then I might abandon you altogether!’
‘Would an inability to see anything properly at all be enough of an exoneration?’
Bea turned towards him. The tone of his voice had changed, no longer as light as it had been or as nonchalant.
And then she suddenly knew!
The patch. The cane. His fall at his brother’s and the scar that ran full across his left eye. Like skittles, the clues fell into place one by one by one. No kind way to say it. No preparation. No easy laughter or words to qualify exactly how much he could see. Only the amber in his one undamaged eye burning brittle golden bright! Challenging and defiant.
The wind off the lake blew cold between them, his cloak spreading in its grip and his hand on the fence with its notched wooden carvings. Sight through touch. In that one second everything Bea had ever wondered about made a perfect and dreadful sense.
Blind?
‘So you do not have a problem with drinking?’ Her voice was quiet, laced with a truth that had not quite yet settled.
He shook his head. ‘I do not.’
‘Yet I have never heard anyone mention—’
‘Because I have never told,’ he shot back, defence in his posture and tight protection in the lines of his face.
‘Anyone?’
‘Asher, Emerald, Lucy, Jack Henshaw and Bates,’ he murmured, the list as short as five.
Six now with her. Nobody really, for such a secret. ‘And that is why you fell?’
He nodded. ‘When you suggested a fondness of the bottle, it was easier than this.’ His free hand gestured to his face, the silver-topped cane swinging in an arc as he did so, his anchor in a world of darkness.
Need. His need. Sliding in unbidden. Need of help and succour and support. She could not help the dread that crept into her voice, a thousand days of care for her husband reflected in such an unexpected truth.
‘I promise you that I will be sworn to silence on this news, my lord,’ she began, hating the withdrawal she could see, his head tilted against the wind as though listening to all that was further away. ‘I would give you my word.’
‘And I would thank you for it.’
Honourable even in hurt, fatigue written plainly on his face.
She no longer knew how to respond.
Blind! Such a small word for everything that it implied. Dependent. Reliant. Like Frankwell had been?
‘Perhaps we should walk back to the coach. It is getting late and cold…’
His suggestion was formal and polite, the choice of escape given under the illusion of time and weather. He did not wait for any answer, but surged ahead, his lack of sight pulling at her as he made his way up the path using the rail to guide him and his stick to monitor the lay of the ground.
The patch across his left eye was a banner of the shame that she felt when she failed to call him back to say that it did not matter, that it made no difference, and for the second time in two days a man, who had never been exactly as he seemed, threw her equilibrium into chaos.
Taris felt the ache around his temple tighten, constricting the blood that flowed into his last fading sight and band around a building pain.
God. What had made him tell her? What mistaken and stupid idea had crept into his head and made him blurt it out?
Take it back…take it back…take it back…
The voice of his anger was thickly strangled, bewildered by his admission and lost in fatigue.
All he wanted was to be home, away from her promises and the whisper of pity in her reply, the shocked honesty in her words underlain by another truth.
‘I promise you that I will be sworn to silence on this news, my lord.’
Sworn to the silence of one who would distance herself from needing to be beleaguered by it? Sworn to the silence of one who would make a hurried escape from his person and count herself lucky? That sort of silence? In Beatrice-Maude’s restraint he had a sudden feeling of breakage.
Spirit. Heart. And pride.
Tell anyone and open yourself up to the shame. Tell anyone and hear the shallow offer of charity.
When his hand clasped the rail on the carriage steps he hauled himself in and laid his cane across his knee. A fragile barrier against all that he wasn’t any more and would never be again.
A lessened man. A needy man. A man who could barely get to the front steps of his own house without help. His unwise confession burnt humiliation into his anger at everything.
Bea did not cry when she was finally home. Did not rant and rail as she had when she had thought an inability to limit strong drink was his only problem.
Today she merely sat on the window-seat with the rain on the glass behind blurring the vista and the small clock beating out the minutes and the hours of silence.
The same sound she had measured her life against for ever!
Reaching across to the table, she picked it up and threw it hard against the ground, the glass shattering as the workings inside disintegrated. Springs and metal and the face of numbers spinning around, time flown into chaos and the beginning of a quiet that she could finally think in!
Exhaling, she stood and crossed to the mantelpiece, extracting a card from a small china plate and holding it close.
The Rutledge Ball would begin at ten and Taris Wellingham was one of the patrons.
Her heart beat faster as she formulated a plan.
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