Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,36
see again, she didn’t believe him. She would insist she saw some light or the shape of something.”
Nash could remember these same feelings when he had been in recovery in France. The doctor had told him he would not see, but he hadn’t wanted to believe. He thought if he just rested his eye longer or tried a salve or prayed hard enough, his sight would come back.
“When she realized her sight wasn’t coming back, she became angry. She would throw things and scream and...well, she generally made it hard for anyone to be around her.”
She didn’t go on, but Nash knew she was implying he was similar—difficult to be around. Nash remembered feeling the rage Miss Howard’s sister had exhibited as well. That was when his father had sent him to Wentmore. Nash had gone willingly because he’d been so angry that he wanted to be alone. He wanted to curse and scream and destroy. But he wasn’t about to discuss this with Miss Howard, though it interested him that her sister had a similar experience. He’d thought he was alone in how he’d felt.
“The library is this way,” he said, feeling his way again.
“I didn’t mean to suggest you could see the progress of the repairs,” Miss Howard said. Why the devil was she bringing it up again? “There are other ways to evaluate it.”
“Don’t you think it’s wise to change the topic?” he asked as he finally reached the door to the library. He opened it, and she walked past him to enter.
“Oh, no. If I show you any sense of fear or weakness, you will exploit it. I can’t back down.”
Nash stood quite still. She spoke as though she were in the boxing ring, facing off against Rowden. “You are a tutor, not my opponent.”
“I am probably a bit of both,” she said, sounding good-natured about it. “Do you mind if I put another piece of kindling on the fire?”
Nash realized Rowden or Mrs. Brown had probably banked the fire, and the room was growing cold. “I should do that,” he said.
“Oh, I am quite capable. Would you find a few sheets of parchment we might use? I want to teach you the first few letters and corresponding places on the chart.”
Nash made his way to the desk, managed not to hurt himself going around the sharp corners, and sat in the seat his father had sat in for so many years. He could remember sitting in this chair when he’d been so small his feet did not even touch the ground. He could remember swinging them and playing at being the earl, though even then he had known he would never inherit the title. His father had laughed and tousled his hair.
Nash pushed the memory away and opened the drawer, feeling for paper. He pulled out several sheets.
“Do you mind if I light the lamp?” Miss Howard asked.
“Go ahead.” He refrained from pointing out that it did not aid him one way or the other. She bustled around, seeming more comfortable in the library than he had ever been. Finally, she sat across from him and went to work writing something. At least that’s what he assumed from the sounds of pen nib tinkling as it met the edge of the ink well and then scratching on paper. Nash was content to sit quietly, listening to her write and the crackle of fire.
He had missed the company of others. Nash didn’t care to admit it even to himself, but he had been relieved when Rowden arrived. The silence and darkness had seemed to be closing in on him, and it was not difficult to imagine he was indeed going mad. But Rowden was a fighter. He lived to rankle and challenge and stir up discord. He clearly saw that as his task with Nash. And while Nash could admit he had needed a kick in the arse, he didn’t like it any more than the next man.
“Come sit beside me,” Miss Howard said.
“I thought we would sit across from each other,” Nash said. He didn’t know why he was arguing. He didn’t mind sitting beside her. In fact, he rather liked the idea. But arguing had become second nature, he supposed.
“No,” she said simply. Her voice was not stern or angry. It was just a statement of fact: No, they would not sit across from each other.
And Nash, even as he wanted to kick himself, felt compelled to argue. “I would prefer to sit here.”