Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

“I’m not,” he said shortly. “Keep talking.”

The combination of Winterborne’s broken leg, the fever, and the enforced bed rest had made him surly and ill tempered. It seemed that whenever Helen wasn’t there to entertain him, he vented his frustration on everyone within reach, even snapping at the poor housemaid who came in the morning to clean and light the grate.

After having run through childhood anecdotes, detailed histories of the Ravenel family, and descriptions of all her tutors, favorite pets, and the most picturesque walks around Eversby, Helen had gone in search of reading material. Although she had attempted to interest Winterborne in a Dickens novel, he had rejected it categorically, having no interest in fiction or poetry. Next Helen had tried newspapers, which had been deemed acceptable. In fact, he wanted her to read every word, including the advertisements.

“I’m amazed that you’re willing to read to him at all,” Kathleen said when Helen told her about it later. “If it were me, I wouldn’t bother.”

Helen glanced at her with mild surprise. They were in the orchid house, where Kathleen was helping her with the painstaking task of hand pollinating vanilla blossoms. “You sound as if you don’t like Mr. Winterborne.”

“He’s terrified the housemaids, cursed Mrs. Church, insulted Sims, and was rather short-tempered with me,” Kathleen said. “I’m beginning to think the only member of the household he hasn’t offended is the pig, and that’s only because Hamlet hasn’t gone into his room yet.”

“He’s had a fever,” Helen protested.

“You must at least concede that he’s grumpy and demanding.”

Helen’s lips tightened against a smile as she admitted, “Perhaps a little demanding.”

Kathleen laughed. “I’ve never been more impressed with your ability to manage difficult people.”

Helen pried a pale yellow flower open to find the pollen-tipped rod within. “If living in a house of Ravenels hasn’t been adequate preparation, I can’t fathom what would be.” Using a toothpick, she collected grains of pollen and applied them to the nectar, which was hidden beneath a tiny flap in the stigma. Her hands were adept from years of practice.

After finishing a flower, Kathleen gave her sister-in-law a puzzled glance. “I’ve always wondered why you’re the only one who doesn’t have a temper. I’ve never seen you in a rage.”

“I’m quite capable of anger,” Helen assured her wryly.

“Anger, yes. But not the kind of fury in which you shout and throw things, and make nasty remarks you’ll later regret.”

Helen worked diligently on the vanilla vine as she replied. “Perhaps I’m a late bloomer. I could develop a temper later.”

“Heavens, I hope not. If you do, we’ll have no kind, calm person to soothe savage beasts such as Mr. Winterborne.”

Helen sent her a quick sidelong smile. “He’s not savage. He’s accustomed to being the center of much activity. It’s difficult for a man with a forceful nature to be idle and ill.”

“He is better today, however?”

“Decidedly. And the ophthalmologist arrives today to examine his vision.” Helen paused, opening another flower. “I expect that Mr. Winterborne’s disposition will improve a hundredfold when he’s able to see again.”

“What if he can’t?”

“I pray that he will.” Considering the question, Helen looked troubled. “I think… he wouldn’t be able to bear anything that he thought of as a weakness in himself.”

Kathleen regarded her with wry sadness. “There are times in life when all of us have to bear the unbearable.”

After the last of the vanilla blossoms had been pollinated, Helen and Kathleen returned to the house and discovered that the ophthalmologist, Dr. Janzer, had already arrived. He was in the process of examining Winterborne’s eyes, while Dr. Weeks and Devon stayed in the room with them. Despite a few shameless attempts at eavesdropping, no one had been able to hear anything through the closed door.

“The number of ocular specialists in England, at Janzer’s level of expertise,” West said as he and the rest of the family waited in the private upstairs parlor, “can be counted on the fingers of one hand. He’s been trained to use an ophthalmoscope, which is a device that reflects light to allow him to look directly into the living eye.”

“Into the pupil?” Cassandra asked, looking amazed. “What can be seen in there?”

“Nerves and blood vessels, I imagine.”

Pandora, who had left the parlor a few minutes earlier, rushed to the threshold and announced dramatically, “Mr. Winterborne can see!”

Helen drew in a quick breath, her heart clattering. “How do you know, dear?” she asked calmly.

“I overheard him reading letters from an eye chart.”

Kathleen gave Pandora a chiding glance. “I asked you not to listen at the door, Pandora.”

“I didn’t.” Pandora held up an empty glass. “I went into the adjoining room and put this against the wall. When you bring your ear close enough, you can make out what they’re saying.”

“I want to try!” Cassandra exclaimed.

“You will do no such thing,” Kathleen told her, motioning for Pandora to come into the parlor and sit. “Mr. Winterborne is entitled to his privacy. We’ll learn soon enough if his vision is intact.”

“It is,” Pandora said smugly.

“Are you certain?” Helen couldn’t restrain herself from asking.

Pandora gave her an emphatic nod.

Helen retained her ladylike posture, but inside she wilted with relief, and prayed silently in gratitude.

“Thank God,” she heard West, who was lounging beside her on the settee, say quietly.

While the others in the room continued their conversation, Helen asked West, “Were you not optimistic about Mr. Winterborne’s vision?”

“I expected it would turn out well enough, but there was still a chance that something might have gone wrong. I would hate for that to happen to Winterborne. He’s not one to suffer hard knocks with forbearance and grace.”

Helen gathered that not all of Winterborne’s impatience was a result of being confined to a sickroom. “I had imagined that a man who owned a department store would be very charming and put people at ease.”