Mariel (41 page)

“Ian!” she cried.

“Good day,” he replied. He did not look back at her. As they left the room, Mariel heard Detective Nelson say, “Now, Miss Muir, if you will tell me exactly …” His voice vanished as Ian shut the mahogany door to the street.

Mariel's hand held tightly to Ian's as they sat in the coach. Her reticule was twisted in her other hand. She stared straight ahead. When Ian spoke to her, she started, so deep had she been in her thoughts.

“Mariel, before we get to the doctor's house, there is something I want to ask you.”

Hastily, she said, “I know the news may be less than what we hope. I understand that. It doesn't matter so much any more.” She laughed tightly. “That is a lie. I would love to see again. I miss seeing the way your mouth quirks when you are irritated with me.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Look at me. I want to see your pretty face when I speak to you.” Her fingers rose to relearn the lines of his face. “Mariel, I love you. I told you that for the first time months ago.”

“Yes,” she whispered. She remembered the night he first held her; she had thought her life would be perfect. So much had changed since then. One thing remained constant. The joy they could bring one another. Only her stubborn self-pity had kept them apart. “I love you, too, Ian.”

“Then marry me. Don't marry me because you need me or because I understand the difficulties you face. Marry me because you love me and I love you. Tell me you will marry me before we hear what the doctor has to say.”

“If it is bad news—”

“It doesn't matter,” he finished for her. “Don't you understand, Mariel Wythe? I loved you as you were before the accident. I love you as you are now. Why? Because the part of you that calls out to my heart has not changed.” He placed his hand in the center of her chest. “The part of you in here is the same.”

Her hand covered his as his fingers moved along the gentle swell of her breast. The fire that had come to life again last night from the ashes of her sorrow burst forth once more. As her other hand stroked the breadth of his shoulders, she held up her lips for his kiss. He pressed her close as he tasted the luscious interior of her mouth.

He raised his lips slightly. “Mariel?”

“Yes, Ian,” she whispered. “As soon as Uncle Wilford comes home, I will marry you.”

With a joyous laugh, he drew her back into his arms. A shower of kisses delighted her until she was giggling as happily as Rosie did with a new toy. Only when the carriage rolled to a stop before an unprepossing door did he release her. He smiled as he told her they had arrived. This rapture would not end. They would spend their lives together savoring it.

Traffic was loud along the busy street as they emerged from the cab. Ian told the driver to return in an hour. Taking Mariel's hand, he walked with her to the door gilded with Dr. Gillette's name. Beyond they found a flight of stairs leading up into the musty darkness. A skylight lit up dancing motes of dust, which littered the air.

“Ready?” he asked, only half teasing.

“No,” she whispered. “I don't think I can ever prepare myself for this. I have been waiting so long, but …” Her voice strengthened. “Let's go.”

A single door opened off the narrow landing. Ian felt Mariel's fingers tighten on his as they entered the room. A woman sat behind a desk. She rose and came forward to greet them. Her professional smile perfectly matched her understated blouse and black skirt.

“Good afternoon,” she said clearly. “Lady Mariel Wythe?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me, my lady. The doctor has been anxious to see you.”

Mariel smiled tremulously. “I have been anxious for this appointment as well.” When the woman took her arm to lead her into an inner room, Mariel hesitated. “May Ian come, too?”

The secretary motioned for the man to join them. “Of course, Reverend, you may come in. Please make yourselves comfortable. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

The doctor's office smelled of camphor and rugs thick with ancient dust. They were seated on a horsehair sofa, which pricked through the fine silk of her gown. Her hands stroked the carved wood of the arm next to her. When she heard a door open, she glanced toward it expectantly.

Instead of speaking to Ian as she expected, Dr. Gillette bent down in front of her. “Lady Mariel Wythe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I call you Mariel?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“And you may use your fingers to see me if you wish.” He laughed. “One moment, while I remove my glasses. After one youngster nearly embedded them in the bridge of my nose, I decided I would let you use your imagination for that part.”

With the technique she had learned through trial and error, she ran her fingers lightly over his skin, rough with bristly whiskers. A heavy beard attached to a mustache under his bulbous nose. Wide set eyes matched the fullness of his face. Lips, which tilted up with good humor, moved as she lifted her fingers from them.

“I am no beauty like you, Mariel, but I hope you will have pity on an old man.”

“You aren't old!” she stated without thinking. “I mean—”

“Go ahead.”

She hesitated, certain he was testing her in some way. Then her usual determination asserted itself. “There are no wrinkles along your skin. Your voice is not tremulous. You bent down here without the creak of bones tightened with arthritis. None of this may mean anything, but I would wager you are not much past thirty.”

A chair scraped across the floor as he sat down in front of her. “Very good, Mariel. I see you have learned to use your other senses well. How long has it been?”

“Nearly two months.”

Dr. Gillette looked at the man sitting next to the lovely woman. His keen eyes noted the way the gentleman wearing the clerical collar gazed at Mariel with a pride he could not hide. Holding out his hand, he said, “I am Dr. Lester Gillette. You are?”

“Ian Beckwith-Carter.” His smile widened as he said, “Mariel is to be my wife.”

“Good. I am glad you are here, Reverend. First I want to examine Mariel. Then I will talk with both of you about your options.” He stood. “Mariel, my examination room is about five steps to your right. The door is closed. If you will go in there, you will find a chair another three steps in front of you. Please wait for me there.”

This time she knew he was testing her. She simply said, “Of course, doctor.” She wondered if she should tell him how she had bungled finding her way about the ballroom at the party. Then she remembered how she had managed on her own in the slums of London. She could find this chair.

His instructions were perfect, and she wondered how often he had given them to patients. When she felt the leather of the chair, she lowered herself into it gracefully. She leaned back against its headrest, deciding it must be like a barber's chair. She closed her eyes and wondered how she would deal with the prognosis, either good or bad. Her happiness pushed the dreary thoughts from her head.

Uncle Wilford should be home soon after they returned to Foxbridge. He would not protest her plans to marry Ian. Easygoing Uncle Wilford appreciated anyone who would make a decision for him. It had not been that way before Georgie was sent to the insane asylum. That was the last decision she could remember her uncle making, except for which strange corner of the world he wanted to visit next.

She looked forward to having him home again. Since Georgie's funeral a year ago, he had disappeared totally from Foxbridge Cloister. Perhaps she could convince him to stay. She adored her uncle. She smiled as she wondered what he would think of Rosie. Uncle Wilford had always loved children, and she was sure the little girl would worship him too.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard the door close. She turned her face toward the doctor. When she heard his rumble of laughter, she smiled. This test she had passed also.

“Open those pretty blue eyes, Mariel. While I look in them, I want you to tell me exactly what happened to you. Dr. Sawyer sent me his report, but I want to hear your version.”

It was not easy to relive those terrifying moments when she discovered her automobile would not respond to her control. Her voice softened to near silence as she spoke of the horror of the impact and the flash of the explosion before pain and darkness overwhelmed her.

“I see,” he murmured when she finished. “And the pain, is it gone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you see any light?”

She nodded. “Sparkles sometimes in my left eye.”

“Shadows or sunlight?”

“No.”

“I see,” he repeated.

As she had not in weeks, she wished she could look into a person's face and read their thoughts. Then she realized that hope was foolish. Even if she could see Dr. Gillette's face, his professional demeanor would hide his opinion.

He took her hand and helped her out of the chair. When his hand shoved on her shoulder, she gasped and stepped backward to keep her balance. He mumbled something to himself, which she was sure he did not intend for her to understand. When he did the same to her other shoulder, she knew he had not intended to be unpleasant. He was checking her in some manner.

After he subjected her to a battery of equally incomprehensible tests, he told her to wait in the outer office. She wondered what he had been hoping to discover and how she had done. As she closed the door, she heard Ian's cane strike the floor, signaling he was rising.

“I am fine,” she said quietly to his unasked question.

“You were in there so long. What did he say?”

She shook her head as she reached out for him. “Nothing. He told me only to come out here. He wants to talk to both of us.” Her hands rose to caress his cheeks. “Ian, whatever he says, it is all right.”

“Is it truly?”

“Yes, truly,” she replied. “I was wrong to think you wanted to marry me only because you felt sorry for me.”

Ian grinned and gave her loosened curls a tug. “And I thought you refused for the same reason.”

Her reply was halted when they heard the doctor approach. Sitting on the settee, they waited impatiently. Ian held her hand as the doctor sat at his ornately carved oak desk. He doubted whether Dr. Gillette used it for other than times like this. Its top was clean, unlike the cluttered surfaces of the secretary's office.

“Let me read something to you,” began the doctor. Opening a folder, he read aloud the report from Dr. Sawyer. It discussed the accident and its result before finishing with, “Lester, I would like you to check her. I do not have your expertise in ophthalmology, but I fear Mariel's eyes are irreparably damaged. The chances of her regaining her sight I feel are minuscule.” He closed the folder and leaned forward. “Mariel, Reverend Beckwith-Carter, I am afraid I must concur with Dr. Sawyer. There is nothing I can do to help you. I am sorry.”

Mariel nodded numbly. As if she was outside herself, she heard herself say, “I understand, doctor. I expected this. Dr. Sawyer told me not to get my hopes up.”

The doctor glanced at the man by her side as he said to her, “I suggest you have Dr. Sawyer check you regularly. If there is any change, any at all, I want to see you again.” His gaze held Ian's as he added, “I do not expect there will be.”

Looking from the doctor to Mariel, Ian knew Dr. Gillette was concerned by her lack of reaction to his pronouncement. It did not surprise him. He knew her well enough now to realize that she would not break down before strangers and show the sorrow in her heart. He stood and reached across the desk.

“Thank you, Dr. Gillette, for your time. We are pleased you are this honest with us.” He took Mariel's hand and brought her to her feet.

“Yes,” she echoed, “thank you, doctor.” She offered her hand unerringly in his direction.

Dr. Gillette found himself the one unnerved as he felt her firm handshake. He had not read them the total of the report. In a private letter attached to it, his friend had told him some of Lady Mariel Wythe's past history. He wrote of her work for the downtrodden and for the children of her community. The tale of the free-spirited sprite who brightened each room she entered fit with this woman accepting the prognosis he had not wanted to make. As he shook her hand, he wished he could shout that he had been wrong and that she would regain her sight by some miracle.

When the two walked out of his private office, he rose to walk to the window. He watched when they emerged from the ground floor to go to the waiting carriage. The sound of their voices rose to him, but the meaning of their words was muted by the glass. A slow smile moved across his lips as he saw the woman throw her arms around her fiancé and kiss him most inappropriately on the public street. He turned away as they entered the carriage to ride back to their lives, far from his own.

“Mariel?”

“I am fine.”

Ian drew her head back against his shoulder. Looking past her, he watched the fine houses on the streets they traveled. “I understand,” he whispered into her hair.

“I know,” she murmured. She did not want to refute what she had long since learned. Ian could sense what she was feeling, even when she tried to submerge it.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, but it was not uncomfortable. They thought of nothing—they simply stood poised between joy and grief. Although they had dreamed of a different ending today, they would find a way to deal with the truth.

As soon as they entered the house, Ian saw Phipps looking at him. Mariel bent to greet Rosie, and he shook his head sadly. The older woman pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to stop her sob of sorrow. For Phipps, acceptance of the whims of fate did not come easily.

Rosie chatted about the visit they had made to the Tower today. “And did you know they used to cut off people's heads there?” Her hand swept down on Mariel's arm. “Just like Mrs. Puhle has the boys cut the heads off the chickens.”