Drawn out of the peaceful interlude she had sunk in, Rachel tilted her head up. “What do you mean?”
William’s eyes clenched tight before he opened them and met her gaze. “I had been avoiding you, and I hated why I did it. Before I say why, please know that it has been cutting me inside for days.”
She peeled herself from his side as worry began to set in. “What is it?”
“The other day after we met here in the morning, your mother came to me and asked me how long it would take to finish this new portrait because in a week’s time, well from now, she, and I assume your father as well, will be engaging you to Lord Strathmore.”
Lurching away from him, Rachel scuttled to the farthest end of the bench with horror painted on her face. “What?”
He reached out for her, but she shot off the bench, making William follow her. “I am sorry, I did not know how to tell you. I thought that it would make you more distressed than you already are, and I did not want to give you more.”
“But why not tell me after?” she asked. “Were you going to sit on it until they packed me into the carriage and sent me away?”
“No—”
“Then when?” she stepped away. “When were you going to tell me?”
He dropped his hand and sank to the bench after a moment, his face falling into despair. “I feared for the worst, sweetheart. With all the distress you had, I felt that you would shatter into nothing.”
His head tipped back, and his eyes stared blankly up into the hipped ceiling. “You do not deserve this, Rachel. You do not deserve to be betrayed and stabbed in the back this way. You do not deserve to be used as a trading chip for your selfish parents. And I hate it.”
His tender tone had her inching towards him, and while he kept staring up ahead, she sat near him. “You do?”
Twisting his head, he looked lost. “How could I not? A tender soul like you needs to be loved, cared for, and cherished. Not be used only as a child-bearer and an ornament.”
Leaning against him, Rachel whispered. “I’m sorry for how I reacted. I can see why you would not have known how to tell me that.”
“It haunted me for days,” he said. “Another reason why I could not sleep.”
“What kills me is why would Mother not tell me?” Rachel said. “Does she not regard me at all? This is my life. Why would she not tell me?”
William did not speak for a moment then asked, “Has your mother ever told you that she loves you, Rachel?”
Blinking, she tried to recall the times her stoic mother had told her those tender words. “A few times. Not much, mostly when I was a child, but as I grew, she tapered.”
“My parents were not as rich or sophisticated as yours are, but they told me they loved me every day,” William said. “I contrast your life to mine a few times. They died but loved me, while yours are alive but see you as nothing but a pawn. I may be wrong—”
“You’re not wrong,” Rachel said.
“—but no loving parent does this to a child they love or say they love,” William ended.
Nearing him, Rachel leaned into his side. “My parents are very tiered and complicated.”
“As in, they give to the church but do not dare to go visit a widow or orphanage? William asked.
“Yes.”
“Or is it that they provide supplies to the destitute but do not step a foot in a poor house themselves?”
“Yes.”
“Is it that they would pray in the church for all and sundry but would not do so in someone’s home?”
Snorting, Rachel said, “Yes.”
“This is why I sometimes despise the rich,” William said. “Most of them are hypocrites. You might disagree, but I have been in the homes of many peers, and the image they give to the outside is nothing close to the life they live inside.”
“I can understand that,” Rachel mentioned.
