Marjorie Farrel (10 page)

“It seems to have chosen you, then,” said Simon in his apparently constant dry tone. “Why don’t we begin with Mr. Blake’s poems.”

Judith sat down and began to read in her clear, even voice. She looked up after each poem, surprised indeed that the duke had purchased this folio. The first poems were simple lyrics, almost bland in their “innocence,” or so Judith thought. A few moved her by their very simplicity, but she could not but worry that Simon would be bored. And then in the middle of “The Little Black Boy,” her voice quavered on: “And we are put on earth a little space / That we might bear the beams of love.’’ She glanced up to see if Simon had noticed her emotion. There was a quizzing look on his face, and he asked, rather gently, “You seem moved by those lines, Miss Ware?”

“Yes, your grace. They took me by surprise.”

Judith continued. And again, some of the songs she found too facilely optimistic, and then there would occur a poem, like the final one, that moved her more than Thompson’s heavy style, and even more than Mr. Wordsworth.

“That poem ends the first octavo, your grace. Do you wish me to continue?”

“I think that will be enough for today, Miss Ware,” Simon said quietly. “And what did you think of Mr. Blake’s idea of innocence?”

“I am not quite sure what I think. Some of the poems seemed too innocent in their philosophy, and then comes a line or a poem that moves me as I have not been moved by other poets.’’

“You are a reader of poetry, then, Miss Ware?”

“Yes, your grace, I am. I am a reader of anything and everything, but poetry is closest to my heart.”

“How do you like our contemporary bards? Or are you less acquainted with modern works?”

“Until today, I would have said that Mr. Wordsworth and Lord Byron were superior.”

“And after today?”

“I shall have to read more of your Mr. Blake. I will be interested to see how he treats ‘experience.'"

“Well, we will leave that question to be decided the next time you come. Until Tuesday then?”

Simon’s face, which had been, for the first few moments of their discussion, lively and interested and open, as though he were truly present, closed down.

Judith rose and nodded, forgetting again that Simon could not see her. As she walked to the door, his frame, which had seemed to straighten and give some evidence of latent energy, slumped again as he resumed his position of “staring” at the fire.

She closed the door carefully behind her and, as the butler approached, asked to be shown into Mr. Bolton’s office.

“I know that he is busy, Cranston, but I wish to inquire about my wages.”

Francis, who was indeed busy with what appeared to be an avalanche of letters and documents, lost his frown of annoyance at the interruption when he saw it was Judith.

“Thank you, Cranston. You may close the door.”

Judith stood until the door had closed behind her, and then she sank gratefully into the chair next to Francis.

“This is not such a simple thing as I thought,” she said with her usual directness.

“No, it is not.”

“I actually feel ashamed of myself for deceiving him. And amazed that the deception should come so easily. It was all so much simpler in the abstract.”

“How did your first morning go? You were not with him as long as I’d expected.”

“He has not dismissed me out of hand. I think it went rather well. We read poetry, and there were some moments when he forgot himself and was caught up in the poems. But he so easily slides back into lifelessness. It is as though he were one of those new gaslights, flickering up, and then out suddenly, as the gas is turned down.”

Francis nodded in agreement. “That is the way he has been since he returned to town.”

“Does he spend all day in the library? Does he never go out? How does he manage within the household?”

“He has gone out only once, when it was necessary to visit his lawyers. He is usually guided by one of the footmen, although he can make his way around the house pretty independently. But it seems to me that he does not want to be here. I think he removes himself so that the blindness will be less real.”

“I keep trying to imagine what it would be like,” said Judith. “Has he made no attempts at becoming more independent?”

Francis laughed. “You know that as a duke, so much is done for one, blind or not. Your valet dresses and shaves you. You are cooked for and waited upon. You have a groom and butler and secretary. As I told you, he has learned to move around the house. He comes downstairs with little difficulty.”

“I wonder what a blind person is capable of?” mused Judith. “I am sure some of Simon’s old life would be open to him.”

“Fencing? Hunting? Inspecting his estates? Assemblies?”

“His brain was not injured. I know he has always been politically active. Perhaps hunting is out, but surely he could ride with a companion? Dinners. I’ll wager anything that a blind man could even waltz.” Judith smiled at her own fancies. “It is easy, is it not, to determine someone’s life for him in his absence. Neither of us can know what it is like to be the duke. But he does have what many blind men do not: money, privilege, the ability to secure the assistance he needs to live an almost normal life. It is distressing to see how much he shuts himself off from.”

“Well, a little life is coming in the door with you, even if he refuses to go out the door and meet it.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bolton. I had best go. I should not be in here too long or the servants may begin to suspect something.”

Judith rose, and Francis followed her to the door.

As he opened it, she said, “Thank you for answering my questions about salary, Mr. Bolton. I hope that I will prove a satisfactory employee.”

“Until Tuesday, Miss Ware.”

While Judith was beginning her position, Barbara was filling her days with her usual activities: shopping, morning calls, various assemblies, and, as often as possible, riding with her brother. On one of their early-morning rides without Judith, after warming their horses up, the Stanleys let them go from a sedate canter to an all-out gallop, something they had not enjoyed for a few days, having been held to Judith’s less-experienced pace. When they pulled up, Barbara’s hat was sliding off and her hair was coming down, but her cheeks were red and her eyes alive and laughing.

“Oh, Robin,” she gasped, “I am quite out of practice. I have been behaving so well I’d quite forgotten what a real ride feels like.”

Her brother laughed. “We both needed to clear the cobwebs out.”

“What do you plan to do, now that peace seems to be won?” asked Barbara as they turned their blown horses back down the Row to cool them off. “Shall you return to Ashurst? Will you be able to settle down after soldiering for so long?”

“Lord, yes, my dear. I have had my fill of it. I intend to derive my pleasures from lesser adventures like challenging Father and experimenting with new farming methods.”

“And do you intend to remain a bachelor?” Barbara asked in what she hoped was a light tone.

“And who are you to ask, my marriage-shy little sister?” he teased.

“Seriously, Robin, has no woman captured more than a part of your heart?”

“Isn’t this a case of the pot ... ?”

“But it is different for you, Robin. As a man, you have more choice—and a duty, as father’s heir. I don’t have the weight of an earldom hanging over me.”

“What of your responsibility to yourself, Barbara? Have you never met anyone you care for?”

“I asked first.” Barbara laughed. “I will answer honestly if you will,” she said more quietly, suddenly occupied with untangling her reins.

“A challenge I can’t refuse! Well, then, the answer is yes, there was someone. But we quarreled—how commonplace, eh? —and that was that.”

“It could not have been as simple as that,” said his sister. “If there was strong feeling there, surely a ‘commonplace quarrel’ would not end it?”

“But it wasn’t a small misunderstanding. I wished for a formal announcement at the end of my last leave. She refused. Oh, not me. She agreed to wed me. But no public engagement until I returned home safely. I think she did not wish to risk being tied to a cripple. And also,” Robin continued bitterly, “she did not wish to curtail her many flirtations until I returned. Perhaps I was unfair in asking her to make that commitment then, but I wanted to know that I had her love supporting me and carrying me through. As it was, I made it through very well without it.”

“Tell me, Robin was this woman the Lady Diana Grahame?”

“Yes. Did I make such a cake of myself that it was public knowledge?”

“Oh, no. I think it was only that I noticed the extra waltzes and ‘accidental’ meetings in the park,” Barbara reassured him. “You were both certainly discreet about the degree of your involvement. I am sorry. I do not know her well, but I have always thought that, underneath her occasional wildness, she has a warm heart. Have you spoken to her since your return?”

“We have exchanged the necessary politenesses. I stood up with her once, but only because I could not have got out of it gracefully. The lady is most certainly not suffering from a broken heart. And neither am I. Who knows, I may fall suddenly in love with one of the Misses Stanhope!”

Barbara laughed with Robin, and some of the seriousness lifted from his face.

“And now you, miss. It is your turn.”

“There is someone, Robin, but I fear it is a clichéd case of one-sided love,” Barbara said lightly. “You would think I would have outgrown it by now. Perhaps I will retire to Ashurst with you, and we could challenge Father together,” she said mischievously.

“I might take you up on that offer. And is that all you will tell me about the state of your heart? I think I was expertly outmaneuvered. Now tell me, how did Judith’s first visit to Simon go?”

“It went well. He certainly did not seem to recognize her. They have agreed upon a few weeks’ trial period to see if she suits him.”

“How does Simon look?”

“Physically? Judith said thinner than she remembered him. But there is no disfigurement, as you know, aside from the scar on his temple. She said that when he looks at you it is hard to remember he cannot see. He is different, though. He has always been so open and natural, but now there is an ironic undercurrent to the simplest things he says. Francis told her that he has been this way since he returned.”

“Does she think that the reading will help?”

“Well, it does not seem to hurt.”

“And if our deception were discovered? What effect do you think that would have?”

“I think we are safe enough. The servants are ignorant of her connection with us, except for Cranston and Martin, and they are, like Francis, convinced that deception is necessary. If he does find out ... well, at least his anger would be a reaction.”

“Is he that subdued?”

“Judith says he is apparently convinced his sight will return. Underneath, she thinks he is beginning to realize it is hopeless, but he cannot yet face the truth. Yet, despite his blue devils, Judith seems to be enjoying herself. On her first day, she even discovered a poet she had never heard of, William Blake.”

“That’s famous. Thank God Simon was never one to be put off by a woman’s intelligence. Her enthusiasm may carry the day, after all.”

Had she known, as she walked up the duke’s steps, again trembling with fear and anticipation, that Simon had noticed, for the first time in weeks, how slowly the time passed—and that he found himself if not looking forward to something, at least expectant—Judith would have relaxed. As it was, when she was announced at the library door, Simon did no more than greet her as he had done on Tuesday. She did notice, however, that Simon held Mr. Blake’s unbound work in his lap, as though he had been feeling it, in hopes the intricate designs would spring to life under his fingertips.

“Good morning, your grace,” said Judith.

“Good morning, Miss Ware. As you can see, I wish you to continue with Mr. Blake’s poems.”

“Of course, your grace. Actually,” she said, her enthusiasm breaking through her shyness, “I have been looking forward to it all weekend. I am eager to find out how Blake treats experience.”

Simon held the folio out toward Judith, and she took it from him carefully. She began, and since Simon made no comments, she assumed she was reading clearly, and not too fast or slow. She forgot herself as “reader” as she was pulled into the world of the poems, a world of paradox and comment upon earlier songs. Had she been reading to herself, she would have read something like “The Tyger” over and over, in her delight at the language and the imagery.

When she got to the “Garden of Love” Simon shifted, turning in her direction and opening his eyes as though he wished to see her face and her reaction to this odd and, for a young woman, rather improper poem. After she had finished “London,” she looked up quickly and thought she saw a tear running down Simon’s cheek; she began the next poem as he surreptitiously wiped it away. Perhaps it was a reaction to his moment of vulnerability, but as she ended, he asked roughly, as though to see how shockable she was, “And what do you think of the poet now, Miss Ware? Are you shocked by his language? Did you blush at his mention of harlots?”

“Not shocked, your grace. I am, after all, old enough to know that harlots exist. But very moved and puzzled.”

“Puzzled?”

“Well, at times I think I know what he is saying. And then I lose the meaning. He writes such simple lines that carry greater meaning than I can comprehend in one reading. And, I suspect, one would have to be Mr. Blake himself to understand all. He is surely an original, your grace. How did you discover him?”

“In my youth, Miss Ware, when I was just down from university, I fancied myself rather a radical young nobleman—not, of course, recognizing the inherent contradiction and published some essays that gained me acceptance into radical circles. I frequented Joseph Johnson’s shop, and he introduced me to Mr. Blake’s writings, and eventually to Mr. Blake.”

“You have actually met him? What is he like?”