“I only just saw something this morning, sir, where a stray dog was nosing around the ruins. No one else has been informed, I don’t believe.”
I felt a heaviness in my chest. “A man?” I asked him.
“That was my impression, sir, from what I saw.”
Gerald. “Have you asked Grace?” I asked.
“Grace has disappeared,” he replied.
I was silent for a time, thinking of Grace, thinking of the years she had spent with Bertha. It is never enough. “Ames,” I said then, “this is a delicate matter, on which I will require your utmost discretion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please pay a visit to Everson and convey to him—and no one else—the news you have just given me. He will know what to do. Tell him to send news to America if he can locate the proper recipient. And tell him to withdraw funds from my account to arrange for a respectful, anonymous burial near Bertha’s grave.”
“Yes, sir,” Ames repeated.
When he had gone, I was left alone with my thoughts. Poor, mad Gerald. He must have succeeded, that night, in breaking into the house and sneaking to Bertha’s chamber, where…I did not dare think of what had happened then.
*
The time came when I was able to rise; although the bandages were still on my eyes, I learned to move about somewhat, always with a guide at hand, and Pilot padding softly near my feet. Because I was so little able to do anything, my thoughts often went to Jane. I missed her, and would never stop loving her, but I also understood that I would never have her. I had destroyed that chance.
Though I often lost hope, I desperately wanted to believe that she was not dead. She had little worldly experience, but she was strong of heart and mind, and I felt certain she would find her way to the kind of life she deserved. I placed all my hopes on that certainty, for Jane deserved happiness and contentment. I could not provide it for her, so I prayed to God that she would find it on her own.
Autumn fell into winter, and one day the bandages were removed from my eyes. I imagine that it could have happened sooner, but I think Carter was attempting to be kind, to delay the reality that my sight was gone for the rest of my life. I discovered that I could see faint light with my one good eye, and the occasional shape, but that was the extent of my vision. Carter had been wise, I suppose, for even though I should have been used to the idea, when the bandages came off I was so overwhelmed with misery that I begged Carter’s housekeeper, Priscilla, to hasten me back to my room and shut me in, alone.
Carter came in sometime later. “There is many a blind beggar who would give both his legs to be in your position,” he chided me.
I lashed out. “Would he give his hand as well?”
“You have money. You have a house at Ferndean, if you choose to live there until you find something more suitable. You have a friend in me. Everson, too, stands by you, as you know.”
“You will not allow me to wallow in self-pity? Even for a day?”
“Not even,” he said, almost laughing, and I heard the echo of Jane’s voice, for she would not have allowed it either. “You have much to be grateful for,” he added.
“And much to regret.”
Carter didn’t respond, and I lay there, knowing what he was doing, but refusing to be jarred from my self-pity. And then a thought of Jane came to me, and what she would say, and I sighed, and rose from the bed and sat on its edge, and he and I began to discuss what was in store for me. I asked him to send for Ames, and for Everson, and then I began, in earnest, to prepare for what was to be the rest of my life.
*
I moved to Ferndean Manor, hidden away in its wood of oak and pine. I imagined bluebells and wild garlic in abundance in the spring, though I had been there with Bertha and Molly and poor little Tiso in that long-off June, and I did not recall anything blooming. It was too shaded for sun to stream into the windows, except for winter, when the oaks were leafless. I would never see the sun anyway, but I would be able to feel it, once the trees had lost their leaves. Carter disapproved of the place, for he said it would be too damp and cold, even in the summer, but I rather liked it, for it gave me good reason to avoid company, and I felt it brought me closer to God.
Ames was able to find places for Sam and Leah and the scullery maid and the stableboys. John and Mary came with me, the only people I needed, for she cooked and cleaned house and John did the heavier chores. And, of course, Pilot stayed with me, that faithful friend.
I kept Mesrour, too, for a time. Though I could not ride, I loved to stroke his neck and feel the power and warmth of his presence. But he deserved a rider who let him race, and I was no longer that man. With a heavy heart, I sold him. I had the rest of my life to live with my regrets. Mesrour, and Jane, deserved better lives.
That winter I sat as close to the fire as my chair would allow, and I began to doze away my days. At night my thoughts ran wild, not unlike poor Bertha’s used to do. Often I wondered what, exactly, had been the agreement between my father and Jonas Mason. Given time to think, I imagine that Jonas may have noticed, even back when she was only twelve or fourteen, the early signs of Bertha’s illness. He would have wanted her kept safe, and that would take either a husband or money, and Richard Mason could not have been depended upon. A husband—a dependable husband—would have seemed a good solution, and perhaps that was what he had seen in Rowland. But Rowland, despite having brought Bertha into maternity, wanted nothing to do with her, or Jamaica, for that matter. And perhaps my father, recognizing an opportunity to bring a much larger plantation into the family, offered his younger son as a replacement. It was not the first time he had maneuvered to do such a thing. Of course, there was that long wait for me to come of age and to have an education, but my father would have considered the investment worthwhile, never guessing that he would die young and Rowland even younger. From time to time, I wondered what would have become of me if I had refused to go to Jamaica, but I shall never know that, and, as Carrot was fond of saying: You have to play the cards you were dealt.