pocket,
however, she changed her mind.
"Aaaack!" Unfortunately, the first word to fly out of her mouth was not
terribly coherent.
John looked startled. "Is something wrong?"
"What are you planning to do with that knife?"
He smiled patiently. "I was just going to make a small incision in your
blister so I can drain it. That will allow the dead skin
to dry out."
It sounded like he knew what he was doing, but Belle thought she ought
to ask a few questions anyway since she was,
after all, letting this relatively strange man take a knife to her
person. "Why do you want to dry it out?"
"It will heal better that way. The dead skin will fall off, and the skin
underneath will toughen up." He narrowed his eyes.
"You've never had a blister before, have you?"
"Not like this," Belle admitted. "I don't usually walk so much. I
usually ride."
"What about dancing?"
"What /about /dancing?" she countered.
"I'm sure you go to fancy balls and all that when you're in London. You
must be on your feet all night."
"I always wear comfortable shoes," she replied disdainfully.
John wasn't sure why, but her sensibility pleased him. "Well, don't
worry," he finally said. "I've treated many blisters, most
worse than this."
"In the war?" Belle asked, her voice cautious.
His eyes darkened. "Yes."
"I imagine you've treated far worse injuries than mere blisters," she
said softly.
"I imagine I have."
Belle knew that she should stop her questioning; the war was obviously a
painful topic for him, but curiosity overpowered discretion. "Weren't
there doctors and surgeons for that sort of thing?"
There was a noticeable silence, and Belle felt the pressure of his hands
on her foot as the knife punctured her blister before
he finally answered. "Sometimes there aren't doctors or surgeons
available. Sometimes you just have to do what you can,
what makes sense. And then you pray." His voice was flat. "Even if
you've stopped believing in God."
Belle swallowed uncomfortably. She thought about saying something
soothing such as, "I see," but the truth was, she
didn't see. She couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors of war, and
it seemed shallow to imply that she could.
John dabbed at the blister again with the damp handkerchief. "That ought
to do it." He stood up and held out his hand to her,
but she ignored it, rolling over so that she could sit on the grassy
knoll. He stood there awkwardly until she patted the spot on
the grass next to her. He hesitated, and Belle finally groaned and
slapped her hand down on the ground with considerable force.
"Oh, please*' she said in a semi-irritated voice. "I'm not going to bite."
John sat down.
"Should I put a bandage on this?" Belle asked, twisting around so that
she could examine his handiwork.
"Not unless you're planning to wear another pair of tight shoes. It will
heal faster if you leave it bare."
Belle continued to look at her heel, doing her best to preserve her
modesty while she did so. "I don't suppose too many people wander
through Westonbirt barefoot, but I think I have enough clout to carry it
off, don't you?" She looked up suddenly,
offering him a sunny grin.
John felt as if he'd been hit, the force of her smile was so strong. It
took him several seconds to tear his eyes off her mouth,
and when he did, he moved his gaze up to her eyes, which was a big
mistake, because they were as blue as the sky. Bluer,
in fact, and so obviously perceptive and intelligent. He felt her stare
almost physically, felt it sweeping across his body even
though she never took her eyes off his, not even for an instant. He
shivered.
Belle wet her lips in a nervous gesture. "Why are you looking at me like
that?"
"Like what?" he whispered, barely aware that he'd spoken.
"Like you're ... like you're ..." She stumbled over her words, not quite
certain /how /he was looking at her. Her eyes widened
in shock as it came to her. "Like you're /afraid /of
however, she changed her mind.
"Aaaack!" Unfortunately, the first word to fly out of her mouth was not
terribly coherent.
John looked startled. "Is something wrong?"
"What are you planning to do with that knife?"
He smiled patiently. "I was just going to make a small incision in your
blister so I can drain it. That will allow the dead skin
to dry out."
It sounded like he knew what he was doing, but Belle thought she ought
to ask a few questions anyway since she was,
after all, letting this relatively strange man take a knife to her
person. "Why do you want to dry it out?"
"It will heal better that way. The dead skin will fall off, and the skin
underneath will toughen up." He narrowed his eyes.
"You've never had a blister before, have you?"
"Not like this," Belle admitted. "I don't usually walk so much. I
usually ride."
"What about dancing?"
"What /about /dancing?" she countered.
"I'm sure you go to fancy balls and all that when you're in London. You
must be on your feet all night."
"I always wear comfortable shoes," she replied disdainfully.
John wasn't sure why, but her sensibility pleased him. "Well, don't
worry," he finally said. "I've treated many blisters, most
worse than this."
"In the war?" Belle asked, her voice cautious.
His eyes darkened. "Yes."
"I imagine you've treated far worse injuries than mere blisters," she
said softly.
"I imagine I have."
Belle knew that she should stop her questioning; the war was obviously a
painful topic for him, but curiosity overpowered discretion. "Weren't
there doctors and surgeons for that sort of thing?"
There was a noticeable silence, and Belle felt the pressure of his hands
on her foot as the knife punctured her blister before
he finally answered. "Sometimes there aren't doctors or surgeons
available. Sometimes you just have to do what you can,
what makes sense. And then you pray." His voice was flat. "Even if
you've stopped believing in God."
Belle swallowed uncomfortably. She thought about saying something
soothing such as, "I see," but the truth was, she
didn't see. She couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors of war, and
it seemed shallow to imply that she could.
John dabbed at the blister again with the damp handkerchief. "That ought
to do it." He stood up and held out his hand to her,
but she ignored it, rolling over so that she could sit on the grassy
knoll. He stood there awkwardly until she patted the spot on
the grass next to her. He hesitated, and Belle finally groaned and
slapped her hand down on the ground with considerable force.
"Oh, please*' she said in a semi-irritated voice. "I'm not going to bite."
John sat down.
"Should I put a bandage on this?" Belle asked, twisting around so that
she could examine his handiwork.
"Not unless you're planning to wear another pair of tight shoes. It will
heal faster if you leave it bare."
Belle continued to look at her heel, doing her best to preserve her
modesty while she did so. "I don't suppose too many people wander
through Westonbirt barefoot, but I think I have enough clout to carry it
off, don't you?" She looked up suddenly,
offering him a sunny grin.
John felt as if he'd been hit, the force of her smile was so strong. It
took him several seconds to tear his eyes off her mouth,
and when he did, he moved his gaze up to her eyes, which was a big
mistake, because they were as blue as the sky. Bluer,
in fact, and so obviously perceptive and intelligent. He felt her stare
almost physically, felt it sweeping across his body even
though she never took her eyes off his, not even for an instant. He
shivered.
Belle wet her lips in a nervous gesture. "Why are you looking at me like
that?"
"Like what?" he whispered, barely aware that he'd spoken.
"Like you're ... like you're ..." She stumbled over her words, not quite
certain /how /he was looking at her. Her eyes widened
in shock as it came to her. "Like you're /afraid /of
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