Page 16 of A Sight to Behold
“Show him?” Nick balled a fist. “What can I show him if he can’t see, hm? Take him around London and let him see the cherry blossoms? Take him to the British Museum to admire the art?”
“Oh, Nick.” Wendy turned away, picked up the stack of fresh towels, and began to lay them neatly into the cupboard. As she worked, she huffed and puffed indignantly, obviously awaiting Nick’s imminent apology. But he had nothing to apologize for, or could he be blamed for an act of omission? He’d stood by, watching his friend go blind. He hadn’t done much after thechair of the Faculty of Medicine had examined Lance’s eyes and then explained that he had to withdraw from his studies.
“I was there, Wendy. When Professor Martins told Lance that there was nothing he could do. Lance couldn’t see, and if I had covered for him, I could have been dismissed as a cheat.”
“So, you didn’t.” She shrugged, her back turned to him while she patted the towels straight into the cupboard. They were her little linen soldiers, obeying her every tug and tap, lying flat in the cabinet until she’d take them out and fold them in whatever way she’d need, as a bib for Felix’s patients, a neck roll for Nick’s patients, or a bandage for Andre’s. Secretly, Wendy must have known that she was in charge of the practice. Nothing would work smoothly without her. Probably not even Nick’s life.
“I’ll let Lance know that we can buy tickets to the symphony. Maybe the opera… do you think Lady Langley would help me to get good seats?”
“Why not ask her if you can get tickets to the theatre, too?”
Wendy ignored the sarcasm in Nick’s voice. “That’s a marvelous idea!” Wendy turned to face him with a bright smile, but when their eyes met, her brightness melted away. “Oh, Nick, you weren’t serious at all.”
“Of course not, Wendy! He can’t see where he’s going, can he? He’d stumble down the stairs at the opera house and break his neck. Do you want each of us to have to lay a hand on our friend? I don’t think Andre expects to reset Lance’s bones when he comes here.”
“I also don’t expect to leave Lance wandering the opera house alone. But if you cannot see that he might enjoy hearing the music at the symphony or that he could sense the excitement and hear the arias at the opera, you’re more blind than he is.”
“Nonsense,” Nick mumbled and pushed the letter aside. He’d think about Lance later; there were some angles to calculate and invoices to send. His sister, his confidante, was the lighthouseguiding him through the fog of guilt and fear—and he didn’t want to go there. Wendy left, and Nick remained alone, the letter on the table before him.
His first big failure as an eye surgeon was not even taking a chance to operate on Lance. He hadn’t been allowed to; it was too early in his studies then, and the matter had never come up again. As far as Nick was concerned, he had stood by while Lance went blind. It was sad for anyone, but for Nick, it was inexcusable. What sort of an oculist let his friend go blind? Now that Nick was a doctor of considerable repute, lauded for his skills and sought after by patrons far and wide, it hurt even more to think about the failure. The mission of helping Lance grew with the skill Nick hadn’t been able to use to help his friend. Yet, he remembered the powerlessness to help Lance as he slipped deeper into darkness each day until the world of medicine they once shared was nothing more than a blurred memory for Lance.
Nick’s gaze fell on the framed accolades adorning his study wall, their shiny frames mocking him. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He, the celebrated eye surgeon, could restore sight to so many, yet his skill was useless to Lance. The sense of failure was stifling.
His last image of Lance was of a vibrant young man, full of life and promise. Now, Nick wasn’t sure what to expect. Would he find the same Lance he knew, or a stranger, a shadow of his former self?
Nick felt deep sorrow for his friend. Worse, Lance had been pushed away by his own family, his disability an inconvenience in their aristocratic world. He was left with a nurse, his only lifeline to the outside world. Nick couldn’t help but feel a sense of responsibility. He should have done more and should have tried harder. But the past was a locked door, and guilt was the key that opened it, allowing remorse to flow freely.
He wondered how he would face Lance and look into those sightless eyes and not be consumed by the failure that weighed heavily on him, a darkness more profound than the blindness that had claimed Lance.
Chapter Eight
Soon, it wouldbe dark, and it was time to go back to the house. Pippa’s father hadn’t allowed her to have gas lights installed in the orangery. It wasn’t worth it, he’d said. It was just a place for her alone.
She wasn’t worth it to him.
But Wife Six, known to the rest of the Ton as Carolyn, had had an entire room converted to her dressing room with a daybed for her face massages. She thought frown lines came from a lack of care. In Pippa’s opinion, this wife was the worst one yet and spread through the house like a disease. Room by room, she put her mark on the place and transformed the carefully selected decor that had been their family for generations into many vulgar arrangements. The bright pink curtains she had installed in the drawing room had orange fringes, and the new upholstered settees clashed in the brightest shade of rust red. It was hideous, especially considering the turquoise wallpaper that was partially faded, a leftover from the previous decor that donned shades of blue and white furniture. Wife Six had no decency, no taste, no scruples. But she had a goal: to get rid of Pippa.
And Pippa tried to stay out of her way.
That’s why Pippa much preferred her orangery. It was a little house just outside the larger house. One might call it a doghouse for the unwanted daughter, but to Pippa, it was everything her mother had taught her about life. Every time her orchids had offshoots, she reveled in the beauty of the delicate blossoms;it was as if her mother breathed over her shoulder. Especially when the pineapple bore fruit, and she used the same knife with the wooden handle that her mother had kept hanging on a nail on one of the columns, she tasted the sweet and tangy love. For what else could these moments be called except for love? They were rare and precious and almost extinct these days.
By the time Bea found Pippa—not that it was difficult to guess where she’d hide—Pippa was a picture of agitation and had repotted the phalaenopsis orchids one by one. Her cousin, ever perceptive when it came to matters of the heart, quickly picked up on Pippa’s distress.
“There was a man here, wasn’t there?” Bea asked, her eyes narrowing as she sniffed. “It smells different. Smells like… musk and sandalwood but you don’t grow any here.”
Pippa nodded her cheeks uncharacteristically hot. “Yes, and he was absolutely infuriating,” she admitted, her voice laced with frustration.
Her cousin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I’ve never seen you ruffled over a man before,” she mused. “What happened?”
“He said…he implied that I wasdeficient,” Pippa confessed, wringing her hands anxiously in her lap.
“Deficient?” her cousin echoed, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Who was this man?”
“Nick,” Pippa clarified, her voice wavering. He’d been on her mind so much; how couldn’t Bea know who she meant? “To be more accurate, he suggested I had adeficiency.”
“And what might that be?” her cousin queried, her tone now soft with concern.
“Farsightedness,” Pippa finally managed to utter.
