Beast and Beatrice

Chapter eight - Gilbert

  Gilbert sat there watching the woman as she stared in silent shock at the writing on the slate.

  It was sheer luck that he still had the old stone tablet. He'd all but forgotten he had it stored away in that old trunk. Usually, he preferred not to look too closely at those things tucked away in the bottom of that old chest. Too many memories. But seeing his old school slate in this woman's hands gave him a feeling of satisfaction. Finally, he had a means to communicate with her. Here he'd been, racking his brains, trying to figure out a way to explain things to her, and the solution had been here all along.

  The woman looked up at him then. No, not 'the woman'. He had a name to pair with that pretty face now. Miss Beatrice Smail, sister to the late Baronet, Sir Michael Smail. The name meant little to him, other than to confirm the fact that she was gently born, and that came as no surprise. Into a minor ranking family, true, but gentry all the same.

"You cannot speak?" She gestured with the board and he nodded in confirmation.

  Her eyes dropped to the scar seared across his collarbone, no doubt just visible through his open shirt collar, and suddenly he felt again it all again. The agony of being branded by that blazing inferno. The memory was literally seared into his flesh. Even though the wound had healed over nearly a decade ago, the pain remained fresh in his mind.

  He watched with mixed emotion as comprehension and compassion scrolled across her pretty face. He didn't want her pity and yet, it wasn't pity that he saw in her expressive face. That she understood the source of his pain was clear. That she was curious about his injuries he had no doubt. It was human nature. He could see that she was tempted to ask how he had come to be so marked and mentally braced himself.  He was uncertain exactly what he would reply.  The truth was he really couldn't answer. He had none. None that he wished to share anyway.

   Her eyes lifted to meet his. Big emerald green eyes filled with questions. Questions she yearned to ask. Even her lips twitched with the urge to know, but, at the last minute, she managed to restrain herself. Whether due to restraint or trepidation, he couldn't decide. He watched her blink and shake her head as if  berating herself for being curious. Then her gaze returned to the slate and she proceeded to read.

"'You came to my door three days ago.'" Surprised, her eyes flicked up to meet his. "Three days? I've been here three days?"

  Again, he nodded, then gestured for her to continue reading. Her brow furrowed in consternation but she resumed.

"'You have been out of your head with fever.'" She paused, staring hard at the words he'd written before meeting his eyes again. "Fever? I was ill?"

  Gilbert nodded in confirmation, then gestured for her to return the board to him. She passed it back and he grabbed a rag from the trunk to wipe the surface clean before lifting the chalk again. Beatrice watched him quietly, but she continued to look troubled. No doubt she was having difficulty absorbing all this. She had lost three days' worth of time. They were memories she was unlikely to ever recover. The idea must be very unsettling indeed.

  He finished scribbling and passed the slate back to her. This time her eyes nearly vanished into her hairline in shock. She met his gaze and then her eyes quickly scurried away, her face flushing with embarrassment. He watched the painful way she swallowed against the lump of mortification in her throat. If only he could explain it with more tact. He really did sympathize but there was no denying that he had been her only nurse all this time.

"You undressed me and bathed me?" Her voice was breathless with discomfort. She couldn't even look him in the eye, she was so mortified. He expected her to drop the subject and was surprised when she continued, although her tone was strained and wound up rising to a squeak.