Chapter 12 Savi
Savi
Savi didn’t think she’d ever get used to someone waiting on her at dinner. It was one thing at a restaurant, but quite another on an everyday basis, particularly for someone who had lived alone for years.
In the grand scheme of things, however, it mattered little—especially in comparison to those who had known true hardships.
Ben sat next to her, lifting a tiny, palm-sized quiche to his lips as they listened to Alex and Lily’s conversation—or, rather, Lily’s attempts at persuasion.
“It’ll only be for a week,” Lily pleaded, her dinner long forgotten. “And I’ve already told Molly I can go.”
Alex rubbed the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. “Lily, you’ve never even mentioned Molly before tonight. Who is she?”
“She’s the younger sister of the Earl of Bellamont.”
“And she lives, where, exactly?”
“Burraghmore Castle in County Clare,” Lily answered confidently, her shoulders set. “It has a portcullis and everything, so I shall be completely safe.”
“Is that Bellamont’s seat?” When Lily nodded, Alex continued, “Which means that the older brother will be there.”
“Well, yes. It is his home too.”
An unexpectedly deep voice pulled her away from hearing Alex’s response. “How are you settling in at Silverburn, Savi?”
Savi glanced across the table to where Alex sat, his forehead pinched as he listened to Lily’s explanation of why there was no reason to be concerned about staying with a woman they’d never heard of in a place they’d never been.
“Remarkably well, all of which is down to your brother being so very gentlemanly.”
The corner of Ben’s eyes crinkled in amusement, creasing the blotchy remnants of what once would have been excruciating chemical burns.
The scars were the only outward signs of what her brother-in-law had once lived through.
“Yes, he does have a habit of that. I’m sure he’ll start to relax around you eventually. ”
“Oh I’m sure he will,” she said politely, frantically strong-arming a crowd of scandalous thoughts behind her.
“Alex said you were Raj Dey’s daughter.”
Her smile dimmed. “I am. Have you met him?”
“Of course, he visited Craiglockhart many times,” Ben replied. “Your mother visited once or twice as well, early on in my recovery.”
Her chest clenched painfully, the air freezing in her lungs. “My mother?” Savi croaked.
“She was the first woman doctor I ever met.” There was a twitch at the corner of Ben’s lips. “I remember it was the first time I was able to discern who stood in front of me without my sight—because I could smell her perfume.”
Savi’s knuckles were white as she held onto the table. “I don’t suppose she told you the name of it?”
“No,” Ben replied gently. “I’m sorry, she didn’t.”
“It’s all right.” Savi waved away his apology—and her own disappointment. “I had to ask.”
“But I do remember how kind she was, especially when I was at my lowest. She treated me not as a patient, but a person, and I shall forever be grateful for that.”
Another pang of pain radiated out beneath her breasts.
Memories she hadn’t thought of in years floated to the surface.
There was a time in life when her father had been pressuring her to follow the same career path as him and Ma.
In the early months of the war, he’d even gone so far as having her shadow them on their respective rounds—although Savi much preferred shadowing Ma than Raj.
How could she have forgotten the fact that Ma’s patients always smiled when they saw her, or that she remembered each and every one of their names? Or just how proud she’d felt when she watched Ma work?
And it wasn’t as if Ma had even needed to work. After her father had invested in Raj’s company as a condition of their marriage, she could have let him do all the work, but she’d stayed, labouring day after day to build a business they could be proud of.
The shadowing stopped after Ma asked what career she saw herself pursuing, and Savi had admitted that she didn’t want to be a doctor, but it had been enough to give her a new appreciation for her mother.
Raj had pulled back after Savi said she wanted to be an artist, but Ma had supported her every step of the way.
“I’m sure she would have been honoured to be remembered,” Savi said, breathing out a steadying breath.
“I was very sorry to hear that she passed,” Ben murmured, those splotched scars creasing as he frowned. “It must have come as a great shock to you and your father.”
“Very much so.” The mention of her father had her heart hardening. She had to change the subject lest she curse Raj’s name. “How long have you lived in the Dower House?”
Ben’s hand slid over his plate, locating a vol-au-vent before taking a bite. He chewed, mulling it over before giving her an answer. “Perhaps a year after being discharged from Craiglockhart.”
“And you wanted to come and live here?”
“I did.” His head tilted to the side, his white forelock bouncing slightly.
He lowered his voice, somehow deepening it even further.
“As much as I love my family, I did feel everything was being done for me—and I was never one for being fussed over. Moving here gave me back my independence. It forced me to work out new ways of doing things, rather than relying on other people.”
“Like what?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Ben tapped his fingers over his plate of food before selecting a canape topped with thinly sliced salmon. “Like switching to foods that are easily eaten by hand rather than struggling to use a knife and fork.”
Oh. That was why they were eating a selection of hors d’oeuvres for dinner. “What an excellent idea. It hadn’t even occurred to me that using one’s hands instead of cutlery would be unusual.”
A line appeared between Ben’s brows. “It hadn’t?”
“No. Growing up, I usually ate Indian cuisine, so eating with my hands is normal. When eating breakfast, for example, we would use roti, a type of bread, to scoop up the curry or potatoes or whatever it was we were having. Cook’s been experimenting with a few Bengali recipes like lentil cakes and shingaras—none of which require the use of a knife and fork. ”
“Lily mentioned something like that the other day,” Ben replied, his unseeing eyes passing over her. “I’d love to try some.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Over the table, she caught Alex watching her, his soft gaze wrapping her in a tender sigh.
That deep baritone pulled her away. “Alex told me you were an artist.”
Savi blinked, remembering she was halfway through a dinner party with Alex’s family and not alone in bed with him. “Y-yes, or at least I try to be. Are you a lover of art?”
There was a brief moment of silence before Savi realised how inappropriate a question that was to ask a blind man.
“Sorry, forget I said anyt—”
“No,” Ben spoke over her. “Not at all. I was very much a lover of art. I still am, in fact, although the way in which I consume it has changed. Instead of looking at paintings, I’m limited to reading descriptions of artwork in Braille.”
The term was new to her. “What’s Braille?”
“Braille effectively converts words into a series of raised dots that a blind person can ‘read’ when passing their hands over it. Instead of reading books using English, I read them in Braille.”
“That’s fascinating,” Savi remarked, her food forgotten. “And you can read entire books simply using your hands?”
Ben nodded, wearing a half smile. “It’s not quite the same as art, but it’s better than nothing.”
Her chest tightened as sympathy rolled through her. Reading about artwork seemed like a cruel imitation of taking it in visually. “I suppose it is,” she agreed gently.
“Ben,” Alex interrupted from across the table, and Savi looked over to see Lily sitting next to him, wearing a heavy frown. “Please tell Lily you agree with me.”
“About?”
It was Lily who answered first. “Visiting Ireland. To see my friend.”
Ben let out a noise halfway between a grumble and a sigh. “You’re still on that subject, are you?”
As Lily did her best to persuade her brothers, Savi tuned out as the cogs in her mind began to turn. Reading about art just seemed so…cold, but surely she could do better? If Ben needed something tactile, then how difficult could it possibly be to add texture to a painting?
It wouldn’t be the same as viewing a masterpiece by someone like Edwin Landseer, of course. She lacked the talent for that, but she could use her skills to replicate paintings and add texture to them. Impasto paste, used by the likes of Van Gogh, would be perfect for that.
Would wood gesso panelling be better than canvas? The thought had only just passed through her mind when another followed it—what would be the best method of adding texture? Would a hog bristle brush be sufficient for heavy textures? And how would she smooth paint out when painting softer aspects?
Texture was a whole new element to deal with, throwing up dozens of questions—and dozens of problems—that she needed to solve.
The corner of her lip quirked in excitement. She couldn’t wait to get started.