Heart's Ransom
Page 22
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“Were you born blind?”
Kitty had been so relaxed and comfortable in the tub, she had nearly dozed off, her head resting against the curved metal rim, her long legs dangling past the knees out from the other side. Her right arm had gone relatively numb, extended outward and in midair as it was, and as she opened her eyes, blinking sleepily at the sound of Rafe’s voice, she wondered how long she had been reclining there. Judging by the coolness of the water, it had been quite awhile, and she sat up, shivering.
Rafe remained in the corridor with the door closed against his arm, and Kitty winced. If her own arm was nearly leaden by now, she could not imagine the discomfort to him.
“Kitty?” Rafe called.
“I…I am here,” she said, leaning over the edge of the tub and reaching with her unbound hand for a linen to dry herself. “Forgive me, Rafe. I did not mean to take so long. I must have drifted off.”
“It is alright,” he replied, the tone of his voice lending itself to a smile.
“What did you ask me?” Kitty asked. She remained in the tub, toweling her long, tangled ringlets dry first. It was an awkward task with just one hand, and she rose onto her knees, leaning further over the edge that she might make at least a modicum of use out of her cuffed hand.
“Were you born blind?” Rafe repeated. “You seem to do very well for yourself, in spite of it. I assume you have been this way awhile…?”
Kitty laughed. “I am blind, not incapable, Rafe,” she said, although she was more than well-accustomed to being mistaken for both, and not simply the former. “But no, I was not born this way. I had a terrible fever when I was very small, four years old or so. When it broke, it left me like this. Sometimes I dream I can still see. I remember little things…like the wardrobe in my father’s room, this large window in his study with heavy velvet drapes. I remember a rug that he told me he had brought back from the Indies, this wildly wrought tapestry we keep in the middle of the foyer.”
She smiled, pausing in her efforts, letting her hair droop against her shoulders in cold, damp tendrils. “I remember my father’s face. At least, I think I do. He has a very large nose―that struck me for some reason as a child. I used to fancy that was why people called him ‘the Hawk of the High Seas.’” She shook her head, laughing. “I hope I do not share his nose. Sometimes I will spend a good moment or two pinching it mightily, just to be certain.”
She thought discussing her father might upset Rafe, but the chain between them rattled as he chuckled. “No, you have a fine nose,” he said. “Rather petite and well-formed.”
Kitty smiled, blushing slightly, pleased by the idea that he would have noticed. “Thank you, Rafe,” she said. She rose to her feet, stepping carefully out of the tub, and began to rub the linen against the front of her torso, massaging water from her belly and breasts. “Sometimes, I think I can yet see things,” she said. “Flashes of light, little patches of glow here and there. My doctors in London say it is rubbish, though. They say it is a trick my mind plays on me, like it has forgotten I am blind.”
“It is not a trick,” Rafe said. “They are called vestigial images. They are likely caused by random activity in portions of your eyes that are still remotely light-aware.”
He continued on, something about how it could be akin to a person with their leg amputated still feeling phantom sensations, like pain or tickling, in the absent limb, but Kitty was too excited all at once to pay attention. She had nearly forgotten that Rafe was a physician, that such things as her diagnosis would be quite familiar to him. “So my eyes still work?” she asked, interrupting him in midsentence. “My sight, it might return to me?”
“I do not know,” Rafe said. “I have not examined your eyes.”
The pretentious surgeons in London had scoffed at her propositions to this effect often enough for her father to cease in humoring her, and bringing her to them for explanations whenever she would experience such unusual phenomenon.
It is nothing but your fancying, kitten, John would tell her in his best efforts to be gentle. Doctors Huddlestone and Rumboll both agree―these visions are nothing but products of an overwrought imagination.
Kitty held the linen against her with her bound hand, and opened the door with the other. “Examine them,” she said, standing on the threshold, still dripping.
“Kitty, madre de Dios…!” Rafe exclaimed, sucking in a hissing breath between his teeth. She heard the clap of his hand over his eyes. “Are you mad? Put your clothes on!”
“Rafe, please,” she said, tugging against the chain. She did not want to hope, did not dare to hope, and yet she suddenly felt tremulous within, her heart racing at the mere prospect of being able to see once more. For all of her accomplishments, all of the independence that had come so hard-fought to her, she still longed to have her sight restored. The slivers of images, fading memories lingering yet within her mind, haunted her, taunted her.
“Would you examine my eyes?” she asked, her voice tremulous, strained with sudden tears. She blinked, feeling them sting her eyes, and struggled to compose herself. “Please, Rafe. I…my father has exhausted all of his resources in London. I would very much like to hear what you think of my condition.”
She felt the chain tug as he rose to his feet. He stepped against her, drawing the linen towel securely about her, and for the first time, she remembered that he had stationed crewmen in the companionway to guard entrance to the chamber―sentries who had in all likelihood, just enjoyed a lengthy view of her scarcely clad. “Put your clothes on first,” Rafe said, spinning her about and pushing her unceremoniously across the threshold and back into the room. He immediately closed the door between them, stopped only by the chain. “And then, yes, I will examine your eyes.”