Invisible Scars
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Bleak House
Copyright: BBC
Esther would not remember afterwards what Mr. Woodcourt had said to provoke the stranger. All she would remember was walking back to Mr. Jarndyce's London house on Mr. Woodcourt's arm after one of their visits to Caddy, smiling about nothing in partcular, and listening to the rich, lilting cadences of his voice. His Welsh accent was unusually strong that day; whether due to fatigue, relief over his patients' impending recovery, or something about Esther's own company, she was not certain. All she knew was that she was happy, and when a short, scruffy passerby in workman's clothes bumped aggressively into Mr. Woodcourt's shoulder, it shattered the moment as suddenly as the chime of midnight had interrupted Cinderella's dance.
"Get along wi' you, Taffy," snarled the stranger, landing a gob of spit on Mr. Woodcourt's coat. "Go shag a sheep!"
Mr. Woodcourt's grip on Esther's arm grew, for a moment, almost painfully tight; his step faltered; a deep flush rose from his neck to his hairline. But he did not answer, and the stranger swaggered past them unchallenged, disappearing into the crowd behind them. Not until he was out of sight did Mr. Woodcourt take a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipe the spit away, rubbing the same place over and over, long after the stain had disappeared.
"I hope you were not frightened, Miss Summerson," he finally said, in a voice as blandly, generically English as her own.
She was not afraid. She was angry, so angry she could feel every pox scar on her face turning a livid red beneath her veil. She never had been given to violent thoughts, but she came dangerously close to it in that moment.
"I, frightened?" she exclaimed, incredulous. "You are the one who has been insulted and – and spat on in the middle of the street! How - how dare he - "
Mr. Woodcourt's black eyes widened. Esther fell silent, shame now added to her anger. She had never raised her voice in front of him before; would he think she was rude or unwonamly?
"That is to say," she continued, more quietly, "I am sorry to see you in distress, Mr. Woodcourt."
"It's all right." To her astonishment, he smiled at her, though the smile did not reach his eyes. "No need to worry about me, Miss Summerson. I've been called worse."
"What did he call you?" she couldn't help but ask. "What does that mean?"
"What, 'Taffy'?" He replied, chivalrously ignoring the second insult. "Didn't you know? It's a corrupted form of Daffyd, patron saint of Wales. From a certain perspective, you might say I've just been given a compliment."
The sardonic twist at the corner of his mouth, however, suggested it was a compliment he could do well without.
"Does this happen often?" asked Esther, anything but reassured.
He shrugged. "Not very often, since I learned to speak properly and not give out my Christian name … but, yes, it does happen."
Speak properly. Something about that made her ache in a place she could not name. Mr. Woodcourt had always seemed so strong to her, so sure of his heritage, his profession, and his place in the world. It had never occurred to her that there was anything about himself he might want to hide.
She tugged on her veil with her free hand, holding it down against the breeze of a passing cab that threatened to lift it up.
"There is nothing improper about speaking with an accent," she heard herself saying, quietly fierce, some part of her astonished at her own nerve. "Why should you hide it?"
"An interesting remark, Miss Summerson, coming from you."
Mr. Woodcourt's black eyes swept pointedly along the folds of Esther's veil, which was fluttering in the breeze of a passing cab. She tugged it down with her free hand – only to have him let go of her arm, turn to face her, and reach for the thin white lace as if to draw it back.
She flinched away.
"If I should not hide my accent," he asked, "Why should you hide your face?"
She saw the same gentle challenge in his black eyes that she had observed the first time they met. She had referred to herself then as a person of no consequence. You'll have to allow me to disagree with you, he'd said, smiling, with such conviction that she almost believed him.
"You have seen my scars, Mr. Woodcourt," she replied bitterly, avoiding those eyes. "It's ... it's not the same."
The Welsh language was beautiful. She had heard his mother speak it sometimes, quoting poetry or ancient epics from their native land. It was a symbol of traditions passed down from generation to generation, as well as a sign of resistance against centuries of English rule. How could her ugly, common smallpox scars compare to that?
"You're right," he said. "They inspire pity, not hate."
"I have no wish to be pitied."
"And nobody would ever pity you who knows you," he retorted, his drawn-out vowels and exotic rhythm finally breaking through against all restraints. "Scars are a sign of strength, Miss Summerson. A healthy body's way of protecting the wound until it heals. In your case, they are also the marks of your compassion for a sick child. In my eyes, every scar of yours is a badge of honor. I'm a physician. I ought to know."
With one fluid movement, he swept the veil away from her face and draped it back across her bonnet. The wet spring air was cold against her burning cheeks.
"Then, as a physician," she whispered. "Why do you not take your own prescription?"
"I intend to."
He began to adjust the folds of her veil, standing close enough that she could feel his breath. His dark eyes flashed with quiet humor, and with something else she did not recognize.
"I propose a bargain, Miss Summerson," he murmured, rolling his R's like pearls on a necklace. "From now on, let neither of us be ashamed of who we are in each other's company. No veil, no false accent. Agreed?"
With one final – accidental? – brush of his hand along her cheek, he stepped away, then held out his hand in a brisk, businesslike manner, endearingly at odds with the rest of his behavior.
"Agreed," said Esther, shaking his hand.
Instead of letting go, he drew her arm securely through his, and they continued their walk to her lodgings in an awkward, but not unpleasant silence. She held her head high, barely noticing the little girl who stared at her, or the elderly lady who recoiled as if she were still contagious. On another day, they might have hurt her, but in this moment, on Mr. Woodcourt's arm, she might as well have been floating miles above them.
"Thank you," she told him, for much more than the escort, as they arrived on the front steps of Mr. Jarndyce's townhouse.
"Diolch yn fawr," he replied. "Thank you."