“Oh, dear …” It was Mrs. Abbot’s voice. “She is awakening now.”
“Ah.” A shuffling sound and the clinking of glass bottles. “Mr. Wortham, yes, please come assist me.”
A strong hand slid gently under my neck, and I was awake.
My eyes opened and every sense came alive, and I was aware of my surroundings—the Abbots’ sitting room. I was aware of the bulk of bandages covering my hand, and the excruciating pain beneath them. My chin was quivering, I could feel it, and two hot tears slipped over my temples.
A bottle met my lips and I swallowed the acrid liquid that flowed into my mouth. I coughed, and the soft hand lowered my head to a pillow.
“Go back to sleep, Charlotte,” James said from somewhere above me. I was aware—fully aware—of his eyes looking down at me with concern, and his fingers brushing over my forehead. “Everything is going to be just fine.”
My eyelids were drooping; my head was filling with fluff once again. No. Nothing was fine. James was helping me. He had rescued me. That was certainly not right. I couldn’t make sense of anything else. Consciousness was fleeting, and my last thought entered once, and was gone. If I had been James, I might have left me there in the water after how I had treated him. So why didn’t he?
z
The second time I opened my eyes, I was alone. I found the clock on the wall, and read three. I tried to lift my head, but it protested with the full throb of a headache. Everything around me was dull, the colors, the sounds, even the pain was less acute. I dared to lift my arm, using my other hand for support.
I squinted, trying to cut through the lens of dizziness I was staring through. My right hand was wrapped from halfway up my forearm to the tips of my fingers. But the shape was wrong. My fingers were wrapped at different levels, some so low I wondered if they were even there at all. I tried to move my hand, but it brought renewed pain to the area, and the bandages were too tight anyway.
“Charlotte’s awake!” I hadn’t even noticed the door open. Clara stood there, hand pressed against her chest. Tears fell from my eyes all over again.
She walked over slowly and knelt on the ground beside where I lay on the sofa. The door widened and Mrs. Abbot entered. Lucy, Rachel, an old, unfamiliar man, and finally James followed behind her. My gaze settled on him. His jaw was firm but his eyes were weary and troubled.
The old man—I guessed he was the surgeon—shooed Clara away from my side and knelt in her place. He peered at me from behind thick spectacles. “My name is Mr. Watkins. How are you feeling, miss?”
I shook my head, the embarrassment and terror of the entire situation catching up to me. He was going to tell me about my injuries, and I was afraid—very afraid of what he would say.
He stared at me a moment longer, his gaze so heavy with pity I felt close to suffocating in it. “Unfortunately, a large portion of the skin of your hand was torn away, but I tried my very best to replace it. As for the fingers, the damages were most severe. I’m afraid the fifth finger was beyond repair, and also the upper half of the forefinger. And most of the middle. I will be available to aid you through the recovery. But I will not put it lightly—it will be long and intensive.”
I stared at the bulk of cloth wrapped around my hand. It couldn’t be true. “May I see it?” I croaked.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We will change the bandages regularly, but I must advise you against looking until the stitches have been removed in a few weeks.”
It was likely sound advice, for I was squeamish when it came to blood. I was breathing heavily. I didn’t know when that started. Tears continued to fall freely from my eyes, but I tried to slow my breath to keep from sobbing. I was embarrassed enough already.
“May I ask what compelled you to the docks so early in the morning?” The surgeon was looking at me, his thick, gray eyebrows drawn together.
James released a slow sigh that drew my eyes to him. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped forward. “It was me.” He turned his eyes to mine.
Mr. Watkins frowned, looking between James and me. “You were meeting him there alone? In the dark?” He scowled in confusion and disapproval. Awkwardness hung in the air.
“No,” James spoke up, “I challenged her to it. I told her she couldn’t do it. I had no idea she would really try.” He shook his head and looked at the floor. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. “It is my fault.”
Mr. Watkins looked even more confused, but instead of inquiring further, he just shook his head in almost a twitch, and returned his attention to my hand. “It would be best if you rested a bit longer, miss. The laudanum is still fading and you have lost a considerable amount of blood. We will attempt to change the bandages this evening when I return.” He turned to Mrs. Abbot. “Please do not hesitate to call for me if there are any problems.”
She nodded grimly. He doffed his hat before leaving the room.
I pressed my head into my pillow, hoping it would somehow drown out the sounds around me. I wanted to sleep again, to excuse this all for a dream, but the pain in my hand was a sharp reminder that I was not dreaming. I couldn’t speak. The threat of tears tightened my throat again.
Mrs. Abbot came over to my side and placed her hand on my shoulder, so gently I hardly felt it. “Try to rest, my dear. You have been through quite the ordeal.” I looked up at her eyes full of sympathy and regret. She wasn’t looking at me with disgust like I had expected.
But I was disfigured! I was ruined, buried even deeper in shame than I had been before. I imagined that Mrs. Abbot was Mama looking down at me from above. With all my concentration I tried to imagine the accepting, caring look Mrs. Abbot was displaying also showing in Mama’s eyes. I focused, drawing every memory together, and realized I had never seen that look in Mama’s eyes before. She would never accept me this way. She would never love me. Lord Trowbridge would never have me. I was completely and utterly ruined. Nothing could save me now. No one could ever love me now.
But had I ever been loved before?
As I tried to fade back into sleep, I turned my head to the side, where I wouldn’t have to see all my spectators and their expressions. I couldn’t bear the disgrace.
So my eyes drifted across the room, at the tall, rustic pianoforte. The chipped keys seemed to mock me, and they drove into my chest and struck me with a new onslaught of pain, a pain I had never felt so keenly in my life. My hand was ruined. I had lost the pianoforte today too. That same ache I had been feeling for weeks now blossomed inside of me, bruised, bleeding, and broken. Only now did I realize it was my heart.
z
At dinner, I was brought a tray of all my favorite foods. Clara must have told them. It wasn’t the usual meal food, but lemon tea cakes, grape juice, and treacle pudding. I had loved all of these things before moving to Craster, and Clara must have spent a great deal of time having them prepared. I drew a deep breath of unexpected gratitude and looked upward at the face that brought them to me. It was Rachel.
She smiled down at me. “Hopefully this will help you recover some of your strength.” She placed the tray on my lap, and her eyes flickered to my wrapped hand. She swallowed.
“Did you see it?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Rachel averted her eyes and stepped around the sofa to sit beside me. Her large eyes shone bright and beautiful in the candlelight. I could only imagine how unbecoming I must have looked. The fingers of my perfect, undamaged hand touched the stringy ends of my hair. It was dirty and crusted in sea salt.
“Yes,” Rachel answered. Her voice had softened, as if sharing a deep secret. “When Mr. Wortham carried you in here, I thought you had died. You were so very pale, and there was so much blood …” My stomach sickened and Rachel’s eyes focused on something in the distance. “I didn’t know what had happened until I saw that Mr. Wortham was holding his jacket tightly around your hand. When he placed you here, the surgeon arrived shortly after, and so did Clara. I was sent to retrieve water, and when I returned, y
our hand was exposed.”
My heart pounded quick and weak. “How terrible is it, truly?”
“Mr. Watkins was able to stitch most of the skin back in place, but there will be scars. And the fingers …”
I already knew. My lips pressed together and I choked on a sob. I was pathetic, sitting here sobbing about something that couldn’t be reversed. At first, being sent here, I thought my dreams were gone, every hope of happiness was erased. But I had still had a chance. There had still been a future with Lord Trowbridge I could have chased. I could have made Mama proud and lived in comfort all of my life.
But now there was nothing left for me. No man could ever see past the crippled, disfigured hand I now bore. I had lost my beauty and I had even lost my music. My heart filled with so much aching despair that I felt it would burst. How was I to release it now? It would be impossible to play the pianoforte, to send everything that made me hurt away and into the sky where it could no longer touch me. Instead, it was resigned to fester in my heart until it destroyed me.
“Where is Clara?” I asked.
“She is meeting with Lord Trowbridge and his daughter. She insisted that she cover the position of governess so the two of you should not lose your income.”
I released a shaky breath, drying my tears. Of course Clara was there. She had risen to a duty without questioning it. She never hesitated to step up and help me, even when I was so terrible to her. I sat back in the revelation, feeling increasingly horrid. James had rescued me, even when I had threatened to ruin his life and mocked him for being in love. I had manipulated him, and yet he still continued to show me kindness. How could he blame himself for what happened? The fault was mine entirely. The thought chilled me to the bone.
“Thank you, Rachel.” It was all I could say. She nodded tentatively, as if she didn’t know what else she could do. After a moment, she stood and left the room.
I looked down at my tray. Everything looked delicious, and I hadn’t eaten anything today, but I couldn’t bring myself to take a single bite. The pain in my hand was returning to its fullest degree, and my arm shook as I lifted it close to my face. I was unbearably curious. Part of me couldn’t believe what had happened until I saw it with my own eyes. I breathed quickly, trying to move the parts of my hand inside the wrappings. I stifled a cry as it rubbed against the bandages and a circle of blood appeared, soaking through the thinnest layer. My stomach lurched in disgust.
Unable to sit here any longer, I summoned all my strength and lifted the tray off my lap, biting my lower lip against the pain, and set the tray on the table in front of me. The dishes rattled against each other as the tray landed harder than I had anticipated. My head was feeling clearer by the minute, so I sat up straighter and eased my way to the edge of the cushion.
Pushing up with my good hand, I planted my feet on the ground and stood. The room spun for a few seconds, and I stabilized my balance on the arm of a chair nearby. When I felt in control, I walked over to the bench of the pianoforte. I didn’t know why, but I sat down. Tears clouded my vision, blurring the black and white of the keys to a murky gray. And then I placed my left hand on the keys and plinked out a plain melody.
I closed my eyes and tried to feel the music, to let it heal me, but nothing happened. Without the synchronization brought by both hands playing in unison, the song was bleak.
Pressing harder on the keys, pounding, anger coursed through my veins. My hand tensed into a fist, and I hit the keys three more times, until my knuckles were red. Then I dropped my face down to my arm and sobbed.
The door to the room opened, and I heard someone enter the room. There was no rustled skirts or dainty footfalls. I lifted my eyes, squinting through angry, hot tears.
My eyes immediately widened when I saw James standing beside me at the pianoforte. His brows were drawn together with concern. I straightened my posture and breathed deeply. The pain in my hand was slicing through the ache in my heart, and I was relieved that I could stop feeling it for a moment.
James was silent, standing above me. He looked like he was about to say something, but I spoke first.
“Why did you do it?” My voice was a hoarse croak, almost a whisper.
He looked confused. “What?”
I leaned against my arm resting on the keys, creating an ugly sound of mismatched notes. “Why did you rescue me from the water? Why would you help me after everything I have done to you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured at the bench. I scowled in confusion, but realized he was asking to sit. Pushing my dress out of the way, I moved over, and he sat beside me, just touching. Glancing at the door, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was wide open. At least something was bordering on proper.
James turned his eyes on me, and I looked back for one quick moment, then looked away. Why did he have to sit so close? For a reason I couldn’t name, my broken heart beat a little faster.
“I would never, never leave a person in your situation, Charlotte. Not even my greatest enemy. I am not that man.”
I sneaked a look at his face. He was sincere.
“Am I your greatest enemy?”
A smile touched his lips. “Only if you wish to be.”
I moved my gaze to the lump of ivory bandages around my hand. Everything about this day was so very confusing, and all of it terrifying. So I couldn’t blame myself for thinking, in that moment, that no, I didn’t wish to be his worst enemy. But I would never admit to it, of course.
When I didn’t reply, James stood and offered his arm. “You really should be resting. Watkins will be by soon to assist with your bandages.”
I looked up at him and back at the keys of the pianoforte. Every inch of me ached, knowing I could never play the same again. The accident this morning had stolen my beauty of appearance and my beauty of accomplishment. I was nothing now. I had nothing left.
I stood slowly, and wrapped my good hand around James’s arm. He was strong, and I couldn’t help but notice the muscle underneath his coat. We stepped up to the sofa and I sat down, keeping my posture until he moved to leave the room.
“James—” I stopped, realizing I had called him by his Christian name. “I—er …” I tried to collect my thoughts, unsure of what I meant to say. I felt as though I had never stumbled over my words before now. James’s eyes were locked on mine, awaiting the words I didn’t know I meant to say. “I wish to thank you … for what you did today. It was the way of a gentleman, and I am … sorry if I ever thought you otherwise. And please—please do not blame yourself for what I did.” My voice came out soft and weak. It was humiliating and pathetic that I had even tried to carry out his challenge. Surely he never expected that I would.
He stood there, a shadow of surprise crossing his expression. “Then I must ask for a secret in exchange for my services today.” He smiled and his eyes shone with amusement.
“Very well.” I searched my mind for a secret to share, but found only one that I was willing to. I breathed deeply. “… I do not hate you.”
He raised an eyebrow. He was hiding another smile. “That is to be the secret, then?”
I nodded.
“I shall not reveal it to a soul. You may carry on with the glaring and menacing words, and only I will know you don’t mean any of it.”
It seemed impossible, but I was fighting a smile. “Some of it will remain sincere, I assure you.”
He dropped his head and chuckled. It was deep and rich, and somewhat endearing. Surely I had injured my head today along with my hand. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been thinking such nonsense.
“How could I have suspected otherwise?” He looked up, smiling.
For a moment I forgot. I forgot about the searing pain in my hand and the humiliation of my new deformity, and the reality that I would now never have the life and marriage I always wanted. I forgot that no one could love me, or that I had lost my music. I just remembered James’s smile, and I tucked it inside of my soul like a gift.
The door
swung open and Mr. Watkins marched in the room, a small case hanging at his side. “Oh, dear.” He stopped. “Have I interrupted something?”
James took a step back and shook his head, ushering the small man forward. When the surgeon was standing beside me, Mrs. Abbot and her daughters entered the room followed by Clara.
“I would suggest you avert your eyes, miss. I don’t carry smelling salts. I would appreciate if you did not faint,” Mr. Watkins said, peeling back the first layer of bandages.
I was overwhelmingly curious, but I did as he said, keeping my eyes trained on the ceiling. I was grateful he had asked me to look away. As much as I wanted to see my hand, I was even more afraid of what I would see. Perhaps if I didn’t see it, then I could forget the injury even existed.
Clara moved to sit beside me on the sofa and I moved my eyes to her. We had hardly spoken since the day before, and I had been anything but kind to her. Yet she had still been kind to me. Why did these things keep happening?
I could tell the surgeon was on the final layer because I had to bite my lip against the pain. The bandage was sticking, and he had to pull it away from the raw skin. I felt the touch of air against my hand.
“You have fetched the water?” Watkins looked at a maid who I hadn’t noticed enter the room. She handed him a bowl. Her eyes flashed to where my hand was, and she took a step back, paling slightly. That was not a good sign.
“This may sting a little.”
He lifted my arm and I felt in a sudden rush, water pouring over my hand. It was soothing and painful all at once, the touch of cold water cascading over my hand that I couldn’t see. He moved it away from the water and wrapped it in a towel to dry. I grimaced. The rough fibers of the towel scratched against the skin.
“Now this may sting a lot.”
I watched as he doused a towel in a clear liquid and moved it toward my hand. I stifled a scream as every part of my hand roared. Instinctively, my arm contracted, trying to pull away. Clara reached forward and gripped my arm to stop it. Soon Watkins had everything bandaged again, and I could stop looking away. I wiped a stray tear off my cheek and took a deep, slow breath.
Lies and Letters Page 10