Page 41 of A Winter’s Romance

No light, but rather darkness visible

Serv’d only to discover sights of woe.

—Milton, Paradise Lost, i.63 (1667)

W hatever Mr. Ponsonby had done to Mr. Thornton, the patient gave them no further trouble that night, and slept much of the next, giving Eliza time to organize who should be responsible for what and when. Though Shillbeer the chambermaid agreed with an impassive face and Mrs. Simmons (who had raised several children) with alacrity, there was grumbling among the footmen as Lady Arden had foretold.

“One would think Hoskins and Bigelow had been raised as princesses in Kew Palace!” Eliza muttered under her breath, but their grudging help would be better than having to wheedle Sir Miles into bestirring himself.

On the third day, when the laudanum wore off, the two footmen crept into the drawing room like victims marked for slaughter while Eliza, Lady Arden and the serving-women waited in the passage. Resisting the urge to press their ears to the door, they could not make out more than unintelligible voices and a thump or two, perhaps someone knocking into a piece of furniture.

“I hope that was not my screen,” whispered Lady Arden.

“Or them dropping Mr. Thornton,” Eliza whispered back. “But then I suppose we would have heard him roar.”

When Hoskins and Bigelow finally emerged, their mistress prodded, “Well?”

Hoskins nodded and brushed off his handsome livery. “He’s sorted out for the present, my lady, and a cross old bear he was to manage, but maybe a little breakfast will do him good.”

“I see. Thank you. And how is he this morning? Is he confused? Still foggy from the laudanum?”

“Right addled,” replied Bigelow, the larger and more taciturn of the two. Unmoved by Lady Arden’s squeak of horror, he added, “Demanding that we send in a ‘Miss Nobody.’”

Lady Arden gasped and seized Eliza’s arm. “Heavens—asking for a—a—a female person to be sent to him! What can he mean?”

“Oh, I suspect he means me,” said Eliza. Briefly she described Mr. Thornton’s fit of temper the day before.

The baronet’s wife shut her eyes, curls trembling. “Dear me! It is as Mr. Ponsonby fears. Mr. Thornton will find it tedious to lie blind and bedridden, and he will seek any means of amusement, whether it be to rail at you or—or to flirt with you in an attempt at seduction!”

Both Kirby and Shillbeer gasped at this, but Eliza held up a hand. “I have given the whole matter some thought, Lady Arden, and have a little scheme in mind which I hope will reassure you.” Turning her eyes on the servants, she said, “Now, Mr. Thornton’s reputation has doubtless been discussed below stairs, so you understand Lady Arden’s uneasiness. Whether I believe myself in any danger or not, I would like to ask all of you to participate in a mild deception.” She had their whole attention by this point and went a faint pink, for wasn’t it all a little ridiculous, Lady Arden’s fear? As if Mr. Thorton were some unbridled lecher and Eliza the temptation which could not be resisted!

“What sort of deception?” breathed Lady Arden, agog.

“Only this,” continued Eliza. “We will add a few years to my age as insurance. I will be Miss Blinker, a genteel lady of middling age, and— plain features. If opportunity presents, you all might even make reference to what a pity it is, I should be so plain and old. Such a description will protect me as well as a suit of armor, I daresay.”

“Only, what will happen if Mr. Thornton recovers the use of his eyes, miss?” asked Kirby. “And finds you not so old and not a bit plain?”

Eliza smiled at the sweet compliment. “I suppose then everyone can say something about me looking youthful for my age, and that ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ or some such.”

“Yes, good,” agreed Lady Arden. “Let that be trouble for another day. Oh, Eliza, how this will set my mind at ease.”

“I thought so, madam. And now that we have settled it, I daresay Mr. Thornton is beginning to wonder if this Miss Nobody will ever bring him his breakfast.”

Coming from the passage, the drawing room seemed darkness itself. Apart from the glow of the fire and the wall sconces on the far side of the room, all was shadows .

“Surely, if he has bandages covering his eyes and Mr. Ponsonby has counseled him not to remove them, we might admit a little more light,” Lady Arden hissed in her ear.

“Let us confirm that it is so, first,” Eliza murmured.

“Who’s there?” bellowed the patient. “Stop that confounded whispering and speak out.”

The dishes on the breakfast tray rattled, and Kirby tightened her grip on it.

“Good morning, Mr. Thornton, we have your breakfast,” announced Eliza, sweeping around the lacquer screen. She noted at once that the footmen had moved him to the armchair, with several of Lady Arden’s cross-stitch cushions shoved in a wedge behind him and his sprained ankle supported by an ottoman. “Are you more comfortable sitting up?”

“If by ‘comfort’ you mean ‘less subject to blinding bolts of agony when I move,’” he threw back. “Else why would I have permitted those oafs to arrange me thus? And you have not answered my question. Who addresses me?”

“Who else but Miss Nobody?” answered Eliza lightly. “I understand you called for me.”

His lips parted as if he would retort, but then they unexpectedly curved into a grin, and Eliza could see his teeth shine in the gloom. Her breath hitched, not only from surprise, but because of the unsettling tug she felt in response to so small a gesture. The languor of it. The awareness of its possible effects.

Before she could recover, Lady Arden hurried forward. Perhaps she too sensed the latent charm of the smile and feared its effects. “Miss Nobody, nonsense!” she cried. “Mr. Thornton, I am Lady Arden who addresses you now, wife of Sir Miles Arden of Ardenmere. And this youn—er—this younger lady is my houseguest Miss Blinker.”

Mr. Thornton’s head tilted, listening, and his grin faded. He gave one short nod. “Lady Arden. Miss…Blinker. James Thornton, at your service, which is less of a boast than I could wish. Forgive me for not rising to make my bows. Forgive me, moreover, for this imposition, which promises to be both lengthy and tiresome to many. Whatever costs you incur, I will of course repay.”

Eliza drew two conclusions from this speech: first, that Mr. Thornton was not a man in the habit of having to beg people’s pardons, for he did not sound particularly remorseful; and second, that Mr. Thornton included himself among those who would find his stay at Ardenmere tiresome. Nevertheless Lady Arden was all courtesy. “Of course you must not think of that now, sir. We are only too glad to be of some use while you recover. I’m afraid—as I am certain Mr. Ponsonby must have told you—no suitable nurse could be found, so you will be reliant on some of the servants and—and Miss Blinker for your care.”

Hidden by the bandages, his eyes gave no clue to how he received this, but Eliza began to think he hardly needed eyes. She could picture his mocking brow, for his head turned a degree to where she still stood and said, “Indeed? Servants are all too used to having additional, unpleasant duties thrust upon them, but what has Miss Blinker done to deserve such treatment?”

“I volunteered,” she rejoined quickly. Then, with a glance at Lady Arden, she began her program. “Because I have been a schoolteacher in Winchester for years and years, you see—”

“I don’t, as a matter of fact,” he interrupted blandly, tapping the bandage over his eyes. “And how cruel of you to remind me. ”

When Eliza colored and began to apologize for her choice of words, he waved it away, now contrarily annoyed by her fluster and sinking back into himself. “Never mind. It was a feeble joke. Go on,” he said now, sounding weary and impatient. “You were saying? You have been teaching for years and years…”

“Er—yes. And—in all that time I have witnessed and tended many scrapes and sprains and broken bones.”

“And now you consider yourself an expert. I understand.” When Eliza could think of no reply he made a restless movement. “Well? Now that the niceties have been dealt with—”

“You would like your breakfast,” Lady Arden supplied, biting her lip. “Of course. Just one more thing…”

“Yes?” It was almost a snarl. Eliza wondered if his injuries were paining him again. Would he require another dose of laudanum?

“Mr. Ponsonby is afraid you will find isolation tedious,” Lady Arden ventured.

“And so I shall.”

“It might not be so bad, if the family continued to use the drawing room,” suggested Eliza. “We have placed a screen around you for privacy—”

His mouth twisted. “A pen for the bear, eh? Yes, Lady Arden. It is your house and your drawing room to do with as you will.” He turned his head again in Eliza’s direction. “I suppose this is the primary place where Miss Blinker makes herself useful to you, what with reading to you and writing for you and playing the instrument which no doubt features prominently somewhere hereabout?”

“I indeed do those things for Lady Arden,” said Eliza, “and would like to continue. But all of those activities would require a little more light. If we were to open the curtains at the farthest window, would that—”

“Open away,” he anticipated her, his voice sharp. “I might stand on the surface of the sun, and it wouldn’t make a shred of difference. All is dark as Hades.”

And then she understood. It was not the pain which made him such an ogre, though it might add to his ill-temper. He knew pain would pass.

No. Rather it was the darkness which frightened him. The fear of his blindness being utter and permanent. How could it not? An active, good-looking man in his prime, to be so stricken, with no guarantee of restoration. It would terrify at any age.

Sympathy gentled her reply. “Well, Mr. Thornton, we will open some curtains and light a few more candles, then. But not too many, as Mr. Ponsonby insisted your…optic nerve would heal the faster if not pressed into service.”

But the softness of her voice provoked him anew. “Spare me your pity, Miss Blinker. You know nothing of the matter, nor much at all of nursing, despite your boasts, unless Ponsonby also recommended that I be starved to death. For why must I ask a third time for my breakfast?”

From the other side of the room, where she was opening the curtains to admit bars of light, Lady Arden whimpered at this rudeness, but Eliza merely nodded at Kirby and the other serving-women, saying, “We will set your breakfast tray on your right, sir. There is toast, egg, and boiled ham. If you would like butter or raspberry jam, you need only say so, and if you would prefer to feed yourself, the fork may be placed in your hand, as may your teacup. ”

With alacrity, Kirby obeyed Eliza’s implied instruction, setting the tray down and buttering and pouring and spreading as commanded. Mr. Thornton did indeed prefer to feed himself, so Eliza wordlessly demonstrated to the others how to load his fork and place it in his hand. This degree of autonomy seemed to pacify him somewhat, for his brow above the bandages smoothed after a few minutes and his voice lost its sharp edge.

“Lady Arden—are you still somewhere about? My compliments to your cook.”

“She seems to have gone, sir,” Eliza told him. Escaped, more like.

“Seems to have? What—have you gone blind as well, Miss Blinker?” he asked dryly. “I thought I approved the allowance of more light.”

“You did, and there is indeed more light now, but you remember the screen.”

“I remember. To keep the bear hidden and to prevent Lady Arden’s undoubtedly tasteful drawing room from smacking too strongly of hospital.”

“Precisely,” she replied, unruffled, drawing from him an unwilling chuckle.

He held out his hands to form a circle, and Kirby placed a teacup in them. Taking a careful sip, followed by another, he held the cup out again. Gingerly Kirby removed it, but not before his fingers brushed hers. The maid gasped at the contact, and Mr. Thornton paused, his head tilting and the corners of his finely cut lips curving.

Between the two of them Eliza and Kirby might have little experience with roguish young men, but that did not mean they did not instinctively recognize that here sat the very epitome. He might be bandaged, rumpled and unshaven; he might have grumbled and snapped and lashed at them; but nevertheless the maid’s little sound seemed to remind him that here lay possible amusement. After all, what was left to him for distraction in his passive condition but the exercise of his charm?

His considerable charm.

To Eliza’s mortification, the thought streaked through her head before she could prevent it, I wish I had said I would feed him . She went as scarlet as if she had spoken aloud, but thankfully Kirby was buttering another triangle of toast and Mr. Thornton was—well—blind.

“Miss Blinker,” he began, drawing out her name in a way which made the hair on the back of her neck stand. “As we will be much in each other’s company, do tell me about yourself.”

It was her turn for curtness: “I already have.”

“Oh, yes.” He accepted the buttered toast, this time with pincer fingers. “Let me see…you have been a schoolteacher in Winchester, you say, from time immemorial.”

“Yes.”

“And this in spite of the youthful limberness of your voice.”

She made no answer to this. Had he already guessed she was not so old as she claimed? Had she done it too brown? Perhaps she should try to sound older now—but how exactly did one go about that?

Another little smile to himself. “What do you teach, Miss Blinker, or has it changed over the decades?”

She would not rise to this bait. “Italian and the history of England.”

“Hmm. Would you say then that you are still n el mezzo del cammin di nostra vita , or that you were approaching la fine ?”

“You seem unduly interested in my age, sir,” Eliza said with some asperity. “And quoting Dante hardly makes it less discourteous.”

“How could I not be interested in age, when I have so recently stared my own mortality in the face?”

She supposed that might be a sincere statement, though she doubted it.

“It is pleasant to see, however,” he continued, “that you are telling no fibs about your Italian.”

“There!” said Eliza, sitting up straighter. “You called me cruel for reminding you of your present—blindness—but these last two times have been your own doing. Metaphorical references to sight are unavoidable, it seems.”

That hint of a grin again. “Ah. So they are. I salute you, Miss Blinker, and will refrain from reproaching you there in the future. But to return to the subject of fibbing…”

“What fibbing?” she croaked.

“The ham, if you please,” requested Mr. Thornton.

Kirby dutifully speared a bite of it with the fork and then turned the fork to place it in his hand, only to have that same hand flash out to swipe at her, striking her on the wrist. The maid shrieked from sheer surprise, to be joined in chorus by Mr. Thornton, who shrieked from pain at his unwise movement.

“Good heavens, sir,” Eliza blurted, retrieving the fork from the carpet. “What was that about? If it caused you discomfort, you have only yourself to blame.”

He was breathing heavily through gritted teeth. “You are not alone here, are you Miss Blinker? There are at least two of you here, are there not? An omission is as much a fib as an untruth. I demand to know who else is here.”

“My maid is here, for one,” she snapped, indignation humming in her voice. “It would hardly do for me to be alone.”

“What is your name, maid?” Thornton demanded to the air.

“K-K-D-Derwent, sir,” Kirby babbled.

“ Derwent ”? Eliza held up her hands in perplexity, and Kirby pulled a face, shrugging helplessly.

“It’s Derwent,” the maid repeated, committing herself. As an afterthought she added, “Kitty Derwent.”

With difficulty Eliza stifled a groan. This was what happened when one began to lie, she supposed—things soon got out of hand.

Mr. Thornton must have thought much the same thing, for he shoved the breakfast tray away (his face going white with another wave of pain) and barked, “Go on. Get out. The both of you—Miss Blinker and K-K-Derwent. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it’s a rotten joke.”

“Have you had enough breakfast, Mr. Thornton?” asked Eliza. “I’m sorry about not mentioning—Derwent—but I hardly thought you required a census of everyone in the room.”

“Are there still others present?”

“There is another maid Shillbeer and a Mrs. Simmons as well,” she admitted. “They were—observing—so they might serve you other meals.”

“Then get out. All of you. If you please.”

Eliza nodded at Kirby, who began to stack the tableware on the tray. “Should I send Hoskins and Bigelow in again to make you comfortable?”

He only grunted and made a shooing motion .

“Very well. We will go for now. Unless you would like another dose of laudanum…?”

“No, I don’t want another dose of laudanum,” he snapped. “I didn’t want the one I received, for that matter. Makes me nauseous. If you’re so very old, Miss Blinker, shouldn’t you go take a nap instead of hovering over me like a hen with one chick?”

Eliza stood, still hesitating. “Yes, but perhaps I ought to take a look at the bandages over your eyes before I go,” she ventured. “Mr. Ponsonby instructed me to inspect them once per day to determine whether they should be changed.”

But this only drew a roar which sent Kirby scurrying out with the tray rattling in her grip and the others not far behind.