“Because I don’t understand,” Derek admitted. “I know this life is different, but can you truly not derive satisfaction from accomplishing something, from knowing that you’re needed, that you’re making a difference?”
Staring at him, she swallowed. “Am I?” she croaked, and for a second, her gaze fell from his. Then she drew in a deep breath, and her head snapped up once more, the green in her eyes ablaze. “In case it has escaped your attention, my lord, I have nothing to be satisfied with as I have not accomplished anything.” Her tone remained calm, and yet, Derek could tell that she was on the brink of giving in to a panic that seemed to be hiding just below the surface. “I don’t know how to do anything you ask of me. I fail at everything. Can you not see that? Or do you merely ask me that to make me feel even smaller than I already do?”
Stunned by her honest revelation, Derek hesitated. Was that truly how she saw herself? Was it not the snobbish notion to be better than others that kept her from helping, but the fear of failing at tasks as simple as cutting vegetables?
“You seem to have everything under control,” he finally said, pointing to the steaming pot. “Would you not call that an accomplishment? Even if it might only be a small one. However, without it, we would go hungry tonight.”
Holding her gaze, Derek saw a small spark of pride light up for the barest of seconds. However, it was immediately snuffed out by renewed anger and doubt. “All of this is your mother’s doing. Not mine. I wouldn’t even know?”
“But you’re helping,” Derek reminded her. “Without your help?”
“But I’m doing it wrong!” she snapped, her arms waving about, the knife still in her hand. “Even the smallest tasks your mother gives me, I cannot do right. I cannot even cut carrots!” With wide eyes, she shook her head, her hands gesturing wildly. “Not the right way and too slow! I spill and drop things. I know nothing of cooking or sewing and mending clothes.” Again, she glanced at the pot, then snorted. “And now I’m standing here talking to you when I ought to be cutting these.”
Snatching up another carrot, Madeline turned back to the workbench, her brow furrowed in tense determination. “I need to finish before she comes back and sees that I’ve failed her again. Not only does she need to look after Kara and Collin but help also me out as well.”
Concern sneaked into Derek’s heart as he watched Madeline berate herself. Always had she seemed confident and self-assured, and yet, in the past few weeks, her well-crafted mask had begun to slip, revealing more and more of her insecurities. If only she were not so afraid to show them, Derek thought with regret. Still, he could understand the need to appear strong, better than she might think.
“Why is it,” his wife demanded, not taking her eyes off the carrots, “that you always help your tenants before you lift a finger for your own family?”
Derek drew in a slow breath, aware that she was merely trying to redirect her anger. “Because my family has more than they do. Because they need it more. Because they have no one to look out for them.” Stepping closer, he spoke in a calm tone, his gaze fixed on her face as her knife continued to slice through the orange vegetable in jerky cuts. “Because they have you now.”
At his words, her head swivelled around, her eyes wide as she stared at him. Her fingers slipped off the carrot, and yet, her other hand brought down the knife as before.
Alarmed, Derek stepped forward, reaching for the knife, but it was too late.
Blood welled up as the tip of the blade broke her skin, and she let out a cry of pain.
Chapter Fifteen ? Honest Words
Clutching her hand to her chest, Madeline gritted her teeth as a sharp pain assailed her. However, deep down, she knew that it was more the pain of humiliation than physical discomfort that made her ache. Had she not just now proved how unskilled she was? Could he not see that the only thing she knew how to do was attract suitors? Attend society teas? Spend the night on the dance floor?
Over the past few weeks, Madeline had come to realise that her insistence on making the perfect match that stemmed from a deep desire to be someone.
To achieve something.
To stand out.
And yet, a part of her had always known that it would only have been a pretence.
Among the ton, few people stood out due to their own achievements. If not for scandalous gossip, it was merely one’s position in life, defined by birth, which gave one recognition. Certainly, manners and personal conduct added a personal note. However, they were only window dressings for a house built out of attributes one had no control over.
She had been born a lady, and it did not matter who she was; she would always be a lady. Her family’s reputation, fortune and influence, garnered over the centuries, added to her own position, her own worth.
None of it had been her own doing.
And deep down, Madeline had always resented that.
Deep down, she had always wanted to accomplish…something.
To be someone worthy of respect and admiration because of who she was, not because of the position she had been born into.
And now she had failed.
At a simplest task no less.
Once and for all, she had proved that she was worth very little. That she had been fortunate to have been born into a titled family because she would never have been able to achieve such a position herself.
Unlike the man she had married.
He had indeed proved his worth.
And she could not help but admire him for it.
“Let me see,” her husband whispered beside her, and Madeline sucked in a deep breath at finding him so close. Gently, he drew her hand away from her chest and inspected the cut. “It’s not deep.” Filling a cup with water, he poured it over her finger, washing away the blood. “However, one always ought to pay attention,” he said, the hint of a grin tugging on the corner of his mouth, as he pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around her finger, “when one is handling a weapon.”
Madeline snorted, “A weapon?” She shook her head, trying to distract herself from the warmth of his skin against her own. “It’s only a small cutting knife.”
His dark eyes shifted to hers, and all humour left his face. “You would not believe what harm even such a small knife can inflict on a body.” He drew in a slow breath as his gaze held hers, their hands still touching, seemingly unable to part. “I pray that you shall never find out.”
Swallowing, Madeline searched his eyes. Memories hung over them, dark and painful, and a part of her wished he would share them with her. Not because she desperately wanted to know, but because more than anything she wanted him to see her as someone worthy to confide in.
Again, his mother’s words from her first day at Huntington House echoed in her mind. He rarely shares his burdens. Maybe he will share them with ye. Madeline had to admit that even if she had not wished for it then, she did now.
She wanted his trust.
Be in his confidence.
“You were a soldier,” she whispered, not certain how to ask, how to keep him talking. “What was it like?”
For a long moment, he remained quiet, his gaze locked on hers as though trying to determine if she truly wished to know. “It was heaven and hell,” he finally said, drawing in a slow breath as he saw confusion come to her face. “The bloodshed, the pain, the loss of lives was beyond anything I could even begin to describe.” He shrugged. “It was hell, and to this day, I wonder how I made it out.”
As he spoke his hand closed more tightly on hers, and Madeline found herself trembling with the intimate way his gaze held hers, the way his words rang true, open and honest. Never had he spoken to her like this.
No one had ever spoken to her like this.