She didn't even lift her curtain.
He handed her a handkerchief. Good Lord. She was like a living, breathing spigot! He wondered if this was to be The Cry That Never Ended.
Rotten luck. His.
Why in the devil can't I be one of those men who can turn a cold shoulder to a suffering woman? But, no, he would do anything in his power to ease her pain. The pity of it was, there did not seem to be a thing he could do to take her away from her grief.
Rotten luck. Hers.
Was there not something he could do to lift her thoughts away from this shabby business?
He almost wished Simon Hastings was still alive so he could bash in his face. Such thoughts were of no help to the sobbing wretch beside him. He must concentrate on what he could do to eradicate her cries and bring a smile to her youthful face. He remembered the look of child-like pleasure on her face when she'd glimpsed Nick's opulentacious house the previous night. And Nick's house was only minutes away from Hyde Park.
He tapped on the roof of his carriage with his walking stick and ordered his coachman to take them to his brother's house on Piccadilly.
Though the situation, in his mind, demanded that he speak to the sobbing creature in a gentle voice, he forced himself to use a commanding voice. "Miss Hastings, you will have to pull yourself together. I must go to my brother's, to that house you so admired last night, and we can't have you bawling like a baby." He hated himself for being so reproachful to a lady in distress, but kindness had not succeeded.
This approach seemed to work. She took a deep sniff, dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, and finally spoke. "Forgive me."
Something in her forlorn voice went straight to his heart, melting it as heat to butter. He moved across the carriage to sit next to her, to gently cup her shoulder reassuringly.
Now his voice gentled. "There's nothing to forgive. You have every right to show your unfathomable grief. Either one of the sad intelligences you’ve been dealt today would make a grown man bawl. You may very well wish to cry a river, but it will not help. I know you have always wanted to see London, and I won't allow you to return to Upper Bannington until I personally show you the sights of London."
She sniffed. "Barrington. Upper Barrington." Then an anguished sob broke from her, and once more, she was overcome with a crying fit. “The pity of it is I never wanted to return there—and now I cannot. My aunt’s property goes to her father’s heir.”
He curled his arm about her slender, heaving shoulders and was once more aware of her light rose scent. How wretched the poor girl must be. He'd never felt more impotent. He'd always been a problem-solver. And a successful one, to be sure. But when it came to women, he was clueless.
Did they not like hats? "My dear Miss Hastings, before we go to my brother's I should like to take you to London's finest milliner and have you select a new hat." Surely that would cheer her. Maria had certainly loved getting new hats.
She buried her face in her hands and cried harder. “It saddens me that Auntie died alone and that I never said a proper good-bye. That I—the only person who loved her—wasn’t there at the end.”
“I believe she knew the end was coming and she wanted to spare you. She wanted you to be happy in London.”
She brightened. “I believe, Mr. Birmingham, you are right.”
He patted her. "Please, Miss Hastings, do quit crying."
Miraculously, her tears cut off as if they had been snuffed. It was a moment before she lifted her tear-stained face to him. Her (perfectly formed, actually) nose was red, as were the whites of her eyes, and he thought he'd never seen a more melancholy face.
He was reminded of his mother's ingrained belief that one could die of a broken heart. He'd never believed such rot, but he did worry that this poor lass's grief was so profound she could perish from it. Simon Hastings' blasted will had crushed her as surely as a boot stomping a shard of glass. Then she lost the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother. Both in the same day.
She seemed such a fragile little thing. Even if she would reach her majority within the year, it was difficult to believe she would be one-and-twenty.
"Thank you most sincerely for all you kindnesses to me, Mr. Birmingham." Her voice had started to break on his name. She stopped, then continued in a more firm tone. "I feel wretchedly guilty that I've been such a burden to you, that you've had to see my crazed weeping."
His arm still hooked around her, he patted her shoulder. "You're not a burden."
"Oh, but I am! You've spent your entire day on me." She drew a breath. "I did so appreciate you going with me to Mr. Wy-y-y-y-" She never got Wycliff out before another cry broke. But she quickly gathered her composure and continued. "Mr. Wycliff's office and acting on my behalf."