Chapter Eleven
Rebecca stared out the window of the guest chamber at the fleetly falling snow, which transformed even the night sky gray. She could not recall a winter when it fell so much.
After composing a slightly evasive response to Isabelle’s latest question-filled missive, she’d spent most of the day in her corner of the kitchen, working.
Well, sort of working. Her arm, despite being free from its sling, was still barely mobile.
At least she’d been able to organize the new supplies.
A group far short of the extensive collection she’d previously had.
Though, if one was being fair, one would have to admit that quite a few of her chemicals were difficult to obtain, not to mention those she’d synthesized herself. However, she had no desire to be fair. At least when it came to Berab.
Thankfully, she’d not been forced to endure his company since the night he kept offering her a drink. And had behaved so… well, befuddlingly. Somehow both in conformation to her previous assessments of the man and somehow not.
Still arrogant, still prejudiced, and still quite shallow, in multiple ways. A Jewish fop with a good enough wit to occasionally stumble upon a half-decent argument. He studied Debrett’s, not the Zohar.
And yet… Rebecca pursed her lips as she stared into the falling flakes collecting on the sill. He’d defended her person from, well, not merely the judgment of others, but herself. Not insincerely.
Which suggested… No. It suggested nothing, or whatever else there was to the man, it didn’t matter to her.
Nothing good could come from the two of them sparring.
Not to mention the fact that the exhilaration she felt during had to be an…
aberration. She was just bored from not working enough, that was all.
Something she should find a way to rectify, as—
“Why are you here?” a small voice asked behind her, startling Rebecca so much that she nearly knocked her spectacles off her own nose.
Whirling around, Rebecca found Berab’s daughter standing in the center of the room, glaring at her, her dratted cat clutched in her arms, pugnacious expressions on both of their faces.
Oy.
Not what she needed that night. Or any night really.
Not that she had anything against children in particular, or at least, she did not dislike them any more than she disliked most adults.
This one, however, somehow appeared to have learned the worst habits of each of her parents, making her less than ideal company.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?” the child demanded, interrupting Rebecca’s thoughts.
Rebecca inhaled. A large part of her longed to respond with a sarcastic retort. However, such was beneath someone of her age and intelligence.
No, she supposed she should take the same tack she took whenever she was required to speak with children—directness. Something at which she was not only quite skilled but that most children seemed to prefer. Probably because it was a change from the more common infantilization they faced.
While such was tempting in this case, as it would no doubt bother Fannie Berab, she wasn’t cruel. Well, not that cruel.
“Because my home was damaged in such a way that it is dangerous to live in, and Dr. Maduro has advised that I stay here instead of at an inn while my injury heals,” she explained, indicating to her arm. “And I respect his professional opinion.” Even when it was irritating.
“How old are you?” Fannie all but demanded. Not waiting for an invitation, she climbed upon the bed with a flounce, the cat squirming against her chest.
What in the world was the child doing in here? And awake? Rebecca squinted at the mantel clock, which read nearly half-past nine.
Where was the governess or the nurse?
Or, really, Berab himself?
Not that he would see such as his responsibility, despite the fact that the girl was his offspring.
A common attitude both inside and outside their communities.
From her observation, most fathers had little interest in interacting with their children until they were old enough that their needs were no longer required to be managed and centered.
Her friend Isabelle’s had been a rare exception, but even he had delegated a great deal of responsibility to nurses, governesses, his loyal valet, and, on frequent occasions, her.
“I turned thirty this past June,” she informed the girl.
“Why don’t you have a husband to care for you?” Fannie asked.
As if a husbands would be particularly useful in such a situation.
Rebecca rolled her eyes at the notion. She’d seen plenty of husbands over the years and had never been particularly impressed by any of their instincts for caregiving.
At least when it interfered with their other responsibilities and desires.
Rebecca frowned. Well, not “never.” Hannah’s husband, Sol, had been so attentive since he learned of her early pregnancy, it was a wonder that the naturally independent woman hadn’t locked him out of the house.
And, to be fair, Isabelle’s husband, Aaron, had been rather impressive with his elderly grandmother-in-law.
But they were exceptions and not rules.
“I can care for myself quite well, thank you,” Rebecca responded to the girl’s question.
“Not now,” the girl taunted back. “But you still shouldn’t be here.” Her eyes flashed with annoyance.
The child’s displeasure shouldn’t amuse Rebecca quite as much as it did, but one had to take their wins somewhere. Even if the win was more embarrassing than impressive.
“No, but unfortunately, that matters little in the face of current circumstances,” she replied.
“Don’t you have any brothers or sisters?” Fannie asked, pouting, though there was a distinct note of curiosity in her voice as well.
“No, it’s just me and my mother,” Rebecca informed her. “Who, before you inquire, is currently in Brighton, and traveling back in this storm would be ill-advised.”
“You don’t have a papa?” Berab’s son entered the room, wearing nothing but a large shirt, his feet bare.
“No,” Rebecca told both invading children. “He died prior to my birth,” she explained.
The young boy’s eyes widened. “My mama and Oma died,” Michael told her, drawing nearer, sticking his thumb into his mouth.
“Our mama and Oma,” Fannie corrected, her tone officious. “You don’t even remember them,” she declared, narrowing her eyes at her younger sibling. “You’re too little.”
“I remember them too,” Michael returned, stamping his foot on the floor, not particularly loud given his small size, though enough to startle the cat, who leapt from Fannie’s arms and trotted out of the room, giving Rebecca a backward glance of warning.
Now Fannie was down from the bed, her feet thudding on the ground.
“Do not,” she retorted, her hands on her small hips.
“Do too.” Michael matched her pose, albeit the boy was required to gaze up due to their stark differences in height.
Oy. This could not be good. The last thing she needed was two bickering children. Where were their minders? It was truly a wonder this house wasn’t as damaged as hers.
Rebecca stared at the door for a moment, praying that assistance would arrive, but none did.
Ugh. Apparently, if she wanted something sensical to occur around here, she was going to have to do it herself.
She turned to Fannie. “What do you remember the most about your mother?”
Michael replied instead, showing off his small, slightly crooked teeth. “She had two dimples when she smiled, like me.”
“You can see that from her portrait,” Fannie scoffed, her nose in the air.
“She liked to dance,” Michael said quickly, turning to Rebecca, his large eyes now imploring her. “She used to dance with Papa in the hall like they do at gentile balls, but without music.”
Something twisted in Rebecca’s chest as she pictured the lovely scene between the two young parents enjoying themselves.
Together.
“I told you that,” Fannie snapped, interrupting the vision. “You’re just repeating what I said.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re a liar,” she pronounced, glaring at Rebecca. “And you’re an ugly old hag who has no business even speaking about my mother.”
Before Rebecca could respond to the child, there was a knocking. All three inhabitants of the room swung toward the sound to find Marguarite standing in the doorframe.
“What in the world—” the housekeeper said, glancing first at Fannie who quickly exited the room with another flounce and then at Michael, whom she scooped into her arms, settling him against her hip turning back to Rebecca, her gaze apologetic.
“I’m quite sorry, miss. I’ll see to it that this gets back to his governess straight away,” she assured her, adjusting the boy once more. “You have a visitor.”
“Me?” Rebecca asked, touching a finger to her chest. “At this hour?”
“The young lady said it was urgent,” Marguarite told her. “She’s waiting in the burgundy parlor.”
Suddenly Rebecca felt a great deal better than she had in days.
Weeks really. Ever since her mother left and a voice had whispered in her head, pointing out how many patients rescheduled nonurgent visits until her mother’s return, of all those times over the years when a patient had been visibility disappointed that she’d arrived alone, without her mother, and of how many people, when the two were together, addressed their questions to her mother and thanked her even when Rebecca was the one who answered.
No one wants to interact with someone off-putting, cold, and plain, the voice would taunt. How can you ever expect to sustain yourself when she retires? Without her, you’re nothing.
The dark fears battered her senses, making her doubt, well, her entire future.
But here, now, this was proof that her reputation could stand on its own. Perhaps not as illustrious as her mother’s, but the respect was there. And would grow in time. Provided she kept providing outstanding service.
Which she would. Starting now.
“Excellent,” Rebecca said, leaping to her feet and following the woman into the hall, her heart pounding a touch with anticipation.