Perfect in My Sight (9 page)

Guiding his hand back to the block, she took his index finger and placed it over the
first and largest dot. “I am showing you this, but I’ll not tell you what the letter
is, I think, because it is not the code I plan to teach you. This one is quite a bit
more complicated, though all six dots are in formation, and I wish you to know how
they will feel when they are all together.”

She released him, letting him rub his finger over the raised spots, without any direction.
Sarah seized his hand once more, though gently, and guided his finger, setting it
firmly upon the first raised dot. “This is the first. Feel it?”

“Yes, Miss Hopkins,” he answered softly.

Sarah frowned at the hesitant way he spoke her name. “No need for such formalities,
Christopher,” she admonished him. “You may call me Sarah, please.”

“Yes, Miss Hop—”

“Uh-uh-uh,” she scolded, and laughed.

He giggled—thank God!—and said, “Yes, Miss Sarah.”

Sarah smiled at him indulgently.. “Do you feel most comfortable calling me Miss?”

“Yes, Miss Sarah,” he answered once more.

Sarah smiled. “Then Miss Sarah is quite all right with me, I think.”

He beamed at that and announced, “My aunt Ruth says I must be respectful.”

Good Lord, he didn’t even speak like a six-year- old, Sarah thought.

“Oh, but you are so very respectful,” she assured him. “But she is quite right, Christopher.
Children must mind their elders, though I cannot imagine you misbehaving at all. Now...”
She moved his finger slightly to the right, thinking it best they not discuss his
rearing in her present mood. “Do you feel another dot here?”

“Yes,” he answered, and she moved his finger once more.

“There?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That’s because it will always be no more than two dots in width,” she reminded him,
and then shifted his finger once more to the left, and then down. “Now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” And then down again. “Yes,” he said, before she could ask him.

“Very good, Christopher. Two dots in width,” she repeated, “by three dots in height.
The Braille code will always be no more than that.” She gave his fingers a gentle
squeeze. “Very, very good,” she repeated, and he smiled up at her. Unable to bring
herself to release his tiny hand, she took the block away and set it aside with her
free hand. “I think we shall be fast friends,” she whispered to him, and was pleased
to see his smile deepen. “My goodness, you are such a smart little boy! I wonder,
however did you get to be so wise?”

His smile widened to such a degree that Sarah thought it would split his face. “My
daddy says I am just like my mommy!”

Sarah blinked in surprise, taken aback by the disclosure. He did look like Mary, and
Mary was quite intelligent, this much was true, but this mild little boy was nothing
like the woman Sarah recalled. Mary had been vibrant and charming, and boisterous
and headstrong. Meekness had not been her way at all. And yet he said it so enthusiastically,
and it was quite a generous thing that Peter should give his dead wife such credit
in her little boy’s eyes...

She frowned at that thought, and felt a growing confusion over her perceptions of
Peter Holland.

No.

She couldn’t allow herself to lose focus, she reminded herself.

She’d read all the accounts of Mary’s life as Peter’s wife—just as had everyone else
who’d followed the Post.

At the very least, he’d made her cousin miserable.

At worst... well... she couldn’t think about that again just now... or she would burst
into tears as she had last night.

Christopher’s little nose began to sniff, and he looked so like a little bunny that
Sarah chuckled. “I smell something sweet!” he said abruptly.

“Oh! Do you now?”

Sarah laughed.

The sound of it sent a quiver down Peter’s spine.

He stood in the doorway to the nursery, watching the two of them together, his son
and this stranger, who seemed less and less a stranger every instant that passed.

Why was that? he wondered. Why did she seem so familiar?

“I wonder what it might be,” she said, and laughed again.

The sound of it warmed the blood in his veins more potently than any liquor could
have.

“Well, perhaps you do, at that,” she teased, and reached down into her dress pocket.
“You, Christopher Holland, have a very, very keen nose! Did you get that from your
mother as well?”

His son giggled, and Sarah reached across the table, finding his hand still nestled
within her own. She pressed a sweet into it and wrapped his little fingers about it.

“There now,” she said to him. “You have done quite well today, but we’ve such a long
way to go. Ready to go on?”

Christopher greedily unwrapped his treat and then shoved it into his mouth.

Sarah smiled, and her reaction took Peter aback for an instant.

He frowned, contemplating...

Sarah Hopkins was a lovely woman, that much was certain.

Even her dark, ugly spectacles could not detract from the delicate beauty of her face.
She wore an equally unappealing dress, but that did not conceal from his greedy eyes
the artful lift of her breasts.

His pulse quickened.

God, he had gone to bed last night with her image in his mind, and he was beginning
to feel that perhaps Cile was right.

The bloody truth was that he had not for two consecutive moments managed to remove
her from his thoughts.

He told himself it was for his son’s sake, but the fact that he was preoccupied just
now with the image of her breasts made that rationale highly questionable.

How long had it been since he’d been so taken with a woman? God, had he ever been?

He didn’t think so.

Even Mary had not invaded his thoughts so thoroughly. He’d adored Mary, thought her
charming and sweet and kind. He’d been infected with her enthusiasm for life, and
invigorated by her spirit. He’d been challenged by her wit and impressed with her
thirst for knowledge, but he hadn’t been in love with her. And he had never, except
at the end when he’d been wracked by guilt, been obsessed with thoughts of her.

What was it about Sarah that attracted him so?

Perhaps he simply admired her determination in the face of such a disabling condition.
Perhaps it was that she didn’t act blind. There was little about her, save for those
dark glasses, that reminded him of her disability. No, Sarah Hopkins was a strong
woman whose presence was undeniable—certainly undeniable in his thoughts, because
he couldn’t seem to eradicate her from them.

“Are we working too hard for a walk in the park?” Peter asked suddenly, startling
himself with the question.

Christ, what the devil was he doing? He was paying her to instruct his son, not to
take bloody walks in the park!

Sarah’s head popped up, though she didn’t turn in his direction. “Mr. Holland!”

“Daddy!” Christopher shrieked through a mouthful of chewy sweets, but he didn’t rise
from his seat at the table. His face, however, reflected his pleasure, and Peter took
joy in that expression so filled with love.

With his gaze fixed not upon his son, but upon the woman seated before him, Peter
stepped into the room. She sat still at the little table, her posture straight and
her previous good humor seeming to have vanished with his sudden appearance.

“Good morning, Miss Hopkins.”

“We have only just begun, Mr. Holland,” she replied, ignoring his greeting.

He got the immediate impression she was dismissing him, and Peter suddenly refused
to take no for an answer.

“A walk in the park will clear our minds, and do us much good,” he suggested.

“A clear mind, at this point, is not what we need,” she countered.

“Perhaps, but I should like to speak with you,” Peter said, and his tone brooked no
argument. “Your lessons may continue this afternoon.”

She lifted her chin, and Peter watched her, uncertain what it was about her that left
him ill at ease, besides.

“You wish to speak to me?”

“I do,” he said.

“Very well,” she relented, her annoyance quite clear in her tone. “A walk in the park
would be lovely,” she said, and rose from the table, bending first to seize her cane
from the floor. 

CHAPTER
9

Lovely
was hardly the word for their afternoon.

It hadn’t been Sarah’s dislike for the man that had made her reluctant to accept his
invitation, but fear, if the truth be known. She scarcely knew how to act around Christopher.
Naturally, she was uncomfortable under his father’s careful scrutiny.

And she wasn’t certain which was harder to tolerate, the brisk March winds or the
scalding warmth of Peter’s hand on her arm as he guided her through the park.

Blast, but must he touch her so solicitously?

She wanted nothing more than to free herself from his mindful grip. She didn’t need
his bloody attentions, nor did she appreciate his guidance. She felt a little, in
fact, as though he kept her upon a leash.

Sarah walked along beside him, tapping her cane and listening to father and son’s
discourse with a sense of growing hysteria. The two of them were discussing the content
of the morning’s lessons, and Sarah was surprised to hear Christopher recite nearly
every word she had uttered to him. He certainly was a prodigy, and yet, as she watched
him, it was also quite apparent he had never been allowed to be a child at all. Christopher
Holland was a little wizened man, and Sarah was uncertain whether to be proud of him
or furious with his father.

She tapped her cane a little viciously at the thought.

“And Miss Sarah says Mr. Braille was in an accident like me.”

“Was he?” Peter asked with some interest. Sarah was entirely too aware of his gaze
upon her. It was making her quite ill at ease.

“Yes, sir! And he went to school and they made him a teacher! And he made up the whole
code all by himself!”

“Not quite by himself,” Sarah interjected, trying to hide her discomfort. “He had
a bit of inspiration from a man named Barbier,” she explained. “Mr Barbier was an
officer of artillery who was interested in the blind and did what he could to promote
their education. It was he who first suggested embossing by means of a point method.
Mr. Braille simply restructured the code so it would be easier to use.” She felt Peter’s
gaze bore into her, and her heart skipped a beat.

Naturally, she told herself, it was fear that made her react so—fear of discovery.

She certainly didn’t care one whit whether he was attracted to her or not.

Was he?

Mel was wrong. He couldn’t possibly be attracted to her. Nor did she want him to be!

“Miss Sarah is quite knowledgeable, is she not?” Peter said.

“Yes, sir!” Christopher agreed. “And she smells good too!”

“Does she?” Peter leaned closer, and Sarah’s heart tripped. He was so close now that
she could swear she felt the heat of his breath upon her face. “She does smell rather
nice, doesn’t she?” His grip upon her arm seemed to tighten a bit. Sarah could scarcely
breathe as she heard his intake of breath. He held it, and then released it, blowing
softly upon her cheek.

The feel of it sent electric tingles down her spine.

What the devil was wrong with her body? Didn’t it seem to care anything at all for
what her brain was saying? She couldn’t be attracted to him. Shouldn’t...

Christopher responded with a hearty, “Yes sir!”

Sarah forced herself to breathe.

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she went dizzy upon her feet.
Her heartbeat, however, was another matter entirely. It began to thump mercilessly,
and she couldn’t seem to slow it at all.

Forcing her attention upon Christopher, she doubled her efforts to ignore the man
walking at her side.

Unlike other children, Christopher did not run ahead of them, kicking at rocks and
climbing atop the tiny hillocks that composed Central Park. Nor did he beg to climb
the winter-bared trees or to run and play with his friends. He remained by their side,
tapping at the walkway with his cane, and Sarah’s heart ached for him.

She wanted to reach out and scoop him into her arms. She wanted to hold him and tell
him that everything would be all right. She wanted to spirit him away and shelter
him from harm.

She wanted to beat some bloody sense into his father with her blasted cane.

Her conversation with Ruth plagued her immensely.

“Tell me, Mr. Holland,” she began, her tone quite perturbed, though she tried not
to show her ire.

“Peter,” he suggested, his tone warm and gentle in contrast, entirely too charming.
It irked her. “Please call me Peter.”

On a cold day in bloody hell!

Is this the way he had spoken to Mary?

Had he wooed her with his wit and charm?

Well, Sarah was very well aware of where it had gotten Mary, and she didn’t intend
to fall prey to it as well.

She swallowed her anger, and said, “Peter, it is, then.” Taking a deep breath, she
willed her nerves to calm. “Tell me... Peter... why did you not simply enroll Christopher
in New York’s Institute for the Blind? Why hire me, or anyone for that matter, when
you have at your disposal one of the finer schools for the blind in the entire country?”

He peered down at her; strange how she could sense his gaze so keenly, even when she
dared not look at him. “The most obvious reason, his age, Sarah... May I call you
Sarah?” he asked her abruptly.

Sarah bristled at the question. Some part of her sensed danger keenly in his familiarity.
She wasn’t going to end like Mary. She wasn’t! She swallowed the tart reply that came
to her lips and said instead, “Certainly,” and couldn’t help herself—she swung her
cane and smacked him squarely in the shin.

Blackguard!

“Ouch!” he cried.

“Oh, dear!” she pretended to fret. “Was that you?”

“It was,” he said, and hopped along beside her an instant, massaging his leg. She
could sense his frown even though she didn’t dare look at him.

“Please do forgive me,” she said, her tone as dulcet as she could manage, and tried
not to smile, because the vicious act did indeed make her feel better. Her uncle was
right, she feared; she was a termagant.

“Not a problem,” he replied, though she could still hear the frown in his tone. “You
have quite a healthy grip on that cane, Miss Holland.” And then he continued, “At
any rate, they would hardly embrace my son as a pupil at so early an age.”

Sarah tightened her grip on her cane. “Have you considered that there might perchance
be good reason for that?”

“With most children perhaps,” he countered, “but I’m quite certain you’ve realized
by now that Christopher is different from other children.”

“Yes, he is,” Sarah agreed, her tone carefully subdued, lest she reveal her infamous
temper. If Mary had been spirited, Sarah had been labeled temperamental, and rightly
so. God help her, but she felt herself ready to explode even now. Her face heated
with anger. “I’m uncertain, however, whether it is justifiable to exploit his talents
at such an early age.”

“Exploit?” There was genuine surprise in his voice at her veiled accusation. “That
is a rather harsh view, Miss Hopkins. As I recall, you did not voice such an opinion
at your interview. Why now?”

Sarah was unsure how much to say about her discussion with his sister. She wasn’t
even certain whether to reveal it at all. Ruth was hardly her ally in this, and yet
she couldn’t blame the woman for trying to protect an innocent child. Sarah had gone
to great lengths for just the same purpose.

Then, too, she wasn’t entirely certain she could afford to make this an issue. If
she dared to, and he released her from her duties, what then would she do? She had
no proof of anything as yet, and if she went complaining to the authorities that Peter
forced his son to study ... who would champion her? Nobody! They would applaud him
in truth. At least Ruth, no matter that she did not seem to like Sarah, was looking
out for Christopher’s best interests.

His father was an overbearing oaf who expected too much of his son.

“I should ask,” Sarah ventured, “why do you wish him to begin his studies so young?”
It was a sensible enough question, Sarah thought, and she waited expectantly for his
answer, certain that he could not have a very reasonable one.

“I smell taffy!” Christopher exclaimed suddenly, averting their attention. “May we
get some, Daddy? May we? May we?”

Peter chuckled at his son’s enthusiasm. “I should have known you’d smell a vendor
at ten paces. Why not?” he relented. “Wait here.”

He left them standing beneath an old oak that was bearing its first leaves, just the
two of them, and hurried after Christopher’s treat.

“Are you having a good time, Christopher?” Sarah asked, as she watched his father,
for the first time unheeded. His back was to them as he drew out some coins from his
pocket, handing them to the vendor. He was quite a handsome man, she had to admit.
He drew attention from women without even seeming aware of it. Sarah hadn’t missed
the appreciative stares they’d received as they’d passed other female strollers in
the park—even those hanging on the arms of their lovers.

“Yes, ma’am!” Christopher answered.

Sarah laughed. There was little doubt as to his enthusiasm by the expression on his
face and the tone of his voice. “I suppose this is rather exciting,” Sarah agreed.
“Much better than being locked away indoors all day long.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Christopher answered, and thrust his little hand into his pocket. He
turned his face up to the sky, and appeared to be scenting the wind, his expression
quite blissful.

“How would you feel about bringing our lessons to the park sometime?”

He grinned.

“Would you like that, Christopher?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am!”

He was so quiet—except around his father—so well mannered. Had he not recited her
words almost verbatim to his father, she might have wondered that he’d listened to
her at all, because he scarcely gave a response unless prodded for it. “I suppose
you don’t get out very much?” Sarah asked in an attempt to draw him out.

“Oh, yes, ma’am!” he answered. “My daddy brings me to the park every Saturday, and
sometimes on Sunday too.” He smiled at that, looking rather proud. It was obvious
he had great admiration for his father.

Her surprise was evident in her tone. “He does?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am!”

“Good Lord, Christopher!” Sarah exclaimed, laughter tinting her voice. “Don’t you
ever say anything besides ‘Yes, ma’am’?”

Her question seemed to amuse him. “Uh, yes, ma’am,” he replied, and burst into giggles.

Unable to help herself, Sarah giggled along with him. The two of them, she realized,
stood there, giggling, looking and sounding like a pair of loons. She wondered how
others perceived them—she with her dark spectacles, Christopher with his sightless
stare, both with their canes, and both laughing hysterically at nothing apparent.
Passersby probably thought them mad.

Well, she didn’t care.

It felt wonderful to be in Christopher’s company.

Too bad his father chose that moment to return, albeit bearing taffy and flowers.
When she saw the flowers, Sarah’s heart began to thump once more. Her laughter died
abruptly as he handed the taffy to his son. Christopher tore into the confection with
unmistakable fervor.

“Your second today,” his father reminded him. “Enjoy it, son. It will be your last,
or we’ll both find ourselves bearing long faces at dinner.”

Sarah suddenly felt like an intruder in their midst.

It must be a wonderful feeling to have a family, to share meals together, and laughter...
and hugs.

She had to remind herself this was not a regular family, although at the moment, they
certainly seemed it—despite their lack of a mother...and wife.

“Aunt Ruth will be mad!” Christopher predicted, but didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

Peter patted his son’s head. “I’ll not tell if you’ll not tell,” he said.

“All right, Daddy. I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” Christopher returned, smiling,
as his father smoothed the hair down over his forehead.

“And...” He turned to Sarah. Sarah pretended obliviousness to the offer he held in
his hand. “I’ve a bribe to ensure Miss Hopkins won’t tell either.”

“Flowers?” Christopher said matter-of-factly, tearing off a generous portion of his
taffy with his teeth. “Figures.”

Sarah marveled at his keen sense of smell. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “I thought I smelled
them, too.

Lilacs?” she asked, taking Christopher’s example, though she could see very well what
they were.

“Very good,” Peter said, and pressed them into her hand, smiling down at her.

Sarah’s throat closed a bit. His gesture left her at a loss for words, but she refused
to be moved by it. It was a smooth maneuver, to be sure, by a man who was accustomed
to giving flattery to get what he wanted. He’d managed to win Mary’s heart, though
Mary had sworn she’d never be wooed. He wasn’t going to win hers so easily. Not that
it was his intention, she realized.