Page 98 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
But as she stacked up record book after record book, she felt saddened. Was this all that her grandfather had to show for his life? It all seemed so impersonal, these ledgers with the entries made in his crabbed handwriting.
She had come to the bottom of the pile when she felt something cold and hard in the back of the drawer. She drew forth two objects, realizing with some surprise that she held miniature portraits in gilt frames.
The first of these represented a young woman whose features bore such striking resemblance to Phaedra’s father, she did not doubt that she gazed upon a likeness of her grandmother. Corinda Weylin had deep, cornflower-blue eyes, just like George Weylin. But the hair wisping about her sweet face was a soft brown, not the red-gold Phaedra once had guessed.
She set that portrait aside. It was the other that most intrigued and puzzled her. She studied the stocky young man with the belligerent tilt of his chin, suggesting that he had scant time for this nonsense of posing for the artist. It took a few moments for her to recognize her grandfather’s features in the stubborn set of the lips and heavy eyelids. Most startling of all was the thatch of red-gold hair that waved back from his brow.
Phaedra fingered a lock of her own fiery curls, a wry smile curving her lips. All those times that he had groused at her about the color of her hair! Her lips parted to laugh, but to her surprise a sob escaped her instead. She bowed her forehead against her arm, her flood of tears wetting the scarred oak surface of the desk.
Lost in the release of her pent-up emotion, Phaedra did not realize she was no longer alone until she felt a light touch upon her hair.
“Phaedra?”
She jerked upright to meet Jonathan’s concerned gaze. Wiping hastily at her eyes, she said “Oh, J-Jonathan. You startled me.”
“I knocked, but I fear you didn’t hear me.”
“I but laid my head down on the desk to rest a bit and …” She allowed her voice to trail off, realizing how ridiculous it was to try to deceive him when she knew her face must be splotched and red with weeping.
“My dear!” Jonathan regarded her with deep, mournful eyes as he brushed away the last of the moisture from her cheek. “I should never have let you return to this gloomy house. You are never happy here.”
“I am all right,” she said, drawing back from his touch. “I was only feeling a bit depressed about Grandfather, that is all.”
“Aye, my poor old friend. It saddens me to see him thus, too.”
Yet Jonathan’s gaunt features assumed a look more anxious than melancholy. “I hope you have never blamed me for what happened that night. For not permitting you to tell Sawyer the truth about Robin Goodfellow.”
“Of course not,” she said wearily. She rose from the desk. “I have gathered together the ledgers that you need. Here they are.”
But Jonathan’s eyes never wavered from her face. “My dear, you do not look at all well. I must insist upon your seeing my physician.”
“It would do no good. I fear I am past all curing.”
She regretted the bitter words when she saw Jonathan pale with alarm. She started to pass off her comment as a foolish jest, but she could not seem to speak past the lump in her throat. She felt so desperately alone. Added to the strain of worrying about James and of trying to care for her grandfather, she was now burdened with another dread secret. She feared she would go mad if she did not confide in someone.
“The truth is, I am in a great deal of trouble,” she said. “I fear I am with child.”
Jonathan’s face registered shock but no censure. He was struck dumb for a few minutes, her own misery mirrored in his dark eyes. She dreaded that he would demand to know who the father was, but Jonathan had far too much delicacy for that.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
She nodded. God help her, she did not know how, but she was absolutely certain.
His fingers laced together in a nervous gesture. He asked anxiously, “You are going to marry the father?”
Phaedra was rather astonished that that should be his first thought. “No,” she said dully. “There is no likelihood of that. He’s gone.”
Jonathan exuded a deep sigh. He flushed as he caught her hands in a tight grip. He startled her by bursting out with, “Marry me, Phaedra! I have adored you ever since?—”
“Hush, Jonathan,” she begged, trying to stem the flow of words they would both regret on some calmer day in the future.
He dragged one of her hands to his lips, and then the other, kissing them with a passion Phaedra had never imagined the man capable of. His eyes glowed with such yearning that forone weak moment, Phaedra was tempted. She was so tired of struggling alone. At least she knew Jonathan would ever be kind to her and the babe. But her heart rejected the notion. She knew what it was like to marry without love.
She pulled away from him. “No, Jonathan,” she said as gently as she could. “It would not do. You are most kind and I thank you, but?—”
“Phaedra, please.”
“No!” She evaded his attempts to recapture her hands. “You will only add to my distress if you continue to press me.”
