Chapter 15

Fifteen

S tephen looked up at the knock on his study door.

“Yes?”

The door opened, and Ruth appeared in the doorway. “May I come in, my Lord? I need a moment of your time.”

She was wearing a thin white muslin day dress, her hair caught up prettily in a braided bun; curls framing her face. He thought she’d put more attention into her wardrobe than usual, and yet he could see exhaustion in the lines of her face. She looked as though she had not slept well.

“Of course.” He stood from behind his desk. “Come in.”

She hesitated a moment and then came in, something clasped in her hands. It looked like a small book.

“Take a seat,” he said, showing her over to a settee by the fireplace. “You seem distraught. What is it I can help you with?”

She gave a weak laugh. “I am not distraught. I believe it is only fainting ladies and wealthy damsels who can afford to be distraught. I am simply concerned and wish to speak with you on a delicate matter.”

He wondered suddenly if his aunt had said anything to her about their conversation in the garden. He was certain he could deny the conversation if necessary, but didn’t want her to be uncomfortable.

“I am actually glad you came,” he said, clearing his throat. “I have wanted to speak with you on a delicate matter myself.”

“Oh?” she asked.

“Yes, it is just that I know my aunt has rather strange behavior and that can be uncomfortable at times.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “Our dancing the other night,” he said quickly. “For instance.”

“Ah.” She looked down at her hands. “Yes, that was strange I suppose.”

“No, not precisely strange,” he countered, wanting to scold himself for how awkward he was making this encounter. “I found it very pleasant, I assure you — it is only that I fear you may be uncomfortable with her pressing us to dance. I worry that you feel put upon.”

“Put upon?” she said, laughing weakly. “By a request for a waltz? Sir, I hardly think any lady would resent such treatment.”

“It is just that you are here to work,” he said. “I do not want you to think you owe me anything special because I am your employer. If you feel our interactions are…” he hesitated, not wanting to reveal his feelings, “…unprofessional — if anything makes you at all uncomfortable — you should tell me. I will amend my ways and my aunt’s intimations as best I can.”

She swallowed hard. A shadow seemed to cross her face. Stephen wasn’t sure what he’d said wrong, but his words did seem to pain her in some way.

“Professional,” she said quietly. “Yes, I know it is important to be proper in our communication. I would like to assure you that I do not feel in any way taken advantage of. I have not been uncomfortable.” She spoke slowly, as though choosing her words carefully. “And you have not given me the wrong…impression.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, of course, that your aunt has not given me the wrong impression. I am perfectly aware of our respective responsibilities to each other.” She hesitated and then added, “And, of course, our responsibilities to society.”

Does she think I was reminding her of her place? He thought, worried. That was not my intention.

But she went on before he could clarify, holding out the book in her lap with a sweet so sort of reverence. “I found this a few days ago,” she said quietly. “I know I ought not to have pried into matters that did not concern me, but I thought it might be helpful in your attempts to help your aunt.”

He took it from her, hesitating a moment and then opening it. He read the inscription and looked up in surprise.

“It is a diary?”

She blushed fiercely, pulling her hands nervously back into her lap.

“Yes,” she said. “I know you will think that I overstepped by looking at her diary, but I find her behavior to be most unusual. I thought maybe—”

“You thought a breach of an old woman’s privacy would be justified by your own curiosity?” he asked, far more sharply than he’d meant.

He regretted his words almost as soon as he’d said them. She shrank away from him as though struck.

“I did not mean to invade her privacy,” she said softly. “I meant only to help.”

“Her history is her own,” he said, thinking of what his aunt had shared with him in the garden. “Perhaps she does not want the world to know about her past heartbreak. This is a family matter. What do you know of family heartbreak?”

Ruth hesitated a moment, and then stood.

“I will take my leave,” she said quietly. “I have caused offense.”

He looked up at her, his sharp words heavy between them. Why are you pushing her away? He chided himself. It will not make it any easier. Deeper, whispered in his heart he heard the words: It will not make you love her less.

Still, he could say nothing aloud. He merely watched her walk to the door. She hesitated there a moment and then turned around. He could not be certain, but he thought he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes.

“My Lord,” she said quietly, “I am not ‘the world,’ and neither are you. I was not exposing her secrets wantonly. I was only showing those who care about her; those who can help.”

She turned and disappeared, leaving Stephen feeling the weight of his words. He sighed.

“You are a fool,” he said softly to himself. And she is right.

He stood up and walked to the tall windows looking out on the garden. He could see his aunt there, as she often was these days, wandering around through the hedges. She bobbed from here to there, sometimes stopping to look at flowers; sometimes brushing her hands upwards against the soft leaves of a manicured tree.

She spoke to herself: he could see it even though he couldn’t hear it. Her hands fluttered along in pace with her moving mouth, and, though all was silence within the study, Stephen knew that it would be confusion and rambling out there in the garden.

She does need help, he thought. He opened the diary.

From the first page, he was hooked. The story was as poignant as though it had happened to himself, not to his aunt. He felt he understood what she was writing about, and he felt her despair in the end when she succumbed to her family’s plans for her life. He wanted to go back in time and convince her otherwise; to convince her write back to the mysterious gentleman and tell him she loved him always and would wait always.

He wanted to convince her to do all the things he was too frightened to do himself: to stand up to her family, fight for the one she loved, and tell society it had no place governing her life.

He closed the diary at last and replaced the letters, his heart beating wildly. Ruth. He had spoken to her so harshly; had given her only a cold shoulder for her efforts to help his aunt.

In the end, she had been right about the contents of the diary. As personal as the writing was, it shone new light on his aunt’s situation and would undoubtedly help him connect with Aunt Cecelia. He thought perhaps a wound that had been allowed to fester for years could finally be healed.

I only hope I have not caused too great a wound in the process, he thought, thinking of Ruth’s crestfallen face.