His vest was next, and he took a moment to ask her, “You are quite sure that you aren't dressing me in something horrendous, are you, Jane? I believe that there is at least one or two pair of eyes in this house that haven't been bewitched by yours. They would tell me truly if I came out looking a fool.”
“Your wardrobe is in perfect order,” she assured him. “I have no reason to jest with you so.”
“Ah, so I have good reason to keep from inspiring your ire to keep from further retaliation?”
“It is a fact that I would not contest,” she said teasingly. Her hands tugged gently from where she was tying his cravat. She had become an expert in manners of his wardrobe in the past few months. For which he was grateful for. For weeks he had had John retie his cravat for him after Jane departed, which he never precisely told his wife – even though he was certain she knew so anyway. She was remarkably astute, his Jane.
She helped him don his waistcoat next, and he let his eyes follow the sound of her as she fretted over him like a dragonfly over a stream. Some days, he liked to think that his vision was improving, however slightly. And that ideal of a dream was easy to visualize when she was with him as she was now . . . When he could open his eyes to image again, he wished for her to be the first thing he saw.
Today, he likes to think that his sight is better than days prior. He thinks that the dress she is wearing is blue, but does not ask for fear of being wrong. Was that white on her sleeves? Lining her neck. He rested a hand on the crook of her arm rather than help her fasten the buttons to his waistcoat, feeling lace line the sleeves, and trying to line the vision up in his mind. His efforts, however, yielded little. There were only shadows, passing and parting but still bemired in dark things . . .
“There,” came Jane's satisfied voice, oblivious to his train of thought. “You once again look like a presentable member of society.”
He knew that she was looking at him; holding his blind gaze as if he was with sight. He could feel his skin tingle with the knowledge in the way of things were merely known rather than seen.
“If it makes my visage more acceptable to my lady,” he said, his tone teasing as he gave a mocking bow. He looked to where her voice was, hoping that he was meeting her gaze.
“It does,” she said. Her voice held a mock haughtiness, light and pleasing to his ear. Somehow, it was completely becoming on her.
“Still completely hideous?” he asked her, as he did every morning.
“Unfortunately so,” she returned, as expected.
When he chuckled, the sound was low and rusty; but over time it was becoming less and less so.
Her hands were still clasped in his, ready to lead even as they offered support. The tightened, however slightly at the sight of his disposition. In his mind, he could imagine the contentment in her eyes . . . the memory of her glowing countenance is enough to supplant his lack of sight. The memory was so tangible, that for a moment he could believe that light shone where her eyes should have been to his gaze, parting the shadows, and making them as inconsequential as mist. It was that light amongst the dark of his vision that gave him hope.
His heart clenched at the form of sight, and while the knowledge of what recovery may have been impending curled his lips into a smile, he kept the knowledge from his wife for the moment in order to lean down and kiss her. She was smiling against his lips, and the hand that curved daintily against the back of his neck was a warm counterpoint to the gentle weight of her as she pressed herself into his arms. She was something ethereal to him at times, almost mythical as he held her; his sense of touch insisting that she was there and so even while he remained blind to it. He wondered if the marvel of holding her would ever wear off as the time passed by them.
He blinked as he pulled away from her. And before him, he liked to imagine, the light of his sight merged with the blue and the pale tones of hers, becoming something poignant . . . A shade akin to hope in his mind.
Re: you wished to see this stretch of blue ahead 2/2
“Your wardrobe is in perfect order,” she assured him. “I have no reason to jest with you so.”
“Ah, so I have good reason to keep from inspiring your ire to keep from further retaliation?”
“It is a fact that I would not contest,” she said teasingly. Her hands tugged gently from where she was tying his cravat. She had become an expert in manners of his wardrobe in the past few months. For which he was grateful for. For weeks he had had John retie his cravat for him after Jane departed, which he never precisely told his wife – even though he was certain she knew so anyway. She was remarkably astute, his Jane.
She helped him don his waistcoat next, and he let his eyes follow the sound of her as she fretted over him like a dragonfly over a stream. Some days, he liked to think that his vision was improving, however slightly. And that ideal of a dream was easy to visualize when she was with him as she was now . . . When he could open his eyes to image again, he wished for her to be the first thing he saw.
Today, he likes to think that his sight is better than days prior. He thinks that the dress she is wearing is blue, but does not ask for fear of being wrong. Was that white on her sleeves? Lining her neck. He rested a hand on the crook of her arm rather than help her fasten the buttons to his waistcoat, feeling lace line the sleeves, and trying to line the vision up in his mind. His efforts, however, yielded little. There were only shadows, passing and parting but still bemired in dark things . . .
“There,” came Jane's satisfied voice, oblivious to his train of thought. “You once again look like a presentable member of society.”
He knew that she was looking at him; holding his blind gaze as if he was with sight. He could feel his skin tingle with the knowledge in the way of things were merely known rather than seen.
“If it makes my visage more acceptable to my lady,” he said, his tone teasing as he gave a mocking bow. He looked to where her voice was, hoping that he was meeting her gaze.
“It does,” she said. Her voice held a mock haughtiness, light and pleasing to his ear. Somehow, it was completely becoming on her.
“Still completely hideous?” he asked her, as he did every morning.
“Unfortunately so,” she returned, as expected.
When he chuckled, the sound was low and rusty; but over time it was becoming less and less so.
Her hands were still clasped in his, ready to lead even as they offered support. The tightened, however slightly at the sight of his disposition. In his mind, he could imagine the contentment in her eyes . . . the memory of her glowing countenance is enough to supplant his lack of sight. The memory was so tangible, that for a moment he could believe that light shone where her eyes should have been to his gaze, parting the shadows, and making them as inconsequential as mist. It was that light amongst the dark of his vision that gave him hope.
His heart clenched at the form of sight, and while the knowledge of what recovery may have been impending curled his lips into a smile, he kept the knowledge from his wife for the moment in order to lean down and kiss her. She was smiling against his lips, and the hand that curved daintily against the back of his neck was a warm counterpoint to the gentle weight of her as she pressed herself into his arms. She was something ethereal to him at times, almost mythical as he held her; his sense of touch insisting that she was there and so even while he remained blind to it. He wondered if the marvel of holding her would ever wear off as the time passed by them.
He blinked as he pulled away from her. And before him, he liked to imagine, the light of his sight merged with the blue and the pale tones of hers, becoming something poignant . . . A shade akin to hope in his mind.