Chapter 10 #2
My eyelids were drooping; my head was filling with fluff once again.
No. Nothing was all right. Mr. Wortham was helping me.
He had rescued me. That was certainly not right.
I couldn’t make sense of anything. Consciousness was fleeting, and my last thought entered once, and was gone.
If I had been Mr. Wortham, I might have left me there on the docks after how I had treated him. So why didn’t he?
The second time I opened my eyes, I was alone.
I found the clock on the wall, and read three.
I tried to lift my head, but it protested with the full throb of a fresh headache.
Everything around me was dull, the colors, the sounds, even the pain was less acute.
I dared to lift my right arm, using my other hand for support.
I squinted, trying to cut through the blur of my vision.
My right hand was wrapped from halfway up my forearm to the tips of my fingers.
But the shape was wrong. My fingers were wrapped at different levels, some so low I wondered if they were even there at all.
I tried to move them, but it brought renewed pain to the area, and the bandages were too tight anyway.
“Charlotte’s awake!” I hadn’t even noticed the door open. Clara stood there, hand pressed against her chest. Tears fell from my eyes all over again. I had never cried at the sight of my sister before, but she comforted me somehow in that moment. The familiarity of her. The concern.
She walked over slowly and knelt on the ground beside where I lay on the sofa. The door widened and Mrs. Abbot entered along with Lucy, Rachel, an old, unfamiliar man, and finally Mr. Wortham. My gaze settled on him. His jaw was firm but his eyes were weary and troubled.
The old man—I guessed he was the surgeon—shooed Clara away from my side and knelt in her place. He peered at me from behind thick spectacles. “Mr. Watkins, at your service. You suffered quite the injury. How are you managing with the pain?”
I shook my head, the embarrassment and terror of the entire situation catching up to me. I knew he was going to tell me about my injuries, and I was afraid—very afraid of what he would say. “What happened?”
He stared at me a moment longer, his gaze so heavy with pity I felt close to suffocating in it.
“Unfortunately, a large portion of the skin of your hand was torn away, but I tried my very best to repair it. As for the fingers, the damages were most…severe.” He took a breath.
“I’m afraid the fifth finger was beyond repair, and also the upper half of the forefinger.
And most of the middle. I will be available to aid you through the recovery.
But I will not put it lightly—it will be long and intensive. ”
I stared at the bulk of cloth wrapped around my hand. It couldn’t be true. “May I see it?” I croaked.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We will change the bandages regularly, but I must advise you against looking until the stitches have been removed in a few weeks.”
It was likely sound advice, for I was squeamish when it came to blood. Tears continued to fall freely from my eyes, but I tried to slow my breath to keep from sobbing. I was embarrassed enough already.
“It would be best if you rested a bit longer, miss,” Mr. Watkins continued.
“The laudanum is still fading and you have lost a considerable amount of blood. We will change the bandages this evening when I return.” He turned to Mrs. Abbot.
“Please do not hesitate to call for me if there is any cause for concern.”
She nodded grimly. He doffed his hat before leaving the room.
I pressed my head into my pillow, hoping it would somehow drown out the sounds around me. I wanted to sleep again, to excuse this all for a dream, but the pain in my hand was a sharp reminder that I was not dreaming. I couldn’t speak. The threat of tears tightened my throat again.
“May I ask what compelled you to the docks so early in the morning?” Mrs. Abbot asked in a gentle voice.
Mr. Wortham released a slow sigh. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped forward. “It was me.” He turned his eyes to mine.
Mrs. Abbot frowned. “You were meeting him there alone? In the dark?” She scowled in confusion and disapproval. Awkwardness hung in the air.
“No,” Mr. Wortham spoke up, “I challenged her to it. I had no idea she would really try.” He shook his head and looked at the floor. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw.
How stupid he must have thought me to be.
And how right he was.
Despair clawed at my throat until I could hardly breathe.
Mrs. Abbot still looked confused, but didn’t press the subject further.
Instead, she wiped away a tear that had bled down my temple and into my hairline.
She placed her hand on my shoulder, so gently I hardly felt it.
“Try to rest, my dear. You have been through quite the ordeal.” I looked up at her eyes, full of sympathy and regret.
She wasn’t looking at me with disgust like I had expected.
But I was disfigured! I was ruined, buried even deeper in shame than I had been before.
I tried to imagine that Mrs. Abbot was Mama, looking down at me from above.
I focused, drawing every memory together, and realized that I had never seen that caring, sympathetic look in Mama’s eyes before.
She would never accept me this way. She would never love me.
Lord Trowbridge would never have me. I was completely and utterly ruined. Nothing could save me now.
No one would ever choose me now.
But had I ever been chosen before? Had I ever been loved?
My chest ached as tears continued their course down my cheeks, soaking into my hair and pillow. As I tried to fade back into sleep, I turned my head to the side, where I wouldn’t have to see all my spectators and their expressions. I couldn’t bear the disgrace.
My eyes drifted across the room to the old pianoforte. The chipped keys seemed to mock me, and a new onslaught of pain drove into my chest, a pain I had never felt so keenly in my life. I would never be able to play music again.
I had lost the pianoforte today too.
That same ache I had been feeling for weeks now blossomed inside of me, bruised, bleeding, and broken. Only now did I realize it was my heart.