Chapter Thirteen #3
“Understand what?” the girl asked, swiping at her face with her unbandaged hand.
“It’s quite difficult to have a sharp mind but have one’s desires limited by others. When your opinion is discounted even though you’re certain you’re correct. It can be rather frustrating,” Rebecca explained. “Especially when one seems to have very little control over anything in one’s life.”
“You’re an adult and can do as you please,” Fannie challenged, folding her arms across her chest, her eyes red, though the tears had thankfully stopped.
“One would think,” Rebecca returned, her lip twitching. “I also know that it’s quite difficult not to want everyone around you to be as frustrated as you are.” She raised a finger and took a deep breath. “But…”
“But what?” Fannie asked, cocking her head with interest.
Rebecca paused, searching for the correct words to explain matters. How one should treat others in a way she would understand and, more, believe. Definitely not her finest skill. She bit her lip.
“Well, it seems to me that most people, even when they are wrong, are trying their best. Even if they aren’t, upsetting them rarely ameliorates matters.
Not to mention, it certainly doesn’t help you, nor persuade them of the rightness of your opinion.
Even if that’s quite hard to consider when you’re angry.
” Her lips tipped once again, despite herself.
“I know it is for me,” she admitted. “Perhaps, I should try to take my own advice on the subject.” The last she murmured, half to herself.
“Perhaps,” Fannie said with a frown.
Rebecca glanced back at the girl as an idea popped into her head. “Will you help me?”
“How?” the child asked, taking another step forward.
“Perhaps you can let me know if I’m failing while I’m here,” she offered.
“I can do that,” Fannie agreed so quickly and with such an emphatic nod of her head, it took quite a great deal of restraint for Rebecca not to smile.
“For this to work, I suppose we’ll have to become better acquainted,” she continued.
“I suppose,” the girl said with such consternation, Rebecca had to pinch her side not to outright laugh.
An odd impulse struck her.
“Perhaps I can visit you once a day and you can show me your work, and then we can come down here and I can show you some of mine,” she suggested. “Would that interest you?”
“Maybe.” Fannie swished a little from side to side. “I shall consider it. I—” Her eyes grew wide, and she rushed past Rebecca. “Papa,” she cried, bounding toward Berab, who was standing just at the bottom of the smaller staircase leading to the kitchen.
“I see you have been found,” the man said, hoisting his daughter into his arms and inspecting her. “Injured.” He leveled a nearly cold gaze on Rebecca, of all people.
“It required some stitches, but should heal nicely,” Rebecca told him, folding her arms.
“Should it?” Berab asked. “Have you called Dr. Maduro?”
Rebecca’s temples began to pound. “I didn’t find it necessary,” she told him, placing a hand on her hip.
“Based on what?” Still holding the girl, Berab took a step toward her.
“My professional opinion,” Rebecca returned, her voice now rising. “Which has been gleaned from nearly two decades of experience.”
“Delivering babies,” Berab countered. “What gives you the—”
“I broke a pot in the hothouse and cut it,” Fannie cut in, halting the conversation. “A few pots,” the girl amended. She gazed up at her father. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, her voice soft.
Rebecca gaped at the girl.
Even more shockingly, the admission drew back all of the man’s attention. “That’s all right, darling. I’m sure it was an accident,” he said, planting a small, admittedly sweet kiss on the girl’s head.
Rebecca was fairly certain contradicting that was beneficial to neither the child nor anyone who might come in contact with her in the future.
Not that the man would listen to her on such things, as he undoubtedly thought very little of her expertise.
Childbirth often required stitches. Even if it didn’t, the Commission of Delegates regularly paid her to stitch many injuries that no one wanted to call attention to.
Perhaps his clear lack of judgment in such matters was part of why he hadn’t been trusted with a seat thus far.
A thought that should not give her so much satisfaction, and yet…
“But it’s late, and you need your rest.” He guided the child toward the staircase. “Why don’t you permit Marguarite and Rachel to take you to the nursery.”
“Yes, Papa.” The girl nodded once more. “Good night,” she called, before exiting, leaving Rebecca alone with the man, whose expression was neither mild nor grateful.
The nerve. Whatever had occurred that night was not her fault. Not in the slightest. And she had attempted—no—actually helped.
How dare he not thank her straight away? How dare he appear prepared to make her the scapegoat for what was almost certainly his own incompetence?
Glaring, she balled her good fists and turned toward the man, itching to best him in whatever fight he was picking.