Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner
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For a half-second, she thought he might have died. Everything stopped. His breathing. His movement. The awareness in his face. His eyes shut, but then he opened them. Something cold peered out.
‘I may have overstepped,’ she said.
Then his hand moved over hers, caressing, touching each finger as if to reassure himself of her. And she could feel the touch, bursting inside her, warming enough that even a day without sunshine would feel golden. A teardrop of emotion grew to a whole flood of feelings inside her, and ended on a trickle of guilt.
He could be all alone in the world and she’d reminded him.
Perhaps no woman had ever looked his way because he’d not found a parish yet and couldn’t support her.
And now that he was going to have a way to care for a wife, his face had been mashed beyond recognition.
She was certain he would look better when he healed, but she doubted much about his features could be appealing, except his hair.
She took the comb at the bedside. His hair didn’t need to be combed. It never seemed to. But brushing through it, letting the locks trickle over her fingers, soothed her.
What would it be like to be a wife cutting her husband’s hair? she wondered. They could take a chair outside for the light and he could turn it so that he sat astraddle, and his arms crossed over the back. She’d comb the strands, in the same way she did now. They’d talk about...everything. Neither alone any more.
Perhaps, if she tried very, very hard, he would love her by the time he recovered. She’d let him know that his appearance did not matter to her. It didn’t matter at all. His charitable ways were more important than anything else. She could learn to love his misshapen face.
She scrutinised him, realisation dawning.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ she said.
His jaw moved slightly, but then his hand tightened on hers and he winced. She reached out, placing a palm on the covers above his heart. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘You can tell me later, Vicar.’
His eyes trapped hers, and she instinctively pulled her hand from him. She’d overstepped once again. She didn’t know how, but she had.
Rebecca sat at the bedside, knitting in her hands, but she’d hardly managed more than a few stitches the past few days.
His eyes were shut, but he didn’t sleep. He’d move an arm, or stretch his leg or move a shoulder every few moments as if the very act of being still pained him.
He looked so much better. His eyes could open now and the bluish marks didn’t quite reach his ears. The swelling in his nose had diminished some.
She took in his appearance again. Perhaps he didn’t really look better. Perhaps she’d just grown used to the mottled appearance. But it didn’t matter. He was mending.
Her father stood at the side of the bed, his shoulders stooped and his face a reflection of studied thinking.
‘I’ve never seen someone gain so much comfort from just the Prayer Book.’ He spoke to the still form. ‘But I must borrow it for Sunday Services.’
Instantly, and without opening his eyes, the man thrust out the book. Her father took it. Now he turned his studied look on Rebecca.
‘Walk with me a few steps, Becca.’
Rebecca put her knitting on the floor and stood. She took one look at the bed, reassuring herself he’d be fine for the moments until she returned. She and her father had both fallen into their usual routine of caring for someone very ill. One of them stayed with him at all times, even though they both expected him to live. Without his ability to open his eyes more than a sliver, it seemed cruel to leave him to his own devices.
She slipped out the doorway with her father, pulling the latch closed behind her. ‘Are you going to check if anyone has found the culprits?’
‘No need. They’d rush here first if they had. I told the new vicar this morning that a horse without a saddle was found and it was taken to the earl’s stables. Figure the men took the saddle and sold it.’
He snugged the book under his arm and turned to her, taking both her hands. Concern wreathed his eyes. ‘Rebecca. I’ve been worried about you. And I’ve thought about it a lot. This man may have been sent to us. To you.’
She ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her eyes. She’d thought the same thing.
‘It’s true, Rebecca. I’m not going to live for ever and I know the earl would see that you’re taken care of. But he’s not going to live for ever either and his son will inherit... We don’t know...what to...expect from him.’
‘The heir can’t be all bad, Father. After all, he’s the earl’s son.’
‘I know. But the earl confided that he is worried about his son. It seems the boy has become more and more reckless.’ Her father’s eyes increased their concern. ‘He’s nothing like his father.’
‘You don’t have to tell me. Mr and Mrs Able brought a newspaper back from their visit to see her sister in London. She showed me the part about the proposals.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘Or at least she tried. I made her put it away. Mrs Able and her sister must write to each other with every post. The earl does not share the newspaper when mention of his son is made.’
Mrs Able was the villagers’ prime source of London news, a status that made her preen and gave Rebecca’s father trials on how to present sermons about talebearers without being judgemental.
Most people only told the vicar of all the goodness in the world, sheltering their words from any tales of idleness or revelry except when asking for help with a trial too big to handle, but Mrs Able never concerned herself in such a way. She wanted to let Rebecca and her father know they still had much work to do.
He pulled his hands from hers and took the book from under his arm. He smiled, but his eyes remained saddened. ‘Before the earl came to his senses and saw what a decadent life he lived, he gave the boy too much. He knows that. The earl blames himself for the error of his son’s ways.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t. His son is a grown man and he avoids the village as if we are plague ridden. When he’s visited his father in the past, it’s said he spends more time at the tavern than at the estate. And he’s never once attended Sunday Services with the earl.’
‘A parent has responsibility and only a short time to guide the child before the child becomes its own person. The earl feels badly that he left the boy with his mother after their daughter died, but she grieved so and the boy was the only reason she lived.’
‘A good wife would have moved with her husband.’
The vicar shook his head. ‘We shouldn’t judge her, Rebecca. Perhaps he should have stayed with her. They were both swathed in grief and each blamed the other for the loss.’
‘No one can blame someone because of a loss such as that.’
‘The daughter was always sickly and the countess blamed the earl for encouraging the marriage. The earl thought his wife shouldn’t have let their daughter go about so close to her time and the cough she caught weakened her in childbed. And he still feels the burden of his daughter’s death.’
Her father sighed. ‘The earl has promised me that you will be cared for should anything happen to me. When he said he was to look about for someone to take on the responsibilities of the church, I did ask...’ His voice trailed to nothing and then he began speaking again. ‘I did ask that he might look for an unwed vicar. One near your age.’ His eyes met hers and then he turned, walking the path to the church.
Rebecca gulped in air. She didn’t really like