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Finally, Gillian went to bed, and Desmond returned to Rebecca's room.
"Are you finished? You didn't eat very much."
"I wasn't hungry." Rebecca ignored the plate she'd set on the floor and patted the bed beside her. "Come over here. I want to talk to you, and you're giving me a crick in the neck looking up at you like that."
Desmond crossed the room warily. He stopped at the edge of her bed, and after a moment of hesitation, slipped off his shoes. He stretched out next to her, but kept a careful distance away. The warm glow of his presence brushed her skin, stinging like nettles, since he so obviously refused to admit to any similar attraction. She longed to turn and pull him close, but forced herself to concentrate on her interview. She still wasn't sure of how she could get him to open up about his past, so she focused on trivialities and hoped she might build it into something bigger.
"Your mother must have taught you well. You took your shoes off before putting your feet on the bed."
"My sister, actually. She was quite liberated for a woman of her time, and insisted we boys wash our own linens. I learned quickly to keep things clean."
Rebecca grabbed at the opening he'd left her. "Liberated? Because she had you do your own laundry? You can't be that much older than me."
"But I'm much younger than my sister," he cut in. Before she could ask how old his sister was, he added, "Veronica was practically an adult while I was still a toddler."
Rebecca did the math in her head. With a fifteen year difference in ages, if Desmond had been born in the early sixties, his sister would have been born right after World War II ended. She'd have grown up with the Donna Reed model of virtuous womanhood, where men never lifted a finger toward any domestic chore. Compared to that, asking her brothers to help with the washing was a big step. But it didn't explain why she assigned the household tasks in the first place.
"So your sister was in charge of all the domestic chores, rather than your mother?"
"Yes." Desmond turned to get a better view of her face. "But you had something to say, and here I am going on about my sister. What was it you wanted to discuss?"
Rebecca admired his smooth deflection of her questions. If this had been a casual conversation, she would never have noticed how, after his first comment, Desmond had provided only enough of an answer to forestall further questions. But this wasn't a casual conversation, and his evasiveness only added to her conviction that he had something to hide.
"Actually, we were discussing it. I wanted to know more about your family."
"Why?"
Desmond's closed and guarded expression sent a shiver through Rebecca. She no longer doubted that he was hiding something. Now, she needed to discover what.
"Because you've asked me to marry you, that's why. Isn't it natural I be a little curious about your family?"
"I asked you to marry me, not them."
"But they're part of what went into making you who you are."
He frowned, but she stared him down. Finally he admitted, "I suppose you have a point." Rolling onto his back, he put his arms beneath his head and studied the ceiling. "It doesn't seem relevant because they're all gone now."
Rebecca waited. She wanted to find out about his past, and what had happened during the years he didn't discuss. But her reporter's instincts to pry open his secrets were muted by a wave of protectiveness that swept through her. She wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, let him know that whatever troubled him, she would soothe him. She wouldn't pry, or do anything to make him uncomfortable. At least, not yet. After another minute of silent contemplation of the ceiling, he took a deep breath and began his story.
"I was the youngest of five children. Four boys and a girl. They are all dead now."
"How?" she whispered.
"My eldest brother, Etienne, joined the army. He was a great idealist. His country called him, and he rushed to fight for her. He led recognizance missions into enemy territory. One night he didn't come back."
"I'm sorry."
Desmond shrugged off her sympathy. "My other brother, Jean-Michel, joined the army with him. He couldn't bear to think Etienne would have all the excitement. Jean-Michel lasted a few days longer, but without Etienne to stop him, he took too many risks."
"It was a terrible war."
Desmond turned to look at her. She thought she saw a flash of fear in his eyes, but it must have been a reflection of the light, as his voice showed no trace of concern. "Yes. It was. Even after the war ended, nothing was ever the same."
A chill shivered down Rebecca's back. The war had shaped her world, too, in ways she didn't like talking about. Desmond didn't need to remember more about it for her sake. She was interested in other areas of his history. "What about your other brother?"
"Roderick was the artist of the family, with the weaknesses common to that temperment. He was killed in a bar fight."
"Your sister?"
