caress, a smile lighting her face. “I do love poetry. My mother brought a few volumes with her when she left . . . when she moved to Ireland.”
“See if there is a poem within you particularly like.”
She glanced up. The color of the new dress shaded her eyes more green than blue. “I used to read Mary Herbert’s psalms.”
“She is in there. Read your favorite to me.” James pulled up a chair, flipped the tails of his coat over his legs, and sat. “Please.”
Her smile faltered. “Surely you are too busy to listen to me recite poetry.”
He was busy, but he didn’t care. He’d gotten her to accept the book, and he wanted to steal a few moments with her and forget the pile of work waiting on his office desk.
“It’s another hour before I’m expecting a patient. Plenty of time.”
“In that case . . .” She flipped through the pages and found the poem. “Here is one. ’Psalm 139.”’
Miss Dunne cleared her throat and began to read aloud:
O LORD, O Lord, in me there lieth naught
But to thy search revealed lies,
For when I sit
Thou markest it;
No less thou notest when I rise;
Yea, closest closet of my thought
Hath open windows to thine eyes.
Thou walkest with me when I walk;
When to my bed for rest I go,
I find thee there,
And everywhere:
Not youngest thought in me doth grow,
No, not one word I cast to talk
But yet unuttered thou dost know . . .
Her voice stuttered to a halt. “I have had a busy day already and my eyes are tired. I can read no further.”
“It was very lovely. And inspiring.” He had pushed her too hard. “Thank you.”
She shut the book. “The poem was one of my mother’s favorites.”
“You miss her very much, don’t you?” Before Miss Dunne had arrived, he’d never thought to ask one of his staff if they missed family and home. For all he knew, Mrs. Mainprice pined for her more northerly climes, and Molly was planning for the day she could return to the Hampshire town she’d left as a young girl, squirreling away funds to make it happen.
Miss Dunne’s eyebrows scrunched together. She must think his question callous. If she knew how distant, how unreachable his own mother had been, she might think otherwise.
“I miss my family a great deal. How could I not?” Her eyes glistened. “My mother is the strongest and most intelligent woman I know. My sisters are but four and sweet as fresh honey. And my brother will soon be a man.”
James pressed his legs into the chair before he stood and gathered her into his arms, thinking he—of all people—might comfort her. “Perhaps in the future, when you’re less tired, you can read me another selection. Another one your mother enjoyed.”
She tucked the volume of poetry under her arm. “There shall not be time for that, Dr. Edmunds.”
“No,” he agreed, regretfully. “I expect there won’t.”
Reverently, Rachel set the volume of poetry atop the bedchamber’s chest of drawers. Her fingers lingered on the embossed leather cover. She had felt Dr. Edmunds’s gaze on her as she’d read, his mouth touched with a ghost of a smile. But of all the poems she might have selected, she had chosen that one. The one that spoke of the ever-observant God, aware of her every move. Her every sheltered thought.
Thoughts she dare not share with the enigmatic Dr. Edmunds.
With a sigh, Rachel slid open the top drawer of the chest to put away the book. Claire’s money winked up at her. Rachel rimmed the nearest shilling with the tip of her fingernail, circling around and around. Joe had promised that, as soon as he could get free of his duties, he would help her post the money to her family in Ireland. Soon, they would all be together again.
Hope glimmered dangerously. Could it be that the brighter future she had hoped for since she’d stepped foot onto the steamer bound for London was within reach? A pessimistic voice in her head niggled. That bright future was only possible if Molly didn’t ruin everything. In a heartbeat, the maid could snuff out the light of appreciation that had shone in Dr. Edmunds’s eyes as Rachel had read the poem. She wanted him to admire her. Wanted him to ask her to go to Finchingfield, where the sky would be blue and glorious and full of promise. Like the tomorrows struggling to take form out of a shattered past.