by Sharon Lee
Becca smiled and moved into the room. "Yes, but you see, it's a . . . private matter, which I did not care to air before Caroline. I fear that I am not," she murmured as she sat in the chair next to her brother, pulling her shawl more snugly around her shoulders, "a very filial sister."
"Well, take comfort from the fact that Caro isn't, either," Dickon said, then, more gently, "Is the arm bothering you, love?"
"It's the damp," Becca said apologetically, throwing an exasperated look at the streaming windows. The rain had come in with the dawn, and the day looked fair to be soggy and dim. Not, Becca thought sourly, that it concerned her. Mother expected her help indoors today with a myriad of dance-related details.
Dickon followed her glance and frowned, leaning back in his chair. "As fine as it's been, we're due a tithe of rain," he commented. "But I'll wager that you haven't risked an affront to propriety just to talk about the weather."
"In fact, I haven't," Becca murmured. She looked down, saw her hand fisted on her lap and tucked it under the trailing edge of her shawl before looking back to Dickon.
"I . . . have been having—doubts about my . . . marriage. Almost I might call them 'second thoughts,' except I believe that I never once thought about it until now! I only heard what Father said—that I'd disgraced myself and put an undue burden on my family—and on Caro, who was blameless, but must remain unwed unless something was done to mend my error. Then he produced Sir Jennet and—oh! It was just as he said, Dickon, that here was the solution. It was rational, and symmetrical, and my mind accepted it."
"But your heart," Dickon murmured, "did not."
"Well . . . no," Becca said slowly. "But surely that hardly signifies. No secret was made of the fact that Sir Jennet needed a wife with a portion and that Father needed to see damaged goods hidden away." Dickon lifted an eyebrow. "You can't think that Sir Jennet cares for me!"
"Be at ease. I don't think that Sir Jennet cares a fig for you, Becca. But whether or not hearts are engaged, a man should have some care for his affianced wife, and make some push to become . . . friends, let us say. It would not have been improper of him to ask Father's permission to open a correspondence—and certainly it would have been given! A simple thing, and yet he bestirred himself not at all." Dickon sighed, and looked at her from beneath his golden lashes.
"Before we go further, my love, you must allow to me say how glad I am to see a fire in your eye, and a lift to your chin. You are quite the old Becca, full of passion and purpose. Infinitely preferable to the dutiful, dull automaton Mother professes to admire so greatly." He turned his palms up, smiling ruefully.
"Which is to say that, if you are having second—or first!—thoughts about this business now, it only confirms in me an admiration for your very good sense."
"If I had good sense," Becca pointed out somewhat acerbically, "then this problem of myself would require no solving."
"No, that's going a fence too far, my love. The problem of ourselves, in my experience, which you must admit to be vaster than your own—the problem of ourselves is in continual need of solution." He raised his hand, grinning. "No, don't eat me, Becca-beast!" he cried, calling up a name out of the nursery. "I only mean to say that, if not this problem, then another." The grin faded. "Though I will own that this problem is knottier than some. Do you wish my advice on whether or not you should go through with the wedding?"
"No! Or, rather," Becca stammered, "yes. I—Last night, I could not sleep, and so got up to read. Melancholy overtook me, as it has been wont to do these last few days, and I thought—oh, ridiculous things! At first, I thought that I could not marry Sir Jennet, and then I decided very rationally to engage his support, and then the next moment I was certain that I must run off to live as a wild woman in the park—" She frowned at her brother, sitting comfortably slouched in his chair, his expression no more than attentive.
"You hardly seem alarmed—or surprised."
"Nor am I. To be sure, the contemplation of marriage must make cowards of us all. But I am fascinated! Pray continue. What other mad thoughts came to you?"
"As for mad, no more, though I did have one other notion, which may or may not be rational. Therefore, I would like your advice about whether I ought, really to marry Sir Jennet, so that I might make a . . . sensible decision about my future." She smiled slightly. "If you please, Dickon."
"Well." He looked up at the ceiling for a time, his face unwontedly serious—and serious still when he looked back to her.
"One of the things my wide experience has taught me, Becca-love, is that it is never enough to decide simply what one will not do. One must also decide what one will do instead. We must, I fear, take it as a given that the local Parker will not allow a wild woman to stay long in his park. You, however, speak of another 'notion' which you cannily do not dignify as 'mad' immediately. In which case, I must ask you—and myself—what will you do instead, if you do not marry Sir Jennet?"
Becca shook her head. "I—cannot stay here," she said slowly. "That is decided. And I cannot go to Irene—oh, she might take me in, but Edward has more sense! My disfigurement, I think, precludes me from taking up employment as a governess, or," she smiled slightly, "a seamstress. The Wanderer's Village is—"
"Entirely out of the question," Dickon said harshly. He blinked, abashed, and waved a hand. "Your pardon, Becca. Pray continue."
She nodded and took a breath. "So. I have thought to ask Sonet to ask among the herbwise, to see if there might be a village or a settlement . . . at some distance . . . in need of an herbalist."
Her brother frowned. "A woman living alone, with only one good arm . . ."
"I might soon take an apprentice," Becca said briskly, having had this welcome thought while Lucy was doing up her hair.
Dickon turned his head to consider the rain-swept day. "It is a better scheme than running wild in the woods," he said at last, turning again to face her. "But, I must ask—Do you think that you can renounce all the comforts you have been raised to, and live as Sonet does?"
Becca made a show of frowning. "I am not precisely certain, but I do not believe it is required to forever have fifty foundlings and stray kittens about."
Dickon laughed—"A score!"
"Indeed. And, really, Dickon, you must have heard Sir Jennet speak of the condition of his estate. I scarcely think I would be less comfortable in my own cot, tending the health of the village." She paused. "Especially if it were . . . somewhat warmer. The Corlands—"
"The Corlands," Dickon said, completing her sentence for her, "is frigid even in high summer, and your injury will never cease to ache."
"It may," Becca murmured, "accommodate itself. After a time. But—I think it unlikely."
"So do I." He frowned in thought, staring down at his papers, but not as if he saw them. "Well. Perhaps you might speak to Sonet and see what she advises. I wish . . ." he murmured, and fell silent.
"What do you wish, Brother?" she asked after a long moment had passed and he had not said anything else.
"I wish," Dickon said again, lifting his head to meet her eyes, "that there were someone whose heart was engaged, and from whom you might look for aid. Someone whose regard you might return fully and—" He stopped, as if catching himself in an indiscretion, color mantling his fair cheeks.
"Your pardon, Becca. It never occurred to me until now, but—perhaps the gentleman who was . . . whose ride you accepted—?"
"Kelmit?" Dickon looked so sorrowful that Becca smothered her laugh. "I did not love Kelmit, Dickon. I accepted his offer of a ride because it was a mark of distinction and I had been so miserable—'Brown Becca' was hardly a success, even with her portion. All of the young men were hanging out for golden-haired enchantresses."
"Sharp scythe!" Dickon closed his eyes; opened them. "Becca, my dear. I'm so very sorry."
"Without cause," she said briskly. "You have never been unkind to me—once we were out of the nursery."
Dickon laughed. "Wretch! And here I have given
you my most valuable advice!"
"Indeed you have," she said earnestly. "And I am most grateful, Dickon, truly!" She rose and held her hand down to him; he took it between his large, warm palms. "I did not ask you to solve the conundrum, after all! Only to listen, and to advise, which you have done handsomely! I have much to think about!"
"If you say so," Dickon said doubtfully. His hands pressed hers more firmly. "Becca," he said earnestly.
She looked down in to his fair, good-natured face, now shadowed by care. "Yes, Brother?"
"If you do decide to—unmake this marriage, I will stand with you. If I had my own establishment, you would be welcome there. Indeed . . ." His face grew thoughtful.
"Indeed," Becca teased him. "It is time and past that you were wed, sir!"
The smile with which he greeted this sally was somewhat abstracted. His fingers pressed hers warmly and released her.
"Bold heart wins all, Becca," he said, softly, and it was tears she saw sparkling in his blue eyes.
Chapter Nine
The wheat-colored dress was everything that Irene would have wanted, Becca decided, after surveying her reflection critically in the mirror. It was cut low over the bosom with the right sleeve nothing more than a pouf of fabric, which was the style. The left sleeve was long, flowing wide from her shoulder to be captured in a tight cuff at her wrist, which, of course, was not the style, but a scheme to hide her disfigurement, so that it would not offend the gentle sensibilities of her mother's guests.
Whether it would please Sir Jennet . . . was something that she would soon know. Her thoughts had calmed over the last few days, and she was now—not eager to see him, no. But willing to meet him sensibly and try, as Dickon had it, to become friends.
She turned back to her study of the mirror. Her hair was down in long ringlets, threaded with a beaded ribbon exactly matching the color of her dress.
It looked well, she thought. Of course, brown hair was not the fashion in beauty, and dark eyes were worthy of notice only if well-opened and round. Her eyes were subtly down-tilted at the outside corners, and her eyebrows slanted slightly upward, giving her thin face an unsettling foreign cast which not even lush silky lashes could redeem.
Becca sighed and looked 'round at her empty room. Lucy had darted in while Caroline was choosing her jewelry to do up her buttons, and Prudence had come in after tending to Mother to comb out and dress her hair. All that remained was for someone to come and help her with her jewelry.
She had chosen the amber set that had come to her from her grandmother, and, one-handed, had hung the drops in her ears. The bracelet was something more of a challenge, but she managed to tease the clasp shut with the strengthless fingers of her left hand. Someone would be by directly to deal with the choker—she frowned as the clock in the downstairs hall chimed the quarter hour—or perhaps not. It was getting late and Mother would want her in line to receive the guests.
Standing, she shook out her skirts, the fabric cool and pleasant against her fingers, and sighed at the necklace, alone and lonely on the tray. Ah, well, no one would be looking at her . . .
The door to her room opened hurriedly, admitting a red-faced Lucy.
"I'm sorry, Miss Becca," she said, coming forward briskly. "Miss Caroline was having a poor time of it, and—"
Rebecca put out her hand, touched the maid's shoulder. Lucy bit her lip and looked away.
"Caroline's slapped you again," she said, touching the hot imprint of her sister's fingers on their abigail's plump cheek.
"She does get a bit tempery," Lucy said, pulling away from Rebecca's touch. "Now, let's get you fit out—ah! The amber. Very good, miss."
"Lucy—"
The girl turned, the amber necklace held between her hands, and gave Rebecca a straight look from tired grey eyes.
"It's nothing, miss," she said steadily. "I'd be a fool to complain."
Which was, Rebecca thought, very likely true. If the abigail complained, Caroline would have Father turn her off. Except—she closed her eyes to consider a sudden new thought as Lucy slipped the necklace about her throat.
What if, after all, she married as her father willed? Surely a wife might engage her own maid? And if she had—if she had folk to care for, familiar folk from home . . . would that not warm even the Corlands?
"I wonder," she said slowly, as she felt the amber drop nestle, cool and smooth, into the hollow of her throat. "I wonder if you would care to come with me, when I am wed to Sir Jennet."
Lucy gasped, and Rebecca opened her eyes, her gaze seeking the other woman's face in the mirror. It was pale now, the mark of Caroline's fingers standing out in stark relief.
"I'm—I'm flattered, miss," Lucy said carefully. "But—all the way up to the Corlands! I'm Midlands, born and raised."
And to go to a strange country, with a mistress both crippled and odd, bound to a lord who was an unknown quantity . . . thought Rebecca, with a silent sigh. Caroline's temper tantrums were at least known and familiar. Almost, Rebecca thought wryly, I would choose them over leaving, myself.
Except that choice was not hers to make. Becca made herself smile at the abigail's reflection.
"I understand," she said, and saw the color creep back into Lucy's face. "It was only a thought."
"Of course, miss," Lucy said, smoothing Rebecca's ringlets with a slightly distracted hand. "Why, Sir Jennet, he'll likely get you an abigail of your own, who's been trained in town—"
Actually, Rebecca could only think of one or two things less likely, as she stood there, but there was no reason to say so to Lucy.
Instead, she smiled again and lifted her hand to touch the amber drop at her throat, just as the hall clock tolled the hour.
"Best you take yourself down to the hall now, Miss Becca." Lucy hesitated, then smiled, showing a gap between her two front teeth.
"You look beautiful, miss. That color suits you."
"Thank you," Rebecca said, turning toward the door. "It is a lovely dress."
"You look stunning, Becca," her brother murmured, during the first lull in arrivals.
Mother and Caroline stood at the entry to the hall, greeting their guests by name, shaking hands and declaring themselves pleased to see each arrival. Dickon and Becca, positioned halfway down the hall, served as a secondary greeting station. Father, who had started off gamely in the first line, soon left in company with Squire Trawleigh. If Mother felt his lack, her face did not show it. Beside her, Caroline glowed like a star in the white-on-white dress, her blond hair loose on her shoulders, as befit a maiden.
"The dress is lovely," Rebecca whispered in reply to Dickon. "I'm grateful to Irene for sending the cloth, and Mrs. Hintchston outdid herself."
"It's not the dress I'm speaking of," Dickon said, voice rising above a whisper. "It's—"
"Hush!" she murmured quickly as a portly gentleman in a wine colored coat whom she belatedly recognized as her affianced husband entered the hall and made his bow over Mother's hand. "The next wave is upon us."
Indeed, it was so. Scarcely had Sir Jennet passed on to Caroline than Lord and Lady Quince appeared, followed by Ferdy; behind them Celia Marks on the arm of Leonard Jestecost—
"Courage, then," Dickon answered, mercifully back into undertones. "Where d'you suppose Ferdy got that coat?"
"Perhaps he lost at cards?" Becca hazarded, and turned to give her hand and a smile to Sir Jennet, pretending not to hear her brother's barely strangled laugh.
"Sir Jennet," she said, as the gentleman bent to kiss her hand. "I am so very glad you have come."
He straightened a little stiffly, but kept her hand in his. "Rebecca," he said. "If I may be so bold as to use your name?" His face was somewhat redder than on the previous occasion of their meeting, and his pale blue eyes seemed a bit moist. His pressed her fingers tightly. Rather too tightly, if truth be told.
"Certainly, sir," she said carefully.
"Rebecca, then. And you must call me Jennet. I very much look forward to sitting w
ith you this evening and observing the festivities."
She kept her face smooth, reminding herself that she did not dance—not anymore—and that Sir Jennet merely meant to be kind. Which was surely, she told herself firmly, a good sign.
"That will be quite pleasant," she said, and produced another smile before passing him on to Dickon and turning to greet Lady Quince.
"Good evening, ma'am," she said with genuine affection. "How glad I am that you are here!"
Lady Quince gave one of her comfortable chuckles. "Oh, you'll not need my company at the side tonight, Miss Rebecca! Indeed, you will not!"
With this cryptic utterance, and a roguish wag of her head, she passed on to Dickon, leaving Becca to greet her helpmeet.
