Page 19 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

The quality of mercy.

“That all you want?” George asked sceptically. “Ain’t enough to keep a sparrow alive, let alone a bruising fellow like you.”

“Yes, that’s all,” Stonehaven snapped. “Take it away,” he demanded, pushing at the tray resting on his thighs.

He was back in his room, sitting in a chair beside the bed, and felt utterly exhausted by something which he’d never given a moment’s thought since he was old enough to feed himself as a babe.

Finding the food, figuring out what it was and how to put it in his mouth without incident was fraught with difficulty and frustration.

He had retreated to using his fingers, but that made him feel like a caveman, so he had doggedly returned to the knife and fork.

His meals were carefully selected, he knew, with no dripping sauces and with meat pre-cut in neat little bite sized squares.

The knowledge rankled, more so as he wondered if Sally had been given the job of preparing the invalid’s dinner.

“Right you are.”

“Wait,” he barked, before George could leave, aware he was acting like an ill-mannered brute, but unable to stop himself.

“Have— Is there… food?” he asked, a painful twist in his chest as he asked the gardener if he had made a mess of the clean shirt he’d put on after already having ruined one during nuncheon.

“No, my lord. A tidy job you made of it. Might want to wipe your chin, though.”

Stonehaven gave a taut nod and tugged the napkin from around his neck, giving his face a brisk swipe over. “Much obliged,” he muttered, his fist clenching around the linen square.

“No bother,” George said amiably. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Right you are. I’ll come back later to give you a hand afore bed.”

Stonehaven grunted, listening as the door closed.

Frustration gnawed at him. He wanted to go for a ride, to gallop over the fields and then stand and watch the sun setting over the water, watch the sea turn liquid gold and feel the last touch of warmth upon his face.

Impossible now. He hadn’t even tried to go downstairs by himself yet.

The silence in the room seemed to swell, a pressure in his ears as rage filled his heart. It wasn’t bloody fair.

“Don’t be such a child. Life isn’t fair, you know that,” he snapped angrily.

“Oh, perfect. Now you’re talking to yourself,” he added, raising a hand to his eyes.

Gently he traced the skin around them, feeling the healing wounds, small scabs from the dozens of splinters the doctor had painstakingly removed.

He knew now how fortunate he’d been in having Dr Arkhurst attend him.

Whilst he was only a young man, he had already gained a reputation for skill, though it was rumoured he had some unorthodox methods.

Whatever the doctor had done, however, there had been no infection, and the wounds were healing cleanly. If only he could mend his eyes.

Arkhurst had offered to send for a specialist, an eye doctor, to see if there was anything to be done. Stonehaven had asked him point blank for his opinion and had been unsurprised by Arkhurst’s blunt reply. No was such a bleak word when your entire being was alive with the need to hear yes.

Stonehaven sighed as he heard the grandfather clock chime the hour.

Only seven in the evening. He was unused to going to bed before the early hours, but now what?

All the pleasure had been stolen from his existence.

He couldn’t even read and transport himself into someone else’s life or discover far-off places and imagine what they might be like.

“Damn this,” he said, throwing the napkin he still held across the room. Steeling himself, he took a breath, grasped the arms of the chair, and stood up.

Remembering the mental map he had created of his bedroom with Sally’s help, he moved carefully, using his hands to judge distance, and found his way to the door without incident.

“There now. Not so difficult,” he said gruffly, turning the handle and pulling the door open.

He moved slowly, uncertain exactly how many steps there were to the stairs.

He had counted them with Beau earlier but knew to his cost that was not an exact measure.

Barking his shins on the edge of the bed was one thing, plummeting down the stairs headfirst, quite another.

So, he moved with excessive caution, his left hand gliding over the wall as his right cast about for the newel post. He grasped it with a sigh of relief, sliding one foot out to discover the edge of the stair.

With his heart beating far too hard, he told himself not to be such a damned fool and get on with it.

He made the first step without incident, and the second, and the third, and with his hand securely grasping the rail, made it all the way downstairs. Grinning with triumph, he wondered if he could find the parlour. What a surprise he would give the family.

He could hear voices, the sound of easy conversation, and used his memory of the layout of the house, and their chatter to guide him.

Increasingly confident, he moved quicker and promptly snagged his foot on a rug.

He stumbled, thudding heavily against the wall, but righted himself as the voices quieted and the door opened.

“My lord!” A female voice exclaimed. One of the Honeywell girls, he thought. Not Clementine, for he knew Beau had taken her for a romantic walk down to the beach, lucky devil. Which, then? “You came downstairs by yourself?”

“I did,” he agreed, surprised by the degree of pride that gave him. It was hardly a grand feat, was it? Yet it had become something he feared doing, and if he was to carve some kind of life for himself, he must not allow fear to stop him.

“Well, well. Such remarkable progress! I knew you would not let such a setback limit you, my lord.”

“Good evening, Reverend,” Stonehaven said, immediately recognising his voice.

“Izzy, guide our guest to a chair, there’s a good girl.”

Ah. Isabelle Honeywell, he thought with satisfaction, and wondered who else was in the room.

“A shame Beatrice isn’t here. I would ask her to play for you, but she was so kind as to take a basket of provisions to one of our parishioners who is rather unwell.

I expected her back by now but, knowing Bea, she has set about tidying up and putting things straight for the lady, for it is in her nature to be helpful.

Such talent she has too, and a voice like an angel,” her proud father said amiably.

“But you’ll just have to put up with my chatter instead. ”

“It’s better than listening to my own thoughts, at least,” Stonehaven replied with a snort, and then realised he was being rude. These people had been nothing but kind to him, giving him shelter and care when they might easily have sent him to an inn. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean—”

“No, no, think nothing of it,” Honeywell said with a chuckle. “We prefer plain speaking in this house, eh, Izzy?”

“Certainly, Papa. I’m afraid you must be terribly bored,” Miss Isabelle said with sympathy. “If there is anything we can do, I beg you will ask. Perhaps you would like to go for a walk tomorrow?”

The idea of going out in public and not being able to tell if the entire town was gawking at him made Stonehaven go hot and cold at once.

He shook his head. “No, I thank you, but I might spend more of the day on the terrace.” At least there he felt less of an invalid confined to his room, and more a part of life, able to feel the breeze upon his skin and aware of the comings and goings of the house.

“A splendid idea. We could all eat our dinner out there, for the weather is still very fine and—”

“No!” Stonehaven barked, appalled by the suggestion.

The room fell silent, and he felt himself blush.

Good God. He’d not blushed since he was an awkward lad of thirteen.

What the hell was wrong with him? He took a breath and let it out again.

“Forgive me. I do not feel adequate to the task of sharing a meal with—with anyone,” he said, wishing he did not need to explain himself but knowing he owed these people that much.

“As you wish,” the reverend said easily. “Then perhaps we could share a glass of wine before the meal, at which point we will leave you in peace.”

“Perhaps,” Stonehaven replied grudgingly, a little unnerved by the idea of the whole family sitting down with him, even for a drink.

“Izzy, dear, perhaps you should walk down to Mrs Smith and see if Bea needs any help,” the reverend suggested.

“Of course,” his obedient daughter said easily. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Good evening,” Stonehaven replied, wondering if that had been an excuse, and what it was Honeywell wanted to say to him.

“Would you like a glass of wine? I know the doctor said no strong spirits, but I have a lively little Bordeaux, which I believe you will enjoy. It’s an 1800 Chateau Lafite, and I know you will not be so impolite as to ask me where I got it from.

I had intended to bring you up a glass once Izzy had gone to bed. ”

“Certainly.” Stonehaven nodded his approval and then waited, certain now the reverend had something on his mind, else he would not be sharing such a coveted vintage.

“Here,” Honeywell said, taking Stonehaven’s hand before he pressed the glass into it.

“Your health,” Stonehaven said with a wry smile, and lifted the glass to his nose.

The scent enveloped him, spicy and seductive.

Stonehaven savoured the perfume, wondering if he had ever taken such great pleasure as he did in this moment.

He had always enjoyed wine and took time to enjoy the complexity of an excellent vintage, but the scent stirred his senses far more than he ever remembered.

Anticipating the flavour, he took a tentative sip, careful not to tip the glass too much.

Even though it was a strong vintage, the velvety tannins and jam-like fruit flavours balanced the alcohol nicely.