His mother left his bedside and headed towards the door. ‘They are touring Europe for their honeymoon. They left shortly after the wedding breakfast.’
Dare he ask who? His throat was too full of his heart to ask the question.
‘Miss Evelyn married her cousin, Mawgan Pendragon yesterday,’ his mother answered his unasked question, oblivious to the pain she was causing. ‘The weather was sunny, although there was always the threat of dark clouds on the horizon. But it all passed very well, so I hear.’
Drake listened to his mother’s footsteps descend the stairs. Her parting news, no more than village gossip, had killed him inside. He pressed his head back into the pillow as he felt an overwhelming, heavy blanket of loss settle over him. Its weight was unbearable, its darkness was draining. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, bracing himself against its onslaught, but his defences were weak. A single tear escaped and trickled, unheeded, down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. Its brackish flavour seeped between his lips, as if to mock his pain.
* * *
Drake looked at the reflection staring back at him. True, the shape of his face was normal again and his teeth were intact, but the left side of his face had changed — irreversibly. A thick vertical scar divided his left eyebrow. It was as if he had been branded as a troublemaker. Who would employ his services now? he thought. It was not the only sign of his beating. He was blind in his left eye. He should have guessed on the first day he attempted to feed himself. It was not only his weakness that had made him spill the soup. He had misjudged the distance, something he would have to learn to overcome. He looked at his left eye. Its black centre, usually round, now had an odd, keyhole shape. It gave him the appearance of not being from this world. That was how he felt inside, a ghost of his former self.
‘I think your war wounds make you look rather dashing,’ said his mother from behind him. He had not been aware she was watching.
‘You see a dashing man. I see a man who has lost.’ He picked up his father’s walking stick and turned it carefully within his hand.
‘You do not think you were hit by a carriage, do you? Who would beat you so badly?’
Drake looked up at his mother’s reflection in the mirror. ‘I have asked myself the very same question.’ He turned away to avoid looking at her pained expression and limped to the door. His jaw tightened with each painful step.
‘Where are you going?’ asked his mother.
‘Out. To drink away the pain.’
* * *
Drake scraped his heel through the sawdust on the floor of the Rose and Crown to reveal the wooden floorboard beneath. He harrumphed at the colour then returned his attention backto his stout. He narrowed his eyes to study his glass. Just as he thought, they shared the same colour, both black as night.
Despite having the money and attire to be accepted into the saloon bar, he had chosen anonymity before comfort and had spent most of the day drinking in the taproom. The crowded patronage and poor light helped him to hide amongst the labourers and unfortunates who loved drink more than life, whilst the drink and hard wooden benches helped him to wallow in his misfortune.
He carefully reached for his glass, fearing he would misjudge the distance. This time he did not and congratulated himself inwardly when he grasped the glass. He had adapted to his blindness two hours before, it was the effects of alcohol that was his new battle now. He triumphantly lifted his glass, before draining it in one and shouting for another. Another stout followed and another. His thoughts turned into thick molasses whilst his head nodded and swayed as he looked about the crowded public house. A sea of faces and bodies surrounded him, their voices a constant tangle of words with the occasional burst of laughter.
One burst of laughter sounded louder than the rest and emanated from deep within the throng of people crowding the bar. The laughter sounded familiar, causing Drake to frown as he searched the depths of his memory. The taste of blood came to mind and the sharp, painful jabs from a boot covered in mud. He heard the laughter again and was reminded of the feel of grit rasping at his cheek and pain throbbing in his head. He recalled the blackness and tumbling, faster and faster, as the sound of laughter grew fainter in the distance. It must be his attacker and he was somewhere in the inn. Drake reached for his stick and struggled to his feet, before lurching forward into the crowd. He attempted to push his way past the wall of bodies. Drinks were spilt and tempers quickly flared, but no one moved aside.
Drake’s frustration grew as he realised no one seemed to understand how important it was for him to get through. He forgot the injury to his leg and lifted his stick to beat them back. His leg gave way at the extra strain and he stumbled, falling heavily against a table and knocking over carefully nursed beers. He lay amongst the spillage and broken glasses. Angry faces looked down on him and accused him of being trouble. The victim seeking justice had become the villain.Drake began to laugh at the irony of it all, flaring tempers even more. Rough hands grabbed him and before he knew what was happening, he was tumbling from the public house door and into the road outside.
* * *
Drake opened his eyes and saw the hem of a serviceable dress in front of him. He lifted his gaze to see Tilly looking down at him.
‘How long have you been sitting here?’ she asked.
Drake bowed his head and stared at the grass at his feet. The bright sky and dull ache that filled his head made it hard to look up at her. Moving his head also made him feel sick.
‘An hour, maybe more. Since being thrown out of the Crown and Rose.’
‘Rose and Crown.’
Drake nodded carefully. ‘That’s the one.’ He wanted to be left alone, but Tilly had other ideas.
‘You shouldn’t be sitting on a grave. It’s disrespectful.’
Drake smiled to himself. ‘It is my father’s. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’
Tilly read the gravestone. ‘Richard Vennor. Born 1837. Lay preacher of this parish.’ She looked at Drake. ‘Would he mind if I sat down too?’ Drake shrugged and soon Tilly was sitting besidehim. He waited for her to scold him on his appearance, but when nothing came he risked looking up at her. She looked worried.
‘I must look a mess,’ said Drake.
Tilly nodded. ‘You look terrible.’
