Chapter Six
After crying for longer than she’d ever done so—not difficult, as she never cried; it was a waste of hydration—Rebecca tossed on the bed, too spent to muster even righteous indignation.
She held the now rather soaked pillow to her face and groaned.
What had come over her? Not merely the display but how she’d completely lost both her temper and words. At Berab of all people.
No, she’d never been one to restrain her opinion—one of her greatest flaws, apparently, even if she was always undoubtedly correct—but somehow, with this man, she’d resorted to shrieking instead of clever strikes. Humiliating, to say the least.
It certainly was not because of the sexual intercourse. Yes, it’d been pleasurable, but she was above such… animalistic inclinations.
Hopefully, he didn’t believe that she was besotted with him or any such ridiculousness.
As if she were foolish enough to fancy herself in love after merely adequate—fine, quite good—coupling.
No, she was clever enough to understand that romantic love didn’t exist even for most married couples, let alone for someone like her. Certainly not with someone like him.
Since Sunday, he and all his servants had likely whispered about her; she hadn’t needed to add fuel to the proverbial fire.
There was nothing worse than being mocked.
She should know, considering how many years she’d spent as the constant subject of such behavior.
She pressed her hands over her eyes—the thought of leaving the room in the next four weeks was distinctly unappealing.
At least if it meant interacting with any of them.
A loud rumbling erupted from Rebecca’s stomach. Oy. Just her mazel, she was hungry. Not that it was surprising. After all, it had been… Frowning, Rebecca counted in her head.
At least two days now since she’d eaten.
While it would serve Berab right if she starved to death in his home, it would also leave her dead. And though she’d felt rather unmoored in her life as of late, she still preferred to be living it.
Not to mention, even if her demise were seen as a clear failure to observe the mitzvah of welcoming guests, it was more likely than not that Berab would maneuver his way out of any consequences from the community.
She had no illusions as to who was more replaceable, whether or not the view was fair or right.
Thus, she should probably call for a tray, as she was not traipsing around the house in one of the gowns in the wardrobe. With a heavy sigh, she removed the pillow using her good arm and pushed herself to a sitting position, grumbling under her breath the entire time.
“You sound like a hog,” a high-pitched, but decidedly imperious voice declared.
Shifting a little, Rebecca positioned herself to face the sitting area, where, perched on the largest chair—with slippered feet swinging above the floor and a shaggy, one-eared tom cat on her lap—sat the actual cause of the entire mess.
Berab’s daughter. Fannie.
She’d not had the time to study the child closely the other day, but despite her rather sour expression, the girl was quite pretty.
With her even features, heavy-lashed, light brown eyes, and shiny, golden-brown hair, there was no question as to her parentage.
Unfortunately, charm was not as easily inherited as her father probably believed.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Rebecca said, eyeing the child. While Berab himself might be irritating, despite her accusations of kidnapping and the like, his earlier claim was true: he wasn’t literally dangerous. At least not physically.
This member of the family was a different story.
“The door was open,” the girl pointed out, her expression hostile. “You were distracted, behaving like a—”
“Hog. I heard you the first time.” Rebecca scooted to the back of the bed and leaned against the headboard, contemplating the girl once more. “When have you seen, let alone heard, a hog?”
“I have an excellent imagination.” Fannie proclaimed.
The two stared at each other for a long moment, neither sure of what should come next.
“Shouldn’t you be… ?” Rebecca stopped, searching for the proper suggestion so that the child might exit.
“With my governess?” Fannie suggested. “I’m already finished with my studies today. I’m very advanced.”
Rebecca had to blink, as the inflection, the tone, even the phrasing, was a perfect copy of the girl’s father.
Well, if making the child into a beautifully painted surface, one lacking substance yet possessing perhaps a half-decent vocabulary and some verbal alacrity, was the governess’s goal, the woman was off to an excellent start. She was, indeed, advanced.
Not what she’d suggest teaching the child, but she was not her parent.
Besides, she was in the minority, as such skills were praised by quite a few people, including many of their own kind, as of late.
Not that they’d ever been particularly concerned whether their girls gained such knowledge in the first place, but that was neither here nor there.
This girl was. She narrowed her eyes at the child.
“Not so advanced that you didn’t foolishly place highly unstable chemical solutions next to each other, near an open flame and a skittish cat,” she pointed out.
The little beast scowled, as did the cat, who raised its head and hissed at her as if it could understand.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Fannie declared. “This is our house, and you don’t belong.”
“On that point, we agree.” Rebecca rose from the bed, walked over to the window, and drew back one of the heavy aubergine curtains to view the street below. Or at least what she could view, as it was mostly covered with a thick layer of unusually heavy, still falling snow.
“So you’ll leave,” Fannie said, a hopeful note in her voice.
“Unfortunately, I cannot,” she said, releasing the curtain and turning back around.
“Why?” the child asked, now sounding younger than the nearly ten years Rebecca knew her to be.
“Do you really not know?” Rebecca rubbed the back of her neck before picking up her ruined spectacles once more, inspecting them for a moment then laying them back on the vanity. Reading was going to be quite the challenge.
“If you really wanted, you could leave,” the girl argued, seemingly oblivious to her role in Rebecca’s predicament.
She’d not scream at a child; she could not.
Especially this one, who would probably find a way to, if not use the action against her, take it as an invitation for revenge.
And while Rebecca was older, larger, and more intelligent in certain matters, she’d never been particularly clever at such intrigues.
Not to mention, she was in unfamiliar and undoubtedly hostile territory.
Rebecca took a calming breath. “Why do you think I’m not? Leaving that is? If I could do so of my own power?”
“To punish me,” the quite direct Fannie responded. “With your presence.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“A tempting thought,” Rebecca murmured, to which the girl stuck out her tongue. Before either of them could make another move, there was a knock on the door.
Without waiting for a response, the woman from earlier—the housekeeper or a maid?—entered, clapping her hands together at the sight.
“Oh, Miss, you’re awake,” the woman said. “Would you care for a bath?” She indicated an area behind a screen, presumably where a tub stood.
The contrary part of Rebecca longed to refuse, but the sensible, scientific part understood that not only would a bath, especially a warm one, be wonderful at the moment, but it was necessary. Besides, it would irritate the child. Perhaps enough that she’d leave.
“I would, actually, thank you,” Rebecca said, addressing the maid.
“Excellent. I shall have one prepared.” The woman rushed back to the door and whispered to someone outside. Turning back, she looked at Berab’s daughter. “You should be washing up for your evening meal. I’m sure Michael and Miss Pardo are already waiting for you in the nursery.”
Rebecca frowned. The children didn’t take their meals with their father?
Yes, they were young, but they could still sit at a table and use proper utensils.
She’d heard certain wealthier members of their set dined only as adults, but such still seemed like a waste.
Especially as she could not imagine Berab dining with his servants as her family often did, and thus such an arrangement would require three separate meals to be served thrice daily.
“That’s not your concern, Marguarite,” the child said with a rather rude sniff, which the maid, a better woman than she, took in stride.
Fannie pointed a thumb in Rebecca’s direction, her nostrils flaring yet again.
“Is she having dinner?” Her tone was so vexed, Rebecca had difficulty not laughing despite herself.
“Would you have me starve?” she asked.
The girl did not disappoint.
“Yes.” Fannie glared at her. “You don’t deserve food. You’re mean.”
This time Rebecca had to bite her own tongue. She should not be so amused, but the breathtaking honesty was something to behold. A reminder that she was speaking to a child. A rather monstrous, spoiled child, but still a child.
And to be fair, she’d been called worse than merely “mean.”
“Miss Fannie, that’s unkind,” Marguarite said, glancing nervously between the two. “You’ve been spoken to regarding welcoming guests.”
“She’s not a guest; she’s a mitzvah,” the girl pronounced, as if the last were a dirty word.
Rebecca pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle her snicker. “I believe they might be one and the same.”
The girl blinked at her and pouted. “And I believe you don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“We all need to eat—” the maid started to say, her voice gentle.