Marjorie Farrel (16 page)

“Not a chance. Just keep the line loose so she can follow at her own pace. Can you keep him to an easy gallop?”

“I’ll try.” Robin’s horse needed no encouragement, but Simon prayed as he slammed his heels into the old mare’s sides. She responded well, and they enjoyed a controlled gallop for several minutes before Robin pulled up.

“How was that?” Robin asked.

“Wonderful!” Simon’s hair was windblown and he had more color in his face than he had had since his return. “I can’t tell you what it feels like to experience even the illusion of being in charge.”

“Weren’t you the least bit nervous?” Robin asked as they turned and walked the horses back. “I closed my eyes for a moment, and couldn’t take the disorientation and the feeling of rushing into darkness.”

“I am, or could be, scared all the time, Robin. But I am getting used to it. And you don’t ride with your eyes, after all. It is a matter of trust, and that is the hardest part.”

“I am not sure that I could ever have that trust,” said Robin.

“It is damned hard at first. But one has to choose: some degree of freedom through relying on others, or no freedom at all. I don’t find it easy, I can assure you. I never knew what a proud man I was.”

“You? Proud? You are one of the most unassuming, least arrogant men I have ever met.”

“Ah, yes! Well, that kind of pride I am relatively free of. But there is a much more stubborn kind, my friend. One that says: I am sufficient unto myself, I am strong, I can handle anything life hands me, I don’t need anyone. Well, I need you to hold that line, and it is hard to admit. But it would be far harder not to ride or to drive—or go to my first assembly, for that matter,” said Simon, changing from his serious tone. “I need you even more next Tuesday to lead me through the Duchess of Ross’s musical evening. Were you planning to attend?”

“I am invited, but I’m not as fond of music as you are, Simon, so I had not yet decided.’’

“Can I impose upon you again?” Simon turned in the saddle and reached over for Robin’s arm. “Could you stand the boredom of one evening? I promise I won’t drag you with me all the time, but for this first sortie I would certainly like your company. It will be a small gathering and I should know most of the guests well. I can sit and listen as well as anyone, so for a first outing, it suits me.”

“Of course I’ll go,” said Robin. “Just promise to dig your elbow into my ribs if I start to snore while the signorina is singing.”

“I believe it is going to be a piano and violin playing sonatas by Mozart,” Simon said, grinning at his friend and imagining his expression.

“Oh, lud. You will owe me for this one, Simon.”

"And, no doubt, you won’t let me forget it.” Simon was relieved that Robin was complaining in his old way. If his old friend could feel comfortable doing that, then he could trust him not to let himself be imposed upon. He knew eventually he must ride at times with his groom and find other acquaintances to help him get about on social occasions, but for these first attempts at returning to more or less normal life, he needed Robin with him so he could occasionally let down his guard.

* * * *

A week later Simon found himself climbing the steps of the duchess’s house. Robin was guiding him and giving him sotto-voce directions, and Simon was silently praying he would not disgrace himself by tripping or running into other guests who were also being announced by the butler.

“We made it in all right,” muttered Simon. “I feel like I did before my first battle, Robin. I am shaking in my boots.”

“Well, no one would guess.”

The Ross butler greeted him warmly. “It is good to see you, your grace. May I say that we all here are happy to know you are here tonight.”

“Thank you, Tyler,” Simon said, touched and surprised by the genuine welcome in the man’s voice.

Robin brought Simon over to where the duchess was receiving her guests. She was a small, plump, motherly woman in her forties. Her only son had died at Talavera, and she lavished her maternal concern on his friends.

Simon was one of her favorites, and also her godson. Like the rest of his friends she had visited and continuously been turned away. She had awaited his return patiently, convinced his strength of character would win over despair. When she had seen him driving in the park, she decided to risk an invitation. She purposely invited people Simon knew well, to make his entry back into society as easy as possible, should he choose to attend.

Tears came into her eyes as she watched the duke make his bow to her. She could imagine his state of mind and took his hands in hers and declared her intent of keeping him a prisoner if he did not give her a proper greeting.

Simon bent down to give the diminutive duchess a kiss on her cheek as she reached up to him, resulting in a gentle bumping of heads and shaky laughter from both of them. The duchess touched his cheek gently with her hand and then patted his arm and told him to hurry in. She knew it was fashionable to be late, but the violin player was temperamental and liable to walk off if they did not start on time.

As Simon walked into the music room, he was ready to turn and leave. He was convinced that all eyes were on him and that the light drone of conversation he had heard stopped and then resumed more animatedly. His terror at feeling exposed came back full force, and only the realization that he could not find his way out by himself, and Robin’s hand on his arm, got him down the aisle and into a seat. The room became very silent, and he heard the chair being pulled out from the piano and the violinist tuning up. The audience applauded politely, and the duo began with a sonata by Mozart. Simon began to lose himself in the music, and his fear subsided.

However temperamental the violinist was, he certainly had genius. The duo’s rendering of Mozart was exquisite, and selections from Handel so pleased the audience that they demanded an encore. Even Robin managed to stay awake.

After the encore, the artists disappeared and guests began to move toward the reception and light supper that was to follow.

Simon found himself looking forward to eating. He had been so nervous all day that he had eaten little. He turned toward Robin. “I am sure there is some young lady here that you would rather be escorting to supper, Robin. I appreciate your patience.”

“If you don’t stop being such a gudgeon, I will knock you down. There is no one with whom I would rather be than you,” Robin said with mock gallantry.

Simon punched him in the arm and relaxed.

Supper was not such an ordeal as Simon had feared. Robin was on his right, and on his left the duchess had placed Lady Brant, a matter-of-fact young woman who had been married several years to an acquaintance of Simon and Robin. She was most unobtrusively helpful in serving Simon, and he appreciated her comments on the location of the food on his plate and the approach of footmen clearing courses. She knew music, and Simon found himself enjoying her comments on the musicians.

After supper, the duchess, who enjoyed both male and female conversation, had the gentlemen rejoin the ladies after only a short time. The musicians were the center of attention, and Simon found himself more at ease. After the first few minutes of awkwardness with old friends, people became more natural in his presence. His air of confidence, his easy requests for help when he needed it, put them at their ease. Only a few people, usually those who did not know him well, were offensive: speaking loudly or slowly to him as though he were deaf and mentally deficient, not blind. He found he was able to regard them with amusement, and a real pity, which surprised him. He realized that they, in a manner of speaking, were more handicapped than he was.

He was relieved, however, when Robin asked him if he were ready to leave. After promising his godmother that he would not keep himself away from his friends again, Simon said a warm good-bye and thank you to Lady Brant. As he shrugged his shoulders into his greatcoat, he waited impatiently for Robin to do the same. When they reached the street, Simon took a deep breath and felt something release inside him.

“Let us go and get terribly drunk, Robin.”

His friend was astounded. Simon had never been one for late nights and drinking, even when he was younger. But he sensed Simon wanted to celebrate what was, after all, a personal triumph. He hooked arms with Simon, tipped his hat forward, and swaggered down the street.

“I did it,” said the duke later, his voice beginning to slur after their second bottle of champagne. “Do you know, I have never realized how much you need your eyes to hear people. It was exhausting to keep track of who was speaking to whom. Maybe that toadeater Crooke was right to raise his voice.”

“Dear God, he sounded like he was talking to an idiot child and not a grown man. I was tempted to knock him down.”

“Well, fools are few and far between. But Lady Brant was a dear, and the duchess her inimitable self.” Simon rubbed his forehead and he and Robin laughed at the memory of the duchess’s and Simon’s attempted kiss.

When Simon and Robin returned to Grosvenor Square, Martin had the door open even before Robin lifted the knocker, as though he’d been waiting for them. As a matter of fact, Martin, Francis, and Cranston had been waiting, and with every hour they had become more apprehensive. Francis had hoped that the evening had not been disastrous, and when he saw the duke was drunk, he worried that Simon had turned to the bottle to erase the experience of a ghastly evening. When he saw Robin and Simon laughing together, he sighed in relief and turned away from the top of the stairs to seek his own bed.

“Well, Robin, we were a success. I thank you for your company and hope to ride with you soon. G’night,” Simon said, suddenly drowsy. “I will try to stumble up stairs without waking my household.”

Robin smiled at the members still awake whom Simon could not see, and Martin came forward and took the duke’s arm. “Here, your grace, let me help you.”

“Thank you, Martin.”

Robin left Simon in the capable hands of his valet and returned to his own house to sleep off the brandy and champagne.

When Judith arrived the next morning, she was shown into the library to wait for the duke.

“His grace has been a little later rising than usual, miss. He will be right with you.”

“Thank you, Cranston.” Judith was a bit concerned, since Simon was always there to greet her. She hoped he was not suffering from the return of his headaches. A few moments later, she heard his step and looked up from the Gazette and almost laughed aloud. She had seen her brother after nights of celebration, and she recognized the walking-on-eggs step and pale face of a hangover.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting, Miss Ware. I had rather a late night and am not at all used to it. My celebrating seems also to have brought on a headache,” Simon said ruefully. “I am afraid we will have to turn to poetry or something light. I am in no condition to think about or debate politics.”

“Would you rather I left and came back tomorrow?”

“No, no. Why don’t you find something familiar, so I don’t have to concentrate. I assure you, Miss Ware, my suffering is all the more intense because it is unfamiliar. I do not often drink too much.”

“You do not have to explain yourself, your grace,” Judith replied. “I am happy to know that you are going out and that it was an enjoyable evening.”

“Enjoyable? Yes, but exhausting also. But the first time is the hardest.”

Judith pulled out a much-thumbed volume. “What do you think of Shakespeare’s sonnets, your grace?”

“Ah, yes. I know some of them almost by heart. I would enjoy that. But not every one of them.”

“I will read my favorites, and if I skip over any of yours, please stop me.”

“Agreed.”

Judith scanned the pages quickly. She had always found some of the sonnets tedious, particularly those imploring the poet’s young friend to beget an heir. She began to read selectively, and was soon lost in that familiar state where the poet’s self and her self seemed to merge. His words were the very words she would have spoken, his feeling of unworthiness and diffidence hers. It did not matter that she was a woman and the poet a man. He seemed to speak with her voice. She forgot to whom she was reading, and read as though addressing her lover.

“ ‘Who is it that says most? which can say more/Than this rich praise, that you alone are you.'"

Simon could hear the feeling in Judith’s voice as she read. He had little doubt that she was speaking for herself. He was surprised to find himself disturbed and annoyed by that fact. He realized he had never really thought about what her life was outside this room: where she lived, with whom she discussed ideas, with whom she laughed, and whom she might love and be loved by. He had so enjoyed their company, and only thought of her as his reader, that he had not seen her as separate at all. The truth was, as she had pointed out, that in this room they shared something special. Barriers of class and sex seemed to disappear. He had no doubt she benefited more than financially from the arrangement. But now he realized he had gained more than that reader for whom he had advertised weeks ago. He had begun to count on her presence. The days she did not come were longer and duller. She had become more like a companion and friend than employee. He would like to think he was impartially interested in her personal life, but the truth was he did not want to lose her presence in his life.

“ ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds ...’" Judith began.

“That is at least one poem about steadfastness and equality in love the poet gave us,” said Simon. “He wrote more than I had remembered about a lover’s insecurity in love.”

“I think the experience of love has room for both. Surely there must be a great feeling of humility at the wonder of being loved, as well as a belief in equality and constancy?”

“And have you felt that insecurity or humility, Miss Ware?”

Judith was surprised to hear a little of the old sarcastic tone in Simon’s voice, and was puzzled. She could not know the duke was experiencing the pangs of jealously. Simon was not fully aware of it himself. He only knew that he was not sure any woman could now love him because of his obvious “impediment.” Miss Ware was, no doubt, acquainted with other men—friends of her brother, perhaps. For all he knew, she was engaged to one of them, a poorer man than he, and one of no rank, but a whole man. All of a sudden the burden of his sightlessness was back tenfold.