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Chapter 3
It was a horrible, difficultday. Rebecca sat once again on the chaise longue, her foot once again propped up by pillows as she once again gazed out the large dayroom window at the garden beyond. She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat here—it could have been minutes or hours.
It was the day Susan and James had left for London without her.
She couldn’t see the private lane leading from the front entrance and then beyond to the public road from her position on the chaise longue, but she’d been able to hear the servants bring Susan’s trunks and bags downstairs, and she’d heard James’s carriage arrive at the front door. Susan and James had come into the dayroom to kiss her and say their goodbyes, promising to write when they could, and then they had left.
Leaving Rebecca and her broken ankle behind.
She shifted her position on the chaise longue and punched as best she could at the pillow Mama had placed behind her to support her back, but her actions only made it more uncomfortable. She shifted again, this time dislodging the pillow behind her head, which then dropped to the floor. She bent over to retrieve it, and as she did, the book sitting unopened on her lap slid to the floor as well.
She sat up in frustration, leaving both the pillow and book on the floor, and gazed out the window at the garden again.
“Ahem.”
Rebecca turned her head in the direction of the voice. It was the butler. She must not have heard him knock before he’d entered the dayroom. “Yes, Hawkins?” she said.
“You have a caller, miss. The gentleman who was here yesterday.” He glanced at Rebecca’s propped-up, splinted foot and winced. “Shall I tell him you are receiving visitors? Or perhaps you’d prefer to rest.”
The last person Rebecca wished to see today was Mr. Fortescue. She opened her mouth to reply—
“The gentlemanhasbrought some items with him that may be of benefit to you,” Hawkins said in a voice that sounded as if he were now questioning his own suggestion that she rest.
If Mr. Fortescue had come to call with the intent of providing some assistance to her, she supposed she needed to be hospitable in return, even if it was the last thing she was in the mood to do at the moment. “I suppose I must see him, then, Hawkins. Please show him in.” Yesterday she had plumped up her hair and tried to make herself look presentable when he had called; today, she cared not a whit. Susan and James’s departure had sounded the final death knell to her dreams of a Season. She stared out the window again.
“Mr. Fortescue,” Hawkins announced.
Rebecca glanced over briefly and saw Annie slip into the room and sit in a corner with some mending. Everyone seemed so concerned with propriety. She supposed she should be grateful. She returned her attention to the window.
“Miss Rebecca, I came today in the hopes of seeing you in better spirits,” Mr. Fortescue said. “But I fear that is not the case,” he added in lower tones.
Rebecca’s eyes burned with tears; the trees bordering the park just beyond the window went blurry. She said nothing to him; she hardly dared move for fear it would set off a tumult of emotions too near the brink already.
She heard him cross the room, so she quickly dashed her hand over her cheek and glanced in his direction to see what he was doing. He had stooped to pick up the fallen book and pillow.
Still on bended knee, he looked at her—and their eyes caught.
His eyes were so blue, she thought resentfully. And then his dark brows furrowed.
“Miss Rebecca, I must apologize. I can see that you are upset and am grieved that my presence seems to have added to your discomfort. Allow me to present the gift I brought, and then I will leave you in peace.” He stood—goodness, but he was tall, she couldn’t help noticing again—and strode back across the room to the doorway, still holding the book and pillow. He returned with crutches.
Crutches.
She began to sob.
* * *
Ben groaned inwardly. Was there anything worse than feeling responsible for a woman’s tears? He couldn’t leave now; he must stay and do the gentlemanly thing—whatever that was.
“I only meant to help, Miss Rebecca, not add to your grief,” he said. He leaned the crutches against the arm of a nearby chair. MacKay had done a superb job cleaning them up and had even nailed what appeared to be padded upholstery to the top to protect delicate underarms. “I hope they are the proper size—the crutches, that is—and that their use provides you with some freedom of movement while your ankle mends.”
She nodded, still crying, dabbing at her eyes and nose with her handkerchief. “Thank you,” she choked out.
Ben’s heart seized at the pitiful sound she made. Blast it all—blast him, blast circumstances, and blast women’s tears!
He could still see the single tear that had slid down Gemma’s face on that final day.
But this was foolishness—Miss Rebecca wasn’t going to die from a broken ankle, and there were other Seasons to be had. It was a disappointment for her, certainly, but life went on.
