Page 51 of The Scarred Duchess
"Jane, I love you, and wish to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter what obstacles lay ahead."
She could hear the pain in John’s voice, and wished desperately she were not the source of it. “I know that you love me, but I will not be a millstone about your neck holding you back from society’s acceptance."
“I carenothingof society's expectations. You know this of me! I care about you, and my love for you surpasses anysocietal ideals. Please, do not do this.” His voice cracked. “I cannot imagine my life without you,” he whispered.
Jane's resolve started to crumble at his words, but her guilt—her certainty—of his rejection by the neighbourhood, and society-at-large reinforced her decision.John cannot live the life he deserves with a wife disfigured and scorned. My reason has assured me; my heart dies a knowing death.
“Please, release me,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No. I will not release you.”
Jane could barely speak her next words. “I have asked my father to meet with Mr Philips.”
Jane waited. Minutes passed. Chair legs moved; the harsh scraping of wood on wood shook her from misery.
“I will release you.” The sound of his footsteps receded. “But I shall never give you up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
November 1807
Four months. Four long months since I covered my looking glass. Jane sat at her dressing table. She did not need to feed her self-loathing; others' reactions to her injuries—Sunday mornings at church services—were enough to shatter her peace.
She gazed at the wildflowers to her left, another gift from John.I have released you. Why do you persist? Have I not lost enough?She cast off her maudlin thoughts.
As she had every day for those months, she applied the soothing oils from the bottles on her table. Her mother and Mrs Hill were adamant the elements within the viscous fluids would hasten the healing process. Jane wanted to believe them and think that her trials had a purpose.
She carefully ran her oiled fingertip down her nose. The action allowed her to feel the crispness of the scar ridge and gauge its tenderness. She was sure it was her imagination, but as time passed, the sharpness of the pain had lessened.
She smoothed the thick liquid on the gouge across her chin with her other forefinger. It was much easier to do so; it had been over a month since that wound had last suppurated.
When she finished, she cleaned her hands and began her breathing exercises. She opened herself up to the day and felt relief. Another day would pass and soon be behind her.
“Jane.”
“Yes, Papa?”
Jane sat across from her father, the hearth clean and unused. Kindling was on the left; the right featured a neat stack of arm-sized logs.
“Jane, how are you spending your time these days?”
She looked down at her hands.
“As I thought,” he said. He handed her a journal. “You must have some occupation beyond mending my shirts and sewing blankets for the tenants. Do you understand?”
She turned the journal over in her hands, examining it. “What am I to do with this?”
He looked down his nose. “Whatever you deem appropriate.”
“And Jane?” He removed his spectacles. “You are much more than your injury. Do not allow it to dictate who you are.”
She sighed. “How can I when it is all that others can see?”
“You will need to change their view.”
Jane listened as Elizabeth pointed at several ribbon samples on Mrs Taylor’s display table. Lydia had given her specific colours to buy; she wanted to dress up Jane’s Easter bonnet, so the veil was not the immediate focus.Darling Lydia!
As they moved to the rear corner, the door’s bell tingled.
