Rebecca wondered if this was another mannerism she'd copied from Desmond. "You can't go outside.
It's bad for sick people."
Rebecca darted a glance at the black glass window. In the few days she'd been here, she'd already adjusted to the odd lighting arrangement. Leaving the overhead light constantly on had become a reflex, and she no longer thought about the reasons behind her actions. There were so many more important things to wonder about, like her relationship with Desmond.
With the egocentricity of children, Gillian continued, "I can go out now. Daddy said so. Mrs. Waters is taking me next week. We're having a picnic."
"How nice for you. You'll like that." Rebecca let Gillian prattle on about her picnic, nodding when it seemed required. Sick people couldn't go outside. Gillian was going on her trip with Mrs. Waters, not Desmond. Why? The only answer that made sense was that he couldn't go with her. He was still sick, and could not venture outside.
Rebecca remembered her earlier conjecture, that much of the medicine stocked in the refrigerator belonged to Desmond. How sick was he? Was he dying? Is that why he was in such a hurry to get married?
"Gillian," Mrs. Waters called. "Time for lunch. Where are you?"
"Here!"
Mrs. Waters looked into the room, frowning at the sight that greeted her. She hustled over and grabbed Gillian by the arm, snatching up the book in her other hand.
"Ms. Morgan doesn't want to be bothered reading to you, Gillian."
"Oh, it was no trouble. I enjoyed it." Rebecca's smile faded beneath the other woman's stern glare.
"Come along, Gillian. It's time for your lunch. I've made you your favorite, grilled cheese. And for desert, animal crackers."
"Yummy!" Gillian hurried from the room. Mrs. Waters followed at a more sedate pace, pausing in the doorway to send a withering look over her shoulder at Rebecca.
"I'll see that she doesn't bother you again."
Before Rebecca could correct her, Mrs. Waters had closed the door. The housekeeper's words had all been perfectly correct, but her tone clearly warned Rebecca away from Gillian. Rebecca relaxed her arms and dropped face first into the covers. Mrs. Waters knew what had happened last night. She wouldn't allow her innocent young charge near such a scarlet woman, afraid of what unsavory attitudes Gillian might pick up.
Rebecca sighed, and twisted her head so that she could breathe. So far, only the housekeeper's reaction made any sense. The situation worried her, demanding an explanation she couldn't give.
Yes, she and Desmond had made love. And it had been wonderful. He'd transported her to a reality she'd never dreamed of. But in retrospect, she had trouble believing she'd been so carried away that she'd agreed to marry him. And lovemaking, no matter how wonderful, wasn't enough of a reason for a man to propose marriage. She could understand if he'd asked her to stay on as his lover. Or suggested they keep in touch, or visit each other. But not marriage.
No, the key piece of the puzzle remained a mystery. If only she could remember his exact words. They contained a clue. She was sure of it. But her memory blurred last night's images of passion into an impressionistic montage of ecstasy.
She sank into the memories, revisiting the heights to which he'd taken her. When she surfaced, she lacked any clearer view of the puzzle, but recalled all too clearly the feel of his hands and lips against her skin. Alone and lonely, she longed to see him.
The thought made her push herself into the closest approximation of a sitting position she could manage. Was that true? Did she really long to see Desmond again, not just because of the way they'd made love, but because she missed him? Somehow, despite her best intentions, she'd already started to rely on his quiet presence.
She remembered how frightened she'd been before the operation, and how she'd instinctively reached for his hand. The way she'd turned to him for comfort. Even how she'd readjusted her schedule for him, staying up later at night so she could talk with him after he'd put Gillian to bed.
That was wrong, all wrong. She'd learned from her parents' example, that trust too easily bestowed ended in betrayal. She'd promised herself not to fall into that trap, to enter every relationship with her eyes wide open and her partner's motivations clearly understood. For ten years she'd kept that promise. Now, she'd stumbled into a pit, and had no idea how to climb back out.
She should leave, before she started to trust Desmond. That way, he wouldn't have a chance to turn on her. The thought chilled her as completely as a spring downpour. Had she become so cynical, then, that she expected betrayal?
If only she understood him better. Unless she knew his position, unless she understood his reasoning, how could she trust him not to cast her aside? For all their talking, she knew nothing about him. Oh, she knew a few snippets of information about his past, like his father had died when he was very young, and he had a sister and a number of brothers, including his half-brother, Philippe. But he refused to speak of anything that happened between when he was a boy and the time when Gillian had been born.
He doesn't want to lie to you. The answer came to her in a flash of insight, the same way the answers to puzzling aspects of her articles often came to her. She'd learned to trust her insights, but still sought corroborating evidence. That's what she did now.
Casting her mind back over their conversations, she sifted through Desmond's words. He'd never lied to her. He'd given vague and ambiguous answers, or shifted the topic of conversation, but never outright lied to her. Rebecca shook her head. No. He never lied to her, that she knew of. That didn't mean he'd never lied. She hadn't suspected her mother's lie, either. His apparent truthfulness supported her insight, but it didn't prove it. She needed more, before she could trust him.
