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Feeling surprisingly flustered, she sought for words to direct the conversation with Mr. Fortescue, who sat in the chair at a right angle to her own. She could still feel the sensation of his arms as they’d pressed securely around her after she’d nearly fallen.
“It seems that I am destined to be the cause of your mishaps, Miss Rebecca,” he said before she could come up with anything to say. “For had I not arrived soaking wet, there would not have been a puddle on your entry room floor, causing you to slip.”
“However, you were also the person who rescued me yet again,” she pointed out.
“Does that mean I am good luck or bad?” he asked. “I should probably claim to be good luck, although I’m not sure I would agree with myself. I’ve known myself a great deal longer than anyone else has.”
Ah, that was a conversational direction Rebecca could pursue. “Perhaps you could tell me more so I may judge for myself,” she said. “It is undoubtedly unfair for me to judge you solely on these two specific incidences.”
“You have tired of Wordsworth, then?” he said, seeming to ignore her suggestion. “Would you rather I read to you from the works of Shakespeare? Or perhaps you would prefer the words of Mary Wollstonecraft—”
“My sister Susan would prefer Mary Wollstonecraft more than I,” she said. While Rebecca had actually readA Vindication of the Rights of Woman, as Papa had rather liberal views when it came to the education of his daughters, Susan was the one who had taken Wollstonecraft’s views to heart. Susan had made competing academically with their brothers—and besting them—a primary goal when they’d been growing up.
“Indeed?” Mr. Fortescue said. “Perhaps a gothic story, then? Ann Radcliffe—”
“The story I am currently most interested in hearing is the one about you,” Rebecca said. “I’m particularly curious as to why you would consider yourself to be bad luck.”
He turned his face away from hers to stare at the fireplace, where a low, crackling fire had been lit to stave off the cold and dampness. He didn’t respond to her.
She waited.
The firelight lapped at his features—his dark hair, his jawline and nose, his lips—and cast his eyes in shadow. It made him look unearthly and a bit unnerving. Rebecca wondered if the suggestion of reading an Ann Radcliffe novel was also fanning the flames of her imagination. “Surely a young gentleman such as yourself should have no reason to think himself bad luck. Are you a gambler, Mr. Fortescue?” She wanted to throw the most ludicrous suggestions she could think of at him. “A criminal? Are you deeply in debt? A libertine?”
He continued to stare at the fire.
His lack of response began to rankle her. “You say nothing to defend yourself, Mr. Fortescue. Does your silence imply that I must think the worst of you?” She threw caution to the wind, suggesting the most outlandish thing she could think of. “Are you a murderer, sir?” she asked.
He flinched.
Rebecca’s heart seized in her chest. It was the first reaction he’d shown to any of her questions. “Youcannotbe a murderer,” she said in a low voice, relieved she sounded steady. “I do not believe it for one second.”
“What if one is ensnared in an unhappy marriage and prays to be freed from such a marriage?” he asked, still staring at the fire. “And what if that freedom comes at the cost of a life?”
“I—” Rebecca began, but no other words came.
“I am a widower, you see, Miss Rebecca,” Mr. Fortescue said, standing and turning to face her. “And so, while I am nearing the end of my year of mourning, I cannot help but be grateful that I am freed from the trap in which I was caught. What kind of man does that make me, do you suppose? I leave it to you to decide.” He stood and faced her. “Now that you have learned the worst about me, I shall go, as I am sure you do not wish to have me remain in your presence.” He bowed abruptly and began to leave.
“Stop!” she exclaimed. “You cannot make such a pronouncement and then simply leave without further explanation.”
* * *
Ben had already shared more than he’d wished with his new neighbor, but something in Miss Rebecca’s tone gave him pause. “What more needs to be said?” he asked. “I wished to be free of my wife. You know as well as I the impossibility of divorce within our society, and I refused to let my family be ruined by scandal. That left me with nothing but prayer. And my prayers were answered, were they not?”
“I do not believe God would take a life merely because someone prayed to be freed from a marriage,” Miss Rebecca said, her eyes ablaze. “And I do not believe that you actually spoke the words asking for your wife’s death.”
“You are confident in that belief, are you?” he asked. His bitter emotions roiled within him like burning bile.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” she said. “True, I have known you for less than a week, but I have seen by your solicitousness to me that you are a gentleman and not one to wish harm upon others.”
“You have a great deal of faith in my character after such a short acquaintance.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I have the privilege of being a sister to five gentlemen of excellent character and the daughter of another. I have not been so sheltered, however, that I wouldn’t recognize the opposite sort of man were I to meet one.”
“That remains to be seen, I suppose,” Ben said. “But I thank you for your generosity of opinion.”
The door opened then and the maid, Annie, bustled in with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“Tea has arrived at last,” Miss Rebecca said. “Won’t you join me? Besides, you haven’t read to me yet, and you promised.”
