Chapter Fourteen
After his daughter exited the kitchen to hopefully go to and stay in her bed, Roger turned back to Miss Adler, and all the strain, all the frustration of the past few hours, past few days—truly, the past few months and possibly the past few years—rose again to the surface, like they had at the last Lira ball back in May.
Except this time, there was no chance that his irritation would change into anything else. No, now he was merely mad. At everyone responsible for tonight’s debacle and beyond. Including the woman who stood before him, fair or not, as he was not in the mood to be reasonable.
Roger glared at Miss Adler. “How dare you.”
“How dare I what?” the woman countered, placing her hands on her hips as she took a step toward him. “Prevent your daughter from bleeding or developing an infection? What a crime.”
“You’re a midwife,” he reminded her, taking a step forward of his own, the anger now flowing freely through his veins.
“A medicinal profession. I’m often required to stitch wounds in order to stop bleeding and prevent infection,” she had the nerve to argue.
“Wounds upon what part of the body?” Roger’s blood heated as they argued.
Miss Adler rolled her eyes. “Do you truly believe that an entirely different set of rules applies to vaginas?” she asked, pausing to search his face, as if she expected him to flinch at the word or swoon or some such nonsense.
As if she’d forgotten how many words he knew.
Nor his facility and comfort with that part of the anatomy.
When she didn’t receive whatever reaction she sought, she wagged a finger at him. “I promise you, they’re made of substances present in all parts of the human form.”
In other circumstances he might have found the comment amusing, but he was not in the mood—in any sense of the phrase—as evidenced by the continued tension in his shoulders.
“Moreover,” she continued, her voice rising. “Would you have wanted me to force your child to continue to bleed, putting herself in harm’s way until, what, a doctor could be fetched? Instead of acting upon my knowledge, experience, and above all, superior judgment?”
“Without my consent,” he reminded her.
Raising a finger, the woman opened her mouth and paused, her eyes growing wide. Silent for once.
“Beg pardon?” she asked after a beat.
“You acted without my consent,” he repeated, as that, he realized, was what truly enraged him.
And that he’d not been there to give it.
“I’m her father. She’s my responsibility.
My duty to protect.” Roger shook his head.
“I should’ve been the one to make the decision of how to proceed.
To use my judgment of facts so if matters fail, it would be on my head. ”
Fannie was his daughter. His child. What if it hadn’t only been her hand? What if she’d cut something more consequential? Or been injured more gravely?
What if she had not stayed in the house? What if she’d wandered outside, in the snow? What if someone had taken her?
A thousand horrifying possibilities now haunted his mind, as well as the clear knowledge that he’d failed his child.
That he was not enough to prevent disaster.
That despite all his toil, all his perseverance, all his control over his person, he still had none over anything else. Not really. Not when it mattered.
“I am sorry,” Miss Adler said, breaking his thoughts.
“I assessed the situation and did what I thought was necessary, given the circumstances, but I—” She pressed her lips together.
“I concede your point. You deserved to be notified and could’ve been in this case.
At least before I stitched her up,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry for that.”
Roger searched her face, studying it for any hint of insincerity. Except none was present.
His shoulders slumped.
Mercy, he had made a mess of matters, hadn’t he?
Especially as Miss Adler had the least culpability in the matter and most certainly did not deserve the brunt of his anger.
“Thank you,” he told her, and her eyes grew wide once more. As if such was shocking. Perhaps it was.
Something he needed to rectify. He inhaled. “I’m sorry that I snapped at you,” he continued. “That was bad form.”
“Most assuredly.” A ghost of a smile flickered on her soft pink lips. “I seem to bring that out in you.”
Roger swallowed, unable to even smile at the joke. It was not funny. Not in the slightest.
“It’s always undeserved.” He cleared his throat.
“You are, at a minimum, my guest, and you generously not only assisted with the search, but found my daughter and treated her injury. And I am grateful for it.” His voice was firm.
“Very grateful,” he amended. “I have been under a touch of strain as of late and I was—” He forced himself to halt. “There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she gazed up at him. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment, Roger almost answered her. Almost told her precisely how many things in his life were wrong. How far his life was from what it was supposed to be. How many times he failed, no matter how much he knew better. Knew what he was supposed to do and who to be.
How everything fell apart.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell anyone. No one could know. Not his family, not his friends, not his staff, not the community, who all depended upon him. Certainly not anyone outside, who’d only use his failures as evidence against them all.
No, he had to keep it all contained, even if the walls he’d built to assist him in doing so were crumbling yet again, and this time nothing he tried seemed to fill the cracks.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I’m just tired,” he lied.
Well, not a complete lie. He was exhausted. Utterly exhausted. And had been for years.
Humiliating, really.
“The household is a mess, especially concerning the children,” he found himself saying, despite his better judgment.
“The nurse quit two months ago, and I’ve not replaced her, and now I’ve sacked the governess.
” He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the scene—the reason he hadn’t been with her and Fannie earlier.
“Why?” Miss Adler was now frowning. “Because Fannie was wandering the house late at night?” she asked, her tone accusatory, as if he was being unreasonable with his staff.
If only.
Though the assumption, surprisingly, stung.
“Because the reason she did not notice that Fannie was wandering the house late at night was because she was—” He cleared his throat. “In delicato—” The woman interrupted him with a huff.
“You could’ve used ‘having sexual intercourse,’ ” she pointed out. “Like you, my sensibilities are not delicate. Moreover, I find flowery euphemisms often a waste of time, if not confusing.”
Naturally. Why would she acknowledge the use in such?
“You have your phrasing, I have mine,” he told her, his tone now mild, which was rewarded with a half smile.
“With my stable master. My married stable master,” he added, in case she wanted to make another argument on the couple’s behalf. “Who I also now need to replace.”
Blast, it truly had not been his night.
“Ah,” the woman said after a beat. “This has been quite the evening, has it not?”
“It has. My house is truly quite the mess.” He couldn’t help chuckling a little. He gazed back at her, her expression now thoughtful. “What?”
“I hate to mention it, but… While your comment was intended to be metaphorical, your hothouse, well…”
He barked another laugh.
“I can only imagine,” he said. Rather fitting, for the one thing he relied upon to keep him grounded to be in shambles as well.
His whole world was crumbing, and yet, once again he found himself staring at her. And those truly finely formed lips. As well as the soft curve of her neck.
Roger swallowed. This was not the time. No matter how much he wanted it.
“Thus go all my hopes for rest, as I now truly have pressing work.” He sighed at her confused expression. “Cleaning the hothouse,” he explained, trudging toward the exit.
“You aren’t just going to permit your staff to do it?” she called after him.
“It’s my hothouse and my child,” he returned. “It wouldn’t be fair. They’ve already worked hard enough tonight.”
“All right,” she said, brushing her hands on her apron and moving to his side.
He glanced down at her. “Beg pardon?”
“I’m coming to assist you,” she told him, as if such was wanted. Or a good idea.
“You don’t need—” he started to protest.
“I’m quite awake as well,” she argued. “While I admit this is not my area of skill, I’m perfectly content and ready to take your direction.”
“Are you?” he asked, raising a brow, unable to ignore the almost certainly unintentional but highly naughty way in which her words could be interpreted.
He caught her eye, and her smile twisted in wry amusement, as if she could somehow read his thoughts. Or was thinking along the same line. Which was… highly unlikely. And not something he should be thinking about at all.
“You’ll just have to find out,” she told him.
And despite everything, Roger’s senses prickled with foolish desire. Even if he could never act on that desire again, for the first time since that night in the Liras’ library, he felt, well, fully alive.
“Yes, I will,” he murmured. “I most certainly will.”
An hour later, Roger stood back and inspected the far side of his hothouse, which, while sadly empty, was once again completely clean. And ready for the possibility of new growth. If he could muster the strength to begin again.
They’d worked quickly and quietly, with him careful to keep his distance the entire time and focus on his task and not on the woman lest he became distracted.
No, he did not stare. Not at how her chest rose when she stretched to repin the red wavy tendrils, which had come loose from their holdings. Nor how nimbly her long, elegant fingers worked. And certainly not when she bent down on her knees and leaned forward to sweep errant dirt into a dustpan.
“I suppose we are done,” Miss Adler said, coming to his side.
“Yes. For now,” he told her, working hard not to meditate on her nearness.
“I’ll place the salvageable blooms in some water for tonight and replant tomorrow.
” He walked toward the pile, away from her, brushing his hands glancing back in her direction.
“Thank you, Miss Adler,” he told her as formally as he could. “For all your help this evening.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, her expressive eyes wide. As if his polite expression of gratitude was foreign to her.
Or perhaps it was he who was surprised, both by the sincerity of it, but also in the fact that her help had not merely been useful, but… pleasant.
Or more, that he desired it again. Both the way he’d enjoyed her pleasantness and approval that night in the library and how they’d been now. As almost… friends.
Even if he should and could not want such a thing.
“Well, good night,” he said out loud, turning so he could exit first because if he did not, he feared he would not exit at all.
“Good night,” she called after him, as he retreated, somehow feeling more like a failure than he had before.