Perfect in My Sight (8 page)

Pausing at her door, he started to knock and then halted abruptly at the faint sound
of weeping coming from within. Something about the way she sobbed took him back...
evoked memories that made his chest wrench.

Startled by the sounds that came from the room, he listened for a moment, confused,
his hand poised to knock.

This was not his wife, he reminded himself. She was a stranger to him still. A beautiful
stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

She would not appreciate his interruption, he told himself... and what he had to speak
to her about could certainly wait until the morning.

He shrugged free of the stupor that held him. Straightening, he pushed away from the
door, then turned and walked away.

His chance to knock upon this door... to go to his wife and heal her sorrow, was long
past.

The time to reassure was gone.

She wasn’t here anymore, and he had long since ceased to mourn her.

God only knew... it wasn’t so simple a task to forgive himself. He may have dealt
with his grief, but he hadn’t the slightest notion how to let go of his guilt.

It stayed with him, snarling at his soul like a rabid beast.

CHAPTER
8

“These servants are all a bunch of gossips,” Mel swore, bursting into Sarah’s room,
brimming with energy and excitement. “Thank God!”

Startled by the unexpected intrusion, Sarah sat up in the bed. “Good Lord, Mellie!
You nearly scared the life out of me!”

“Poppycock!” Mel said. “Guess what I discovered,” she persisted, sitting on the bed
at Sarah’s feet.

Somehow Mel’s enthusiasm both buoyed and frightened her at once. She didn’t wish her
dear friend to forget the risks they were taking. This was hardly a game, and the
stakes were too high to be taken lightly.

“That you don’t wish to do this and you want to go home?” Sarah said warily.

Mel waved a hand at her, dismissing her sarcasm.

Sarah frowned. “You are beginning to enjoy this far too much, I think.”

Mel laughed softly. “Perhaps I am. It is rather exciting to play at being a Pinkerton.”

“Just remember that this is
not
play,” Sarah advised her. “It struck me again last night how dangerous a venture
this is. It is not easy at all to play a blind woman, Mel. I find myself reacting
instinctively and have to catch myself at every turn.”

“But you are doing so well,” Mel assured her. “Sarah, I have spent time among the
blind all my life, and you are convincing enough even for me. You are doing very well,
and if you were not, I would put an end to this at once.”

“You truly feel so?” Sarah lifted her thumb to her lips, and gnawed it absently.

Mel gave her an admonishing glance. “When have you ever known me to mince words? Of
course I mean it, or I’d not say it. I’d be nagging you instead—no, I would be dragging
you out by your hair like some Neanderthal man.”

Sarah had to chuckle at the images that came to mind. “You would, at that, I think.”

“Of course I would.” Mel cocked her head. “Now... do you wish to know what I discovered,
or not?”

“Yes!” Sarah exclaimed. “Tell me already!”

“Very well, then,” Mel said, “but I’ll not tell you while you are lying in that bed.
I cannot believe you are sleeping so late,” she scolded, and then demanded, “Get up!”

Sarah flushed guiltily. “I spent quite a bad night in this room,” she confessed.

Mel gave her a quizzical glance. “Wish to talk about it?”

“No,” Sarah answered at once, and then explained, “it is just this room.”

“This room?”

“Yes,” Sarah answered. “This is where it happened.” She gave Mel a meaningful nod
at the floor. “There.”

“Oh, dear...” Mel’s expression softened at once. “I’m so sorry, Sarah. I know you
loved her dearly. But together,” she assured, “we are going to make everything right.
You believe that, don’t you?”

Sarah shrugged. “I received a visit from Ruth last night. She had little enough to
say to me, but none of it was benevolent, I assure you.”

Mel nodded. “She’s a regular battle-ax, they say.”

Sarah lifted her brows. “Battle-ax?”

“So they say. It seems she rules the nest here, and Peter Holland either does not
seem to care or is afraid of her as well.”

“Afraid!” Sarah exclaimed. “Peter Holland? One look at that man tells me he is afraid
of nothing.”

“I rather thought so as well,” Mel agreed. “And yet... I am only telling you what
I have gleaned thus far. Most of the servants here seem quite closemouthed, but for
a few.”

“How did they welcome you?” Sarah asked with genuine concern.

“Most of them not at all, to tell you the truth. They are all quite self-involved,
I think. Not overly friendly, but neither are they cold. As best as I can tell, this
is not some medieval household where they are forced into familiarity by necessity.
But for a few, they all go home to their families at night, and mind their own affairs
while they are here. But for a few,” she reiterated. “I did have an interesting discussion
with the housekeeper...”

“Well, tell me,” Sarah prompted.

Mel smiled. “Get out of bed first. It unsettles me to see you lying there looking
like a convalescent.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t contain her wry smile. She climbed out of
the bed and went to the wardrobe, opening the doors.

She’d had herself a good cry last night, and then had passed the time thinking while
she’d unpacked. “If they ask, I shall tell them you unpacked my bags,” she said, as
she rummaged through her dresses... all of them dark in color. She hadn’t noticed
that detail until this moment, and had to wonder if the choices had been dictated
by her subconscious. She had long since ceased to wear mourning, but somehow her choices
were all somber. For today, she chose a deep burgundy wool dress and her simplest
bustle—something she wished had never come back into style as she much ' preferred
the long, slim lines. They had come back, however, and while she disdained having
to follow someone else’s code of style, she wasn’t quite willing to draw the sort
of attention she might were she to completely eschew the dictates of polite society.

So she opted for the smallest petticoats and bustles, and cursed the man who first
created such a ridiculous concoction of ruffles and frills.

“Shall I help you?”

Sarah cast Mel a wry smile. “Let us not, and say you did.”

Mel giggled.

Sarah glowered at her. “I am only playing a blind woman, remember? I have been dressing
myself for years; I hardly think I need help now.”

Mel smiled in answer, and then wrinkled her nose. “You are playing a widow, too, it
seems, judging by your choice of dress.”

“Well, it hardly seemed appropriate,” Sarah told her, “that I should adorn myself
as though I could see.”

“Is that what you think you are doing? Dressing the part of a blind woman?”

“I suppose so,” Sarah answered, “though I hardly realized it until just now. As carefully
as I planned, I certainly did not consciously choose.” Mel rose from the bed and came
to help her with the petticoat. “Well, I am sorry to tell you, but that particular
effort is wholly wasted.” She eyed Sarah with some disappointment. “The blind, as
I’m certain you realize, do not shop to appear blind, Sarah. They hardly know what
they are wearing. Those who are fortunate to have someone choose for them are dressed
by silly individuals who make an exceptional effort to be certain they fit in. Those
who are not so fortunate, well, they wear whatever is available to them, as would
anyone else. Make an effort to note what Christopher will wear today,” she advised.
“You will see, I’m certain he is dressed as any other little boy of his means.”

Remembering her conversation with Peter Holland, Sarah frowned. “How silly of me,”
she said, and was embarrassed.

“No need to worry,” Mel reassured. “You shall simply tell them that I do your shopping
and that I am a dour old woman at heart.” She laughed. “For myself, I brought only
the most conservative attire. Because, like you,” she said, “I was concerned with
dressing the part.”

“But I did not consciously choose,” Sarah protested.

“It makes no difference—just as it makes no difference what you wear... Peter Holland
will still look at you with those love-struck eyes.” She peered up from the laces
to gauge Sarah’s expression.

Sarah blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are a silly goose not to see it!” She raised a brow and stepped away to inspect
the petticoat’s fastenings. “He looks at you quite appreciatively, I think. And you
would be a fool not to use it.”

“I hardly think so,” Sarah denied hotly. “He’s a blackhearted murderer!”

Mel gave her an amused smile. “Even blackhearted murderers suffer lust, my dear. Do
not fool yourself. Peter Holland is definitely in lust with you.”

The very notion horrified Sarah. “But I’m blind!”

Mel frowned at her. “That’s a ridiculous statement, if ever I’ve heard one. So does
that turn you suddenly into a toad?”

Sarah’s cheeks heated. It was a ridiculous statement, for certain, but it had just
popped out of her mouth. She hadn’t the first notion what else to say, because she
refused to contemplate the possibility that Peter Holland might be attracted to her.

She refused even to consider why it should bother her.

It was an entirely unthinkable notion!

Never mind that she was having a difficult time not being attracted in return.

Sarah cast Mel an irritated glance. “So are you going to tell me what you discovered,
or not?”

“Good Lord!” Mel exclaimed. “I very nearly forgot! It seems Peter Holland’s alibi
for that dreadful night lives right here in his house.”

“Here?” Sarah had entirely forgotten he’d even had an alibi. So little had been reported
about it. In fact, considering the gravity of the situation, very little had been
reported in that vein at all. Peter Holland’s name was bandied about in the worst
light. And yet she did recall mention of an alibi... a certain maid... “Did you chance
to speak with her?”

“No,” Mel said. “But she remains in his employ, and I did speak to the housekeeper.
The girl’s name is Caitlin. She’s apparently a very quiet sort. Six years ago, however,
she was not. She was a giddy young girl in love with her employer.”

“Do you think she will speak to us?”

“I’m not certain,” Mel said. “It seems Peter gave her employ when she was hungry—an
Irish immigrant with no place to go and no family to speak of.

She is quite loyal to Peter, as I understand.” Mel winked at her. “But leave it to
me. I shall have her story in no time.”

“You are a gem, Mellie!” Sarah declared. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“Bite your tongue,” Mel said. “I assure you, you shall never have to find out!”

Christopher Holland was a brilliant child; that much was evident within the first
hour of their lessons. Dressed as a darling little replica of his father, in trousers
and formal shirt, he sat before her, dutifully listening to her every word.

Ruth had brought him to the nursery, practically by the collar of his shirt, as it
had appeared to Sarah. Every moment she thought of it, she grew more furious with
his father. In the somewhat fearful glance he’d given his aunt, it was apparent that
the child was unwilling to accompany Ruth to the nursery. And yet... that was not
the impression Sarah had received that first day during her interview. He had seemed
excited by the prospect of her instruction, in fact. Something wasn’t right here.

Something didn’t ring true.

Ruth hadn’t remained long after delivering the boy to Sarah. She’d left them alone
practically at once, and Sarah had thought it rather odd. Were she as concerned for
Christopher as she claimed to be, she might have stayed to see that Sarah would not
push him too hard on this first day of their lessons. She hadn’t, however, and in
fact, seemed eager to leave. Sarah sat puzzling now over Ruth’s contradictory behavior.

Having spent the better part of their hour simply talking, so she might better gauge
where to begin teaching Christopher, Sarah found herself with the most incredible
urge to take him out of doors, to let him experience the heat of the sun upon his
face. The park would be nice, a stroll together. The child knew entirely too much
for a boy of his age. But they sat together instead, in a splendid nursery he had
never seen, both of them seated at a miniature table with miniature chairs, and surrounded
by toys it appeared he’d never played with.

Frowning, Sarah pushed a block at him, one of a set she had purchased long ago with
Christopher in mind. She had spied them in a novelty shoppe. It was claimed they had
once belonged to Louis Braille, though Sarah highly doubted it.

It had been these blocks that had first given her the notion she could make a difference
in Christopher’s life. And it was afterward she had sought out Mel. They would be
useful, though it wasn’t precisely the code she planned to teach him.

“The letters of the code shall always be two dots in width by three dots in height...
Do you understand, Christopher?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered much too shyly.

“Give me your hand,” she urged him. He seemed reluctant to comply, and she said, “I
wish to show you by feel, Christopher.”

He offered his little hand, and Sarah couldn’t contain her smile as she reached out
and took it. She guided it over the block and closed her eyes, trying to feel the
block first with her own hand. After a moment she released his hand, and began to
feel the raised dots more earnestly.

Confound it all, she couldn’t do this so easily.

It was difficult to tell where the starting point and the ending point were. She grew
frustrated and opened her eyes, peeking at the block. Closing them again, she said,
“All right, Christopher, let us try this once more.”