16 #2
But there was something different in this, a cherishing in the act she could not begin to understand.
She closed her eyes, unable to look further upon that gentle, loving face.
However, it only made her feel more acutely the brush through her hair, the tugging on her scalp, the feel of cool hands smoothing over her forehead and the crown of her head, making it the very center of everything.
It was only when she felt the warm track of tears down her cheeks that she even realized she was crying. And then a sob burst from her chest.
In a moment Mrs. Archer had her arms about her, twisted hands that were nevertheless some of the gentlest she had ever known pressing her close to her bosom.
And then Iris was crying openly, tears wetting the bodice of the woman’s calico gown as that deepest, most painful hurt began to, somehow, heal.
It was perhaps a fool’s wish that had Oliver hoping that Iris might still be at his house when he finally returned home from Durand Manor just after noon.
A fool’s wish, but not at all surprising, really, considering he had not been able to get her out his head since leaving her in his mother’s care.
No, what surprised him was how desperately he wanted either his mother or his sister to bring Iris up.
Surely they would mention that eventful morning in some context or another.
After all, it was not every day that one dealt with a dunking in a stream and all the chaos that had ensued.
What had happened after he’d left? Had Iris stayed long?
Had she developed a cold? Had they talked of anything of importance?
But they did not mention her even once during their lunch nor the washing up after.
As the clock ticked ever closer to the time Oliver needed to retire to his bed, his frustration grew.
Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he turned to them, ready to ask all the questions that had been clamoring in his brain since he’d left Iris, damp and cold, in his mother’s care.
Those questions, however, came to a standstill when he spied his mother handing Verity a small vial of some pale amber liquid.
His sister unstopped the bottle, dabbed a small bit on her fingers, then began to work it into his mother’s hands in a gentle massage.
At once the scent of something both spicy and citrusy filled the air, warm and sweet and altogether pleasant.
Frowning, he drew closer. “What is that?”
His mother glanced up, smiling, from Verity’s ministrations. “It is an oil Mrs. Rumford has concocted for my hands. She gifted it to me before leaving for home. It is supposed to help alleviate the inflammation in the joints. Orange and?.? .? .? what was it, Verity love?”
“Ginger,” his sister murmured, still focused on her work. “Orange and ginger.”
“Ah, yes, ginger. It smells lovely, does it not? It, of course, cannot cure my ailment. But it seems to help some with the pain and tightness.”
Oliver, however, was beyond speech. He watched Verity’s fingers work the oil into their mother’s knuckles, watched the slight relief in the tight lines about her eyes, and felt the sudden urge to cry. Iris had fashioned something to help ease his mother’s discomfort?
As if she had read his mind, his mother gave him a knowing look. “She is a kind woman. I do hope she finds someone who can appreciate her. Though she does not think she shall ever find a grand love, I believe she’s quite wrong in that. Who could fail to love such a person?”
Indeed, who could fail to love her? He thought of the sad acceptance in her eyes when she’d spoken of the dislike her husband had had for her, her certainty that she would never find anyone to love her for who she was.
Fast on the heels of that was an image of her being loved as she deserved.
But it was not some faceless man who was at her side. No, it was him.
His heart stuttered in his chest before starting up again at a faster pace, pounding blood through his veins, making him lightheaded.
What fanciful thought was this? He most certainly did not love her, nor would he ever.
No matter how wonderful her kisses were, no matter that he had come to enjoy and even look forward to their time together, that was never going to happen.
He had just barely begun to properly support his sister and mother, after all, and had no room in his life for a wife.
No matter how he tried to convince himself that it was an impossibility, however, the thought persisted, undermining his intentions, eroding his doubts. He looked to the small glass vial of oil on the low table before his mother, and saw Iris’s close, neat writing.
Would that he could do something for her as she’d done for his mother. He recalled the conversation they’d shared just the day before, the need to pay back a kindness though it was never expected, and despite himself he smiled.
His mother cocked her head as she looked up at him. “What is it, my dear?”
Excitement filled him as an idea took shape. “Could you help me with something when you’re through?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “It is important?”
“Very important,” he replied with an answering smile.