Page 10 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

Rage, regret, or blind faith.

“I hope you can forgive me for coming at such an hour?” Mrs Adamson said as Bea showed her into the front parlour the next morning. “Has the Dr been yet?”

“He will be here again at ten o'clock unless we summon him before then,” Bea said, gesturing for her to take a seat.

“According to my father, Lord Stonehaven became restless and unwell in the late morning, and the Dr attended him again around five am. He prescribed laudanum. I believe he has slept soundly since then, but I can tell you little more. I do not believe he has spoken coherently but appears to be plagued by pain in his head and strange dreams.”

Anne, who looked pale and as if she too had slept little, nodded. “Thank you. I know you would not normally speak so frankly about someone under your roof, but… but I believe you are aware that Stonehaven and I know each other.”

Bea nodded, not allowing herself to speak for fear of asking impertinent questions.

“We grew up together,” Anne said, surprising Bea, who had not expected her to say anything more. “I have known Stonehaven all my life. We were very good friends once.”

“Once?” Bea asked, and then pressed her lips firmly together, cross with herself for yielding to temptation.

Anne smiled. “People change. We certainly did. I would appreciate it if you told no one else that, however.”

“Of course. I would not dream of doing so,” she replied, relieved she did not have to search for further conversation as Polly appeared with the tea tray. Her relief was short-lived, however, as Mrs Adamson spoke the moment Polly closed the door behind her.

“You are fond of him, I think.”

Bea, who had been about to hand Anne her cup, jumped so hard the cup rattled anxiously in the saucer. Mrs Adamson leapt to her feet and took the cup before Bea upended it.

“I beg your pardon, that was a wretched thing to ask you,” she said ruefully as Bea ducked her head, aware she was blushing. “I never could still my tongue when I ought. Forgive me for prying.”

Bea busied herself with pouring her own tea and considered the woman before her.

She had always admired Anne Adamson, and rather envied her confidence and poise, and the freedom her status as the widowed Mrs Adamson offered, even if there were those who were less than kind about her.

Did she like the woman, though? More to the point, did she trust her?

The answer was that she did not know. So, she stirred her tea, smiling calmly, and lifted her cup to her lips, deciding to evade the question and give a more general answer.

With a sense of satisfaction as the hot brew gave her a little jolt of courage, she looked back at her guest.

“Not at all. Lord Stonehaven is charming and very likeable and is most accomplished at making himself agreeable company. We have all become very fond of him, for we have found him a delightful addition to our town and are all devastated by what has happened. I assure you we will do everything in our power to see him make a full recovery.”

Whilst the beginning of this considered speech was somewhat coolly delivered, Bea could not keep the sincerity from her voice for long.

Mrs Adamson smiled, and Bea discovered she was relieved to see she had reassured the woman.

For if Stonehaven had once been dear to her, whether as a friend or a lover, it would be cruel to leave her in any doubt of his comfort.

“I never questioned that he was in excellent hands,” she replied with a smile.

Setting down her cup, she rummaged in the basket she had brought with her and lifted out a large glass jar and a rather battered book.

“At the risk of offending Mrs Adie, I have brought some calf’s foot jelly.

I would not have dared, only I made it, not Mrs Fairway, so perhaps she might forgive me my hubris.

I have also brought a copy of Tristram Shandy.

In truth, it belongs to Stonehaven, as the inscription will prove, but I am ashamed to say I borrowed it many years ago and never returned it.

I believe it to be a favourite of his, however, so perhaps if he is feeling better, it might while away an hour or two.

I am afraid you will have your hands full once he is on the mend, for I have it on good authority that he is the worst invalid in the world.

He has no patience, you see and cannot abide being still. ”

“That is most kind,” Bea replied, wondering under what circumstances the book had been lent and what exactly the inscription said. “I am certain he will be grateful to be so fondly remembered,” she added, hating herself the moment the words left her mouth.

Mrs Adamson seemed unperturbed by the comment and only inclined her head. They exchanged a few polite but inconsequential observations about the weather as she finished her tea, and then the lady rose to her feet.

“Thank you, Miss Beatrice, for your kindness as always. I know Stonehaven is in the very best hands in this house and I am grateful for it. In truth, we have not been friends for many years now, but he was once as family to me, and a bond like that cannot be entirely broken. I beg you will give him my best wishes.”

Bea agreed she would, experiencing a stab of guilt at Mrs Adamson’s words about her kindness, for she did not feel kind.

She felt prickly and out of sorts when she considered a bond that could not be broken , and it was a most unpleasant sensation.

She closed the door, disgusted with herself for her petty jealousy when Stonehaven was badly injured.

Nothing mattered other than that he should get well, and she promised herself that she would read Tristram Shandy to his lordship should he wish it and explain just how very kind and thoughtful Mrs Adamson had been, and how very concerned for his wellbeing.

Stonehaven drifted between hellish dreams and pain of the kind that made him double up and retch.

From time to time, he was aware of voices speaking softly, as if in the presence of an invalid, or perhaps death, and wondered if he was the one dying.

It was all so strange, his memories and his thoughts and the most peculiar and vivid nightmares tangling his mind into knots he had no clue how to unravel.

For now, he drifted in a state somewhere between sleeping and wakefulness, aware of roiling nausea in his guts, of a high- pitched ringing in his ears and that a lump of lead had replaced his brain.

As he tried to rouse himself, certain he might feel better if he could only wake properly, he attempted to open his eyes.

Severe pain accompanied the movement, stabbing darts of fire lancing through his brain and eyes, along with the realisation that something held them closed.

With this comprehension came the understanding that the touch of the compress, or bandage, or whatever it was putting pressure upon his eyes, was nigh on unbearable.

Gingerly, and with his heart beating far too hard, he raised his hand, finding soft material against his fingertips.

It seemed damp, cool. Was that blood, or something healing?

The distinct taste of blood flooded his mouth, making him want to retch, but he swallowed hard, forcing the desire back.

It was just a bandage, he reassured himself, nothing to get in a pelter about.

He tried to remember what had happened. Had he suffered an accident?

His head certainly thought so, for it was pounding as if someone were using it for an anvil.

The last thing he remembered was the fair. Two young nitwits had been causing trouble for Anne and then— He groaned, the memory dissolving into a fog.

“Damnation.”

“Ah, you are awake. Thank the good Lord.”

Stonehaven jolted at the voice, which was reassuringly calm and familiar. “Reverend?”

“The very same,” Honeywell replied placidly. “Now don’t fret, you are being well looked after, and the Dr will be here soon. He has visited several times already, but of course you will not remember that.”

“What happened to me?” Stonehaven demanded, a part of him recoiling and not wanting to hear the answer, which he had an intense desire not to acknowledge, but he had never been a coward, and he wasn’t about to begin now.

“I’m afraid a foolish young man acted rather rashly.”

“I remember the two young pups annoying Anne. I gave one a tap on the chin and he fell like a ninepin.”

“Quite so. Sadly, his friend was so inebriated he believed you had killed his companion. He picked up a full barrel of beer and brought it down upon you.”

“Well, that would explain why I feel like a heavy weight has fallen on my brain from a great height,” Stonehaven replied with more sangfroid that he was feeling as his mind produced the image, considered the weight of a full barrel brought down with force upon an unprotected head.

“I’m afraid so. Your forehead took the brunt of the blow, I think, which felled you, but the barrel fell too and smashed and—and I’m afraid there were a lot of splinters.”

A cold sensation rippled through Stonehaven and gathered around his heart, making it feel as though it were encased in ice. “Splinters,” he repeated, trying to keep his voice even whilst his breathing sped with the terror of what might come next.

“The Dr removed everything he could, and a pretty job he made of it,” the reverend said encouragingly, but Stonehaven could hear it in his voice, the underlying sorrow and pity for something that could not be undone, would not be mended. “But there may be damage.”

“To my eyes.”

“Yes.”

“Am I blind?” he asked bluntly, trying to remember if he’d brought his pistols with him.

“Not necessarily,” the reverend said in a rush. “It’s quite possible the crucial parts of your eyes were missed, or that they were only partially damaged. You may still see, though your sight might be impaired somewhat or—”

“Or I might be entirely blind.”