Regret Not a Moment by Nicole McGehee Page B

was the only form of acknowledgment she could muster. She wished she could summon more energy, but the foggy world of sleep beckoned her.
    In that indistinct half-conscious world between sleep and wakefulness she lingered for a moment—just long enough to feel a new twinge of pain. It came from inside and she did not know its cause. It had something to do with… she could not remember. A blurred image swam into her consciousness, then dispersed, as though it were smoke blown away by the wind. She fell asleep trying to grasp the image that she knew, somehow, was causing her a pain deeper than that caused by her broken limbs.
    Devon hastily put down the silver hand mirror she had picked up only seconds before, shuddering at the reflection she had glimpsed there. Although two weeks had passed since her accident, she was still severely bruised and in considerable discomfort. She had two black eyes and a myriad of cuts and scrapes on her face. But the worst, she thought, was her hair—what was visible of it beneath the gauze that circled her skull. Her head was too tender to allow her hair to be combed, so the once shining black locks hung in a tangled rats’ nest on her shoulders. Her frilly white batiste nightgown provided an incongruous touch of daintiness against which rested the already graying cast on her arm.
    Devon’s maid, Alice, entered the room, carrying a bowl of broth on a small silver tray.
    “Here’s a snack for you, Miss Devon,” she said, drawing up a silk-upholstered armchair to the young woman’s bedside.
    “Thank you, Alice. You know, if you would put it in a cup, you wouldn’t need to sit here and feed me.”
    “True, but if I put it in a cup, you won’t drink as much, and you need to build up your strength.” And with that Alice took a spoonful of the hearty-smelling liquid and brought it toward Devon’s mouth. Devon swallowed it without further argument.
    Alice took that as a good sign and decided to broach the subject on her mind. “Miss Helena has asked if she could call on you today,” said Alice, in a studiedly conversational tone.
    Devon stiffened at the words, but said nothing. As she had regained her memory of the riding accident, she had grown more and more furious at Helena Magrath Hartwick. Now she was tempted to tell Alice to send the young woman away when she next called.
    Alice, as though reading Devon’s thoughts, said, “She’s been here every day since your accident, Miss Devon. She’s been frantic with worry.” At each visit, Helena had asked to see Devon, but Dr. Hickock, sensing that an unpleasant scene might occur, had put her off. He did not want his patient’s strength taxed. Today, however, he had told the Richmonds that Devon might begin receiving visitors, knowing full well that Helena would be among the first. That was fine. Devon was out of danger.
    “Helena worried!” said Devon cynically. “Feeling guilty, you mean.” She slipped a finger inside the cast on her arm, trying in vain to scratch a spot just beyond her reach. Her forced inactivity and her discomfort grated on her nerves.
    Alice did not reply, knowing that Devon’s better nature would finally make her agree to see Helena. Indeed, the young woman’s Southern upbringing was such that she could not commit a deliberate act of rudeness.
    “All right,” Devon told Alice, in a tone that indicated she was girding herself for an ordeal, “ask her to come up when she gets here.”
    Alice nodded approvingly, pleased that she had judged Devon correctly. “She’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” said Alice, trying hard To keep a touch of smugness from her voice. She rapidly propelled a spoonful of broth toward Devon’s mouth.
    Devon stared at Alice as she swallowed, eyes wide with pretended outrage. “Rather sure of yourself, weren’t you?”
    “Not at all, Miss Devon. I was sure of your good breeding.” Devon laughed at her tone of righteous innocence.
    “You know me better than I know