Phoebe put her hand to her mouth. She had inadvertently intruded on this man’s grief. How she could have thought him heartless? A sudden fear gripped her. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Clare? Is Robert…?’
At the sound of her voice, the quiet groans ceased. He lifted his head. His white shirt was open at the throat, revealing his golden skin. In the darkness, his face had become all shadows and planes, but she could clearly see how handsome he was. He was no monster, but the personification of masculinity.
‘Robert is asleep. All is well, Miss Benedict.’ His voice held a singular raw note.
‘That is good to hear. I…I heard a noise.’
‘I regret having disturbed you.’
‘You…that is…Iamalightsleeper. Years of practice with my stepbrothers, I am afraid.’ She gave a small shrug and felt the shawl starting to slip off her shoulder. Her hand clutched it tighter about her.
‘You looked after them.’
Phoebe wet her lips. ‘Someone had to. My stepmother was not maternal and the maids were unreliable, even before my father died.’
‘How good it is that someone cared.’
He stood up, seeming to fill the room. His gaze slowly travelled down her body, then back up to her face. She clung on to the thin shawl, aware suddenly that she was dressed only in her nightgown; her hair flowed over her shoulders and her bare toes peeped out. Hurriedly she smoothed her gown, and covered her feet. She wished that she had thought to wear a cap. Her hand shook slightly, causing the wax to drip on her wrist. She stifled a cry.
‘You should be more careful, Miss Benedict. Wax burns.’
‘I will be fine.’ Phoebe attempted to ignore the searing pain.
He took a step towards her. ‘Let me inspect it. There is little that I do not know about candles and burns. My father was a tallow merchant to begin with.’
She stayed still.
‘Surely you are not afraid? Not the brave Miss Benedict.’ His voice mocked her.
Phoebe held out her arm. ‘It is but a small burn.’
‘Let me be the judge.’ His fingers encircled her wrist, lightly touching the spot. They were cool against her skin, but sent a strange trembling ache through her. Then abruptly he let go. ‘You will live.’
‘Hardly anything in the grand scheme of things, you see.’ Phoebe tried to keep her gaze away from his face and the way the candlelight turned his skin golden.
‘I know you think me unfeeling, Miss Benedict, but I do want what is best for the boy. I want him to get well.’ His voice rippled over her like smooth thick velvet.
‘There are other ways.’ She breathed and took a step backwards. ‘Ways that are kinder. Ways that treat the patient like a human and not an animal.’
‘I realise that now. I wanted my boy back. I want him well and whole again. You do not know how much it pains me, Miss Benedict, to see him like that.’
‘He will get better, but you need to look after yourself as well.’ Phoebe made a small gesture. She hated to think about how he had sacrificed his own bed to sit there. And how she had condemned him before without understanding. ‘Your injuries must pain you. Night air will not be good for them. I will sit here if you like. I have had my sleep and feel refreshed.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Benedict,’ Mr Clare said, turning back to the bed, settling down once again. ‘Your watch will begin in the morning.’
She had been wrong. Wrong about so many things. Mr Clare was complicated. He did care about his son, but why did he wish to pretend otherwise?
Phoebe lowered the candle and closed the door, trembling. The bed creaked slightly as she pulled the covers up to her chin. She willed her body to relax, but thoughts kept racing through her brain. The image of him standing there holding her wrist, shirt open at the neck, appeared to be scorched on her eyelids. She screwed up her eyes tight and bid the vision to be banished but her wrist continued to tingle from his touch for a long time.
Chapter Four
‘Can I name the kitten now?’ Robert asked before Phoebe had even fully entered the room the next morning.
‘The kitten belongs to me…for the moment,’ Phoebe replied carefully, easing her way around the piles of discarded clothing. The sick room in bright sunshine was even more dismal than the night before. It was a wonder that Robert had survived at all amidst this squalor. It was a crime that the nurse had been allowed to behave in this fashion.
‘He likes it here.’ The kitten chased a dust ball across the room.
‘Yes, but he will like it better once the room is tidied up. And it is for your father to decide if the kitten stays.’
‘Papa doesn’t care.’ Robert’s lip trembled. ‘He told Mrs Smith that if I couldn’t be kept quiet, I was better off dead.’
‘Mrs Smith had a singularly overactive imagination.’ Phoebe disentangled the kitten from the curtain. ‘I would hardly be here if your father wanted you to die.’
Robert pursed his lips, thinking. ‘He never notices anything that I do right. He only notices when I am naughty.’
‘And you want him to notice you.’
‘Well, he is my papa. It is proper. I know that I must have done something wrong. A long time ago, he used to spend time with me. He used to draw me things like carriages…then he stopped. He even sent me away to school when I did not want to go.’
Phoebe closed her eyes and counted to ten.
‘Robert, your father does care…’ Phoebe paused. She refused to lie, but the boy seemed desperate for his father’s love. Why was it that people who did so little, commanded so much? It hurt that James and Edmund always took her stepmother’s part, that they did not see all that she had done for them. ‘He wrote to your aunt and asked for help. She sent me and I will ensure you get better.’
‘If I get better, will Papa like me?’ Robert asked in a small voice. ‘Will he let me keep the kitten?’
Phoebe swallowed hard. It would be easy to become attached to this motherless boy. She could well remember her own childhood and how everything had gone wrong once her mother had died. How she had wanted her father to smile again, and how he had only done so once he had married Alice. She gave her head a small shake. Her time was limited here and she could not afford to become attached to the boy. ‘The important thing is to get better, and you will get better faster if all this mess is cleared up.’
Robert wrinkled his nose and flopped down amongst the pillows. ‘Don’t like clearing up. I am too weak.’
‘Then you are too weak to name the kitten.’ Phoebe crossed her arms. ‘This room will be cleaned up and kept that way. I run a tidy sickroom. And you, young man, need fresh bed linen and a clean nightshirt.’
Robert shrugged a thin shoulder. ‘After that, can I name the kitten?’
‘We will see, but I think it can arranged.’
Robert’s face broke into a sunny smile. ‘I hope the kitten can stay for ever…and you as well, Miss… Benedict. Can I call you something different? One of the masters at school was called Mr Benedict and he used a cane. He was particularly cross when he found my frog in his inkstand.’
Repressing a smile, she said, ‘you may call me Miss Phoebe if you like.’
‘Yes, that would be good, Miss Phoebe.’
Phoebe turned her face away and busied herself with tidying