Tavish blinked slowly and wondered if he was imagining things. Several times that day it had seemed that there was a perceptible difference in the dark haze that had swallowed his sight. Was it really lighter than it had been the day before, or was he just trying to convince himself of it?
A sudden surge of fear ran through him but Tavish couldn’t quite identify why he was afraid. It was a few moments before it hit him. The thing that he feared was hope. He thought back to the moment when he’d realized that his eyes were no longer working. It had felt as though he’d been struck by a blow.
Blind! The shock of it was a palpable jolt inside him and his heart had beat it out over and over, pumping the word through his body like some horrible refrain.
“Blind ... blind ... blind ... blind ... blind.”
He felt sure he couldn’t face the agony of those moments again, even though the initial distress had settled, after a bit, into a sickening, hollow feeling of self-pity. It had been several days before he’d managed to fight it — his battle brought on by shame as he heard the cries of those around him, many of whom had suffered far greater losses than that of sight.
His Uncle Collin, whom Tavish refused to leave even though he longed to seek news of his own family, was a strange support for the young man. Tavish couldn’t see his uncle, yet he felt the strength and courage in countless ways as Collin pushed forward in spite of the horrible loss he had suffered.
The first example had been the manner in which Collin had laid his family to rest. Tavish had been unable to help as the graves were dug in the corner of what had once been the field where Susan and the boys had gardened together. He sat nearby, his frustration growing with the sound of each strike of the shovel Uncle Collin had fashioned for this purpose.
It had been the relentless thrust of that shovel through the soot and into the earth that had begun to erase the self-pity building in Tavish. Every shovel-full of soil fell like a reprimand and before the day was out, Tavish’s own loss had begun to seem much less significant to him.
As much as was possible in the space of a few days, Tavish had resigned himself to his condition and had resolved to accept it like a man. Except, now it seemed as though there was some small improvement, and the thought that perhaps his sight would return caused hope to stir in his breast.
And it was this very hope that frightened him. He knew that if he dared to hope, he risked facing disappointment and might have to deal with his condition all over again.
But was that an outline of something? Were the shadows a lighter grey? Or was his mind playing tricks on him?
Tavish closed his eyes and blocked out the little light that had filtered through.
Across the river at that evening’s meal, Elizabet Susan Haverill was being much admired by all at the Chapman table. (The tiny cause of celebration was herself asleep and quite oblivious to her role in bringing pleasure to the group.)
It seemed that the infant’s crying had begun to disturb Mr. Dalton Cullwick, and in fact, had caused him such undue stress that he had determined to find more suitable lodgings.
“Mrs. Chapman, I do hope you will not take offence at what I am about to say,” he had announced earlier. “In spite of your commendable efforts, I fear I must take my leave of your home.”
Cullwick leaned forward and lowered his voice, though it still carried to where Hannah sat with her baby. “The sad truth is, that squalling infant prevents me from all enjoyment when I’m reading, and I am quite unable to achieve any focus in my daily time of contemplation.”
Mr. Cullwick’s “daily time of contemplation” was, in truth, nothing more than an afternoon nap, something he denied no matter how loudly he might have snored.
“I’m sorry that you feel you’ve been inconvenienced, Mr. Cullwick,” Mrs. Chapman said. “But it is only natural for little ones to fuss.”
Mr. Cullwick smiled benevolently. “The fault is not yours, madam, I assure you.” As he spoke, he darted an accusing look at Hannah, as though to suggest that she had wilfully borne the child for the sole purpose of disturbing him.
“Why, Mr. Cullwick, there is no one to fault over a crying infant.”
“Yes, well, in any case, let me assure you that your hospitality has been most satisfactory. Indeed, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve found the shortcomings in your home are hardly worth noting.”
And at that, he bowed to his freshly insulted hostess, said his goodbyes, and made off.
“A body almost feels guilty letting him go,” Mrs. Chapman said, though her tone was surprisingly cheerful for someone struggling with that emotion.
“How so?” Hannah asked, barely trusting herself to speak. Skye had watched her while Mr. Cullwick complained about the baby, and had marvelled at her stepmother’s self-control. Hannah’s face had remained impassive the whole time. In fact, the only visible sign of anger had been a heightening of the colour in her cheeks.
“Well,” Mrs. Chapman explained, “after all, it’s hardly fair to whoever gets him next. I feel as though I ought to warn them.”
“But you can’t,” Hannah said with a smile. “For one thing, you don’t know where he’s going. And for another, you can’t offer a warning without speaking ill of the man.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Mrs. Chapman said cheerfully. Then she crossed the room to where Elizabet Susan lay in her mother’s arms, leaned down, and kissed the child.
When the men came in to eat and learned of Mr. Cullwick’s departure, they too seemed to experience a surge of affection for the baby. Mr. Chapman commented that she was the loveliest baby he’d ever seen while Logan (who was still somewhat timid about holding his tiny new daughter) carried her about in his arms until she fell asleep.
Skye was certain that Mr. Cullwick could never even have dreamt that his departure from the Chapman home would bring about such a reaction. She decided that anyone who could insult others without even realizing it was also capable of deceiving himself on other matters. No doubt he imagined them sorry to see him go.