“Desperately. But it occurs that it is likely the question you are asked most often. And I do not wish to be obvious.”
Keaton rubbed at the scars on his hands and the fresh, barely healed wound.
“Then there is the curiosity of your hands. They are rough and marked. The hands of a workman. Yet, you are a Duke. It is an incongruity.”
Keaton sat back, withdrawing his hands, which had seemingly told Georgia much about him.
“As a pastime, I work with different materials to... sculpt. Wood primarily. Clay, and infrequently stone. It is a difficult hobbyat times when one cannot see where the blade of a chisel is in relation to one's hands.”
“Hold on. The model of the highlands, that was yours?” Georgia inquired in awe.
Keaton nodded. “Made from my memory of the place and a great deal of poring over the new Ordnance Survey maps.”
“But you would need help for such a task, no?”
“My butler is a good fellow and in service to the Deveralls since before I was born. He has also seen service in His Majesty's Navy, so is familiar with maps. He helps me.”
“I love maps!” she enthused with a sudden and infectious clap.
He felt her lean closer, heard it in her voice, and felt her warm breath on his cheek. He could picture the sparkle of joy in her eyes, could hear it in her voice.
“Indeed?” he asked, trying to put distance between them once more.
“My brother was a traveler! An explorer, actually. He was a member of an explorer's club here in town. Plain's? No, that is not right—”
“Palin's,” Keaton corrected.
“Yes! Do you know it?”
“I am a member.”
“Pardon?! Do you think we could go there?” she asked, excitedly.
“No. I do not go to Palin's any longer. Have you drunk your tea yet?”
“Not yet. Neither have you. Why don't you go there?” Georgia insisted on the topic.
“What use does the world have for a blind explorer? Travel is undertaken by the sighted. The expression is to see the world, is it not? I cannot do that.”
“Do you not wish to converse with other men who have? To share stories and anecdotes. To see the world through their eyes at least—”
“Would you?” Keaton demanded, raising his voice. “To be reminded of all that you once had and have lost forever?”
There was a ripple of sound from all around him. He knew it well. The insidious wash of murmuring voices. People lowering their voices so as not to be overheard by the subject of their conversation. People gossiping. He clenched his fist on his trusty cane, feeling a rising anger and a sense that he was nothing more than an exhibit under glass in a museum.
“I also have lost something that was important to me,” Georgia murmured finally. “Something that can never be replaced. Being reminded of things that my brother loved is a reminder of him, and that is intensely painful. But I wish to remember him, and that means remembering his dreams and ambitions. Even achieving them.”
“Then go and do it!” he unloaded, “instead of dragging me to places like this!”
The murmurs were louder now. As their conversation became more public, so the public declined to maintain their own discretion. To his horror, Keaton heard his own name mentioned more than once.
This is a disaster! We have only succeeded in putting the Westvale name in the mouths of even more gossips than it was before!
He pushed his chair back, rising and tossing down his napkin.
“Service!” he barked.
“Yes, sir,” came a prompt response.
