Marjorie Farrel (6 page)

Simon heard Francis’ voice and turned toward him, looking not at him, but to the left. As Francis lifted his arms to wave, he suddenly realized what a “head injury” might have resulted in. The sergeant with Simon—no, leading Simon—mouthed the word “blind” as they drew closer. Francis felt his stomach turn, and he and Martin looked at each other in dismay.

“Is that you, Francis?” he heard the duke ask.

“Yes, your grace,” he answered, stepping to Simon’s other side. “We are very happy to have you home.”

“Not half as happy as I am to be here. Do you have a guinea on you? Could you give it to the sergeant here? He has been most kind to me this whole trip.” Simon turned toward his guide. “Thank you, Sergeant, for all your help.”

“I can’t take anything, Captain—I mean, your grace.”

“Of course you can. I know it was part of your duties, but I appreciate your patience more than I can say.”

“Thank you, your grace. Good luck to you,” said the sergeant, and saluted before he walked away, fingering the gold coin in his hand.

“Now, Francis,” Simon said, “take my arm and get me home. Is Martin with you?”

“Yes. Right here, sir.”

“Good. You must be speechless at my attire, Martin, which, I understand from a friend, is an odd combination of the rustic and formal. But there was nothing else in Brussels. Indeed, I have begun to think homespun could be the next style. I might stay with it,” teased Simon, trying to put them all more at ease.

Martin laughed, along with Francis, as Simon had meant them to.

“Did the letter tell you anything of my injury, Francis?”

“All we heard was a slight head injury, your grace. We were not prepared for ...”

“Blindness? Just as well, for it is not a permanent state, Francis. I was very lucky that my eyes escaped injury, and I am convinced a few weeks at Sutton will restore me.”

Francis’ face lifted as he heard Simon’s words, and he led him toward the coach.

They arrived at Sutton in the afternoon. A stableboy had been posted at the gate, and ran up the drive to alert the servants when he espied the coach. They all lined up in front of the house, with Mrs. Wolfit, the housekeeper, at the head.

Francis climbed out and handed Simon down. The duke looked unharmed. Thinner and older, of course, but with no sign of injury, and all of them, who held Simon in great affection, wore smiles of relief. When Francis took the duke’s arm, however, and led him over to Mrs. Wolfit for a greeting, it became obvious that Simon could not see.

“He’s blind,” muttered one footman, only to be nudged on the arm by the one next to him.

“By God, you are right,” said his attacker after a moment.

Simon heard the whispering and could guess what was being said. He had never considered himself a proud man, but he must be, he decided, or he would not feel this degree of humiliation. It had been hard at the hospital, his feeling of helplessness, but there were others around who were also helpless. Here, among able-bodied civilians, he felt on exhibit.

He walked toward the house, lost in self-consciousness, and almost tripped on the first step. Francis was not used to guiding a blind man and kept forgetting that obstacles hardly noticeable to him were not there for Simon until he hit them or tripped over them. The pain in his foot brought Simon back to his surroundings. After all, he had grown up here; he ought to remember what he couldn’t see. He set himself to count the steps up, and then the steps to the door.

Inside, it all became too much for him. He did not want to make the effort of moving around his own house so carefully; he wanted to move freely. He realized now that at some level he had been expecting that just the arrival home would restore his sight. Instead, coming home had only reminded him of what he could not do, of the mobility he had lost. Instead of resting his sight on the Downs, instead of drinking in the warm red brick of Sutton, instead of smiling into the welcoming faces of his staff, he was standing in his hall, feeling like a stranger. No one around him had been in the hell of Waterloo. No one was limited. He was where he had longed to be, and he felt he didn’t belong.

I’d rather have lost my leg like Peter, he thought bitterly as he pushed down his rage and frustration. His face took on an expression of aloofness foreign to his nature, and his voice an ironic tone, as though he were removed from all of this. As he indeed was. Simon retreated, and left the Duke of Sutton to cope with his life.

July passed slowly for everyone at Sutton. The staff was ever on the alert for the duke, ready to help him from one room to the other, beginning to realize that any small thing out of place, like a chair not set back after sweeping, became a hazard for a blind man. Francis found it impossible to interest Simon in what had occurred during his absence.

Anyone asked to explain the heaviness that hung over the house would have said they were waiting, waiting for Simon to return. For although his body was certainly present and although he was as polite and considerate as ever to his servants, he himself was elsewhere, also waiting. Every morning he would open his eyes slowly, thinking, This will be the morning. He only went for walks around the house. Francis suggested a ride in his curricle, and Simon refused. The neighbors who came to call were turned away. Mrs. Wolfit had free rein with the house, but when in residence the duke had always listened and made suggestions when she talked over a decision with him. Now he just nodded and said in his removed manner, “I’m quite sure you have made the correct decision, Mrs. Wolfit.”

“There is no heart in him,” she told Watkins, the butler. “He is like a shadow of his former self.”

The cook wore himself out, first cooking all of Simon’s favorites and then experimenting with the latest continental specialties. Simon sent back both his compliments and half the food on his plate to the kitchen. He had lost weight immediately after Waterloo, and since his return he had been losing more, so his clothes were beginning to hang on his tall frame.

One morning in the beginning of August he called Francis into the breakfast room.

“Francis, I wish to return to London.”

Francis’ face lit up. This was the first sign of interest he had seen in the duke for weeks.

“And when do you wish the house opened, your grace?”

“Immediately. I intend to follow you in a few days in the coach. I have decided it is time to consult with a specialist. My headaches are almost gone and I haven’t seen a physician since Brussels. An oculist will be able to give me a better notion as to when my sight may return.”

“Do you wish me to make an appointment, your grace?”

“Yes. Then I won’t have to waste any time when I arrive.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Francis and Martin had discussed the duke’s optimism about recovery and, in fact, had consulted with the local physician, for they had no idea whether the duke was denying a permanent handicap, or indeed correct that his sight would miraculously return. Dr. Howes, who had treated the duke’s family and household for years, listened thoughtfully.

“It is true sight does return in some cases, but very rarely, Francis. If the duke still sees nothing, no shapes or shadows, I am quite sure that this is a permanent condition. I think he is holding on to hope as long as he can, and I don’t think at this point we should try to take it from him. I am old enough to know people need to protect themselves from some things they are not yet ready to face. From what you have told me, he has adjusted to his blindness only as much as is necessary. I think he is afraid to take the next step, which would mean facing what he can never do again, and finding out what he is capable of.”

Francis had agreed with the old doctor and never pushed the duke to receive visitors, go out more, or make estate decisions. This visit to a specialist, thought Francis, may be a sign that he wants to find out, one way or another. I hope so, for none of us can live in this limbo much longer.

Simon followed Francis up to town two days later. Once again he was thrown into a state of disorientation, in what were familiar surroundings. This time, however, he was better prepared, and within a day or so was moving about the town house more easily. It was a good time to be in the city for someone not interested in socializing. Most of the ton were still in the country, and would gradually return for the Little Season. Enough of Simon’s friends were around, however, that the tray in the hall was rarely empty of cards. All were turned away politely but firmly. Those who were mere acquaintances did not return, but a few old friends, like Robin, persisted. But the staff, however much they deplored Simon’s decision to isolate himself, were a loyal and protective group, and so even a close friend like Major Stanley was turned away repeatedly.

Simon’s appointment with the royal oculist was on his second week in London. Francis accompanied him and led him into the examination room. The doctor probed Simon’s skull and then moved a candle close to Simon’s face, and then away, then from side to side. There was no response. Simon blinked, not at the light but at the heat, and he stared straight ahead the whole time, not tracking at all from right to left.

The doctor sat down opposite the duke. “Your grace, what did the doctors in the field hospital tell you?”

Simon repeated their diagnosis.

“I can only agree with them, I am afraid. I think the blows to your head were enough to cause permanent damage. Your headaches are almost gone, and yet you still see nothing?”

Simon nodded.

“The best advice I can give you is to begin to accept your blindness. There are many things you are still capable of doing. You are young; you have your health, a position in society, and the money to obtain all the help you need. You can still live a very full life. I urge you to do so.”

Simon stared blankly to the right of the doctor, not even attempting to follow his voice. He could no longer maintain his denial in the face of a specialist’s diagnosis. Weeks had passed, and he still saw nothing.

“Thank you, Doctor. Could you send my secretary in?”

“Of course. And believe me when I say that I am sorry I cannot give better news. You could, of course, seek another opinion.”

“No, I am finished with opinions,” said Simon. “Francis?”

“Yes, your grace?”

“Take me home.”

Simon said nothing on the ride from Harley Street. Francis was happy that the waiting was over. Maybe this final word would free the duke to resume his life again.

The next day, however, was like preceding ones. Simon refused visitors and spent much of his day in the library, staring into the fire as though he could see the flames. There was no way he could imagine resuming his former life. The ton valued money and physical perfection. Even though he despised the superficiality and hypocrisy of many of his peers, his position required that he socialize. That he go to the theater, the opera, attend assemblies, and dance with the latest crop of young ladies.

But now, how could he move through an evening knowing that people would be staring and gossiping, some with malice and others with pity? Of the two, Simon preferred the former. And it would not all be behind his back. It would be right in front of his face, and he would not be able to see it. The doctor’s advice seemed laughable. By the end of the week, however, he was finding it difficult just to sit

He had taken the diagnosis in, and while there was still some irrational hope that he would prove them all wrong, he was beginning to become more aware of his surroundings, and indeed, beginning to be bored by inactivity and lack of stimulation. The numbness of the previous months was wearing off.

He paced the library, running his finger along the back of the big leather sofa. At the end of the week, he found himself running his fingers over the backs of his books and, realizing even that comfort was denied him, hurled one onto the floor. Then it occurred to him that although he couldn’t read, he could be read to. Surely that would help to pass the time until ... Simon wasn’t sure until what. Until this nightmare passed and he awoke to find it only a dream.

He rang for the butler and summoned Francis.

“Yes, your grace?” Francis noticed a difference in the duke. He seemed more pleasant, and not off in a black musing.

“Francis, I want you to hire me a reader.”

“A reader, your grace?”

“Yes, Francis, a reader,” Simon repeated, with that edge to his voice which had been there since his return. “Someone who could spend a few hours a week helping me pass the time.”

“Very good, your grace. How would you like me to go about it?”

“Place an advertisement in the Post. You will know how to word it. I am sure there is some retired clerk out there or some young tutor who wishes to make a little money. I will start with two mornings a week. You can interview the first applicants and then bring me one or two that seem most suitable. And, Francis, I want a stranger. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your grace, I’ll see to it immediately.” Francis spoke formally, as though he and Simon had never had a more relaxed relationship as master and servant. He knew that Simon’s resentment of his dependence on Francis showed itself in increased formality, and he tried not to take it to heart. He had taken Simon’s cue, and was most impersonal, the perfect employee. But it was hard, at the moment, not to respond naturally.

This was the first sign that the duke was beginning to accept his condition and starting to adjust to it. Francis forbore from pointing out that any one of Simon’s friends would have been very happy to spare him a few hours. He sensed it would seem less humiliating to the duke to have a stranger come to the house as the first visitor. The fact that the duke would be paying for the service also made him less dependent. Francis went off immediately to draw up the advertisement and had a footman deliver it to Fleet Street that afternoon.

Judith was beginning to settle into her new life: breakfast with Stephen and then, on some mornings, a ride with the Stanleys. Occasionally she took a light luncheon with them and then returned home to help Hannah with the household. For a few hours in the afternoon, she was usually able to concentrate on her art.