hand with his, holding their hands resting on the volume. She’d never...been this close to a man before. Well, she had, but this made her breath shaky.
She took in a gulp of air.
‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked, leaning closer.
He moved his head and didn’t squeeze her hand. The blink of his eyes was a bit long to be anything positive. ‘Well, I guess you couldn’t be. Not with all the injuries.’
His grasp tightened in agreement and her heart double-thumped. It was just the gratefulness of not having to watch him die. She’d not looked forward to that.
She moved closer. ‘Do you mind if I talk to you?’
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
