Page 13 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

Stonehaven barely registered the terse instruction but assumed the reverend had responded as he threw his guts up.

The vile stench that assaulted his nostrils was quickly removed, and the bedcovers did not seem to be a disgusting, sodden mess, so Stonehaven could only thank the reverend’s quick reactions.

He heard footsteps, then the sound of the curtains being pulled, and the searing pain diminished to a violent throb.

“Better?” the doctor asked.

“Marvellous,” Stonehaven retorted with a snarl.

Cool hands touched his face, turning him this way and that. “Can you open your eyes?”

Stonehaven’s guts roiled again, and he swallowed hard, refusing to allow himself to show further weakness. “Ought I?” he asked, when in truth he was only buying time. He was afraid, terrified that he must confront the outcome that would signal the end of his life as he knew it.

“I believe you must try,” Arkhurst said calmly.

“Very well.”

His fingers tightened in the bedcovers, and it took considerable effort, but he forced them to release. He was the Marquess of Stonehaven, damn him. He would act like it.

Stonehaven opened his eyes. He blinked, and blinked again, hoping that the blur before him would coalesce, reform and take shape if he tried hard enough to focus.

He could see light, dim as it was, and thought he could make out the murky shape of the doctor before him.

If he turned his head to the right, the light changed.

Was that light coming through the curtains?

His pulse picked up as he continued to blink, trying harder and harder to focus.

“It’s too damned dark in here,” he said furiously, panic rising. “How’s a man to see anything?”

“Would you be so good as to open the curtains, Reverend?” the doctor said.

Stonehaven tracked an odd, wavering shape as it moved across his vision, heard the curtains being tugged open, and then screamed and clapped his hands over his eyes.

“Blind?” Anne repeated, her hand pressing over her heart as pity welled there for the robust man she had known since she was a babe.

“Aye,” Martha said, bursting with the importance of the news she had to deliver. “Polly said when the doctor took the bandages off, he screamed fit to rattle the windows.”

“Martha Brown, you keep a civil tongue in your head and mind your betters,” Mrs Fairway said sharply. “That poor man is in a deal of pain and does not need you salivating over his misfortune like a dog with a juicy bone.”

Martha flushed, chastened. “Well, it’s only what Polly said,” she replied sullenly.

“Well, mind it’s not repeated no more.” Mrs Fairway waved a floury rolling pin at the girl.

“Yes, missus.”

“It’s all right, Martha,” Anne said, her voice faint.

She felt breathless and unwell as she imagined everything her old friend was enduring.

“I did ask you for information, but we must be careful to respect his lordship’s privacy.

Did Polly know what the doctor predicted?

Could his sight return, is there a chance it is only a temporary injury? ”

“I don’t know, Mrs Adamson,” Martha said, casting an anxious glance at Mrs Fairway. “But from the mood of everyone in the house, she reckons he’s blinded for good.”

“Heaven have mercy,” Anne said, sitting heavily at the kitchen table.

“Martha, fetch the brandy,” Mrs Fairway demanded. “The good stuff, mind, not the one I use for cooking.”

Marth darted off as Mrs Fairway flapped a tea towel at Anne to create a breeze. “Ain’t going to swoon, are you?”

“I have n-never swooned in all my life,” Anne said scornfully, though it might have been more convincing if she did not feel so lightheaded. “It’s my fault. Oh, Lord, Hilda. It’s all my fault.”

“Nonsense. It’s the fault of those stupid boys.”

Anne surged to her feet, her hands sinking into her hair, pins skittering to the floor as she tugged at the loose coils. “But if I had not been there selling ale—”

“Well, and they’d have just got soused on that swill they sell at The Ship. Makes no odds,” Mrs Fairway said practically. “You didn’t pour the stuff down their throats, now did you?”

“No, but—”

“But me no buts, it’s not your fault.”

“But I ought to have fetched Captain Dearborn, as Mr Cogger suggested, or one of the other men instead of trying to fix things myself. Oh, damn my pride, my overweening pride. When will I learn I cannot traverse this world like a man, no matter how vexing it is to me? I wish I had only—”

“If wishes was horses, beggars would ride.”

“Hilda, I swear if you recite one more platitude, I shall scream,” Anne said, glaring at the cook, who returned a placid expression.

“I’ll stop if you’ll stop working yourself up into such a pother. You can’t go around blaming yourself for things what you’ve no control over, no more than the rest of us mere mortals.”

“But I did,” Anne said crossly. “I knew I ought not put myself in that situation, for men always act like men, and young, inebriated men are the worst of the lot. And now Stonehaven is blind when he might still be his whole aggravating self.”

“It ain’t your fault,” Hilda said stubbornly, snatching the glass of brandy from Martha as she scurried back before shooing the girl away again with a snap of the tea towel. “And even if it were your fault, which it weren’t, what are you proposing to do about it?”

Anne took the glass from her with shaking hands and considered the brandy. She downed it in one large gulp, gasped, and spluttered breathlessly, “I’ll have to marry the devil.”