Page 11 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)
There was a significant pause, and Stonehaven heard the reverend sigh.
“Yes.”
There was silence in the room, but not inside of Stonehaven.
Inside his body and mind was a fierce upheaval, a surge of anger and terror that sent his heart thundering with the turmoil of it all.
He wanted to leap from the bed and upend every stick of furniture as he raged with the violent desire to deny it was true.
The need to tear the bandage away and prove the reverend a liar, to show there was nothing wrong, seethed through every vein with the fiery scald of acid, but he did nothing, for he feared what he might discover.
Inside, he boiled with impotent rage at the unfairness of it.
His guts tangled tighter and tighter, but he did not so much as twitch.
Instead, he forced his limbs to remain entirely still.
He refused to allow them tremble with outrage, with terror, or with a weight of grief so overwhelming that it threatened to take his pride in the great wash of self-pity and weeping that would release if he let it.
The howling pain of it all gathered in a heavy knot at the base of his throat until he could not swallow, could not draw a breath.
A reassuring hand settled upon his shoulder.
“My boy,” the reverend said, his voice achingly gentle.
Stonehaven felt tears stinging his damaged eyes and clenched his fists. “If you are about to suggest we pray, I won’t be responsible for my actions,” he gritted out, his composure hanging by a thread.
“Actually, I was about to lament the early hour as a tot of brandy seemed in order. Perhaps after breakfast,” Honeywell said, quite unperturbed by his aggressive tone.
“Everything seems a little more possible with a full belly, I always think. Even if there is a proverbial mountain to climb, and as the delectable scent of bacon is tickling my nostrils, I surmise that it is ready.”
Stonehaven realised he too could smell bacon and his stomach growled.
He wondered at it, at the fact that his body could carry on as usual in some ways, whilst other parts of him were damaged beyond repair.
How could it be that the world was carrying on like nothing had happened, when his life was over?
“This isn’t the end, you know,” Honeywell said, his deep voice resonant with certainty and giving Stonehaven the distinct impression he’d seen into his brain.
“Isn’t it?” Stonehaven asked savagely. “Because it feels very much like it to me.”
“Of course it does. You are grieving, and part of grief is rage. Believe me, I know. God and I had some very unpleasant exchanges when he took my wife from me, but that is water under the bridge. If you are blind, and we do not yet know that for certain, then you will grieve the loss of the life you had, of all the things you believe are no longer possible for you. But once grief has softened into acceptance, you will discover reasons to live again.”
Stonehaven slammed his fists against the mattress, wishing there were something more solid to hit, like the worthless son of a bitch who had done this to him.
He’d see the vile bastard swing if it were the last thing he did.
Oh, no. He wouldn’t see it, of course, but he’d hear it. Every last strangled gasp.
“Damn you, Honeywell, don’t preach at me. You know as well as I do that a blind man is worthless. Can I read or write a letter, ride a horse, feed myself? I’ll be no more use than an overgrown infant, and I won’t live that way, that much I promise you.”
“Perhaps. But it is my opinion that events such as these are given to us so we might prove to ourselves just how magnificent our souls are. Why are we born at all if not to experience life in all its forms, surely we are not here simply to exist, never having known love or pain, joy or despair? How tedious such a life would be. You are facing a monumental challenge, and one many could not meet with courage. Some men would curl up and die, would shun help and love and anything that smacked of pity, but others are braver than that. I see a great man before me, an old soul who is wise enough to meet this trial head on. But then again, I’m an old romantic and known to be foolish at times.
I suppose we shall find out, however, in time.
I’ll have a bacon sandwich sent up for you.
Reckon you’ll manage that right enough.”
With this non sequitur, the reverend left, closing the door behind him.
Bea stood before the open window in the front parlour.
It was a glorious day, though a little cooler than the past weeks.
When she had woken, it was to remark a chill breeze coming through her bedroom window, the promise that autumn was stepping onto the scene as summer drew to a close.
Still, the bees were fussing about over the flowers in the front garden, and the rhythmic snipping close at hand told her George was busy pruning.
Upstairs, the Dr was with Stonehaven, and Bea could do nothing but wait and pray.
“Let him be well,” she murmured under her breath. “Let him be well, let him be well, let him be well.”
“Any news?”
Bea jumped as Izzy came into the room. “Not yet. Papa said he’s awake and coherent, though.”
This had settled some of her worst fears, but she suspected Stonehaven would consider losing his sight a fate worse than death.
No one enjoyed being the object of pity, but for a man of wealth and status like Stonehaven, one who was used to leading and inspiring admiration in others, it would be an unbearable burden.
What impact might it have on a man who was so vigorous and full of robust health, one who was obviously sporting and active, to have his life so severely altered by such an injury?
Sorrow filled her heart as she considered how his world would change. He would need friends, good, patient friends to help him through this, and she vowed she would be that friend, if he would allow it.
“Did I see Mrs Adamson was here?” Izzy asked, sitting down on the settee and patting the space beside her.
Bea nodded as she sat down. “She told me that she and Stonehaven are old friends. They grew up together, though they are friends no longer, apparently. She implied they’d had a falling out, or at least, I think she did.”
“Do you think he’s the marquess—” Izzy asked in an undertone.
“Izzy, don’t gossip,” Bea said, which was wretched of her as she’d wondered the very same thing.
“I’m not gossiping when I know you’d not tell a soul. I only wondered,” Izzy said reproachfully.
“Well, don’t. It’s none of our business.
” Bea stood up again, pacing back to the window until she heard the telltale creak of the staircase.
The third tread from the bottom always made an agonised sound whenever it was stepped on.
She held her breath, wondering if it was the Dr, and let it out when Clementine entered the room.
“Oh. I thought you might be Papa with news,” she said in frustration.
Clementine shook her head. “Sorry, no. Beaumarsh is with them, though he’s uncertain if he’s there to lend moral support or to stop Stonehaven hitting someone. He’s rather angry, it appears.”
“Well, can you blame him?” Bea asked, suddenly defensive. “He might be blind, and for what? All because some wicked fellow drank too much ale? How could the man have done something so… so…”
Words jostled in her mind, but she could not find one adequate to the task and snapped her mouth shut, turning to stare out of the window.
The lovely scene before her blurred into a mist of pastel colours like a ruined watercolour, and she inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself and feeling only a stab of pain in the centre of her chest. Poor, poor Stonehaven. Oh, how unfair it all was.
“Of course I don’t blame him,” she murmured.
Clementine’s voice was apologetic as her arm slid around Bea’s waist. “Forgive me. It’s just such a wretched situation and none of us know what to do for the best. Poor Beau is beside himself, not knowing how to act or what to say and I’m afraid I’m no better.”
Bea shook her head. “Not your fault, it’s just so terribly unfair,” she said, her voice choking over the last words as her sister pulled her close and hugged her.
“I know, love,” Clementine said, stroking her hair as Izzy came to stand on her other side, hugging them both together. “I know.”