Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  He pressed her hand, softly.

  This time she couldn’t help giving a return squeeze to his fingers. His hand felt so big compared to hers. She liked that. She put her free hand over their clasp and gently rubbed over his knuckles. The tension in his grip lessened. It didn’t seem like they were strangers any more.

  ‘I’m Rebecca Whitelow. I’m twenty-three. Mother died when I was twenty. I still miss her every day.’ She shrugged the words, almost laughing at herself. ‘Good works. I try to do her good works now. One for each day of the week, except Sunday,’ she whispered. ‘A day of rest.’

  Smoothing the pillow covering at the side of his head, she said, ‘No one knows about my good works, or my day of rest from them. They can’t, or it could hurt their feelings to think it is a duty.’

  She touched the pillow again. ‘I like doing the nice things but I like resting on Sunday, too. It’s my good works for myself.’ Her hand was so near his head that she couldn’t stop herself from smoothing his hair, although truly, it didn’t need to be combed.

  His grip had loosened. She peered at him. He wasn’t asleep, though. He watched her. ‘Father says most people spend so much time waiting for a chance to do something especially wonderful that they overlook little things, like the weeds that might need to be pulled from an elderly neighbour’s garden.’ She wrinkled her nose.

  He listened. She moved closer to his face. He could see her. She could tell. Each time she bent near him his eyes followed her. She could see the tension. The concentration. The struggle.

  ‘Don’t you think it was wise of Father to help me understand the value of small efforts? To show me that goodness is not something to be saved for the biggest battles, but to be used every day?’

  She asked the question to see if the man could give a response.

  His eyes shut.

  One quick pulse of movement at her hand rewarded her. But she didn’t think he quite agreed. ‘Oh, please understand that I’m not trying to ignore the bigger needs.’

  He tapped her knuckles. A reassuring pat, but slow between movements. Much in the same way someone would agree who didn’t really or didn’t at all. Perhaps the way her father might when he wasn’t listening, but wanted to show her he cared about her anyway.

  She ducked her head. ‘I’m not boasting. Forgive me if it sounds that way.’

  She pulled her hand away, but his grip tightened, firm, keeping her in his grasp, but not forcing. His eyes flickered to her.

  A sliding rub down her fingers told her he was pleased. Her heart grew, spreading itself throughout her body, warming it.

  She kept the blossoming hope inside. She’d planned not to marry, ever, unless it was that once with Samuel Wilson. Not that she had a fondness for Sam. But he was sturdy and always attended Sunday Services and was her best choice in the village. And then he’d up and married the bar maid—not that Trudy wasn’t a nice woman, if you liked a certain coarseness and the fact she never laced her boots properly. And she wore her skirts just short enough for it to be noticed. Men seemed to find those unlaced boots quite fetching.

  Rebecca looked at where her own feet were concealed under the folds of her skirt. She’d accepted that her choices in the village were rather dismal for a husband and after Samuel got married they had become almost non-existent. The men were always respectful to her, but they kept their distance, as if she might scold them for speaking roughly. And there weren’t a lot of them of marriageable age who weren’t already married.

  She’d been tending her mother when other people were courting.

  She’d overheard her parents speaking of marriage many times. Her mother had complained to her father that finding a man of good quality was difficult for the young women of the village, particularly with the number of men who’d died fighting Napoleon.

  So many times her mother had cautioned her that in order to continue her good works she must find a man who appreciated the time she spent on giving to others. Only a man devoted to goodness would understand.

  But, well, now she wasn’t certain that her future husband hadn’t been delivered to her doorstep.

  A vicar certainly needed a wife to administer to the women of the village.

  But one shouldn’t put the plates on the table before the vegetables had been planted.

  She opened her mouth, relaxed her voice, then asked, ‘Is there anyone special that we should send for who might need to know of your accident?’

  No tug at her hand.

  She leaned nearer, studying his face for the barest movement. ‘Anyone?’

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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 fa
llen 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 having her life planned for her.

  ‘He reassured me you’d be taken care of, Becca.’

  Emotions stilled her body, but her thoughts exploded inside her. She must put aside her irritation at the matchmaking. To be able to remain in the village and continue her duties would be her greatest wish.

  The new vicar had been chosen with her in mind. She was certain of it. If she and the new vicar were to wed, though, she would be able to remain in the home she’d lived her whole life and with the ladies who’d been like mothers to her as well.

  She wouldn’t have to worry about what might happen if her father passed on. She’d have a home somewhere and good works to do.

  ‘Of course, you know I’d never wish you to do anything that might bring you unhappiness,’ her father said. ‘I just want you to have the happiness of a marriage such as your mother and I had.’

  *

  She went back inside. The man slept. She knew he did. He made the little whistle now—the one that reminded her of a kitten’s purr.

  She returned to take up her knitting. When she sat, she accidentally kicked her toe on the chair leg. ‘Dash it.’

  His eyes opened completely and stared into hers. Her heart pounded and she couldn’t move.

  ‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to speak so roughly,’ she said.

  He didn’t look at her eyes. He looked into them. She dropped her needles and took a cloth from the table at her side, relishing movement. She dotted the cloth over his forehead. He flinched. Then she slowed, taking her time, just as she would have with a newborn.

  One eyelid drooped and one corner of his lip turned up. He winked. He shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have.

  She winked back.

  Nothing happened. No thunder ripped through the air. No violent wind shook the house. It was just an ordinary, calm moment. Not a butterflies-in-the-stomach moment, but butterflies around the heart.

  This was what it would feel like to be married. She’d not realised. She’d not realised how much she truly wanted to be married. To have someone to cherish her and to hold her and share quiet moments with. She’d thought she didn’t really care. That marriage wasn’t important except as a duty and to provide a roof over her head.

  But now he watched her. She looked past the marred countenance and into the blue eyes. She could see his kind spirit. The compassion for others that they both shared.

  He touched her hand, and she dropped the cloth. Their fingers interlaced and it was as if their hearts connected.

  *

  He’d fallen asleep, and so had her arm. She slipped out of his grasp and noted the cracks on his lips. She moved for a plate of butter and with her forefinger dotted it on his chapped lips. His eyes opened and he watched her. She peered closer, observing him. She held one finger in front of his face and moved right, then left.

  His eyes didn’t follow the movement.

  She tried again. Left to right this time.

  He looked at her and then lifted a forefinger and moved it right, then left. And then he touched her nose. Then without moving his upper torso, he took the butter dish from her hand, their fingers brushed and she froze.

  He touched the butter to the tip of his finger, reached up and traced her lips.

  She couldn’t move for a moment, locked in place by some experience that didn’t quite fit in her life.

  She jumped back, knocking the chair aside, reeling with the touch.

  ‘Vicar.’ Her cheeks burned. ‘We don’t do that.’ But she’d done it for him. She righted the chair and stood behind it, hands grasping the top rung. Who knew how much of his mind remained?

  The poor man had probably lost all his senses and was just following her movements. And she’d been so daft as to imagine a person behind the eyes, even though she had no reason to. Her own secret desires were leading her thoughts. She frowned.

  ‘I. Am. Rebecca.’

  He looke
d at her.

  ‘Would. You. Like. Me. To. Recite. Verses. To. You?’

  He lifted his hand and made a cupping shape, and tipped the invisible glass close to his face.

  ‘Thirsty? Ale… Water?’

  He grunted, disagreeing.

  ‘So your mind works?’

  The slightest shake of his head.

  ‘You’ve lost your senses?’

  He held up the hand again. This time the drinking motion was more forceful. He then moved to push himself up, but winced instead.

  She ran to the shelf and pulled off the ale. She grabbed one of the three glasses and poured a fingerwidth in it, then grabbed the dipper from the bucket and poured in another two fingerwidths. Just like her father liked it.

  Next, she stopped at the bedside.

  He used both hands to nudge himself to a sitting position. But he didn’t right himself fully. And then he looked at her and she could see thoughts. She didn’t know if they were fully formed or if they only half made sense.

  He looked towards her breasts and then her eyes, then he wilted a bit and pushed, but didn’t move.

  She realised she was going to have to help him sit. Well, if she had to, she would do it.

  ‘Give me a moment.’ She set the glass onto the table. ‘Vicar.’

  When she turned to help him, little sharp lines etched at the sides of his eyes. His expression had changed to darkness. She didn’t move.

  He made a flat, stopping motion with his hand and he stared at her as if she’d pinched his bruises.

  Then he moved himself upwards even more, doing a fine job of righting himself, but the pillow was at an odd angle. She must correct it. It was impossible not to brush against him. She put a hand on his arm to steady herself. She’d never been so close to anyone except Mrs Greaves when she had her babies and needed an extra day or so of help.

  She moved to pull the pillow up. ‘I’m so sorry, Vicar,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to be sitting on a lump.’

  When she pulled away, the stark lines at his eyes had increased even more.

  Perhaps he had a mind problem that came and went. Old Mr Jeffers had been like that. She reached out and patted the back of his hand just as her mother had patted Rebecca’s hand.