In the Eye of the Storm (Storm and Silence 2)

Interesting. I wonder how she was able to come to that conclusion while I was unconscious. From the nice way in which I breathed, or the sympathetic way my head lolled to the side?

‘And so handsome, too,’ sighed the mother.

Apprehension gripped me. I recognized that tone. It was the voice of a mother in matchmaking mode. Normally, this wouldn’t concern me. I wasn’t like the other rich bachelors of London society who were hounded by a pack of salivating mothers, their supposedly eligible daughters in tow. Normally, one cool glance from me was enough to send them scurrying away. And if it wasn’t, I’d make a gesture to Karim, who would promptly scowl threateningly and put his hand on his sabre. That impressed upon most mothers how very unsuitable I was as a potential son-in-law. But right now, neither of these defence strategies were open to me. My eyes remained stubbornly closed, and Karim was God—or Allah, in his case—only knew where!

‘So handsome…’ Another sigh from the mother. She put a hand on mine, and I tensed. What was she doing? Was she planning to slip an engagement ring on my finger while I was sleeping? I wouldn’t put it past her. If my experience in the colonies had taught me anything, it was that mothers were more ruthless than the most murderous cutthroats or savages.

‘Do you suppose he’s a gentleman?’ the daughter enquired. I could practically hear the hunger in her voice and tried to raise my hands in preparation to defend myself. But they wouldn’t move! ‘Someone with a fortune? A position?’

‘I don’t know…’ The mother sounded doubtful. ‘I mean, look at his clothes. They were damaged by the shipwreck, yes, but they were practically second-hand rags before that.’

What?

‘No gentleman would walk around in tatters like that, Violet.’

No gentlem… The impudence! I would make clear to this lady exactly what kind of ‘gentleman’ I was—the moment I got that infernal voice of mine back!

‘But don’t you remember this, Mother?’ There was a soft metallic scrape. ‘See? His watch has a coat of arms on the lid. Looks really fancy, too.’

‘Maybe he stole it.’

Of all the insolent…!

‘A man like that wouldn?

??t have to steal, Mother.’

Ah. For once, a true statement.

‘With a face like that, he could become an actor any time. People would pay gold to see him as Romeo.’

What?

This was becoming too much. I had to get out of here. Out of this madhouse, out of the clutches of these harpies!

With all my might, I tried to lift myself off the bed. I had managed about three inches, when female hands that were a lot stronger than they should be clamped down on my shoulders.

‘Now, there! Don’t move! Don’t hurt yourself. You should be resting.’

I opened my mouth, trying to fling something vile at my torturers. A soft but determined finger pressed down on my lips.

‘Psht! No need to thank us. Mother will get you another blanket, and I will make you a nice, warm bowl of broth. How does that sound?’

It was official. I was in hell.

*~*~**~*~*

Before I had decided that it was mostly waste of time, I had attended school like every other proper English gentleman’s son. From my Eton days, I vaguely remembered that whenever people described hell, be they Dante, Blake, or Milton, they generally emphasized things such as fire, devils tweaking unfortunate souls with glowing tongs, and people forced to roll rocks up mountains over and over again.

There was none of that for me. The only heat I felt was that from smouldering under a heap of too-soft blankets. There were tongs, but they were of the sugar variety, and only employed at teatime, when the creature called ‘Violet’ asked me in that sickly-sweet voice: ‘One lump or two, honey-bunny?’ And as for rocks… The only one I ever felt was the one in my stomach when I was forced to look at that female. What had God been thinking when he took that rib from Adam?

No matter the lack of fires and devils: I knew what the worst circle of hell was, and I was right inside it.

If only I had been able to flee! But first my legs refused to move, and then the doctor came, telling me that if I did not rest, I might have a relapse. The thought of breaking down again and having to stay here even longer than was absolutely necessary kept me abed, my limbs turned to stone. Days, seeming like months, passed in an agony of torture. It was one afternoon, after the mother monster had just forced me to gulp down an entire bowlful of foul-tasting broth, that the doorbell rang.

Faint hope stirred in my despairing mind. Could it be the doctor? He wasn’t scheduled to come, but maybe he had decided that I was well enough to leave, after all.

Footsteps approached down the corridor outside. Soft footsteps. Feminine. My hope evaporated. So, it wasn’t the doctor after all. It was one of my torturers.