Marjorie Farrel (15 page)

The next morning Judith could not get herself to walk up Simon’s steps. She walked the length of the block twice before she finally got up the courage to knock at the door. She fully expected Francis to apologize for the duke, and tell her that their deception was an abysmal failure.

When she was admitted, she saw that the library door was open. Francis quickly beckoned her into his office.

“I am so glad you have come, Miss Ware. I won’t keep you. I only wanted to reassure you that the duke is most anxious to see you, and to tell you that you have wrought a transformation.”

“Not I,” said Judith seriously. “Perhaps I said something that helped the duke, but it could just as easily have harmed him. Are you sure he wishes to see me?”

Just then they heard Simon’s voice at the library door, “Did I hear someone come in, Francis?”

“Yes, your grace. I was just taking Miss Ware’s wrap.”

“Send her in, then.”

Judith followed Francis to the library. Simon was at the door, and as he closed the door behind them, she could feel her legs trembling as she turned to face him.

“I am so sorry, your grace ...”

“I owe you a sincere apology, Miss ...”

They both began at once, and then Simon put up his hand.

“You must let me say this. I have never lost control of myself before, Miss Ware. I don’t know what you must think of me. I can only offer the excuse that I have not been quite myself these past few months.”

He hesitated, and Judith replied, “Oh, your grace, I have been so ashamed of myself. I said unpardonable things to you. I had no right to take you to task as I did.’’

“You only told me the truth, which no one else has been willing to do. And I thank you for it. I have been sunk in self-pity. And I am more fortunate in my wealth and position than many handicapped people. I have been very angry, Miss Ware ... Oh, not at you, but at my helplessness. I am afraid that I hurt and scared you. I would like you to continue as my reader, but I would understand if you refused.”

Judith put out her hand. “Here is my hand, your grace. If you can forgive me, I can easily forgive you, and I would be happy to continue as your reader.”

Simon found her hand and took it gratefully in both of his. “Thank you, Miss Ware.”

They stood there, both feeling the intimacy of the moment. Simon willed his hands not to go to her face, although he suddenly desired above all things to “see” her.

Judith broke away first and in her attempt to restore things to normal asked, “Do you wish me to continue with Pride and Prejudice, your grace?”

“Ah, yes. Please, sit down. May I ring for some tea this morning?”

“Thank you, your grace, I would like that.”

Simon moved more confidently, Judith noticed, and instead of taking his usual place on the sofa, he pulled the other chair closer to the fire and sat down, after ringing for Cranston.

“We left Elizabeth and Darcy in Pemberley Hall, I believe,” said Judith, relieved to be dealing with the fictional problems of a man and woman. “She was mortified to be found there, and afraid that Darcy would think her forward. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” said Simon. “And Darcy was quite different, was he not? Making an effort to be more easygoing and thoughtful? Pray continue, Miss Ware.”

And Judith proceeded, in her clear voice, to lead them back to Derbyshire and into a world where another man and woman stood confused and attracted to each other. Miss Austen’s elegant prose had as calming an effect as an intricately constructed piece by Bach, and both Simon and Judith were relieved as the slightly overcharged atmosphere between them became more comfortable and every day.

After Judith had read for over an hour, she finished a chapter and looked up.

“I think we should end here today, your grace, and continue next week?”

Simon paused thoughtfully, and then spoke, “Miss Ware, I have a request to make.”

“Yes, your grace?”

“Now that I am attempting to resume as much of my old life as I can, I realize I will need to be read to more often. My secretary will be able to fill me in on estate matters. But if I eventually plan to take my seat in Parliament again, I must have the newspapers and other materials read to me. I do not wish to eliminate literature, but I would like to know if you could give me more time. It would, of course, mean an increase in your salary.”

Judith was torn by her growing desire to spend more time with Simon and her knowledge that since nothing could come of their relationship, it would be foolish to become more involved.

“I do have responsibilities to my brother as his housekeeper, your grace. And I also want enough time for my art. I am not sure I can spare the time.”

“On the other hand, you could contribute more money to the upkeep of the household. Would that not outweigh some of the other considerations?”

Judith thought for a minute. She could conceivably give Simon one more morning a week without placing too much of a burden on Hannah, and surely, knowing the danger, she could protect herself from growing too fond of Simon.

“I could come one other morning, your grace. Is there anyone else you can find for the rest of the time?”

"There are a few of my footmen who read and whom I could call upon for the papers, at least. What if you came Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays? Would that suit?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so. Does this mean you do not wish to finish Miss Austen’s novel?”

“Good heavens, no. I am most eager to discover how things sort themselves out. But it will mean less fiction and more fact, I am afraid.”

“Well, then, that is settled,” Judith said as she rose to leave. “I will see you tomorrow, your grace.”

“Until tomorrow.” Simon rose and reached out his hand.

“If you would be so kind as to give me your arm, Miss Ware ... I need to consult with Francis in his office.” Simon was not sure why he made this request, since he was moving around the house quite confidently now.

Judith moved quickly to his side and he placed his hand lightly on her arm. She was unsure of how to proceed, and started walking as hesitantly as though she were the one without sight.

“You can walk at a normal pace, Miss Ware,” Simon said with a trace of amusement in his voice. “Actually, I am getting quite expert at getting around, but now and then I find I get tired of concentrating so hard and keeping a picture in my mind of where things are and how many steps it is to the door. My memory is improving, but every once in a while I trip over something I could have sworn would not be there.”

Judith listened to Simon joking about himself and found it hard to believe this was the same man she had met a few weeks ago. The despairing self-pity was gone. The anger? She could not imagine that it would completely disappear, especially as Simon came up against things he could not do. His sense of humor had returned, however, and something else had happened also. If Simon had seemed mature to her years ago, she now knew that it had been merely the first flowering of his personality. Now, having been tested, he seemed more real. And having accepted his blindness, humor was his way of protecting himself and keeping others from taking it too seriously. “If I can manage this, then so can you,” he seemed to be saying. He had faced his terror and humiliation, and survived.

If Judith had been at all self-conscious about his blindness, she knew she would never be again. She admired his hard-won matter-of-factness and could only respond in kind. If she had ever felt a hint of condescension for his weakness or excessive pity, it was gone. He was a man of strength and integrity, a man who happened not to see, not a “blind man.”

And as she walked with Simon down the hall toward Francis’ office, Judith realized how much she loved him. Not the Simon of her earlier fantasies, not the Simon who needed her, but this Simon, whose light touch on her arm made her feel more than any arms around her in a waltz or the few kisses she had allowed stolen when she was seventeen. She was glad Simon could not see her face, or her flustered movements pulling on her pelisse after she left him with Francis. He would immediately have known. She left quickly, torn between her desire to stay forever and her knowledge that it would be best for her never to return.

Although she alternately dreaded and anticipated her mornings with the duke, for the most part Judith found them not as painful as they might have been. Both she and Simon were in agreement about politics, and reading parliamentary speeches gave rise to many lively discussions about the Corn Laws, Ireland’s independence, and the beginnings of protest in the north.

The novel reading came to a halt after they finished Pride and Prejudice. Judith was, after all, relieved to keep to essays and current events, for poetry and fiction were too personal. Both she and Simon were happy not to be confronted with images of men and women and intimate moments, lest it remind them of moments they had shared. They were forming an intellectual companionship and becoming fast friends, or so they both would have answered if questioned. Neither wished to look too deeply into his or her heart. Judith was beginning to think that perhaps she could begin to see Simon only as a friend and somehow suffocate her feelings of love by not acknowledging them. Simon, on the other hand, was far less conscious of his response to Miss Ware. He was throwing much of his returning energy into discovering just what he was still capable of.

A few days after his ride with Robin he had requested his valet to lay out his buckskins and boots. “For I am going to try riding again, Martin.”

He rose early and had one of the footmen bring him to the courtyard in front of the stables. The night before he had requested that the groom have Petite Chance saddled for him. She was one of his first mounts. They had grown up together, Simon liked to think, and he had retired her, fat and placid, at the age of twelve. She was waiting, saddled, when he arrived. He ran his hands down her face and scratched behind her ears.

“Well, old girl, are you ready for me? Have you got the line, John?”

“Yes, your grace. Do you need a leg up?”

“I hope not.” Simon felt from the reins to the stirrup, and pulled himself up lightly. He gathered up the reins, squeezed the mare’s sides, and they moved forward at a slow walk. Simon tried to relax and find his balance. He felt more insecure than he had driving, and it took him a few circles of the yard before he could let his body take over. He was slowly beginning to find that when he forgot he was supposed to see in order to do things, when he concentrated less on his not seeing, and instead on—well, he supposed one could call it “sensing,” all his activities became easier.

As he and the mare warmed up, going from walk to slow trot, he realized riding was an excellent way of practicing the feeling of moving out from some other place than his eyes and head, for one’s balance in riding depended upon shifting one’s center from the head to the lower body. Simon had noticed that when he became angry and frustrated—which of course he did often—at his inability to see, he tripped more and lost his way more easily. If, on the other hand, he let his hands and ears and larger sense guide him, as he was doing now, he moved more easily. It wasn’t that he forgot his blindness, but that he was not concentrating on it.

John brought the mare around in a wider circle and Simon kicked her into a canter. After half an hour, he pulled her in and dismounted.

“Thank you, Chance,” he said. “We may not go over any more jumps together, but we may yet get out of this yard!”

For a week, Simon got up early and rode, forgetting for long stretches of time that he was on a line. The duke did not know it, but he was being watched and secretly cheered on by nearly every member of his staff, from the kitchen maid to Martin. Simon had always been a respected and well-loved employer, one to brag about to other households, but now he was gaining a reputation for miraculous powers. He had oriented himself to the whole house and was moving about with little help. He was back on horseback.

But what awed the servants the most was his growing ability to recognize them before they spoke. Simon would catch a whiff of body odor or soap or cheap perfume, and greet a footman or maid before they had a chance to identify themselves. Often, when he was in a room alone, he could sense the arrival of someone before the person announced himself. Simon knew, of course, that these abilities were not magic or miraculous, except that nature seemed to enable one to compensate for the loss of one sense by an increase in the acuity of others.

* * * *

When Robin called later that week, Simon met him in riding clothes.

“Well, Robin, are you ready to make a spectacle of yourself again, with me on a lead line?” Simon quizzed.

“Have you been riding, then?”

“Yes, I’ve been practicing in secret. But I’m not sure enough of myself to ride Tamburlane yet. Can you stand the further humiliation of Chance?”

“I can if you can.” Robin laughed.

“Then let us proceed. I’ve had her brought up to the front door. All you have to do is manage your own horse and her line. Can you, do you think?”

“If you are trying to insult me, your grace, you are succeeding,” said Robin with mock hauteur. “You would think that I’d get us entangled in trees or around young ladies!”

They set off slowly through the crowded streets, the lead line slack between them and unobtrusive. When they reached the park, it was beginning to get crowded. Robin chose some of the out-of-the-way paths, so they could perfect their partnership. The major’s horse was skittish and restless, but nothing fazed the old mare. She twitched her ears if Robin brushed against her, but held her gait steady. Simon was glad he had not ridden his stallion the first time, out of pride. He most likely would have fallen on his face, he thought. With Petite Chance he felt secure, and that enabled him to relax and enjoy the feeling of free movement riding gave him. With Robin holding the line, he need not worry about bumping into anything or anyone.

“I think I need to let him out, Simon. What about it? Do you want to wait here?”