'As there'll be a good deal of travelling, darling, you won't be able to keep your job on at the library.'
Richard had spoken these words soon after he and Susanne became engaged, and willingly she had agreed. She would go with him to the ends of the world if need be.
'Wherever your camera takes you, dearest, I'll be there as well,' she had assured him. And now, just six days before the wedding, she was the centre of a little group congregated in the Chief Librarian's office, where her health and happiness were being drunk in champagne.
'Thank you all….' She was overcome, and tears were massed in a cloud behind the violet brightness of her eyes. 'Th-thank you.' She looked at the silver cruet and its exquisite matching tray. An antique which she and Richard would treasure forever, as they both loved all that was old and mellowed. This lovely gift had been handled by so many people, polished with care by generations of servants. Susanne thanked everyone again when it was time for the little informal party to break up.
'You've missed the half past six,' someone said to Susanne, and she looked at her watch.
'So I have-by about two minutes. No amount of rushing can get me to the station on time now. Never mind,' she added cheerfully. 'I'll be able to get another train in just over an hour.'
'You can't wait an hour,' decided James, one of the two male assistant librarians. 'I have my car and I'll take you home-'
'But it's out of your way,' broke in Susanne to protest. 'I can wait.'
'No such thing; it would spoil the party for you. It's not all that much out of my way-ten minutes at the most.' His voice slurred a little, she noticed with a small frown. Had he drunk too much champagne? Something made her say,
'It really is okay, James. Please let me get the train.'
'Nonsense,' from Darrell, the Chief Librarian. 'Let James see you home.'
She nodded her agreement with a sigh. Goodbyes were said all round, and then Susanne was in the car, clutching her cruet and also a small painting left for her by one of the readers with whom she had chatted on occasions, a very old lady, widowed, who read a book a day.
'The traffic's bad,' commented James as the car crawled behind a long line of others. 'And added to that there must be something wrong with the traffic lights.'
'It seems that only about four or five cars get through before they change again. Yes, I agree, there must be something wrong with them.'
When at last James got through he put his foot down hard as if he intended to make up the time he had lost.
'Once we get to the dual carriageway we can put on a real spurt-Ah, here we are-!'
Susanne saw the car speeding down the dual carriageway and expected James to stop before entering, but although he did brake and slow down he then seemed to think he could beat the other car and get onto the main road before it reached him.
Susanne never remembered the actual crash. The first she knew was regaining consciousness to the sense of terrible darkness, of hospital smells and lowered voices and the rustle of starched aprons above soft footfalls.
'She's coming round.'
'Where am I?' She scarcely recognised her own voice. 'It's so-so dark.' Automatically she lifted a hand, felt the dressings on her throat and face, and then the strangeness of something cool and faintly damp on her eyes.
A nurse came at once.
'You were in a car accident,' she said gently. 'You've been hurt.'
Memory flooded in like a deluge-her not wanting to go with James, the impatience he had shown over the slowness of the traffic lights, the intention of speeding once he reached the main road. He had put his foot on the brake, she recalled, then had taken it off, transferring it to the accelerator in the attempt to beat the speed of the other, larger car. That was all Susanne remembered.
'Am I seriously hurt?' she asked, dazedly wondering if Richard had been told of the accident. But how could they tell him when they didn't know of his existence? No one…. Suddenly Susanne felt utterly alone. Her parents had died after a landslide had buried their caravan when they were camping in Switzerland. That had been four years ago when Susanne was nineteen. She had sold up the home and after paying off the rest of the mortgage, there had been enough money to buy a small apartment with a small sum over for investment-an insurance against 'a rainy day.' The apartment was close to the library and to the several friends who had come flocking to give her sympathy and comfort. As she had no brothers or sisters she was alone in the world-or had been until Richard had wanted to marry her.
'Richard.' She spoke his name aloud, and the nurse bent to make sure she had the name right. 'He's my fiancé. We're getting married in six days.' The darkness was driving her crazy, and she lifted a hand again to remove whatever it was that was preventing her from opening her eyes.
'You've damaged your eyes.' The nurse's gentle hand stayed her fingers. 'It's believed you have glass in them.'
'Glass?' A shudder passed convulsively through her body. 'Glass is dangerous.'
'Of course, but it can be removed.' A male voice now, low but strong. 'How are you feeling?' He took her wrist; she felt his finger on her pulse. Susanne did not answer, and after a while the nurse was questioning her about the address which had been found in her handbag.
'The police could not get any answer-'
'I live alone,' she replied hastily, so she could get to the question which had suddenly loomed in her dazed mind. 'The man driving the car-James. Is he all right?'
'He's hurt but not badly. He'll be out of hospital in a day or so.'
'I'm glad! He lives with his widowed mother.'
The nurse was asking about her fiancé; Susanne gave her his address… or so she thought.
It was Nick who arrived at her bedside the following morning after having been at the hospital since just after midnight when the police had called at his home, knocking him up to inform him that his fiancée was in hospital, having been in a car accident. They wouldn't allow him into the small private ward where Susanne lay asleep under a sedative. But at half past nine the following morning she heard his voice and felt the warmth and strength of his hand enclosing hers.
'Susanne, how are you feeling?' There seemed to be a sort of throb in his voice, thought Susanne, but all she said was,
'Where is Richard? Why is it you who are here?'
A small and pregnant silence followed before he said,
'It was my address you gave them. Richard's been sent for. He was away in Paris as you know, covering the Pierre Ravelle Fashion Show.'
'Yes, of course.' She stopped and frowned. 'I gave them your address, you say?'
'You didn't know what you were saying. You haven't told me how you feel?'
'Not too good. Nick, how badly am I hurt?'
Another silence; she knew instinctively that he was looking at the nurse, appealing for her help.
'You will be in hospital for some time,' said the nurse.
'Some time. The wedding-' Her mouth trembled convulsively. 'It-it'll have to b-be postponed, won't it?' she asked pitifully.
'I'm afraid so,' very gently from Nick as his hand tightened its hold on hers.
'My face-shall I be disfigured?' It was her eyes she really wanted to talk about, but fear, a terrible, nerve-shattering fear, prevented her from mentioning them.
'Doctors can do wonderful things today.' Nick had been given a chair, and he sat down, his dark gaze broodingly settled on the bandages over her eyes. He too knew a terrible fear.
'You mean, I shall have to have plastic surgery?'
'Suppose we get you feeling better before we talk about such things?' said the nurse quietly. 'Doctor wants to see you, and we're soon to be giving you another X-ray. So, sir, I must ask you to leave.' He had been there barely ten minutes.
'Yes, of course-'
'I don't want you to go,' cried Susanne tearfully. 'Please, nurse, let him stay for a little while longer. He's my fiancé's brother so he's like a relation. Please let him stay with me!'
'He'll be back.' The voice of the nurse was a little brisk now. 'He can visit you again this evening.'
Susanne bit her lip to keep back the tears.
'Will Richard be back, do you think?'
'I'm sure he will.' There was a pause, and then Nick said after bending to kiss her uninjured cheek, 'Goodbye, Susanne. I'll be here this evening.'
But as only one visitor was allowed, it was Richard whose beloved voice she heard when, at half past six, he came to her bedside. That he was distraught was plain, and Susanne felt a surge of guilt and remorse at her weakness in being so easily persuaded to ride in a car driven by a man she knew was under the influence of drink. Looking at it in retrospect, it was scarcely believable that she had shown such lack of prudence and common sense. What a lot of trouble she had caused, not only to herself but to Richard, whom she should have thought of even if she had not thought of her own safety.
Regrets were so futile; one can never put back the clock.
Richard seemed almost to be crying, and she wondered why he was so distressed. Oh, she had expected him to be very upset, but somehow she sensed a terrible dejection about him and wished she could see his face, read his expression.
When it was time to go he kissed her, on the side of her face that had escaped injury. His lips stayed a long while, tender and mobile, as if they quivered with an emotion he could not hold in check.
The following morning there were more examinations and tests; Susanne sensed the gravity of the two doctors who were discussing her, supposedly out of earshot, but she could catch their murmurings-murmurings but no actual words.
When the nurse came Susanne sensed the same gravity… sensed. The word came to her mind at every turn. Was she learning to make use of some sixth sense that perhaps lies dormant in people until some necessity brings it to the fore?
With the idea came a return of her fear, and she knew a strong compulsion to ask Richard the moment he came to her at half past six the following day,
'My eyes, Richard-are they very seriously injured?'
'I-your eyes, darling-no-well-'
'Richard… am I blind?' How she managed to get the words out Susanne would never know. Because within her mind there seemed to be the conviction that once the query was voiced it would become an unalterable fact.
'No,' he said, and his voice sounded firm. 'Don't think such things, my darling, because they are not true.'
'But you have spoken to the doctors-or, rather, they have spoken to you?'
'Yes, and they're concerned but certainly they haven't said there is no hope.'
'I could be partially blind. Is that it?' She felt she must persist; she had to know.
'They haven't said that either.'
She was silent for a space and then she said,
'I'd like Nick to come.'
'Nick? But only one visitor is allowed while you are so ill.'
'I believe two can come, and use half the time each.'
It did not strike her at this time that it was strange she should want Nick when she could have Richard for the whole hour.
'If that is what you want, sweetheart.' He seemed taken aback by her request, and a little hurt as well. She sought for his hand, asked for the flowers he had brought and put them to her face.
'Roses and carnations,' she murmured. 'Thank you, dearest Richard.'
'Tomorrow, then, you want Nick to come in first?' he was saying when he'd been told it was time to leave.
'Yes, please. You don't mind, do you?'
'Of course not.' He bent and kissed her. 'You'll soon be better, love, and coming out of this place.'
'And we'll be married.' It wouldn't be quite the same, though, she thought. Somehow, she couldn't imagine herself wanting to be married in that dress at all now. She would ask Richard for a quiet wedding…. Her eyes. They were hurting, the left more than the right. Her eyes. If anything were seriously wrong, then there would be no wedding at all simply because a blind wife would be no good to a man with Richard's kind of work. She would only be a hindrance, a burden, a drawback to the continued success of his career.
'Yes, darling,' came Richard's answer at last. 'We'll be married just as soon as it's possible.' And after kissing her again he was shown out by the nurse.