Chapter Seven

A t the same time across town, at 87 Harley Street, Nick sat alone in his treatment room.

The surgery of the Earl of Langley's left eye had gone well. It was rather uneventful, and Nick would pay him a visit the next day to ensure his recovery was as smooth as the surgery. But none of that made Nick feel any better.

In the quiet of his office, Nick held the letter in his hands, the familiar script of the nurse a stark contrast to the handwriting he remembered from Lancefield Ellington, an old friend and former classmate from the University of Edinburgh. He had received many letters from Lance over the years, each a poignant reminder of their shared past. But this one was different. This was not just a letter; it was an impending presence, a specter from the past about to become a tangible reality. The words danced before his eyes, a waltz of ink and parchment that spoke of a visit. A wave of unease washed over Nick, chilling him despite the warmth of the crackling fireplace.

It's been such a long time since we were last together, old friend. Wendy, Alfie, Felix, and Andre will hopefully be there, too. I'm counting the days and will try to be there for your birthday.

Lance was coming to London.

The guilt that had been simmering in the pit of his stomach since Lance's departure from Edinburgh boiled over. He hadn't been able to restore his friend's vision. He hadn't even been able to try, but even if he had, Nick was certain it would have been beyond his skills.

It had been a bitter goodbye when Lance's noble parents sent a carriage to take him from university to stow him away in their country estate. Their blind fourth son, Lance, was cast aside, buried alive in the darkness of his lost vision. They'd hired a staff for him, a cook, housemaids, a butler, and a nurse. Nick had been told that the estate was sizable, and that Lance wouldn't lack for anything—except for the life he'd chosen. Lance couldn't complete his studies or do much for himself. Even the letters he sent to Nick were dictated and penned in a female hand, surely the nurse, for there was a flourish to her penmanship that reminded him of his sister's. With every letter, the pain flared up in Nick's conscience, a relentless gnawing reminding him of his failure.

Not just as a doctor, but also as a friend.

He'd told himself he'd make it over to Cornwall to visit Lance after the following holidays. After one more critical patient from the Ton. After one more financial milestone. Eventually, one more excuse after another had kept him from fulfilling this promise.

Years had passed, and now Lance was the courageous one announcing his visit.

Nick's eyes flickered away from the ominous letter, drawn to the soft rustling sound from the doorway. Wendy appeared in the frame, her arms laden with fluffy, freshly pressed towels.

"Hello!" Wendy smiled. His dear little sister always had a smile for him, and it tugged at his heart that she was growing up. He'd failed her, making her work so hard at the practice, yet she was amazing and never complained. Bandaging bloody wounds, washing the surgical instruments, holding the patients' hands—or even their heads to still them—was all part of her work, and she carried herself with unmatched dignity when she did it. And none of the doctors at 87 Harley Street could manage without her. She commanded the same respect among them as any of the doctors.

Her wheat-colored curls bobbed lightly as she moved, catching the yellow-orange glow of the fireplace. She had their mother's delicate features, her beauty unpretentious yet captivating. But her eyes held Nick's attention, the same vibrant blue as his own, twinkling with an intelligence and understanding that belied her years. "What happened?" she asked when she caught Nick's disgruntled mien. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that Wendy had a unique sense of reading people's emotions. It seemed to be one of her unique talents.

She set the towels neatly on the armchair as she leaned over Nick's shoulder to read the letter he still held in his hands.

"Oh, how lovely, Lance is coming to London!" She clapped both hands together. "I'll make up the patient room for his visit. Oh, there's still so much to prepare for your birthday!"

Her gaze met Nick's, and a knowing glint flashed across her eyes. That look always disarmed him, a silent proclamation that his thoughts and fears were not his alone to bear.

There was no doubt that Wendy had a knack for discerning his moods. He knew then that hiding his inner turmoil was futile. The fear probably etched on his face, the tension in his shoulders, the restlessness in his fingers as they traced the contours of the letter—he might as well have been an open book.

"Why are you not pleased?" she asked, her voice soft yet steady, cutting through the heavy missive in the letter he still held. In that moment, Nick found comfort in Wendy's knowing eyes, a testament to their bond. They were siblings, but above all, they were allies in an often-overwhelming world.

"I haven't seen him since… you know…" Nick was so ashamed of himself that he dared not look at Wendy. She'd been too young but probably remembered.

"For an eye surgeon, one might think you'd be more comfortable around a blind man."

"Not this one."

"Nick," Wendy took a deep breath. "You can't fix them all. How many soldiers have you operated on and helped? How many elderly people have you blessed with vision after they'd nearly lost it?"

"It's not the same, Wendy."

"That's right! It's different every time. And yet, you always help your patients."

"Lance is not my patient; he never was. He's my friend, and I failed him."

"Perhaps that's his problem, Nick. It's too personal for you."

"Wendy, he went blind so young; it's not a cataract. Older people get them. I can't do anything for him."

"Yes, I know. Like Baron Melbourne. He's what, sixty-eight?"

"Exactly."

"And the Dowager Countess Greenborough last week. She sent a message but in her hand." Wendy gave a gentle smile, and her eyes glistened. "She's seventy?"

"I know what you're doing, little sister. It's not working."

"That's what you said when the Marquess of Hastings came a few months ago. And he just wrote another treatise. His vision is better than ever; he said so himself! And he's forty-two."

" W-eee-nnnn-dyyyy …" He drew out her name in a long warning breath.

"Don't Wendy me, Nick! I can't even count how many people you've helped. This month alone, we had Lady Margaret, Viscountess Cunningham, Sir James Framingham, and Lord Yates."

Nick inhaled. It felt good to hear the names of this month's patients. Wendy had an impeccable memory, of course, and even listed the cataract surgeries that he'd performed.

"But you didn't even charge for the butcher's wife and her sister, Nick. I know you didn't. You help far more people—"

"You also well know that they can't afford me."

"And you told them they couldn't afford not to see their daughter's wedding. The butcher and his wife said she's pleased with her new husband, and they saw it happen because of you."

"Glad to hear—"

"Oh, Nick, please! You wanted the mother and aunt to see their little girl grown up at the altar as a bride."

"A mother needs to see that."

Wendy smiled like Socrates, who wanted the student to conclude that which she'd prepared long ago. "Did you consider that Lance might miss you? All of us?"

"No. Because even if he comes, he can't see us."

"When he comes," Wendy said, "he'll come to be with his friends. Whether he sees us or not, he still has our friendship. Doesn't he?"

"Of course, he does." Nick waved the hidden reproach off.

"Then it's time to let him know. Show him."

"Show him?" Nick balled a fist. "What can I show him if he can't see, hm? Take him around London and let him see the cherry blossoms? Take him to the British Museum to admire the art?"

"Oh, Nick." Wendy turned away, picked up the stack of fresh towels, and began to lay them neatly into the cupboard. As she worked, she huffed and puffed indignantly, obviously awaiting Nick's imminent apology. But he had nothing to apologize for, or could he be blamed for an act of omission? He'd stood by, watching his friend go blind. He hadn't done much after the chair of the Faculty of Medicine had examined Lance's eyes and then explained that he had to withdraw from his studies.

"I was there, Wendy. When Professor Martins told Lance that there was nothing he could do. Lance couldn't see, and if I had covered for him, I could have been dismissed as a cheat."

"So, you didn't." She shrugged, her back turned to him while she patted the towels straight into the cupboard. They were her little linen soldiers, obeying her every tug and tap, lying flat in the cabinet until she'd take them out and fold them in whatever way she'd need, as a bib for Felix's patients, a neck roll for Nick's patients, or a bandage for Andre's. Secretly, Wendy must have known that she was in charge of the practice. Nothing would work smoothly without her. Probably not even Nick's life.

"I'll let Lance know that we can buy tickets to the symphony. Maybe the opera… do you think Lady Langley would help me to get good seats?"

"Why not ask her if you can get tickets to the theatre, too?"

Wendy ignored the sarcasm in Nick's voice. "That's a marvelous idea!" Wendy turned to face him with a bright smile, but when their eyes met, her brightness melted away. "Oh, Nick, you weren't serious at all."

"Of course not, Wendy! He can't see where he's going, can he? He'd stumble down the stairs at the opera house and break his neck. Do you want each of us to have to lay a hand on our friend? I don't think Andre expects to reset Lance's bones when he comes here."

"I also don't expect to leave Lance wandering the opera house alone. But if you cannot see that he might enjoy hearing the music at the symphony or that he could sense the excitement and hear the arias at the opera, you're more blind than he is."

"Nonsense," Nick mumbled and pushed the letter aside. He'd think about Lance later; there were some angles to calculate and invoices to send. His sister, his confidante, was the lighthouse guiding him through the fog of guilt and fear—and he didn't want to go there. Wendy left, and Nick remained alone, the letter on the table before him.

His first big failure as an eye surgeon was not even taking a chance to operate on Lance. He hadn't been allowed to; it was too early in his studies then, and the matter had never come up again. As far as Nick was concerned, he had stood by while Lance went blind. It was sad for anyone, but for Nick, it was inexcusable. What sort of an oculist let his friend go blind? Now that Nick was a doctor of considerable repute, lauded for his skills and sought after by patrons far and wide, it hurt even more to think about the failure. The mission of helping Lance grew with the skill Nick hadn't been able to use to help his friend. Yet, he remembered the powerlessness to help Lance as he slipped deeper into darkness each day until the world of medicine they once shared was nothing more than a blurred memory for Lance.

Nick's gaze fell on the framed accolades adorning his study wall, their shiny frames mocking him. The irony wasn't lost on him. He, the celebrated eye surgeon, could restore sight to so many, yet his skill was useless to Lance. The sense of failure was stifling.

His last image of Lance was of a vibrant young man, full of life and promise. Now, Nick wasn't sure what to expect. Would he find the same Lance he knew, or a stranger, a shadow of his former self?

Nick felt deep sorrow for his friend. Worse, Lance had been pushed away by his own family, his disability an inconvenience in their aristocratic world. He was left with a nurse, his only lifeline to the outside world. Nick couldn't help but feel a sense of responsibility. He should have done more and should have tried harder. But the past was a locked door, and guilt was the key that opened it, allowing remorse to flow freely.

He wondered how he would face Lance and look into those sightless eyes and not be consumed by the failure that weighed heavily on him, a darkness more profound than the blindness that had claimed Lance.