I shook my head, refusing to believe her. “Nonsense. He despises me.”
She gave me a look of disbelief. “That is not true.”
“I have given him every reason to despise me, Clara. It makes sense. He is just a very kind man who cannot leave a damsel in distress.”
“And what of you? Do youdespisehim too?” Her smile told me she didn’t think so.
I sighed. “No. I don’t. And I don’t love him either, I assure you.”
“Why?”
I was surprised by her question. “He is—he isn’t titled. He isn’t wealthy, and Mama would never approve.”
“That did not answer my question.” She was studying my face, searching for clues. I felt raw and exposed by it.
“I do not love him because Icannot. That is why. You aren’t required to understand.”
She watched me for a short moment longer, then shrugged. “Very well. But if you wish for others to believe that you don’t care for him, then I suggest you keep the adoring gazes a bit more discreet.” I warned her with a look, but she ignored it, changing the subject. “Mr. Watkins will not be making his usual visit tonight, but tomorrow he will be coming by to remove the stitches.”
Drat.I had forgotten about that. I took a deep, steadying breath. All of my hiding places were being torn away, one at a time. Clara could already see past my lies, and soon enough, everyone else would see what was beneath my bandages.
Including myself.
Mr. Watkins’s spectacles were edged in frost when he walked inside our cottage. I poked at the fire, trying to coach the orange, flickering light to grow, to make the house warm and to ease my nerves. I brushed bits of ash from my skirts and moved to the sofa where the surgeon was organizing his supplies on the side table.
I swallowed my fear and let him unwrap the bandages. True to tradition, I fixed my eyes on the ceiling. The pain had beenminimal over the last week, and Mr. Watkins had assured me it was healing well. But I was still afraid to look.
“Sit back and relax, Miss Lyons. I will try to work quickly.” The surgeon lowered a tool to my hand, and I saw his arm tense out of the corner of my eye. I bit my lip to keep myself from making any noise as he removed the stitches, although the pain was intense.
And he was not quick.
After what felt like several minutes, he sat back, wiping his tools with a towel, then moved on to clean my hand. The water soothed my raw skin, and I released a shaky breath. My heart pounded in anticipation. I had to look at my hand. It had been healing for several weeks, so surely it couldn’t be so very bad. I slid my eyes slowly down my shoulder, across my elbow, over my wrist and…
A heavy stone of dread settled in my stomach. I squinted. A sudden lightness swam in my head.
There it was.
The skin on my hand was bunched and misshapen, hanging on by dark pink scars. Nothing but a small stub of my fifth finger remained, and the index was gone just below the fingernail. My middle finger was missing above the second knuckle. I swallowed, feeling suddenly ill.
It was even uglier than I had imagined.
Whatever hope I had held that James might have cared for me was quickly whisked away. He had seenthis.Perhaps that was why he had fled so many times from my presence. He could never love me. I told myself not to care, but something sank inside me all the same.
“I will keep it wrapped for another week or two, then you may begin to use it again,” Mr. Watkins interrupted my thoughts as he replaced the bandages. “The skin will be healed enoughat that point in time to bend the joints without tearing. The full recovery should come over the course of two months.”
I numbly offered my thanks and showed him to the door. Once he was gone, I bit back my tears and leaned against the doorframe, the disgrace and shame all catching up to me.
My hand was a true monstrosity. It was hideous. Why had I allowed myself to think of love for even one moment? As much as I hated to admit it, I had wondered what it would have been like if I could fall in love. If someone could love me.
But it was clear to me now that such a dream was impossible.
Thankfully, I didn’t see James for the rest of the week. I taught my mind to forget the little things I had come to enjoy about him. I even taught myself to only think of him twice a day rather than twice a minute. Instead of sitting around our little cottage, dreaming about all the things I could never have, I set to work cleaning, moving slowly and favoring my left hand. Now that Clara had grown accustomed to being Sophia’s governess, we had thought it best that I remain at home and she remain employed.
Besides, it allowed her far more time to spend with Lord Trowbridge.
When we had first moved here to Craster, Miss Bentford and Clara had spent a few hours making the cottage a little less dreadful. They had removed the most obvious cobwebs and dusted the tops of shelves and the corners of the rooms. But there was still much work to be done, and I found that if I was busy, I didn’t think so much about all the things that hurt. As I worked, I hummed the song Cook used to sing early in the mornings.
I felt guilty for how I had acted toward so many people. I had hurt so much. I had cared only for myself and my own happiness. So shrouded in all my pretty things—a grand house and admired family—I had failed to care about anything else. So flattered by Mama, I had not seen how low I truly was. I was vile, manipulating, and careless. I spit the words out as I tried to squeeze the water from a towel using one hand. Slapping it against the wall, I wiped away dirt.
