A Lady of Notoriety
A Lady of Notoriety
Diane Gaston
DESIRED FOR HERSELF ALONE…When fallen beauty Daphne, Lady Faville, is carried to safety from a rampaging fire, she’s horrified to recognise her rescuer as Hugh Westleigh – a man with every reason to despise her!But Hugh has been blinded and Daphne must nurse him back to health. Unable to see, he is driven to distraction by her tantalising scent and gentle touch. For the first time Daphne feels truly desired for herself alone. But when Hugh finally regains his sight will she find forgiveness in his arms?The Masquerade ClubIdentities concealed, desires revealed…
DESIRED FOR HERSELF ALONE…
When fallen beauty Daphne, Lady Faville, is carried to safety from a rampaging fire, she’s horrified to recognize her rescuer as Hugh Westleigh—a man with every reason to despise her!
But Hugh has been blinded and Daphne must nurse him back to health. Unable to see, he is driven to distraction by her tantalizing scent and gentle touch.
For the first time, Daphne feels truly desired for herself alone. But when Hugh finally regains his sight, will she find forgiveness in his arms?
If Hugh wished to be completely honest with himself he’d admit what was really keeping him awake.
Daphne.
His thoughts were consumed by her. A second kiss with a promise of passion equal to the first had done it. He’d counted how many times she’d poured herself brandy. Only three times, and all had been short pourings, not enough to explain her response to him. No, she’d chosen this kiss with a clear mind.
Had he gone too far? He’d meant only to touch her.
Hadn’t he?
His masculine urges were surging, unleashed by that kiss. She was not far—a few steps. He could find his way. By God, she drew him so strongly he believed he could find his way even without his cane.
Welcome to Diane Gaston’s
THE MASQUERADE CLUB
Identities concealed, desires revealed…
This is your invitation to Regency society’s most exclusive gaming establishment.
Leave your inhibitions at the door, don your disguise and indulge your desires!
A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY
Already available
A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY
Already available
A LADY OF NOTORIETY
July 2014
A Lady of Notoriety
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com (http://dianegaston.com)
Previous novels by the same author:
THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M
THE WAGERING WIDOW
A REPUTABLE RAKE
INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY
A TWELFTH NIGHT TALE
(in A Regency Christmas anthology) THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS SCANDALISING THE TON JUSTINE AND THE NOBLE VISCOUNT† (in Regency Summer Scandals) GALLANT OFFICER, FORBIDDEN LADY* CHIVALROUS CAPTAIN, REBEL MISTRESS* VALIANT SOLDIER, BEAUTIFUL ENEMY* A NOT SO RESPECTABLE GENTLEMAN?† BORN TO SCANDAL A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY** A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY**
†linked by character
*Three Soldiers mini-series **The Masquerade Club
and in Mills & Boon
HistoricalUndone!eBooks:
THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH
THE LIBERATION OF MISS FINCH
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Catherine, a beautiful friend in all ways.
AUTHOR NOTE
Beauty and redemption. Two subjects that continue to fascinate me.
Can people truly change or are their characters fixed for life?
I believe in change. I believe any of us can overcome past mistakes, past weaknesses, past faults, and strive to become better people.
Beautiful people, though, may have a more difficult path than the more ordinary of us. Prized, cosseted, celebrated for their appearance alone… I believe beautiful people have fewer opportunities to face their imperfections. I suspect it is more difficult for them to learn and grow into better people.
In my previous The Masquerade Club book, A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY, a beautiful lady tries to wreck the marriage of a man she’s long desired. As a result she creates a destruction that might be devastating. Can such a woman learn from that experience? Can she redeem herself? And can any man truly believe in her redemption and love the woman she strives to be inside?
Read on and see.
Contents
Chapter One (#u9f72ff67-5879-52ee-941c-b953360a2aad)
Chapter Two (#uc9e97dae-38c0-5764-bcf0-a09e9e085253)
Chapter Three (#ua71f5a4d-5e61-5222-8c43-aa774aab8d28)
Chapter Four (#ue987b162-4a50-5019-b34c-36fc9e210cf3)
Chapter Five (#u91508b1d-31c0-5d36-9035-766e2d6cdddc)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Ramsgate, Kent—April 1821
‘My lady! My lady! Wake up! Fire!’
Daphne, Lady Faville, jolted awake at her maid’s cries. Smoke filled her nostrils and stung her eyes. Shouts and pounding on doors sounded in the hallway of the Ramsgate inn.
‘Fire! Get out,’ a man’s voice boomed.
Fire. Her biggest fear.
Daphne leaped out of bed and shoved her feet into slippers. Her maid began gathering their belongings, stuffing them into a portmanteau.
‘Leave them, Monette.’ Daphne seized her coin purse and threw her cloak around her shoulders. Her heart raced. ‘We must go now!’
She reached for the door latch, but her maid pulled her arm away.
‘Wait! The hall may be on fire.’ The maid pressed her hand against the door. ‘It is not hot. It is safe.’ She opened the door.
It was not safe.
The hallway was filled with smoke, and tongues of flame licked the walls here and there, as if sneaking up from below. In a moment the wallpaper would curl and burn. The fire would grow. It could engulf them.
Daphne saw a vision of another time, another fire. Her heart pounded. Was she to die in flames after all?
‘Keep your skirts away from the fire,’ she cried to Monette.
They moved blindly ahead, down the long hallway, through its fiery gauntlet.
‘Hurry, Monette.’ She took the maid’s hand and lamented asking the innkeeper for rooms that were as private as possible.
Their rooms were far from the stairway.
‘Someone is in the hallway. At the end,’ a man’s voice cried.
Through the grey smoke he emerged, an apparition rushing towards them. He grabbed them both and half-carried them through the hallway past other men who were knocking on doors, and other residents emerging in nightclothes.
They reached the stairway and he pushed Monette forwards. The girl ran down the stairs. Daphne shrank back. The flames below were larger, more dangerous.
‘I’ll get you through.’ The man gathered her up in his arms and carried her down the three flights of stairs. She buried her face in his chest, too afraid to see the fire so close.
Suddenly the air cooled and she could breathe again. They were outside. He set her down and her maid ran to her, hugging her in relief. They were alive! Daphne swung back to thank the man who rescued them.
He was already running back into the fire.
Her footman appeared. ‘You are safe, m’lady. Come away from the building.’
He brought them to where a group of people in various stages of undress huddled together.
‘I must go back to the buckets.’ He looked apologetic.
‘Yes, Carter. Yes,’ Daphne agreed. ‘Help all you can.’
He ran to the brigade passing buckets of water to the fire. Other men led horses out of the stables and rolled coaches away from the burning building.
Daphne’s eyes riveted on the doorway, willing their rescuer to reappear. Other men carried people out, but she did not see him. She’d not seen his face, but she knew she would recognise him. Tall, dark haired and strong. He wore the dark coat and fawn pantaloons of a gentleman.
Finally he appeared, two children tucked under his arms and a frantic mother following behind.
Daphne took a step forwards, eager to speak to him, to thank him. To her shock, he ran towards the door again. One of the other men seized his arm, apparently trying to stop him, but the man shrugged him off and rushed back inside.
Daphne’s hand flew over her mouth. Please, God, let him come out again.
An older gentleman approached her. ‘Lady Faville?’
She wanted to watch for her rescuer, not engage in conversation.
‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.
She presumed he was someone she’d met in London. ‘I am sorry. I do not—’
He looked disappointed. ‘I am Lord Sanvers. We met several times at the Masquerade Club.’
The Masquerade Club?
It was a place she wanted to forget, the London gambling house where players could gamble in masks to protect their identity. It was also the place she almost destroyed.
By fire.
‘It is two years since I attended there,’ she answered him. ‘There were so many gentlemen I met.’
It was inadequate as an apology. Surely he—and everyone—knew that she’d been obsessed by only one man, a man who would never love her. She’d fled to the Continent and eventually to Switzerland and Fahr Abbey. The abbey had become her retreat and her salvation, chosen by whim because its name was similar to her husband’s title name and the name of the village where she’d once felt secure. At Fahr Abbey, though, she’d come face-to-face with her failings.
But could she change?
Could she be as selfless as her brave rescuer?
Minutes seemed like hours, but he finally emerged again, leading two more people to safety. The fire intensified, roaring now like a wild beast. Were there more people inside? Would he risk his life again?
He ran back to the fire and was silhouetted inside the doorway when a huge rush of glowing embers fell from the ceiling. The building groaned, as if in the throes of death. Timbers fell from the roof and the man’s arms rose in front of his face. Daphne watched in horror as one large flaming timber knocked him to the floor.
‘No!’ Without thinking, she ran towards him.
Other men reached him first, pulling him by his clothing until he was in the yard. The building collapsed entirely.
Daphne knelt down next to him as they brushed away glowing cinders from his coat and patted out smoking cloth.
‘Is he alive?’ she cried.
They rolled him on his back, and one man put a finger to the pulse in his neck. ‘He’s alive for now.’
Daphne gasped. ‘I know him!’
Though his face was dark with soot and pink with burns, she recognised him. He was Hugh Westleigh, younger brother of the new Earl of Westleigh. He was also the brother of the lady she’d so terribly wronged at the Masquerade Club.
Had he arrived on the packet from Calais, as she had? Or was he bound there? Either way, she suspected he would not have liked seeing her after all the trouble she’d caused.
He was not conscious, and that alarmed her.
‘We’d better carry him to the surgeon,’ one of the men said.
They lifted him. Daphne followed them.
Her maid and footman caught up to her. Monette’s eyes were wide. ‘My lady?’
‘I know this man,’ she explained. ‘I must see he receives care. Wait for me here.’
They carried him to what looked like a nearby shopfront. Inside several people sat on benches while one man, the surgeon apparently, bandaged burns.
‘We have a bad one here, Mr Trask.’
The surgeon waved a man off the chair where he’d been tending to him and gestured for the men to sit Westleigh in it. He was still limp.
Daphne wrung her hands. ‘Will he live?’
‘I do not know, ma’am,’ the surgeon said.
‘He was hit on the head,’ she said. ‘I saw it.’
The man checked Westleigh’s head. ‘Appears to be so.’
Westleigh groaned and Daphne released a pent-up breath.
The surgeon lifted his head. ‘Wake up, sir.’ He turned to Daphne. ‘What is his name?’
‘Mr Westleigh,’ she said. ‘He is the younger brother of the Earl of Westleigh.’
‘Is he?’ One of the men who had carried him in raised his brows. ‘Who would have expected it of the Quality? The man has pluck.’
‘Westleigh!’ The surgeon raised his voice. ‘Wake up.’
He groaned again.
‘Open your eyes.’
Westleigh tried to comply, straining. He winced and tried to rub his eyes. ‘I cannot...’
Thank God he could speak.
The surgeon pulled his hands away. ‘Do not do that. Let me look.’ He examined Westleigh’s eyes and turned to Daphne. ‘His eyes are cloudy. Damaged from the fire.’ He tilted Westleigh’s head back and rinsed his eyes with clear water from a nearby pitcher. ‘His eyes must stay bandaged for two weeks or he will lose his sight.’ He shrugged. ‘He may lose his sight no matter what, but sometimes the eyes heal remarkably well. I’m more concerned about his head. He is certainly concussed. He needs to be cared for.’
‘In what way?’ Daphne asked.
‘He needs rest and quiet. No excitement at all. For at least a week.’ He looked into Westleigh’s mouth and in his nose. ‘No bleeding. That is good.’
‘Head hurts,’ Westleigh mumbled.
The surgeon folded bandages over Westleigh’s eyes and wrapped his head to keep them in place. No sooner had he finished than another victim of the fire was brought in, covered with burns. The surgeon’s attention immediately went to his new patient. ‘I must see this man.’ He waved Daphne away. ‘Keep his eyes bandaged and keep him quiet. No travelling. He must stay quiet.’
Daphne dropped some coins from her purse on the table. The surgeon deserved payment.
The man who had carried Westleigh to the surgeon got him to his feet. ‘Come along, sir.’ He turned to Daphne. ‘Follow me.’
He must think she was in Westleigh’s party.
They walked out of the building into a day just beginning to turn light.
Carter, her footman, ran up to her. ‘M’lady, John Coachman found a stable for the horses. He and your maid are waiting with the carriage, which was left near the inn.’
The man assisting Westleigh strained with the effort to keep him upright. ‘Give us a hand, would you?’ he asked her footman. Carter rushed to help him, but the man handed off his burden entirely. ‘I must see to my own family, ma’am.’ He pulled on his forelock and hurried away.
Westleigh moaned.
‘What do I do with him?’ Carter shifted to get a better hold on Westleigh.
Daphne’s mind was spinning. ‘Take him to the carriage, I suppose. We must find someone to care for him.’
Men were still busy at the inn, extinguishing embers, salvaging undamaged items, of which there were very few. Daphne’s and her maid’s trunks had been with the carriage, so they had lost only what had been in their portmanteaux.
Carter and John Coachman helped Westleigh into the carriage.
‘Is he coming with us?’ Monette asked.
‘Oh, no,’ Daphne replied. ‘He would detest that. He must have been travelling with someone. We should find out who.’ She turned to Carter. ‘Can you ask, please? His name is Hugh Westleigh, Lord Westleigh’s brother.’
Westleigh stirred and tried to pull at the bandages covering his eyes.
‘No, Westleigh!’ Daphne climbed inside the carriage and pulled his hands away. ‘You must not touch your bandages.’ She arranged the pillows and rugs to make him more comfortable.
‘Thirsty,’ Westleigh mumbled.
How thoughtless of her. He must have a raging thirst after all his exertion.
‘Monette, find him some ale and something nourishing.’ What ought an injured man eat? She had no idea, but dug into her purse again and handed both her maid and footman some coins. ‘Both of you buy something for yourselves to eat and drink and bring something back for John Coachman, as well.’
* * *
Monette returned within a quarter-hour with food and drink from a nearby alehouse for Westleigh and the coachman.
‘They have a room where we might change clothes,’ she told Daphne. ‘I paid for it and for a meal, so that we can eat privately.’
It was better than eating in the carriage on the street with the smell of ashes still in the air.
‘I’ll tend to the gentleman, m’lady,’ John Coachman said. ‘I must watch the carriage in any event. He’ll be comfortable enough inside, with your pillows and all.’
Monette climbed on top of the carriage and retrieved clothing from the trunks, rolling them into a bundle. She led Daphne to the alehouse, about two streets away.
The place was crowded with people in various stages of dress and from various walks of life, who had all apparently escaped the fire. Daphne followed Monette through the throng. The smell of sweat, smoke and ale made Daphne’s empty stomach roil.
Surely a lady of her stature should not be required to endure this sort of place.
She placed her hand over her mouth.
The words of the abbess at Fahr came back to her. You must practise compassion for all people, my lady. We are all God’s children.
The dear abbess. The nuns at Fahr had told her the abbess was very old, but to Daphne she’d seemed ageless. For some unfathomable reason the abbess had bestowed her love and attention on Daphne.
Her eyes filled with tears. The woman’s death had been a terrible blow, worse than her own mother’s death, worse than her husband’s. She could not bear to stay at Fahr after such a loss.
At least the abbess’s words remained with her. Sometimes, when Daphne needed her words, it was almost as if the woman were at her side, whispering in her ear.
Daphne glanced around once more and tried to see the people in the alehouse through the abbess’s eyes. Most looked exhausted. Some appeared close to despair. Others wore bandages on their arms or hands.
Daphne ached for them.
More truthfully, a part of her felt sorrow for their suffering; another part was very grateful to have been spared their troubles.
As they reached the door to the private room, a gentleman rose from a booth where he’d sat alone. He was the gentleman who had spoken to her before, who remembered her from the Masquerade Club. What was his name?
Lord Sanvers.
‘My good lady. There you are. I was concerned about you.’ His silver hair was neatly combed and he appeared to have changed into fresh linen. Compared to the others he was pristine.
‘I am unharmed, sir.’
He blocked her way. ‘May I assist you in any way? I am at your disposal.’
He could take charge of Westleigh! Would that not be a better situation for everyone?
She glanced at the booth Lord Sanvers had all to himself and to the numbers of people who did not even have a chair.
Would he have extended his offer of help if she had not been the beautiful, wealthy widow of a viscount?
She curtsied to him. ‘My servants have seen to everything, sir, but I thank you.’
She walked past him and through the open door where Monette waited.
Once inside the room, Daphne collapsed onto a chair in relief.
And guilt.
Why should she have this private room and so many others so much less? Was she just as selfish as Lord Sanvers?
She hurriedly changed out of her nightclothes and into the dress Monette had pulled from her trunk. Monette did the same. After quickly eating a breakfast, she handed the innkeeper money and asked him to give the room and some food to those most in need. She and Monette did not stay to see if he honoured her request.
They left the alehouse and returned to the carriage.
Carter waited there with the coachman.
‘Did you find Mr Westleigh’s travelling companions?’ Daphne peeked in the carriage, but saw Westleigh lying against the pillows.
‘I found the innkeeper, m’lady,’ Carter told her. ‘He said that Mr Westleigh travelled alone. Not even with a manservant.’
Who would care for him, then?
‘How is he?’ she asked her coachman.
‘Sleeping,’ he answered. ‘Talking a bit and restless, but sleeping. He did drink the ale, though.’
Daphne glanced around. ‘We must find someone to care for him.’
Carter shook his head. ‘I believe that cannot be done. There were many people injured in the fire and many others displaced. It would be difficult to even find him a room. Or rooms for ourselves.’
‘We should leave today, then, m’lady,’ John Coachman said. ‘If we start soon we can find lodgings on the road and still reach Faville the day after tomorrow.’
It would take three days for them to reach her property in Vadley near Basingstoke. Her husband had left her the unentailed country house and estate instead of consigning her to the dower house in Faville. She’d spent very little time in Vadley, though, only a few weeks past her days of mourning. Now she planned to return and live a retired life. Whether by doing so she could atone for her days of vanity and thoughtlessness, she was not certain.
‘We cannot take him with us,’ she said.
But she could hear the abbess, clucking her tongue. You must find grace to help in time of need.
‘The surgeon said he cannot travel,’ she protested.
‘We don’t have a choice, m’lady,’ Carter said in a low voice.
‘I say we start out and ask at every posting inn until we find someone to care for him,’ her coachman added. ‘It will be a more practicable task once we are out of Ramsgate.’
‘We cannot leave him.’ Monette’s eyes pleaded.
These servants were prepared to take care of a stranger, but she was merely trying to think of a way to abandon him, just because she knew he would hate being cared for by a lady who’d wronged his sister.
Or was she merely thinking of her own discomfort?
You must find grace to help in time of need.
‘Very well.’ She nodded decisively. ‘But let us head towards London. I am certain his family will be in town. When we find a place for his recuperation, we can send for them and they will not have far to travel. Or if we fail to find him care, we will take him the whole way.’ It would mean not even two full days of travel.
* * *
By late afternoon they’d not found any suitable place for Westleigh, nor had they found anyone willing to take responsibility for his care. Worse, it became clear he could not travel another day to reach London.
The ride had been a nightmare. The coach jostled him and he cried out in pain. He woke often, but was feverish and disoriented and difficult to calm.
They managed to reach Thurnfield, a small village on the road to Maidstone. Its one inn could not accommodate them, but the innkeeper knew of a cottage to let nearby. Daphne signed the papers and paid the rent. Before they set out the short distance to the cottage, she spoke to Carter, John Coachman and Monette.
‘I told the leasing agent that I am Mrs Asher, not Lady Faville. I think Mr Westleigh will be more comfortable if he does not know it is me seeing to his care. He only knows me as Lady Faville, you see, and—and his family has reason to dislike me. He would be quite displeased if he knew Lady Faville was caring for him.’ She took a breath and rubbed her forehead. ‘Asher was my maiden name, so we would not really be lying to anyone....’
Who was she fooling? She was lying to herself as well as lying about her true identity.
Had not the abbess said she must break herself of telling falsehoods as a means of avoiding unpleasantness? Even if the lies were little ones.
She would do so, she vowed.
Next time.
She swallowed more guilt. ‘Try to remember to call me Mrs Asher and don’t call me m’lady, if you can help it.’
The three servants nodded agreeably.
Was she wrong to make them go along with her lie? Of course she was.
‘It will be as you wish it, m’lady,’ Carter said. ‘I mean, ma’am.’
‘Let us go, then.’ She allowed Carter to assist her into the carriage. Monette climbed in after her and Carter sat with John Coachman.
They drove the short distance to a white stucco cottage with well-tended shrubbery and a small stable for the horses.
Carter opened the carriage door and put down the step. Daphne and Monette climbed out as the housekeeper and caretaker walked out to greet them.
‘We are Mr and Mrs Pitts, ma’am,’ the caretaker said. ‘At your service.’
‘I am Mrs Asher,’ Daphne shook their hands, feeling only a twinge of guilt. She introduced the others. ‘We have an injured man with us. Mr Westleigh. He will need to be taken to a bedchamber as quickly as possible.’
The housekeeper gestured to the door. ‘Come in, then, Mrs Asher, and tell us which room shall be the gentleman’s.’
Leaving Monette to watch over Westleigh, and Carter and Mr Pitts to unload the trunks, Daphne followed the housekeeper inside. The decor was modest, but luxurious if she compared it to Fahr Abbey. They should do very nicely there. It would only be for a day or two, until Westleigh’s family could come.
‘Let us look at the bedchambers.’ Mrs Pitts started up the stairs. ‘You may pick which one should go to the gentleman.’
Carter and Mr Pitts entered.
‘We have Mr Westleigh’s trunk,’ Carter said.
‘Follow us.’ Daphne walked up the stairs.
She chose the nicest of the bedchambers for Westleigh. It was a corner room with windows on both sides to let in lots of light and fresh air.
‘Does the bed have fresh linens?’ she asked.
‘Indeed,’ responded Mrs Pitts. ‘We readied the rooms when the agent sent a message that you were to arrive right away.’
That was what a good housekeeper should do, Daphne thought. She’d learned, though, that even servants liked to be thanked.
‘How very good of you.’ She smiled at Mrs Pitts and turned towards Carter. ‘Bring him here.’
He and Mr Pitts set down the trunk and left the room.
‘Do you wish to see the rest of the house now?’ Mrs Pitts asked Daphne.
‘I will see the gentleman settled first,’ she replied.
‘Let me see to the meal, then, ma’am.’
Mrs Pitts left and a few moments later, the men helped Westleigh to the bed.
‘Where am I?’ Westleigh asked, tense and confused. ‘Where have you taken me?’
Daphne came to his side and touched his hand. ‘You are in a cottage on the road to Maidstone.’ She used her most soothing voice.
‘Not going to Maidstone. Going to London.’ He tried to stand.
Daphne put a hand on his shoulder and he sat again. ‘You are too ill to travel to London.’ She had been making explanations like this for the past two hours—every time he woke and did not know where he was. ‘You were in a fire and you injured your eyes and your head. You need to rest in this bed here and we will care for you until you are better. Then you will go to London.’
‘Rest?’ He relaxed. ‘Then London.’
Carter spoke. ‘You should leave the room, m’l—Mrs Asher, while I undress him.’
She turned to the housekeeper’s husband. ‘Would you bring him water? Soap and towels, too, if possible, so Carter can bathe him a little? I am certain he will be more comfortable when clean again. Be gentle with his face, though.’
‘Water, soap and towels are already here, ma’am.’ The man pointed to a chest of drawers upon which sat a pitcher and basin and folded towels. He left the room.
Carter spoke. ‘I’ll clean him up, ma’am. Leave him to me.’
Daphne moved her hand, planning to step away, but Westleigh groped for it and seized it, pulling her back. ‘Do not leave,’ he rasped. ‘Do not leave me alone.’
His firm grip and his intensity shook her. She did not know how to calm him.
She stroked his hair—what little hair was not covered by bandages. ‘Shh, now,’ she said, trying to sound like the abbess who’d soothed her when she’d become overwrought. ‘You are not alone. Carter is here.’
‘I am here, sir,’ Carter said.
Daphne continued. ‘Now remain still and Carter will take off your boots. Will that not feel more comfortable?’
‘I’ll give you a little wash and put you in clean bedclothes,’ Carter added.
Daphne felt Westleigh’s muscles relax.
‘Do not wear bedclothes,’ he murmured.
Chapter Two
The dragon pursued him, its fiery breath scorching his skin. Stinging his eyes.
Hugh pushed himself to run faster, to escape.
The way out was ahead, a pinpoint of light that seemed to become more distant the harder he pumped his legs to reach it. The flames roared, as if the dragon laughed at him. The blaze encircled him, bound him. Devoured him.
He jolted awake.
To darkness.
He sat up and his hands groped for his eyes. ‘I can’t see! Why can’t I see?’ His eyes were covered in cloth.
Then he remembered. The fire had not been a dream. It had burned his eyes, all brightness and pain. Was he blind?
‘The bandages. Take them off!’ He pulled at them.
There was a rustle of fabric and the scent of roses filled his nostrils. Cool hands clasped his.
‘Your eyes are injured.’ The voice was feminine and soothing, but not familiar. ‘The bandages need to stay on for you to heal.’
‘Who are you?’ He swallowed. His throat hurt when he spoke.
‘I—I am Mrs Asher. You carried me out of the fire—’
He remembered only one woman he’d carried out of the fire, down the flame-filled stairway, all the way to the cool night outside.
‘Where am I?’ he rasped.
‘You—you are in my cottage in—in Thurnfield.’
Thurnfield?
The village on the road to London? He’d passed through it many times.
She went on. ‘You cannot travel, so we brought you here.’
That made no sense. ‘I was in Ramsgate. If I cannot travel, how is it I came to Thurnfield?’
Her voice turned cautious. ‘We could not find a place for you in Ramsgate. Not one where you could receive care.’
She was caring for him? Who was this woman? He wanted to see her. Look her in the eye. Figure out the reason for the uneasiness in her voice.
But that was impossible.
He cleared his throat. ‘You said we.’
‘My maid and footman and me.’
She had a maid and a footman. A woman of some means, then. Of wealth? Were there more servants, perhaps? ‘A maid and footman. Who else is here?’
‘A housekeeper and her husband.’ She paused. ‘That is all.’
Modest means, then, but she was holding back something, he would bet on it. ‘Where is Mr Asher?’
‘I am a widow.’ Her voice turned low, and that provoked a whole new set of emotions.
He suddenly recalled that the woman he’d carried had weighed hardly more than a whisper. She’d curled trustingly against his chest, hiding her face from the fire.
He cursed the bandages covering his eyes. He wanted to see her. Face her like a man.
‘My name is Westleigh.’ He extended his hand, which seemed to float in empty space.
She grasped it.
Her hand felt soft, like the hand of a gently bred woman.
‘I know who you are,’ she said, her voice turning tight again. ‘We learned at the inn that you are Mr Hugh Westleigh. We have your trunk. Like ours, it was with the carriages and spared from the fire.’
Had she also learned he was the younger brother of the Earl of Westleigh? Was this a factor in bringing him here?
If only he could look into her eyes—he could read her character.
If only he could see.
He pressed the bandages covering his eyes. The pain grew sharper.
A soft, cool hand drew his fingers away as it had done before. ‘Please do not disturb your bandages. The surgeon said your eyes are to remain bandaged for two weeks. That is how long they will take to heal.’
‘Will they heal, then?’ he demanded. ‘Or am I to be blind?’
She did not answer right away. ‘The surgeon said they must stay bandaged or they will not heal. That much is certain. He said they could heal, though.’
Hugh laughed drily. ‘Could heal. That is not very reassuring.’
Her voice turned low again. ‘I am only repeating what he told me.’
He caught himself. She obviously had taken on the task of caring for him. He need not be churlish in return.
He lifted his throbbing head again and turned in the direction of her voice. ‘Forgive me. I do not customarily succumb to self-pity.’
‘Of course you do not.’ Now she sounded like his old governess. ‘Are you thirsty?’
Good of her to change the subject.
He was thirsty, by God. Parched.
He nodded.
He heard a swirl of her skirts again and the sound of pouring liquid. She lifted his hand and placed a glass in it. He took a sip.
It was water, flavoured with a touch of mint. Who took such trouble for a stranger?
He gulped it down. ‘Is there more?’
He held out the empty glass, again into nothingness. He waited for her to grasp it.
She took it and poured more, then again put it in his hand.
He drank and handed the glass back to her. ‘I detest feeling so helpless.’
‘Certainly you do,’ the governess responded. ‘But you must rest. You not only burned your eyes, you also suffered a blow to the head. The surgeon said you need rest to recover.’
He lay back against some pillows. The mere exertion of waking in strange surroundings and drinking two glasses of water had fatigued him. How annoying. How weak. He hated weakness.
‘Shall I bring you breakfast?’ she asked. ‘Or would you like to sleep some more?’
His stomach clenched at the mention of food.
He forced his raspy voice to remain calm. ‘Breakfast, if you would be so good.’
Again her skirts rustled. ‘I will be right back.’
Without his eyes, he must depend on this woman for food, for everything. How much more helpless could he be?
Her footsteps receded and a door opened. When he heard it close again, it was as if the room turned cold and menacing.
He’d never been afraid of darkness as a child. He’d never been afraid of anything, but this was a living nightmare. Had he traded the fiery dragon of his dream for darkness?
Blindness?
Carefully he felt his bandages. They were thick over his eyes and wound firmly around his head. He tried to open his eyelids, but they hardly moved, the bandages were so snug. The effort shot daggers through his eyeballs and he dared not try again lest he injure them even more.
Was his fate to be blind and helpless?
He pounded a fist on the mattress, but wished he could put his hands on something he could smash into a thousand pieces.
He didn’t fear darkness. He didn’t fear danger, but the idea of being helpless was too abhorrent for words. And he was, indeed, helpless. Helpless and confined.
He patted his arms and legs and torso—someone had put him in a shirt and drawers, he realised. He lifted the fabric of the shirt to his nose. Clean clothes. Not a hint of smoke. Someone had bathed and clothed him.
Had she undressed him and clad him in a clean shirt? In drawers?
He strained to remember. He recalled leading people out of the fire. Of fire blasting his face. He vaguely remembered being jostled in a carriage, but those memories were mere flashes, with no coherence at all.
His head throbbed and he pressed his temples. How injured was he? He stretched his arms, flexed his legs. The rest of him seemed in one piece. He felt the sting of burns here and there on his skin, but nothing of significance.
He could still walk, could he not? If so, he’d be damned if he remained bedridden.
He slipped off the bed. His legs held him, so he felt his way around the bed’s edge before stepping away. He hated not knowing what lay in his path. Waving his hands in front of him, he took tentative steps. Was this life without sight? Caught in emptiness? Unsure of every step?
A door opened.
‘Mr Westleigh!’ It was Mrs Asher’s voice. ‘You should not be out of bed!’
He heard the clatter of dishes—and smelled porridge. He felt her come near. Caught the scent of roses.
She took his arm. ‘Let me help you back to bed.’
He pulled away. ‘I will not be an invalid.’
She tugged at him. ‘No, but you must rest or you risk being that very thing.’
He still did not wish to comply. ‘Did you bring food?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘And a tray. See? You will be able to eat nicely in bed.’
He jerked away. ‘I cannot see.’
She stepped back and left him in the emptiness again.
Let her abandon him! He’d find his own way back, if necessary.
He turned to where he thought she stood. ‘Is there a table and chair in this room?’
She did not answer right away. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I will sit and eat like a man.’
‘Very well.’ She sighed. ‘Stay where you are.’ He heard furniture being moved. She took his arm again. ‘Come here.’
She led him to a chair. He sat and heard the table being moved towards him. A moment later he smelled the food and heard the sound of a tray being placed in front of him.
She took his hand and placed a spoon in it, and showed him the bowl. ‘It is porridge. And tea.’
He was suddenly famished, but he paused, trying again to face her, wherever she might be. ‘Mrs Asher?’
‘Yes?’ Her voice was petulant, as it should be after his abominable behaviour.
‘Do forgive me.’ He’d behaved badly towards her again. ‘I should be thanking you, nothing else.’
It took several seconds for her to speak. ‘Your apology is accepted, Mr Westleigh.’ Her voice softened. ‘But do eat. You need to eat to gain strength.’
‘I am grateful for the food. I am quite hungry.’ He dipped the spoon, but missed the bowl. ‘Blast.’ He’d forgotten where the bowl was located.
She directed him on his next try. This time he scooped up a spoonful of porridge and lifted it. He missed and hit the corner of his mouth.
She wiped it with a napkin. ‘Let me help you.’ Putting her hand on his, she guided the spoon to his mouth.
The first taste made him ravenous, but he could not bear being fed like a helpless infant. ‘I think I can manage it.’ He groped for the bowl and picked it up in one hand and held it close to his mouth. With his other hand he scooped the porridge with the spoon and shovelled it into his mouth.
No doubt his manners were appalling.
He scraped the bowl clean and felt for a space on the table to put it down. With his fingers, he carefully explored what else was there.
A tea cup, warm to the touch. How was he to manage lifting a tea cup without spilling it?
‘How do you take your tea?’ she asked. ‘I will fix it for you.’
‘Milk and one lump of sugar.’ He listened to the clink of the spoon as she stirred.
When the clinking stopped, she again guided his hand to the cup. He grasped it in both hands and carefully brought it to his mouth, aware of the aroma before attempting to take a sip. He sipped slowly, not because he savoured the taste, but because he did not wish to spill it.
When he finished, he managed to place the cup into its saucer. ‘Thank you, Mrs Asher. You have been very kind.’
‘You should rest now,’ she responded. ‘The surgeon said—’
‘I will give you no further argument.’ He felt for the napkin and wiped his mouth.
She came close again and touched his arm.
‘I want to try to manage by myself.’ He pushed the chair back and stood, getting reoriented to where the bed was. He groped his way back to it and climbed under the covers, aware that she must be watching his every awkward move. In his underclothes.
‘Shall I write to your family and tell them where you are and what has happened to you?’ she asked.
His family? Good God, no.
After this trip he intended to throw off the shackles of family responsibility for a time. He’d been at the family’s beck and call ever since leaving the army.
‘Do not write to my family.’ He raised his voice. ‘They must know nothing about this.’
She did not speak.
He shook his head, realising how he must have sounded. ‘I apologise again.’ He spoke in a milder tone. ‘My family would be the very worst of caretakers.’ They were not expecting him, so they would not worry. He’d not written that he’d left Brussels. Better to not give them any time to find a new task he might perform for them. ‘I beg you would find another solution. I realise I am imposing, but I can well pay for my care. I must not be put in the hands of my family. On that I must insist.’
‘Very well. I will not contact your family.’ He heard the sounds of her picking up the tray from the table. ‘But you must rest now. Someone will check on you later.’ He heard her footsteps walking towards the door. It opened and she spoke once more. ‘Mr Westleigh?’
‘Yes?’ He stiffened, expecting a rebuke.
‘You are not imposing.’
The door closed.
He was alone again. In the dark.
Mrs Asher’s presence was a comfort, an anchor. Alone it was as if he floated in a void. He listened and thought he heard a bird singing outside, a dog’s bark at some distance, footsteps outside the room.
He stilled, waiting to hear if the door would open.
The footsteps faded.
His head ached, his throat ached, his eyes ached, but he was determined to remain awake. If he remained awake, he was not totally helpless.
To keep awake, he recalled the details of the fire.
He’d been leaving the inn’s tavern, returning to his room, when shouts of ‘fire!’ reached his ears. He’d jumped into action, knocking on doors, getting people out. The fire had started in a room on the ground floor. He and others had cleared that floor and worked their way up to the higher floors while the fire kept growing and the task grew more dangerous.
The excitement of it had spurred him on. People had needed saving and someone had to brave the threat to save them, a perfect role for Hugh. He always did what needed to be done. If there was risk involved, so much the better.
He’d fought in the war because England needed him and, if truth be told, he’d loved the adventure of it, the risk to one’s life, the chance to test his mettle. The army in peacetime was not for him, though. He’d sold his commission and prepared to discover his next adventure. He’d travel, he thought. To Africa. Or the Colonies. Or Chile—no, not Chile. With his luck he’d get embroiled in their War of Independence. It was one thing to risk one’s life for one’s own country, quite another to act as a mercenary. Besides, it was his own independence he yearned to indulge.
Instead, a family crisis had snared him. First his father had nearly impoverished the family by gambling and philandering away its fortunes, then he had tried to cheat the man who’d come to their rescue, his own natural son, John Rhysdale.
After that, Hugh, his brother Ned and Rhysdale had forced their father to move to Brussels and turn over the finances and all his affairs to Ned. Hugh was charged with making certain their father held to the bargain, which meant repeated trips to the Continent. At least this last trip had been the final one. Hugh had been summoned back to Brussels because his father had dropped dead after a night of carousing and drinking.
Hugh suffered no grief over his father’s death—the man hadn’t cared a whit about him or any of the family. His father’s death freed him at last.
Now Hugh’s independence was again threatened when nearly in his grasp. Only this time it might not be family obligation holding him back.
This time it might be blindness.
* * *
Daphne strode immediately from Westleigh’s bedchamber through the cottage and out into the garden where beds of red tulips and yellow narcissus ought to have given her cheer.
How could she be calm? She’d counted on Westleigh’s family coming to care for him. Who would not want family to nurse them back to health? She’d planned on leaving as soon as a family member arrived. They would never see the elusive Mrs Asher. A mere note would be all they knew of her.
The Westleighs would detest knowing the despised Lady Faville had cared for a family member. Hugh Westleigh would detest it, as well. She’d once tried to steal away Phillipa Westleigh’s new husband after all.
And, because her vanity had been injured, she’d heaved a lighted oil lamp against the Masquerade Club’s wall. It had shattered, just as her illusions had shattered in that moment. In a flash, though, the curtains and her own skirts had caught fire.
Her hands flew to her burning cheeks. She’d been so afraid. And ashamed! What sort of person does such a thing?
Yes, the Westleighs would hate her, indeed.
She’d been a coward that day, running away after Phillipa had saved her from her burning skirts. She was a coward still. She should simply tell Hugh Westleigh her identity—she should have told him from the beginning—
What would the abbess have said? Do what is right, my child. You shall never err if you follow the guide of your own conscience. Do always what is right.
But what happens if one does not know what is right? What is one supposed to do in that event?
Was it right to tell him the truth or better to hide the truth and not upset him?
Daphne paced back and forth. It would only be two weeks until his bandages came off and he’d be on his way. She stopped and placed her hands on her cheeks.
Unless he was blind.
Please, dear God. Let him not be blind!
She shook her head. Who was she to pray?
She, Carter and Monette simply must take the best care of him. Not upset him. Give him the best chance to heal.
Perhaps the dear abbess would intercede with God for him on Daphne’s behalf. And perhaps the abbess would forgive her if she did not tell the truth this time. No real harm in him thinking she was merely Mrs Asher for such a little while. Feeling only slightly guilty, Daphne strolled around to the front of the cottage.
Two young women approached from the road and quickened their pace when they saw her.
‘Beg pardon, ma’am. Are you Mrs Asher?’ They looked no more than fifteen years, each of them.
‘I am Mrs Asher,’ she responded.
‘We’ve come looking for work, ma’am,’ one said. ‘Mr Brill, the agent, told us you might be needing some help in the cottage—’
‘We can do whatever you need,’ the other broke in. ‘We’re strong girls. Mr Brill will vouch for us.’
Both were simply dressed and their clothing looked very old and worn. In fact, their gowns hung on them.
‘We need work very bad, ma’am,’ the first girl said. ‘We’ll do anything.’
‘I am not sure...’ Daphne bit her lip. Would it be right to hire maids to work in a house where she would stay for only two weeks?
‘Please, Mrs Asher,’ the second girl said. ‘We can show you how good we work. Give us a chance.’
What difference did it make to her? She had plenty of money to pay them. It was the easiest thing in the world to say yes. Besides, the abbess would say she’d done a good thing.
‘Very well, girls,’ she said. ‘Follow me. If Mrs Pitts approves, you may become our new maids of all work.’
They could deliver the meals to Mr Westleigh. Daphne would be able to avoid him altogether. Then it would not matter who he thought she was.
Chapter Three
Hugh lost his battle to stay awake. He had no idea how long he slept, but he woke again to darkness.
Cursed eyes!
Was it day or night? Was he alone or was someone in the room?
Was she here?
He remained still and strained to hear the sounds of someone moving, someone breathing.
It was so quiet.
The hiss of the fireplace; otherwise, silence. Was anyone near? Would they hear him if he called out for help?
Although he’d be damned if he’d call out for help.
Or for water.
His throat was parched with thirst. There must be water somewhere in the room. She must have left some for him.
He climbed out of bed, not as steady on his feet as he might wish. The carpet on the floor was soft and cool on his bare feet. Carefully, he started from right next to the bed, groping—and finding—a side table. He ran his hand over the table’s surface. No water. Merely a candlestick—certainly an item for which he had no need.
He groped past the table and bumped into a wooden chair. He backed away and knocked the table onto the floor. The carpet muffled the sound. No one would be roused by the noise.
Crouching, he felt around for the table, found it and righted it. The candlestick must have rolled away. Useless to search for it anyway.
Moving cautiously again, he made his way past the chair. With the wall as his guide, he inched his way towards the fireplace, feeling the fire’s heat grow stronger as he neared. His hand found the mantel. His toes smashed against the hearth.
He backed away and found more chairs and another table upon which there was a book. Another item for which he had no use.
Continuing, he discovered a door. It was a dressing room, smelling of dust, its shelves empty. He closed the door and his fingers felt along the wall until he came to another door. The door to the hallway. He turned the latch and opened the door and felt the change in temperature. But the hallway was silent.
He closed the door again and groped his way back to the bed. On the other side was another table. On the table he found a drinking glass and the water pitcher. He could never pour the water into the glass. He lifted the entire pitcher to his lips and took several gulps of the cool, minty liquid.
Placing the pitcher back on the table, he felt his way back to the bed, but halted. Lying abed like an invalid held no appeal.
He might as well continue his haphazard search of the room.
He found his trunk in one corner, his boots, smelling of bootblack, next to it. He found a rocking chair and a window.
A window! Fresh air. Hugh found the sash, opened the window and felt a cool breeze against his face. On the breeze was the scent of green grass, rich soil and flowers. He stuck his hand out the window and tried to sense whether it was day or night.
Without eyes, he could not tell.
He felt for the rocking chair and turned it towards the window. She must have sat in this rocking chair while in the room; her scent, very faint, clung to it. He lowered himself into it and rocked. The rhythm soothed him. The breeze cooled his skin. And banished the memory of the fire’s infernal heat.
* * *
He must have dozed. For how long this time? Half awake, half asleep, he became aware of a knock at the door. The door opened. He knew instantly it was not she.
‘Sir! You are not abed.’ A male voice.
Hugh shook himself awake. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Carter, sir. La—Mrs Asher’s footman.’ The voice did not come closer, so Carter must have remained by the door. ‘I came to attend you.’
‘I am grateful.’ She’d said her footman would come. ‘Can you tell me what time it is?’
‘Seven, sir,’ Carter replied.
‘Morning or evening?’ Did they not see he could not tell?
‘Morning, sir.’
‘What day?’ Hugh tried not to let his impatience show.
‘Oh! You must not realise—’ Carter’s voice deepened. ‘Forgive me—I will explain—it is Friday. We arrived here Wednesday. The day after the fire. You slept most of yesterday. It is Friday morning now.’
He’d lost two days.
‘I will assist you, sir. Shave you and whatever else you might require.’
Shave? Hugh scraped his hand against the stubble on his chin. He must have appeared like a ruffian to her.
Carter’s voice came closer. ‘Unless you would like me to help you back into bed.’
‘No.’ Hugh forced himself not to snap at the man. It was not Carter’s fault he needed the assistance. ‘I will not return to bed. Shave me and help me dress, if you would be so good.’
Gentlemen of Hugh’s rank customarily employed a valet, but Hugh never did. He had no qualms about borrowing the services of someone else’s valet when absolutely necessary, but what he could do for himself, he preferred doing. It made him free to come and go as he wished without having to consider anyone else’s needs.
Now, though, he was not free. He was as dependent as a suckling babe.
He submitted to Carter’s ministrations with as good grace as he could muster, even though Carter needed to help him with his most basic of needs. He’d do them all without help as soon as he could, he promised himself. After he was shaved, bathed, toileted and dressed, he found his way back to the rocking chair, more fatigued than he would ever admit.
‘Thank you, Carter,’ he said. ‘What of breakfast?’ His hunger had returned. ‘Will you help me to the breakfast room?’
He sensed Carter backing away. ‘I—I believe Mrs Asher preferred you eat here, sir. Your health is fragile, I’m given to understand.’
Hugh refused to be fragile. ‘Very well, but tell Mrs Asher I wish to speak with her as soon as it is convenient.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Carter moved towards the door.
‘In fact—’ Hugh raised his voice ‘—tell Mrs Asher that I would like to see the village doctor. I am well able to pay for his services, so let there be no worry over that. I wish to see him today.’ And find out, if possible, if he was to be blind or not.
‘As you wish, sir.’ He imagined Carter bowing. ‘Breakfast as well, sir.’
The door closed and the footman’s steps receded.
Hugh rose again. It felt better to be dressed, even if he was merely in shirt, trousers and stockings. At least when Mrs Asher returned, he would look more like a gentleman and less like an invalid.
If one could ignore the bandages covering his eyes.
He made his way around the bed. If his memory served him, the table on the other side of the bed, the table he’d knocked down during the night, was where he had eaten the porridge. He found the table again, bumped into the wooden chair again and kicked the lost candlestick with his toe, sending it skittering away.
Nonetheless, he managed to arrange the table and chair for eating. It was a minor matter, but a victory all the same. He was not entirely helpless.
Even so, a lifetime like this would be unbearable.
* * *
Daphne had left the two prospective maids in the company of Mrs Pitt after finally sorting out the matter. She’d thought she could simply hand them off to the housekeeper and be done with it, but the woman was shockingly dependent upon Daphne to make even the smallest of decisions, like what their duties should be, whether they should live in the house—yes, they should. Why have maids if they were not around when you needed them? Mrs Pitt also would have offered the girls a pittance for what would be very hard work, tending to the fires, cleaning the house and otherwise seeing to her needs. It was also very clear that they needed new clothes.
And that they were hungry. They both kept eyeing the bread Mrs Pitt had taken from the oven, and neither could pay attention to the discussion. So Daphne told Mrs Pitt to feed them, which led to a long discussion of what to feed them and what to feed Mr Westleigh and how was she—Mrs Pitt—to cook all that food, now that there were two more mouths to feed and two more workers to supervise.
By the time they’d finished, Daphne had given Mrs Pitt permission to hire a cook, a kitchen maid, another footman and two stable boys to help John Coachman. Mr Pitt was sent into the village to speak with some people he and Mrs Pitt thought would be perfect for the jobs, and Monette was getting her cloak and bonnet so she could accompany the girls to the local draper for fabric to make new dresses and aprons.
What fuss. Her husband would have been appalled at her being so bothered by such trivial matters. Even at the convent at Fahr, someone else saw to the food, the clothing, the cleaning.
As tedious as it all was, Daphne walked through the hall with a sense of pride. Her decisions were good ones after all. And she could well afford to pay all the servants even if she stayed here a year instead of two weeks.
As she crossed the hall, Carter descended the stairs.
She smiled up at him. ‘How is Mr Westleigh this morning, Carter?’
He reached the final step. ‘Much improved, ma’am. He wishes to speak with you.’
Oh, dear. And she wanted to avoid him.
‘What about, do you know?’ Perhaps he’d changed his mind about contacting his family.
Carter frowned. ‘He wants to see a local doctor. I believe he is most unhappy about being bandaged and confined. He wants to see a doctor immediately.’
It was a reasonable request. He’d been nearly insensible when the surgeon at Ramsgate examined him. If only she’d known a few minutes earlier, she could have asked Mr Pitt to fetch the doctor.
‘Could you go to the village and locate the doctor? Or find Mr Pitt and give him the errand? He left for the village a few minutes ago.’
Carter’s brows knit. ‘Shall I take Mr Westleigh his breakfast first, ma’am? I told him it was coming.’
The poor man must be famished. He’d only eaten a bowl of porridge since they’d arrived here.
She sighed. ‘No. I will take him his breakfast. Perhaps there was something else he wanted to say to me.’
Carter came with her to the kitchen where Mrs Pitt gave him the doctor’s direction and fixed the tray for Mr Westleigh.
Daphne carried the tray up the stairs and knocked upon Westleigh’s bedchamber door.
‘Come in, Carter.’ His voice sounded stronger than the day before.
She opened the door and entered the room, kicking the door closed behind her.
He was seated at the table and chair where he’d eaten the porridge, and was dressed in a clean white shirt and dark brown trousers that showed off his broad shoulders and lean hips. She swallowed, suddenly remembering his strong arms carrying her in the inn.
‘I can smell the bread from here.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I will eat at the table.’
She crossed the room. ‘It is Mrs Asher, not Carter.’
He tensed, as if he’d not liked mistaking her identity, and stood as a gentleman does when a lady enters the room. ‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly.
‘Please sit,’ she responded. ‘Carter said you wished to see me, so it is I who brings you breakfast.’
He lowered himself back in the chair. ‘I appreciate you coming so quickly.’
She placed the tray of food in front of him. ‘I sent Carter to fetch a doctor and we did not wish you to wait. Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’ He carefully ran his hands over the food.
She’d instructed Mrs Pitts to serve foods he could eat with his hands and spare him the struggle of manoeuvring utensils. They’d settled on warm bread sliced open with melting butter inside, two cooked eggs, cubes of cheese and a pot of tea.
He hesitated.
It made her uncertain. ‘I will pour your tea,’ she said. ‘I remember how you take it, but do, please, eat. You must be very hungry.’
‘I hope my manners will not offend.’
Oh, he was merely being polite. ‘Have no fear. I am not easily offended.’
How odd of her to say such a thing. At a formal dinner party, she once would have had much to say about poor manners, and she’d often shaken her head at the way some of the lower classes consumed their food. Perhaps she was developing some tolerance, like the abbess had often encouraged her to do.
‘I am surprised to see you dressed,’ she went on in a conversational tone. ‘I thought you would still be in bed.’
‘No more bed.’ His voice was firm. ‘I am well enough to be up.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Are you certain? The surgeon in Ramsgate said you would need time to recuperate. I think he meant you should remain in bed.’
‘I think him wrong,’ he said stiffly. ‘I feel recuperated. Perhaps the village doctor will say I may have my bandages removed and be on my way.’ He paused. ‘I told Carter I am well able to pay whatever the expense. I intend to compensate you, as well.’
‘Money does not concern me. I certainly need no compensation.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I—I do not know if Carter can produce a doctor this very day, though.’
The village did have a surgeon, Mrs Pitts had said, but he was kept very busy.
Westleigh took a bite of bread, chewed and swallowed it. She could not help but notice the muscles in his neck move with the effort. She touched her own neck.
‘Let us hope he can come today,’ he said.
He must be as eager to be on his way as she was for him to leave, but should she trust his care to a village doctor? Perhaps she should send for a London physician. She would love to send for the physician her husband had used when he was in town, but that man knew her.
Of course she could simply tell Westleigh now who she was.
She opened her mouth.
But he spoke first. ‘Might I have a clock?’ he asked. ‘A way to keep track of time. I cannot even tell if it is day or night.’
How awful! All sorts of things must be difficult if one was not able to see. How much worse if one would never see again.
She vowed she would leave a large coin in the cup of the next blind beggar she came upon.
‘I am so sorry,’ she cried. ‘I should have thought to provide you a clock. Perhaps I can purchase a watch that chimes. I have seen such watches. You could keep it next to you.’
Although, now that she thought of it, would a small village have such a watch? She’d only seen them in London shops.
‘A clock will be sufficient,’ he responded. ‘And I am well able to pay for it, if there is not a spare one in the house.’
‘We’ll find you one, do not fear.’ There was one on the mantel in the library. She’d have it brought to him immediately.
Or she would have to bring it herself, since she’d sent everyone else away besides Mrs Pitts, who would be much too busy.
‘Wait here a moment,’ she said, which was a silly thing to say. Where could he go without sight?
She hurried out of the room and ran down the stairs to the library. Carefully she took the clock from the mantel and carried it back to his room.
‘I’ve brought you a clock!’ she said as she entered. ‘I’ll place it on the mantel and we’ll make sure Carter winds it for you.’
‘I did not mean for you to bring it so quickly, but I am very grateful.’ He had finished the food and was feeling for the tea cup.
She walked over and guided his hand to it.
He stilled and his face tilted towards hers.
She wished she could see him, see all his face. She had seen him a few times at the Masquerade Club and had been introduced to him once. It was the only time she could remember speaking to him, and she’d paid little attention.
‘Is there anything else?’ she murmured. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’
He continued to seem as if he was facing her. ‘I want to leave this room,’ he said. ‘To come and go as I wish. Surely there must be a drawing room or a library or someplace I could sit without disturbing anyone.’
‘But how can you? You can’t see,’ she cried.
He scowled. ‘I can walk.’
She feared he would injure himself even more. What would she do then?
‘The surgeon at Ramsgate said—’ She cut herself off. ‘Let us at least wait until another doctor examines you. I would hate to risk your recovery.’
He gulped down the cup of tea.
She leaned closer to pick up the tray.
‘Roses,’ he said softly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You smell like roses,’ he explained.
She felt her cheeks flush. It delighted her that he’d noticed. It was her favourite scent. She always rinsed herself with rosewater and any perfume she purchased must smell like roses.
‘I—I should leave now, unless there is something else I can do—’ She bit her lip.
‘Nothing.’ His voice dipped low. ‘I am grateful for the breakfast and the clock. And for sending for the doctor.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Let us hope he comes soon.’
Balancing the tray, she exited the room and only then did she realise she’d again not told him who she really was. Maybe when the doctor came, he would indeed say Westleigh was recovered. Maybe he would remove Westleigh’s bandages and his eyes would work perfectly and she could have her coachman take him to London this very day.
* * *
It was late afternoon before the doctor called at the cottage.
Carter announced him to Daphne as she sat in the drawing room, writing a letter to her man of business, informing him of her arrival in England and her stay at Thurnfield.
She, of course, did not explain why she remained at Thurnfield.
She rose at the doctor’s entrance. ‘Mr Wynne, how good of you to come.’
He was a man of perhaps fifty years, with a rough but kindly appearance. When he saw her, his face lit with surprise, then appreciation. ‘Mrs Asher! My word. May—may I welcome you to Thurnfield. You are a very delightful addition, if I may be so bold as to say.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Daphne’s response was well practised. Men who saw her for the first time often reacted so. In this instance, however, she did not want her beauty to distract the doctor from why he was here. ‘I do believe Mr Westleigh is anxious for you to examine him. Carter can take you up to him directly.’
He tapped his lips. ‘In a moment. I understand from Mr Carter that you witnessed the injury and the examination by the other surgeon. I think it best I should speak with you first.’
She sat again and gestured to a chair. ‘Do sit.’
He lowered himself into the chair and leaned towards her, all ears. And eyes. ‘Now. Tell me what happened.’
She relayed the information as succinctly as she could, but he asked several questions about the injury and other surgeon’s examination, forcing her to repeat herself.
It was a good thing she had not ordered tea, or the man would never make it up to Westleigh’s room.
Her patience frayed. ‘I do think you should see Mr Westleigh now, sir. He has been waiting a very long time.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ Mr Wynne took his time rising from his seat. ‘You will accompany me? I may need information only you will have.’
She’d just given him all the information she possessed. Several times.
But it seemed expedient to do as he requested, merely to get him to actually see Westleigh, who had waited all day for the man. She rose. ‘Come with me.’
Daphne heard the clock in Westleigh’s room chime the quarter-hour as she raised her hand to knock.
‘Please, come in.’ Westleigh sounded impatient.
‘Mr Westleigh, it is Mrs Asher,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘I have brought Mr Wynne, the surgeon, to see you.’
Hugh had been seated in the rocking chair next to the window, which was open to the afternoon breeze. He stood and extended his hand almost in the surgeon’s direction. ‘Mr Wynne. I have been eager for your arrival.’
Wynne clasped his hand. ‘Westleigh. Pleased to meet you. Mrs Asher has told me of your injuries.’
‘She has?’ His posture stiffened. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what she said.’
‘I told him you were in a fire,’ Daphne responded. ‘And that you were hit on the head and your eyes burned. I told him the other surgeon said you were concussed and that your eyes needed to remain bandaged for two weeks.’
‘I could have told him that,’ Westleigh remarked.
‘I agree.’ She had not wished to be this involved. Should she tell him the surgeon preferred her company to the duties that called him here?
‘A nasty business, eh?’ Wynne finally turned his attention to the patient. ‘Please do sit and I will bring a chair closer to you.’
Westleigh lowered himself back into the rocking chair and Wynne brought the wooden chair over to him. Daphne stood near to the door.
‘Now,’ Wynne said, ‘tell me—do you have any difficulty breathing?’
Westleigh took a breath. ‘No.’
Wynne nodded, but from his bag pulled out a cylindrical tube. ‘Best to check, in any event.’ He placed one end of the tube on Westleigh’s chest, the other against his own ear. ‘Breathe deeply for me.’
Westleigh did as requested and the surgeon moved the tube to various locations on his chest.
‘Your lungs are clear,’ Wynne said. ‘Have you experienced any dizziness?’
‘None now,’ Westleigh answered. ‘Not even if I walk. I am quite steady on my feet.’
‘Any pain?’ the man asked.
Westleigh shrugged. ‘My throat feels a bit rough. My head aches still, but not excessively. It is my eyes—my eyes concern me the most. They ache with a dull sort of pain. Again, not excessive. If I try to move my eyelids, however, the pain sharpens a great deal.’
‘Best you not move your eyelids.’ Wynne chuckled.
Westleigh frowned.
This was not a joking matter to him, Daphne wanted to say.
Wynne leaned forwards. ‘Let me have a look at you.’
He placed his fingers on Hugh’s head. His fingers looked stubby, but his touch seemed sure.
‘It is most remarkable you were not more burned.’ Wynne moved his fingers around his head and looked closely at the exposed parts of his face. ‘The eyes can get the worst of it even if your skin’s damage is superficial. Your hair is singed in places and I cannot see under the bandage, but I suspect you are fairly unscathed.’
Daphne had seen his eyes, though. His eyes had been alarmingly cloudy.
Wynne leaned back. ‘I would like to examine under your bandages, but you must promise me something.’
‘What is that?’ Westleigh asked.
‘Keep your eyes closed.’ Wynne emphasised each word. ‘If you do not keep your eyes closed, you risk further injury and blindness. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand.’ Westleigh answered in a low voice.
Wynne turned to Daphne. ‘Mrs Asher, may we close the window and draw the curtains?’
‘Certainly.’ She hurried to do as he asked.
Westleigh remained still as Mr Wynne unwound his bandages. He was like a taut string vibrating with tension. The bandages seemed endless, but finally Wynne came down to the two round pieces of cloth that were pressed against Westleigh’s eyelids.
‘Remember, keep your eyes closed,’ he warned.
He removed the last and moved even closer to peer at Westleigh’s eyelids. He touched one very gently with his thumb.
Westleigh winced.
‘Does that pain you?’ Wynne asked.
‘Some,’ Westleigh responded tightly.
Wynne held the lids closed, but turned to Daphne. ‘Will you bring me a lighted candle?’
She took the candlestick from the bedside table and lit it with a taper from the fireplace.
Wynne brought the candle close to Westleigh’s face.
Westleigh’s eyelids were still red and a yellowish crust clung to his eyelashes. If he did open his eyes now and could see, he’d know instantly who she was, but Daphne thrust that thought aside. He was more important this moment than her pride...and shame.
Westleigh remained like a statue.
‘Are you able to see the light?’ Wynne asked.
‘Yes!’ His voice filled with excitement. His eyelids twitched.
‘Keep them closed,’ Wynne warned again.
‘Does that mean I will be able to see?’ Westleigh asked.
‘I wish I could make that promise.’ Wynne leaned back and pulled out more bandages from his leather bag. ‘Your eyes need more time for us to be certain. Two weeks, like the other surgeon said. If you want a chance to heal completely, wait the two weeks. There is no infection now, but to open your eyes now—well, I cannot stress how urgent it is that you wait the two weeks. It is your only chance.’
Westleigh’s chin set and his head remained erect.
For some silly reason, Daphne felt proud of him for not giving in to emotion.
He might yet be blind.
Chapter Four
Hugh was through with confinement. He was through giving in to his fears. He would see again. He must. He would not sit in one room for two weeks waiting. He’d move around, act as if he could see, no matter how many pieces of furniture he bumped into, no matter what came crashing to the floor. He’d pay for the damages.
But he would not be confined.
Mr Wynne did not require him to remain in bed. The only admonition the surgeon had made was that he was not to remove the bandages over his eyes. Wynne said he’d return in a few days to check him and change the bandages, if necessary. In the meantime, Hugh intended to leave this room.
Wynne also said he could travel, if he wished. He could be in London in one day’s coach ride and straight into the suffocating confines of his mother’s care.
He’d rather impose on Mrs Asher. Was that ungentlemanly of him? He suspected so, but an unwanted invalid would receive the least fussing and he had no wish to be fussed over. It might cause the lady some annoyance if he did not remain in his room, but he’d go mad otherwise.
Carter knocked and entered the room. ‘Do you require anything, sir?’
‘Nothing at the moment,’ Hugh replied.
‘Very good, sir.’
The door sounded as if it was closing and Hugh raised his voice. ‘Carter?’
It opened again. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘What time is dinner to be served?’
‘Whenever you desire, sir,’ Carter responded.
‘I do not wish to cause undue inconvenience,’ Hugh countered. ‘When is Mrs Asher served dinner? I can wait until she is served, certainly.’
‘M’l—’ Carter faltered. ‘Mrs Asher dines at eight o’clock.’
‘Eight o’clock. Splendid. I can be served after she dines.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Carter said again. The door closed.
Hugh listened for the next chiming of the clock.
Six chimes. Plenty of time for him to prepare.
He groped his way to the corner of the room where he’d discovered his trunk. Opening it, he dug through until he felt smooth, thick fabric, a lapel and buttons.
As he’d hoped. One of his coats, and beneath it, a waistcoat.
He felt around more until his fingers touched the starched linen of a neckcloth. He could tie it blindfolded, could he not? How many neckcloths had he tied himself over the years?
He wrapped the cloth around his neck and created a simple mail-coach knot. Or hoped he had. Next he donned his waistcoat and coat and carried his boots over to the rocking chair. Seated on the chair, he pulled on his boots.
For the first time since the fire, Hugh was fully dressed. Already he felt more like a man.
He made his way confidently to the door.
But missed, touching the wall instead. He ran his hand along the wall until it touched the door. Excitement rushed through him. Would a man released from prison feel this way? Free, but wary, because he did not know what was on the other side.
He took a step out into the hallway and paused again, trying to listen for sounds, searching for the staircase.
This time he could hear sounds coming from below. He must be near the stairs. He stepped forwards carefully and reached the wall. Good. The wall could be his guide. He inched his way along it until he found the banister. His excitement soared.
Hugh laughed. You’d think he’d discovered a breach in the enemy’s defences.
He carefully descended the stairs, holding on to the banister. Amazing how uncertain he felt. He’d crept around buildings and other terrains in the dark before without this much apprehension.
Although he could at least see shadows then. Now he could see nothing.
He reached the last step and still kept one hand on the banister. Chances were that the front door to the house was ahead of him, facing the stairway, which meant that the rooms would be to the right, left or behind. Which would be the dining room?
It would have helped if he’d once seen this house, even from the outside.
He took a breath and began walking straight ahead until he, indeed, found the front door. Then, following his strategy for the bedroom, he started to feel himself along the wall.
‘What are you doing, sir?’ A woman’s voice. A village accent. The housekeeper of whom Mrs Asher spoke?
‘Are you Mrs Pitts?’ he asked.
‘Goodness, no, sir,’ the voice replied. ‘I am Mary, one of the housemaids, sir.’
Mrs Asher had not mentioned housemaids.
‘But what are you doing here, sir?’ she went on. ‘You should be upstairs, should you not? You are recuperating, is that not the way it is?’
‘I came downstairs for dinner.’ He spoke with a confidence a maid would not question. ‘I realise I am early, but if you direct me to the dining room, I would be grateful.’
‘It is early for dinner, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like to wait in the drawing room? Mrs Asher said we are to announce dinner to her in the drawing room.’
‘The drawing room it is, then.’ Hugh smiled. ‘Can you show me where it is?’
‘Oh!’ The maid sounded as if she’d just figured out a big puzzle. ‘You cannot see and you haven’t been there yet! I remember Mrs Asher saying you were taken directly upstairs.’
He heard her approach him.
She touched his arm. ‘Come with me.’ She led him to the right and through the threshold of the drawing room. ‘I think Mrs Asher will be here soon. She and Monette are talking about our new dresses, you see, so I expect she will come here after that.’
‘I expect so,’ he replied.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, I should be about my duties.’ She said this with a surprising sense of pride.
‘Thank you for your help, Mary.’ He did not wish her to leave quite yet. ‘I have just one question.’
‘Yes, sir?’ She sounded very young. And inexperienced. Otherwise she would not talk so much.
‘How long have you worked for Mrs Asher?’ Because the lady had not informed him of the presence of a housemaid.
‘Oh, this is my first day, sir. For me and my sister, Ann. So I must not dawdle.’ She paused. ‘May I go, sir?’
‘By all means.’ Were the extra maids hired because of him? ‘Thank you again, Mary.’
She gave a nervous little laugh and he heard the door close.
Once again he was in a strange room with no sense of his bearings.
But he was getting used to it. He turned around and listened carefully for the hiss of the fire and the heat of it on his skin. He memorised the location of the fireplace and the location of the doorway. Somewhere in between there would be chairs and other seating. He trod carefully until he found one. When he was still, he also heard the ticking of a clock. Good. He’d keep track of time that way.
The half-hour, then three-quarters chimes sounded.
Shortly after, the door opened and Hugh smelled roses.
‘My goodness.’ It was Mrs Asher. ‘Mr Westleigh, you gave me a start!’
He stood. ‘My apologies.’
‘What are you doing here?’ She did not sound very pleased.
‘Carter said dinner was at eight. Since I am not confined to bed, I saw no reason to trouble your servants to wait on me.’
She came closer. ‘But Carter did not tell me—’
‘I did not consult with him.’
She sounded confused. ‘Then how did you get here? From upstairs, I mean.’
He straightened. ‘The way of all men, I suppose. I walked.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Well, I made it to the hall by myself,’ he said. ‘Mary helped me to the drawing room.’
‘Mary?’ She sounded confused again. ‘Oh. Mary. The new maid. That was kind of her.’ She paused before saying, ‘Do sit, Mr Westleigh.’
He lowered himself back into the chair.
She was a puzzle to him. She’d taken the trouble to bring him into her home to care for him, yet at the same time she seemed displeased at his presence. She was a woman who concealed things, that was certain.
He heard her move about the room.
‘Would you like a glass of claret before dinner?’ Good manners crept back into her voice.
‘I would dearly like a glass of claret.’ He missed wine. He missed brandy even more. He wondered if she would have brandy for after dinner.
He heard her open a cabinet and then heard the sound of pouring liquid. She handed the glass to him.
The scent of the claret was pleasure enough. Fruity and spicy, he savoured the aroma before taking a sip. Drinking from a wine glass proved to be quite easy. And the smooth, earthy flavour was a comfort to his sore throat. He felt like gulping.
He heard her sit. ‘I understand you just hired Mary and another maid. If that was because of me, you must permit me to bear the expense.’ Might as well speak plainly. She might like to conceal, but he favoured being above board.
‘The expense is nothing.’ She indeed made it sound as if it was a trifle. ‘And I did not hire them because of you, not precisely. They needed the work and I thought it would make it easier on everyone to have more help.’
‘I should still like to compensate you for the trouble I am causing you.’
‘Please say no more about money.’ She spoke the word as if it left a bad taste on her tongue. ‘I detest talk of money. I have well enough money to be a good hostess, you know. You are here to recuperate and that is what you shall do. The cost of it means nothing to me.’
Why was she so tense?
He tried some humour. ‘Are you a wealthy widow, then?’
She was silent for a moment before answering in a serious tone, ‘Yes. I am a wealthy widow.’
They drank their claret in such silence Hugh could hear the ticking of the clock and each small rustle of her skirts, but it did not take long for Carter to come to the door to announce dinner.
‘Dinner is served, m’l— Oh!’ He cut himself off. ‘Mr Westleigh! You are here.’
‘Mr Westleigh will eat dinner in the dining room with me, Carter.’ Mrs Asher made it sound as if nothing was amiss. She must be practised in hiding emotions from servants.
‘Very good, ma’am,’ Carter said. ‘I shall run ahead and set his place.’
Hugh heard Mrs Asher stand, and rose himself, offering her his arm—or hoping he was not merely posturing to the air.
Her fingers curled around his upper arm. ‘I’ll show you to the dining room.’
He smiled. ‘That is a good thing, else I might wander the house bumping into walls.’
‘You were very clever making it to the drawing room.’ She did not sound annoyed.
Perhaps this was a truce of sorts.
She led him out the door. ‘We are crossing the hall. The dining room is on the other side, a mirror to this room. The cottage really has a very simple plan.’
So, coming down the steps, the drawing room was to the left; the dining room to the right. ‘What other rooms are on this floor?’
‘A library behind the drawing room,’ she began.
He cut her off with a laugh. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll make much use of that.’
Her step faltered. ‘Behind the dining room is an ante-room with cupboards for dishes and cutlery and such. From that room there are stairs down to the kitchen and housekeeper’s rooms.’
He was able to visualise it. It did not seem like a large home for a wealthy widow, though.
They crossed the threshold to the dining room and she walked with him to what must have been the head of the table.
He heard the chair being pulled out. She released his arm and sat.
Carter came to his side. ‘Your chair is here, sir.’ He helped him to a seat adjacent to hers.
‘Our meal will be rather simple, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Asher said. ‘Some lamb stew and bread.’
It must have been near because Hugh could smell it. ‘It will be perfectly adequate for me. My appetite appears to have returned full force. I am very likely to eat whatever you put before me and demand seconds.’
He heard Carter pour some liquid. A glass of wine, Hugh could tell by its fragrance.
‘That is a healthy sign, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Perhaps tomorrow we shall have fancier fare. We shall have a cook tomorrow. And another footman.’
He frowned. ‘You are hiring many new servants.’
‘Y-yes.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Well.’ She recovered. ‘I just came from a lengthy stay abroad, you see.’
‘You are rebuilding your staff?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘That is it.’
He tilted his head. Why did she always sound as if she had something to hide?
He had no desire to challenge her at the moment, though. Not when she briefly seemed at ease with him.
‘I was abroad, as well,’ he said instead. ‘In Brussels. Were you there?’
‘No.’ She paused as if there were more for her to conceal. ‘In Switzerland.’
‘Ah, Switzerland. A place I should like to visit.’
Carter placed a dish in front of him and the aroma of the stew filled his nostrils. ‘Here is the stew, sir. I will place the bread on the left for you.’
‘Thank you, Carter.’ He lifted his head in what he hoped was Mrs Asher’s direction. ‘It smells quite delicious.’
He could hear her being served, as well. She thanked Carter and his footsteps receded.
‘Do eat, Mr Westleigh,’ she said.
He felt for the fork first. Spearing meat with the fork seemed the easiest means of getting the food into his mouth. It took him several tries, but he finally succeeded. The lamb was flavourful and tender. Next he managed to spear some potato. Eating so little in the past two days had wreaked havoc on his appetite. It indeed felt like he could not get enough.
‘Is it to your liking?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘You cannot tell? I am certain I am shovelling it in like an ill-mannered peasant.’
‘You are allowed some lack of graces due to your injuries.’ His blindness, she meant.
He forced himself to slow down, searching for the bread and tearing off a piece. ‘What brought you to Switzerland?’ he asked.
‘A...’ She paused. ‘A retreat, you might say.’
He’d heard of spa towns on the Continent, places where a wealthy widow might go for a lengthy recuperation.
Or perhaps to have a child out of wedlock. Was that her secret? She seemed sad enough for such a happenstance. It would explain that air of concealment he sensed in her.
A wave of tenderness towards her washed over him. Women always had a more difficult lot in life. Men seduced women and women paid the price. A child out of wedlock—it made perfect sense.
* * *
Daphne toyed with her food, her appetite fleeing under his questions and the impact of his appearance, attired in coat and waistcoat. His coat fit beautifully, accenting his broad shoulders and tapering to his lean waist. He made it difficult to ignore that he was more than an invalid, more than a member of the family who despised her. He was a man, and his presence seemed to fill the room.
He’d paused and she feared he could sense she was staring at him. She averted her gaze, now wishing he would ask her about her retreat in Switzerland, even if she did not know how to tell him her retreat was in a Catholic convent.
He tore off another piece of bread. ‘My stay in Brussels was anything but a retreat.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. He was like most men. Wishing to talk about himself.
‘Is that so?’ she responded politely.
‘My time was spent disentangling my father’s affairs,’ he went on. ‘He was living there, you see. And he died there several months ago.’
‘I am so sorry.’ She felt genuinely sympathetic. She’d not known of the earl’s death.
She’d heard the Earl of Westleigh had been living on the Continent. Some scandal associated with the Masquerade Club, she recalled, but she could not remember the details. In her nights spent in attendance at the club, she’d not paid much attention to anything but her own interests.
‘Do not be sorry,’ he countered. ‘He was the very worst of fathers. The worst of men. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The infamous Earl of Westleigh?’ He exaggerated his father’s name.
‘I have heard of him.’ He’d been an acquaintance of her late husband’s and only a few years older. ‘But only his name, really.’ It was true. Her husband had not gossiped with her about the people he knew.
‘My brother Ned, the new earl, sent me to deal with whatever trouble our father caused. I am glad this was my last trip.’
She did not know what to say to this, so she offered more food. ‘Would you like more stew?’
‘I would indeed.’ He smiled.
He had a nice smile, she thought.
He was also the first person she’d ever met who admitted to not grieving the loss of a family member. Perhaps she wasn’t so strange after all, that the deaths of her parents had left her feeling so little emotion. She’d hardly known them. She had regretted that.
‘Did you not like Brussels, then?’ she asked, just to make conversation.
‘It is a beautiful city.’ He averted his head. ‘But too full of memories for me. When I walk through its streets, all I can think of is Waterloo.’
‘You were in the great battle?’ All she knew of the battle was what she read in the newspapers that reached Faville.
‘Yes.’ His voice turned wooden.
She took a big gulp of wine. ‘War and battle are not good topics for dinner conversation, are they?’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled again. ‘Tell me about Switzerland. I’ve seen the Alps from France, but not the other side. Are they as majestically beautiful?’
The Abbey was in a valley. The craggy stone mountaintops of the Alps were not greatly visible there.
‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed brightly. ‘Quite beautiful. It was a lovely place.’
‘I should like to travel there.’ He laughed. ‘I should like to travel anywhere and everywhere. That is what I will do after I report back to the family in London. Travel.’
But he might be blind. What would happen to his dreams of travel then?
‘There are many places to see,’ she responded conversationally.
They continued though dinner, talking of various places on the Continent where they had travelled. Daphne had seen only the countries through which she travelled to Switzerland and a little of Italy when her husband had taken her there.
The meal was companionable, more pleasant than any meal Daphne could remember in a long time. She enjoyed it far more than she ought, especially considering her resolve to stay away from him.
* * *
After dinner, they retired to the drawing room.
‘I do not have brandy to offer, I am afraid.’ She’d send Carter into the village to procure some the next day, however. ‘Would you care for tea?’
‘Tea will do.’
He’d been so churlish that morning, but now was agreeable and diverting. She could almost forget that she was Lady Faville and he was a man who would certainly despise her, if he knew.
As they finished their tea, she could see his energy was flagging.
‘I believe I shall retire for the night,’ she said, saving him the need to admit he was tired.
He smiled. ‘Will you escort me upstairs? I am uncertain I will be able to find my room again.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ she said.
As they climbed the stairs, he asked, ‘What time is breakfast served?’
Goodness. She did not care. ‘Whenever you wish.’
‘Name a time.’
She ought to check with Mrs Pitts before making a decision. The woman had toiled very hard this day. The new maids had caused her more work and the prospect of hiring more workers had created more anxiety in the poor woman.
What thoughts were these? When had she ever considered the feelings of servants?
‘I will send Carter in the morning to help you dress. We will have breakfast ready soon after.’
She left him at his doorway. ‘Goodnight, Mr Westleigh. Carter will be up to tend to your needs soon.’
His hand slid down her arm to clasp hers. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable evening.’
Her heart fluttered with pleasure. Appreciation from a gentleman had always gratified her, but did not usually excite such emotion. Not from her husband, certainly. From only one man, the man who’d married Westleigh’s sister.
It must merely be the novelty, she thought. She’d been secluded from men for a long time when at the convent. Certainly Hugh Westleigh was the last man on earth who should excite her sensibilities.
She crossed the hallway to the bedchamber opposite Westleigh’s. It was smaller than the one she’d given Westleigh, but there was another, even smaller room next to it that was perfect for Monette.
Besides, she’d become used to sleeping in a room in the Abbey even smaller than a maid’s room. A cot. A side table. A chest for her clothing. It had been all she needed.
Inside the room, Monette was laying out her nightdress.
She looked up at Daphne, her brows raised. ‘Was that Mr Westleigh I heard with you? Carter said he came down on his own for dinner.’
‘Yes. I walked with him upstairs.’
‘Is he to be up and about, then?’ Monette asked.
‘Yes. He has no wish to spend time in his room.’ Unfortunately.
‘That makes you unhappy,’ Monette guessed.
Monette was not in Daphne’s confidence. In fact, Daphne had told the younger woman very little about her life. She was the widow of a viscount, that was it. Daphne had not told anyone, even the abbess, any more than that. While in the convent, she wore her unhappiness as plainly as the sisters wore their habits, but she’d never explained.
She needed to give some answer, though. ‘It makes matters more complicated. No matter what he thinks, he cannot get about on his own.’
Monette folded down the coverlet and bed linens. ‘It is good, then, that you have hired more help. There are more of us to tend to him.’
Yes, but Westleigh was her guest, and a hostess did not leave a guest to be entertained by the servants.
‘That is so,’ she said, there being no reason why Monette should know precisely how difficult it would be for her to spend time with Westleigh.
Spending time with him was like a constant reminder of her lie and of what she was most ashamed.
And now she was also too much aware of him as a man.
Chapter Five
As promised, Carter appeared the next morning in time to ready Hugh for breakfast, and, rather than eating alone, Hugh had company. Mrs Asher breakfasted with him, making polite conversation as if seated with a man who could see. The food was easy for him to eat. He suspected she’d made certain of that.
Her chair scraped against the floor. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Westleigh, I must meet with the housekeeper.’
He stood.
‘A new cook and kitchen maid are arriving today,’ she explained. ‘A new footman, as well. Mr and Mrs Pitts need to involve me in the arrangements, for some reason. Carter will attend to you. He is here to assist you when you are finished eating. Do take your time, though.’
The dining room held no further appeal after she left and Hugh did not remain long. Carter walked with him to the drawing room, although what he would do there, he did not know.
He sat in the same chair as the day before. ‘How long have you been with Mrs Asher?’ he asked Carter.
‘Not long,’ the servant replied somewhat hesitantly. ‘She hired me right before her travel home.’
‘You were in Switzerland?’ An odd place to find a footman for hire.
‘I was, sir,’ Carter responded, but did not explain.
Not that Hugh required an explanation from the poor man. It was merely that Hugh had nothing to do but talk.
‘I must beg your leave, sir, to complete my other duties,’ Carter said. ‘I will return to see if you are in need of anything. Say, in an hour or so?’
‘Go, Carter. I shall do very well on my own.’ What other choice did he have?
He heard Carter walk towards the door.
‘Carter?’
‘Yes, sir?’ the man answered.
‘Could you find me a cane?’
‘A cane, sir? Forgive me, sir, I had not noticed you walking with any difficulty.’ His voice was distressed.
‘No difficulty,’ Hugh assured him. ‘I merely thought that if I had a cane, I could keep myself from bumping into things. I could walk around without assistance.’
‘I see, sir.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘I will look for a cane for you.’
Carter closed the door and Hugh drummed his fingers on his knee. What the devil was he going to do to pass the time?
He rose and explored the room, treading carefully and trying not to tumble over furniture or break priceless ornaments.
It was a modest drawing room. He found at least three separate seating groups and some cabinetry along the walls. One of the cabinets held the claret. He was tempted to pour himself a glass, but feared he would spill the liquid and stain the carpet. He could drink from the carafe, but that seemed too ill mannered. Besides, he’d just consumed breakfast. It was a little early for imbibing.
He continued through the room and along the wall until finding a window. He knew from opening his window before breakfast that the day was a chilly one for April and to open this one would defeat the fire’s battle to warm the room, but he could not resist. The fresh air smelled like freedom.
He took in big gulps of air, as hungry for it as he’d been for his first meal here. But he closed the window again. Nothing was more of a nuisance than a guest who took over and changed a household’s entire routine. He was just so extremely tired of being closed inside walls.
But that was his lot for the moment. He ought, at least, to bear it without this constant pitying of himself.
He continued his way around the room.
He found a pianoforte in one corner of the room and ran his fingers down the keys. He pressed one. It sounded a note.
And reminded him of his sister.
How was Phillipa faring? he wondered. Was she still spending long hours at the pianoforte, composing those songs of hers? Was her husband still selling her music? Hugh had heard one of the songs played by the orchestra at Vauxhall Gardens, quite an unusual accomplishment for a well-bred young lady.
Phillipa followed her own desires, no matter the pressure from their mother and the neglect of her father and brothers. Look at the result. She’d married Xavier—a man decent enough to put the whole Westleigh family to shame and well able to provide for her. And she’d just become a mother.
Hugh hoped Phillipa still played music, even though she was now a mother. He’d never given her music much thought—if truth be told, he never gave Phillipa enough thought. With her scarred face, she’d always hidden herself away. And she was seven years younger. He’d been at school, then in the army while she grew up.
He admired her now.
Phillipa’s scar, her music, the abominable way everyone had treated her, all freed her from any responsibility to the family. Ned, now the earl, was charged with preserving the family property and good name for coming generations. Hugh had been given the task of family workhorse.
Difficulties emerged at the country estate? Send Hugh to fix them. Papa engaging in bad behaviour again? Dispatch Hugh to set him straight.
All that was at an end. Ned must attend to his property now and their father would no longer trouble anyone. Hugh was free.
Or would be, if his sight returned.
He made a fist and struck the keys of the pianoforte again. The sound was as discordant as his emotions. His freedom was dependent upon his eyes. What if they did not heal?
He straightened. Enough self-pity.
He drummed his fingers on the keyboard and made more pleasant music.
For want of anything else to do, he sat at the pianoforte’s bench and felt the keys, hearing his sister’s endless scales that echoed through their house for so many years. He found middle C and played the simple C scale, which pretty much exhausted his knowledge of playing.
He played the scale again. And again. And again until his fingers moved smoothly from note to note and the novelty wore off. He tried picking out a tune, an exercise in trial and error, but he kept at it.
He picked out the tune for the military bugle call that signalled the end of the day—or the end of battle.
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Diane Gaston
DESIRED FOR HERSELF ALONE…When fallen beauty Daphne, Lady Faville, is carried to safety from a rampaging fire, she’s horrified to recognise her rescuer as Hugh Westleigh – a man with every reason to despise her!But Hugh has been blinded and Daphne must nurse him back to health. Unable to see, he is driven to distraction by her tantalising scent and gentle touch. For the first time Daphne feels truly desired for herself alone. But when Hugh finally regains his sight will she find forgiveness in his arms?The Masquerade ClubIdentities concealed, desires revealed…
DESIRED FOR HERSELF ALONE…
When fallen beauty Daphne, Lady Faville, is carried to safety from a rampaging fire, she’s horrified to recognize her rescuer as Hugh Westleigh—a man with every reason to despise her!
But Hugh has been blinded and Daphne must nurse him back to health. Unable to see, he is driven to distraction by her tantalizing scent and gentle touch.
For the first time, Daphne feels truly desired for herself alone. But when Hugh finally regains his sight, will she find forgiveness in his arms?
If Hugh wished to be completely honest with himself he’d admit what was really keeping him awake.
Daphne.
His thoughts were consumed by her. A second kiss with a promise of passion equal to the first had done it. He’d counted how many times she’d poured herself brandy. Only three times, and all had been short pourings, not enough to explain her response to him. No, she’d chosen this kiss with a clear mind.
Had he gone too far? He’d meant only to touch her.
Hadn’t he?
His masculine urges were surging, unleashed by that kiss. She was not far—a few steps. He could find his way. By God, she drew him so strongly he believed he could find his way even without his cane.
Welcome to Diane Gaston’s
THE MASQUERADE CLUB
Identities concealed, desires revealed…
This is your invitation to Regency society’s most exclusive gaming establishment.
Leave your inhibitions at the door, don your disguise and indulge your desires!
A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY
Already available
A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY
Already available
A LADY OF NOTORIETY
July 2014
A Lady of Notoriety
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com (http://dianegaston.com)
Previous novels by the same author:
THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M
THE WAGERING WIDOW
A REPUTABLE RAKE
INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY
A TWELFTH NIGHT TALE
(in A Regency Christmas anthology) THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS SCANDALISING THE TON JUSTINE AND THE NOBLE VISCOUNT† (in Regency Summer Scandals) GALLANT OFFICER, FORBIDDEN LADY* CHIVALROUS CAPTAIN, REBEL MISTRESS* VALIANT SOLDIER, BEAUTIFUL ENEMY* A NOT SO RESPECTABLE GENTLEMAN?† BORN TO SCANDAL A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY** A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY**
†linked by character
*Three Soldiers mini-series **The Masquerade Club
and in Mills & Boon
HistoricalUndone!eBooks:
THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH
THE LIBERATION OF MISS FINCH
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Catherine, a beautiful friend in all ways.
AUTHOR NOTE
Beauty and redemption. Two subjects that continue to fascinate me.
Can people truly change or are their characters fixed for life?
I believe in change. I believe any of us can overcome past mistakes, past weaknesses, past faults, and strive to become better people.
Beautiful people, though, may have a more difficult path than the more ordinary of us. Prized, cosseted, celebrated for their appearance alone… I believe beautiful people have fewer opportunities to face their imperfections. I suspect it is more difficult for them to learn and grow into better people.
In my previous The Masquerade Club book, A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY, a beautiful lady tries to wreck the marriage of a man she’s long desired. As a result she creates a destruction that might be devastating. Can such a woman learn from that experience? Can she redeem herself? And can any man truly believe in her redemption and love the woman she strives to be inside?
Read on and see.
Contents
Chapter One (#u9f72ff67-5879-52ee-941c-b953360a2aad)
Chapter Two (#uc9e97dae-38c0-5764-bcf0-a09e9e085253)
Chapter Three (#ua71f5a4d-5e61-5222-8c43-aa774aab8d28)
Chapter Four (#ue987b162-4a50-5019-b34c-36fc9e210cf3)
Chapter Five (#u91508b1d-31c0-5d36-9035-766e2d6cdddc)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Ramsgate, Kent—April 1821
‘My lady! My lady! Wake up! Fire!’
Daphne, Lady Faville, jolted awake at her maid’s cries. Smoke filled her nostrils and stung her eyes. Shouts and pounding on doors sounded in the hallway of the Ramsgate inn.
‘Fire! Get out,’ a man’s voice boomed.
Fire. Her biggest fear.
Daphne leaped out of bed and shoved her feet into slippers. Her maid began gathering their belongings, stuffing them into a portmanteau.
‘Leave them, Monette.’ Daphne seized her coin purse and threw her cloak around her shoulders. Her heart raced. ‘We must go now!’
She reached for the door latch, but her maid pulled her arm away.
‘Wait! The hall may be on fire.’ The maid pressed her hand against the door. ‘It is not hot. It is safe.’ She opened the door.
It was not safe.
The hallway was filled with smoke, and tongues of flame licked the walls here and there, as if sneaking up from below. In a moment the wallpaper would curl and burn. The fire would grow. It could engulf them.
Daphne saw a vision of another time, another fire. Her heart pounded. Was she to die in flames after all?
‘Keep your skirts away from the fire,’ she cried to Monette.
They moved blindly ahead, down the long hallway, through its fiery gauntlet.
‘Hurry, Monette.’ She took the maid’s hand and lamented asking the innkeeper for rooms that were as private as possible.
Their rooms were far from the stairway.
‘Someone is in the hallway. At the end,’ a man’s voice cried.
Through the grey smoke he emerged, an apparition rushing towards them. He grabbed them both and half-carried them through the hallway past other men who were knocking on doors, and other residents emerging in nightclothes.
They reached the stairway and he pushed Monette forwards. The girl ran down the stairs. Daphne shrank back. The flames below were larger, more dangerous.
‘I’ll get you through.’ The man gathered her up in his arms and carried her down the three flights of stairs. She buried her face in his chest, too afraid to see the fire so close.
Suddenly the air cooled and she could breathe again. They were outside. He set her down and her maid ran to her, hugging her in relief. They were alive! Daphne swung back to thank the man who rescued them.
He was already running back into the fire.
Her footman appeared. ‘You are safe, m’lady. Come away from the building.’
He brought them to where a group of people in various stages of undress huddled together.
‘I must go back to the buckets.’ He looked apologetic.
‘Yes, Carter. Yes,’ Daphne agreed. ‘Help all you can.’
He ran to the brigade passing buckets of water to the fire. Other men led horses out of the stables and rolled coaches away from the burning building.
Daphne’s eyes riveted on the doorway, willing their rescuer to reappear. Other men carried people out, but she did not see him. She’d not seen his face, but she knew she would recognise him. Tall, dark haired and strong. He wore the dark coat and fawn pantaloons of a gentleman.
Finally he appeared, two children tucked under his arms and a frantic mother following behind.
Daphne took a step forwards, eager to speak to him, to thank him. To her shock, he ran towards the door again. One of the other men seized his arm, apparently trying to stop him, but the man shrugged him off and rushed back inside.
Daphne’s hand flew over her mouth. Please, God, let him come out again.
An older gentleman approached her. ‘Lady Faville?’
She wanted to watch for her rescuer, not engage in conversation.
‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.
She presumed he was someone she’d met in London. ‘I am sorry. I do not—’
He looked disappointed. ‘I am Lord Sanvers. We met several times at the Masquerade Club.’
The Masquerade Club?
It was a place she wanted to forget, the London gambling house where players could gamble in masks to protect their identity. It was also the place she almost destroyed.
By fire.
‘It is two years since I attended there,’ she answered him. ‘There were so many gentlemen I met.’
It was inadequate as an apology. Surely he—and everyone—knew that she’d been obsessed by only one man, a man who would never love her. She’d fled to the Continent and eventually to Switzerland and Fahr Abbey. The abbey had become her retreat and her salvation, chosen by whim because its name was similar to her husband’s title name and the name of the village where she’d once felt secure. At Fahr Abbey, though, she’d come face-to-face with her failings.
But could she change?
Could she be as selfless as her brave rescuer?
Minutes seemed like hours, but he finally emerged again, leading two more people to safety. The fire intensified, roaring now like a wild beast. Were there more people inside? Would he risk his life again?
He ran back to the fire and was silhouetted inside the doorway when a huge rush of glowing embers fell from the ceiling. The building groaned, as if in the throes of death. Timbers fell from the roof and the man’s arms rose in front of his face. Daphne watched in horror as one large flaming timber knocked him to the floor.
‘No!’ Without thinking, she ran towards him.
Other men reached him first, pulling him by his clothing until he was in the yard. The building collapsed entirely.
Daphne knelt down next to him as they brushed away glowing cinders from his coat and patted out smoking cloth.
‘Is he alive?’ she cried.
They rolled him on his back, and one man put a finger to the pulse in his neck. ‘He’s alive for now.’
Daphne gasped. ‘I know him!’
Though his face was dark with soot and pink with burns, she recognised him. He was Hugh Westleigh, younger brother of the new Earl of Westleigh. He was also the brother of the lady she’d so terribly wronged at the Masquerade Club.
Had he arrived on the packet from Calais, as she had? Or was he bound there? Either way, she suspected he would not have liked seeing her after all the trouble she’d caused.
He was not conscious, and that alarmed her.
‘We’d better carry him to the surgeon,’ one of the men said.
They lifted him. Daphne followed them.
Her maid and footman caught up to her. Monette’s eyes were wide. ‘My lady?’
‘I know this man,’ she explained. ‘I must see he receives care. Wait for me here.’
They carried him to what looked like a nearby shopfront. Inside several people sat on benches while one man, the surgeon apparently, bandaged burns.
‘We have a bad one here, Mr Trask.’
The surgeon waved a man off the chair where he’d been tending to him and gestured for the men to sit Westleigh in it. He was still limp.
Daphne wrung her hands. ‘Will he live?’
‘I do not know, ma’am,’ the surgeon said.
‘He was hit on the head,’ she said. ‘I saw it.’
The man checked Westleigh’s head. ‘Appears to be so.’
Westleigh groaned and Daphne released a pent-up breath.
The surgeon lifted his head. ‘Wake up, sir.’ He turned to Daphne. ‘What is his name?’
‘Mr Westleigh,’ she said. ‘He is the younger brother of the Earl of Westleigh.’
‘Is he?’ One of the men who had carried him in raised his brows. ‘Who would have expected it of the Quality? The man has pluck.’
‘Westleigh!’ The surgeon raised his voice. ‘Wake up.’
He groaned again.
‘Open your eyes.’
Westleigh tried to comply, straining. He winced and tried to rub his eyes. ‘I cannot...’
Thank God he could speak.
The surgeon pulled his hands away. ‘Do not do that. Let me look.’ He examined Westleigh’s eyes and turned to Daphne. ‘His eyes are cloudy. Damaged from the fire.’ He tilted Westleigh’s head back and rinsed his eyes with clear water from a nearby pitcher. ‘His eyes must stay bandaged for two weeks or he will lose his sight.’ He shrugged. ‘He may lose his sight no matter what, but sometimes the eyes heal remarkably well. I’m more concerned about his head. He is certainly concussed. He needs to be cared for.’
‘In what way?’ Daphne asked.
‘He needs rest and quiet. No excitement at all. For at least a week.’ He looked into Westleigh’s mouth and in his nose. ‘No bleeding. That is good.’
‘Head hurts,’ Westleigh mumbled.
The surgeon folded bandages over Westleigh’s eyes and wrapped his head to keep them in place. No sooner had he finished than another victim of the fire was brought in, covered with burns. The surgeon’s attention immediately went to his new patient. ‘I must see this man.’ He waved Daphne away. ‘Keep his eyes bandaged and keep him quiet. No travelling. He must stay quiet.’
Daphne dropped some coins from her purse on the table. The surgeon deserved payment.
The man who had carried Westleigh to the surgeon got him to his feet. ‘Come along, sir.’ He turned to Daphne. ‘Follow me.’
He must think she was in Westleigh’s party.
They walked out of the building into a day just beginning to turn light.
Carter, her footman, ran up to her. ‘M’lady, John Coachman found a stable for the horses. He and your maid are waiting with the carriage, which was left near the inn.’
The man assisting Westleigh strained with the effort to keep him upright. ‘Give us a hand, would you?’ he asked her footman. Carter rushed to help him, but the man handed off his burden entirely. ‘I must see to my own family, ma’am.’ He pulled on his forelock and hurried away.
Westleigh moaned.
‘What do I do with him?’ Carter shifted to get a better hold on Westleigh.
Daphne’s mind was spinning. ‘Take him to the carriage, I suppose. We must find someone to care for him.’
Men were still busy at the inn, extinguishing embers, salvaging undamaged items, of which there were very few. Daphne’s and her maid’s trunks had been with the carriage, so they had lost only what had been in their portmanteaux.
Carter and John Coachman helped Westleigh into the carriage.
‘Is he coming with us?’ Monette asked.
‘Oh, no,’ Daphne replied. ‘He would detest that. He must have been travelling with someone. We should find out who.’ She turned to Carter. ‘Can you ask, please? His name is Hugh Westleigh, Lord Westleigh’s brother.’
Westleigh stirred and tried to pull at the bandages covering his eyes.
‘No, Westleigh!’ Daphne climbed inside the carriage and pulled his hands away. ‘You must not touch your bandages.’ She arranged the pillows and rugs to make him more comfortable.
‘Thirsty,’ Westleigh mumbled.
How thoughtless of her. He must have a raging thirst after all his exertion.
‘Monette, find him some ale and something nourishing.’ What ought an injured man eat? She had no idea, but dug into her purse again and handed both her maid and footman some coins. ‘Both of you buy something for yourselves to eat and drink and bring something back for John Coachman, as well.’
* * *
Monette returned within a quarter-hour with food and drink from a nearby alehouse for Westleigh and the coachman.
‘They have a room where we might change clothes,’ she told Daphne. ‘I paid for it and for a meal, so that we can eat privately.’
It was better than eating in the carriage on the street with the smell of ashes still in the air.
‘I’ll tend to the gentleman, m’lady,’ John Coachman said. ‘I must watch the carriage in any event. He’ll be comfortable enough inside, with your pillows and all.’
Monette climbed on top of the carriage and retrieved clothing from the trunks, rolling them into a bundle. She led Daphne to the alehouse, about two streets away.
The place was crowded with people in various stages of dress and from various walks of life, who had all apparently escaped the fire. Daphne followed Monette through the throng. The smell of sweat, smoke and ale made Daphne’s empty stomach roil.
Surely a lady of her stature should not be required to endure this sort of place.
She placed her hand over her mouth.
The words of the abbess at Fahr came back to her. You must practise compassion for all people, my lady. We are all God’s children.
The dear abbess. The nuns at Fahr had told her the abbess was very old, but to Daphne she’d seemed ageless. For some unfathomable reason the abbess had bestowed her love and attention on Daphne.
Her eyes filled with tears. The woman’s death had been a terrible blow, worse than her own mother’s death, worse than her husband’s. She could not bear to stay at Fahr after such a loss.
At least the abbess’s words remained with her. Sometimes, when Daphne needed her words, it was almost as if the woman were at her side, whispering in her ear.
Daphne glanced around once more and tried to see the people in the alehouse through the abbess’s eyes. Most looked exhausted. Some appeared close to despair. Others wore bandages on their arms or hands.
Daphne ached for them.
More truthfully, a part of her felt sorrow for their suffering; another part was very grateful to have been spared their troubles.
As they reached the door to the private room, a gentleman rose from a booth where he’d sat alone. He was the gentleman who had spoken to her before, who remembered her from the Masquerade Club. What was his name?
Lord Sanvers.
‘My good lady. There you are. I was concerned about you.’ His silver hair was neatly combed and he appeared to have changed into fresh linen. Compared to the others he was pristine.
‘I am unharmed, sir.’
He blocked her way. ‘May I assist you in any way? I am at your disposal.’
He could take charge of Westleigh! Would that not be a better situation for everyone?
She glanced at the booth Lord Sanvers had all to himself and to the numbers of people who did not even have a chair.
Would he have extended his offer of help if she had not been the beautiful, wealthy widow of a viscount?
She curtsied to him. ‘My servants have seen to everything, sir, but I thank you.’
She walked past him and through the open door where Monette waited.
Once inside the room, Daphne collapsed onto a chair in relief.
And guilt.
Why should she have this private room and so many others so much less? Was she just as selfish as Lord Sanvers?
She hurriedly changed out of her nightclothes and into the dress Monette had pulled from her trunk. Monette did the same. After quickly eating a breakfast, she handed the innkeeper money and asked him to give the room and some food to those most in need. She and Monette did not stay to see if he honoured her request.
They left the alehouse and returned to the carriage.
Carter waited there with the coachman.
‘Did you find Mr Westleigh’s travelling companions?’ Daphne peeked in the carriage, but saw Westleigh lying against the pillows.
‘I found the innkeeper, m’lady,’ Carter told her. ‘He said that Mr Westleigh travelled alone. Not even with a manservant.’
Who would care for him, then?
‘How is he?’ she asked her coachman.
‘Sleeping,’ he answered. ‘Talking a bit and restless, but sleeping. He did drink the ale, though.’
Daphne glanced around. ‘We must find someone to care for him.’
Carter shook his head. ‘I believe that cannot be done. There were many people injured in the fire and many others displaced. It would be difficult to even find him a room. Or rooms for ourselves.’
‘We should leave today, then, m’lady,’ John Coachman said. ‘If we start soon we can find lodgings on the road and still reach Faville the day after tomorrow.’
It would take three days for them to reach her property in Vadley near Basingstoke. Her husband had left her the unentailed country house and estate instead of consigning her to the dower house in Faville. She’d spent very little time in Vadley, though, only a few weeks past her days of mourning. Now she planned to return and live a retired life. Whether by doing so she could atone for her days of vanity and thoughtlessness, she was not certain.
‘We cannot take him with us,’ she said.
But she could hear the abbess, clucking her tongue. You must find grace to help in time of need.
‘The surgeon said he cannot travel,’ she protested.
‘We don’t have a choice, m’lady,’ Carter said in a low voice.
‘I say we start out and ask at every posting inn until we find someone to care for him,’ her coachman added. ‘It will be a more practicable task once we are out of Ramsgate.’
‘We cannot leave him.’ Monette’s eyes pleaded.
These servants were prepared to take care of a stranger, but she was merely trying to think of a way to abandon him, just because she knew he would hate being cared for by a lady who’d wronged his sister.
Or was she merely thinking of her own discomfort?
You must find grace to help in time of need.
‘Very well.’ She nodded decisively. ‘But let us head towards London. I am certain his family will be in town. When we find a place for his recuperation, we can send for them and they will not have far to travel. Or if we fail to find him care, we will take him the whole way.’ It would mean not even two full days of travel.
* * *
By late afternoon they’d not found any suitable place for Westleigh, nor had they found anyone willing to take responsibility for his care. Worse, it became clear he could not travel another day to reach London.
The ride had been a nightmare. The coach jostled him and he cried out in pain. He woke often, but was feverish and disoriented and difficult to calm.
They managed to reach Thurnfield, a small village on the road to Maidstone. Its one inn could not accommodate them, but the innkeeper knew of a cottage to let nearby. Daphne signed the papers and paid the rent. Before they set out the short distance to the cottage, she spoke to Carter, John Coachman and Monette.
‘I told the leasing agent that I am Mrs Asher, not Lady Faville. I think Mr Westleigh will be more comfortable if he does not know it is me seeing to his care. He only knows me as Lady Faville, you see, and—and his family has reason to dislike me. He would be quite displeased if he knew Lady Faville was caring for him.’ She took a breath and rubbed her forehead. ‘Asher was my maiden name, so we would not really be lying to anyone....’
Who was she fooling? She was lying to herself as well as lying about her true identity.
Had not the abbess said she must break herself of telling falsehoods as a means of avoiding unpleasantness? Even if the lies were little ones.
She would do so, she vowed.
Next time.
She swallowed more guilt. ‘Try to remember to call me Mrs Asher and don’t call me m’lady, if you can help it.’
The three servants nodded agreeably.
Was she wrong to make them go along with her lie? Of course she was.
‘It will be as you wish it, m’lady,’ Carter said. ‘I mean, ma’am.’
‘Let us go, then.’ She allowed Carter to assist her into the carriage. Monette climbed in after her and Carter sat with John Coachman.
They drove the short distance to a white stucco cottage with well-tended shrubbery and a small stable for the horses.
Carter opened the carriage door and put down the step. Daphne and Monette climbed out as the housekeeper and caretaker walked out to greet them.
‘We are Mr and Mrs Pitts, ma’am,’ the caretaker said. ‘At your service.’
‘I am Mrs Asher,’ Daphne shook their hands, feeling only a twinge of guilt. She introduced the others. ‘We have an injured man with us. Mr Westleigh. He will need to be taken to a bedchamber as quickly as possible.’
The housekeeper gestured to the door. ‘Come in, then, Mrs Asher, and tell us which room shall be the gentleman’s.’
Leaving Monette to watch over Westleigh, and Carter and Mr Pitts to unload the trunks, Daphne followed the housekeeper inside. The decor was modest, but luxurious if she compared it to Fahr Abbey. They should do very nicely there. It would only be for a day or two, until Westleigh’s family could come.
‘Let us look at the bedchambers.’ Mrs Pitts started up the stairs. ‘You may pick which one should go to the gentleman.’
Carter and Mr Pitts entered.
‘We have Mr Westleigh’s trunk,’ Carter said.
‘Follow us.’ Daphne walked up the stairs.
She chose the nicest of the bedchambers for Westleigh. It was a corner room with windows on both sides to let in lots of light and fresh air.
‘Does the bed have fresh linens?’ she asked.
‘Indeed,’ responded Mrs Pitts. ‘We readied the rooms when the agent sent a message that you were to arrive right away.’
That was what a good housekeeper should do, Daphne thought. She’d learned, though, that even servants liked to be thanked.
‘How very good of you.’ She smiled at Mrs Pitts and turned towards Carter. ‘Bring him here.’
He and Mr Pitts set down the trunk and left the room.
‘Do you wish to see the rest of the house now?’ Mrs Pitts asked Daphne.
‘I will see the gentleman settled first,’ she replied.
‘Let me see to the meal, then, ma’am.’
Mrs Pitts left and a few moments later, the men helped Westleigh to the bed.
‘Where am I?’ Westleigh asked, tense and confused. ‘Where have you taken me?’
Daphne came to his side and touched his hand. ‘You are in a cottage on the road to Maidstone.’ She used her most soothing voice.
‘Not going to Maidstone. Going to London.’ He tried to stand.
Daphne put a hand on his shoulder and he sat again. ‘You are too ill to travel to London.’ She had been making explanations like this for the past two hours—every time he woke and did not know where he was. ‘You were in a fire and you injured your eyes and your head. You need to rest in this bed here and we will care for you until you are better. Then you will go to London.’
‘Rest?’ He relaxed. ‘Then London.’
Carter spoke. ‘You should leave the room, m’l—Mrs Asher, while I undress him.’
She turned to the housekeeper’s husband. ‘Would you bring him water? Soap and towels, too, if possible, so Carter can bathe him a little? I am certain he will be more comfortable when clean again. Be gentle with his face, though.’
‘Water, soap and towels are already here, ma’am.’ The man pointed to a chest of drawers upon which sat a pitcher and basin and folded towels. He left the room.
Carter spoke. ‘I’ll clean him up, ma’am. Leave him to me.’
Daphne moved her hand, planning to step away, but Westleigh groped for it and seized it, pulling her back. ‘Do not leave,’ he rasped. ‘Do not leave me alone.’
His firm grip and his intensity shook her. She did not know how to calm him.
She stroked his hair—what little hair was not covered by bandages. ‘Shh, now,’ she said, trying to sound like the abbess who’d soothed her when she’d become overwrought. ‘You are not alone. Carter is here.’
‘I am here, sir,’ Carter said.
Daphne continued. ‘Now remain still and Carter will take off your boots. Will that not feel more comfortable?’
‘I’ll give you a little wash and put you in clean bedclothes,’ Carter added.
Daphne felt Westleigh’s muscles relax.
‘Do not wear bedclothes,’ he murmured.
Chapter Two
The dragon pursued him, its fiery breath scorching his skin. Stinging his eyes.
Hugh pushed himself to run faster, to escape.
The way out was ahead, a pinpoint of light that seemed to become more distant the harder he pumped his legs to reach it. The flames roared, as if the dragon laughed at him. The blaze encircled him, bound him. Devoured him.
He jolted awake.
To darkness.
He sat up and his hands groped for his eyes. ‘I can’t see! Why can’t I see?’ His eyes were covered in cloth.
Then he remembered. The fire had not been a dream. It had burned his eyes, all brightness and pain. Was he blind?
‘The bandages. Take them off!’ He pulled at them.
There was a rustle of fabric and the scent of roses filled his nostrils. Cool hands clasped his.
‘Your eyes are injured.’ The voice was feminine and soothing, but not familiar. ‘The bandages need to stay on for you to heal.’
‘Who are you?’ He swallowed. His throat hurt when he spoke.
‘I—I am Mrs Asher. You carried me out of the fire—’
He remembered only one woman he’d carried out of the fire, down the flame-filled stairway, all the way to the cool night outside.
‘Where am I?’ he rasped.
‘You—you are in my cottage in—in Thurnfield.’
Thurnfield?
The village on the road to London? He’d passed through it many times.
She went on. ‘You cannot travel, so we brought you here.’
That made no sense. ‘I was in Ramsgate. If I cannot travel, how is it I came to Thurnfield?’
Her voice turned cautious. ‘We could not find a place for you in Ramsgate. Not one where you could receive care.’
She was caring for him? Who was this woman? He wanted to see her. Look her in the eye. Figure out the reason for the uneasiness in her voice.
But that was impossible.
He cleared his throat. ‘You said we.’
‘My maid and footman and me.’
She had a maid and a footman. A woman of some means, then. Of wealth? Were there more servants, perhaps? ‘A maid and footman. Who else is here?’
‘A housekeeper and her husband.’ She paused. ‘That is all.’
Modest means, then, but she was holding back something, he would bet on it. ‘Where is Mr Asher?’
‘I am a widow.’ Her voice turned low, and that provoked a whole new set of emotions.
He suddenly recalled that the woman he’d carried had weighed hardly more than a whisper. She’d curled trustingly against his chest, hiding her face from the fire.
He cursed the bandages covering his eyes. He wanted to see her. Face her like a man.
‘My name is Westleigh.’ He extended his hand, which seemed to float in empty space.
She grasped it.
Her hand felt soft, like the hand of a gently bred woman.
‘I know who you are,’ she said, her voice turning tight again. ‘We learned at the inn that you are Mr Hugh Westleigh. We have your trunk. Like ours, it was with the carriages and spared from the fire.’
Had she also learned he was the younger brother of the Earl of Westleigh? Was this a factor in bringing him here?
If only he could look into her eyes—he could read her character.
If only he could see.
He pressed the bandages covering his eyes. The pain grew sharper.
A soft, cool hand drew his fingers away as it had done before. ‘Please do not disturb your bandages. The surgeon said your eyes are to remain bandaged for two weeks. That is how long they will take to heal.’
‘Will they heal, then?’ he demanded. ‘Or am I to be blind?’
She did not answer right away. ‘The surgeon said they must stay bandaged or they will not heal. That much is certain. He said they could heal, though.’
Hugh laughed drily. ‘Could heal. That is not very reassuring.’
Her voice turned low again. ‘I am only repeating what he told me.’
He caught himself. She obviously had taken on the task of caring for him. He need not be churlish in return.
He lifted his throbbing head again and turned in the direction of her voice. ‘Forgive me. I do not customarily succumb to self-pity.’
‘Of course you do not.’ Now she sounded like his old governess. ‘Are you thirsty?’
Good of her to change the subject.
He was thirsty, by God. Parched.
He nodded.
He heard a swirl of her skirts again and the sound of pouring liquid. She lifted his hand and placed a glass in it. He took a sip.
It was water, flavoured with a touch of mint. Who took such trouble for a stranger?
He gulped it down. ‘Is there more?’
He held out the empty glass, again into nothingness. He waited for her to grasp it.
She took it and poured more, then again put it in his hand.
He drank and handed the glass back to her. ‘I detest feeling so helpless.’
‘Certainly you do,’ the governess responded. ‘But you must rest. You not only burned your eyes, you also suffered a blow to the head. The surgeon said you need rest to recover.’
He lay back against some pillows. The mere exertion of waking in strange surroundings and drinking two glasses of water had fatigued him. How annoying. How weak. He hated weakness.
‘Shall I bring you breakfast?’ she asked. ‘Or would you like to sleep some more?’
His stomach clenched at the mention of food.
He forced his raspy voice to remain calm. ‘Breakfast, if you would be so good.’
Again her skirts rustled. ‘I will be right back.’
Without his eyes, he must depend on this woman for food, for everything. How much more helpless could he be?
Her footsteps receded and a door opened. When he heard it close again, it was as if the room turned cold and menacing.
He’d never been afraid of darkness as a child. He’d never been afraid of anything, but this was a living nightmare. Had he traded the fiery dragon of his dream for darkness?
Blindness?
Carefully he felt his bandages. They were thick over his eyes and wound firmly around his head. He tried to open his eyelids, but they hardly moved, the bandages were so snug. The effort shot daggers through his eyeballs and he dared not try again lest he injure them even more.
Was his fate to be blind and helpless?
He pounded a fist on the mattress, but wished he could put his hands on something he could smash into a thousand pieces.
He didn’t fear darkness. He didn’t fear danger, but the idea of being helpless was too abhorrent for words. And he was, indeed, helpless. Helpless and confined.
He patted his arms and legs and torso—someone had put him in a shirt and drawers, he realised. He lifted the fabric of the shirt to his nose. Clean clothes. Not a hint of smoke. Someone had bathed and clothed him.
Had she undressed him and clad him in a clean shirt? In drawers?
He strained to remember. He recalled leading people out of the fire. Of fire blasting his face. He vaguely remembered being jostled in a carriage, but those memories were mere flashes, with no coherence at all.
His head throbbed and he pressed his temples. How injured was he? He stretched his arms, flexed his legs. The rest of him seemed in one piece. He felt the sting of burns here and there on his skin, but nothing of significance.
He could still walk, could he not? If so, he’d be damned if he remained bedridden.
He slipped off the bed. His legs held him, so he felt his way around the bed’s edge before stepping away. He hated not knowing what lay in his path. Waving his hands in front of him, he took tentative steps. Was this life without sight? Caught in emptiness? Unsure of every step?
A door opened.
‘Mr Westleigh!’ It was Mrs Asher’s voice. ‘You should not be out of bed!’
He heard the clatter of dishes—and smelled porridge. He felt her come near. Caught the scent of roses.
She took his arm. ‘Let me help you back to bed.’
He pulled away. ‘I will not be an invalid.’
She tugged at him. ‘No, but you must rest or you risk being that very thing.’
He still did not wish to comply. ‘Did you bring food?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘And a tray. See? You will be able to eat nicely in bed.’
He jerked away. ‘I cannot see.’
She stepped back and left him in the emptiness again.
Let her abandon him! He’d find his own way back, if necessary.
He turned to where he thought she stood. ‘Is there a table and chair in this room?’
She did not answer right away. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I will sit and eat like a man.’
‘Very well.’ She sighed. ‘Stay where you are.’ He heard furniture being moved. She took his arm again. ‘Come here.’
She led him to a chair. He sat and heard the table being moved towards him. A moment later he smelled the food and heard the sound of a tray being placed in front of him.
She took his hand and placed a spoon in it, and showed him the bowl. ‘It is porridge. And tea.’
He was suddenly famished, but he paused, trying again to face her, wherever she might be. ‘Mrs Asher?’
‘Yes?’ Her voice was petulant, as it should be after his abominable behaviour.
‘Do forgive me.’ He’d behaved badly towards her again. ‘I should be thanking you, nothing else.’
It took several seconds for her to speak. ‘Your apology is accepted, Mr Westleigh.’ Her voice softened. ‘But do eat. You need to eat to gain strength.’
‘I am grateful for the food. I am quite hungry.’ He dipped the spoon, but missed the bowl. ‘Blast.’ He’d forgotten where the bowl was located.
She directed him on his next try. This time he scooped up a spoonful of porridge and lifted it. He missed and hit the corner of his mouth.
She wiped it with a napkin. ‘Let me help you.’ Putting her hand on his, she guided the spoon to his mouth.
The first taste made him ravenous, but he could not bear being fed like a helpless infant. ‘I think I can manage it.’ He groped for the bowl and picked it up in one hand and held it close to his mouth. With his other hand he scooped the porridge with the spoon and shovelled it into his mouth.
No doubt his manners were appalling.
He scraped the bowl clean and felt for a space on the table to put it down. With his fingers, he carefully explored what else was there.
A tea cup, warm to the touch. How was he to manage lifting a tea cup without spilling it?
‘How do you take your tea?’ she asked. ‘I will fix it for you.’
‘Milk and one lump of sugar.’ He listened to the clink of the spoon as she stirred.
When the clinking stopped, she again guided his hand to the cup. He grasped it in both hands and carefully brought it to his mouth, aware of the aroma before attempting to take a sip. He sipped slowly, not because he savoured the taste, but because he did not wish to spill it.
When he finished, he managed to place the cup into its saucer. ‘Thank you, Mrs Asher. You have been very kind.’
‘You should rest now,’ she responded. ‘The surgeon said—’
‘I will give you no further argument.’ He felt for the napkin and wiped his mouth.
She came close again and touched his arm.
‘I want to try to manage by myself.’ He pushed the chair back and stood, getting reoriented to where the bed was. He groped his way back to it and climbed under the covers, aware that she must be watching his every awkward move. In his underclothes.
‘Shall I write to your family and tell them where you are and what has happened to you?’ she asked.
His family? Good God, no.
After this trip he intended to throw off the shackles of family responsibility for a time. He’d been at the family’s beck and call ever since leaving the army.
‘Do not write to my family.’ He raised his voice. ‘They must know nothing about this.’
She did not speak.
He shook his head, realising how he must have sounded. ‘I apologise again.’ He spoke in a milder tone. ‘My family would be the very worst of caretakers.’ They were not expecting him, so they would not worry. He’d not written that he’d left Brussels. Better to not give them any time to find a new task he might perform for them. ‘I beg you would find another solution. I realise I am imposing, but I can well pay for my care. I must not be put in the hands of my family. On that I must insist.’
‘Very well. I will not contact your family.’ He heard the sounds of her picking up the tray from the table. ‘But you must rest now. Someone will check on you later.’ He heard her footsteps walking towards the door. It opened and she spoke once more. ‘Mr Westleigh?’
‘Yes?’ He stiffened, expecting a rebuke.
‘You are not imposing.’
The door closed.
He was alone again. In the dark.
Mrs Asher’s presence was a comfort, an anchor. Alone it was as if he floated in a void. He listened and thought he heard a bird singing outside, a dog’s bark at some distance, footsteps outside the room.
He stilled, waiting to hear if the door would open.
The footsteps faded.
His head ached, his throat ached, his eyes ached, but he was determined to remain awake. If he remained awake, he was not totally helpless.
To keep awake, he recalled the details of the fire.
He’d been leaving the inn’s tavern, returning to his room, when shouts of ‘fire!’ reached his ears. He’d jumped into action, knocking on doors, getting people out. The fire had started in a room on the ground floor. He and others had cleared that floor and worked their way up to the higher floors while the fire kept growing and the task grew more dangerous.
The excitement of it had spurred him on. People had needed saving and someone had to brave the threat to save them, a perfect role for Hugh. He always did what needed to be done. If there was risk involved, so much the better.
He’d fought in the war because England needed him and, if truth be told, he’d loved the adventure of it, the risk to one’s life, the chance to test his mettle. The army in peacetime was not for him, though. He’d sold his commission and prepared to discover his next adventure. He’d travel, he thought. To Africa. Or the Colonies. Or Chile—no, not Chile. With his luck he’d get embroiled in their War of Independence. It was one thing to risk one’s life for one’s own country, quite another to act as a mercenary. Besides, it was his own independence he yearned to indulge.
Instead, a family crisis had snared him. First his father had nearly impoverished the family by gambling and philandering away its fortunes, then he had tried to cheat the man who’d come to their rescue, his own natural son, John Rhysdale.
After that, Hugh, his brother Ned and Rhysdale had forced their father to move to Brussels and turn over the finances and all his affairs to Ned. Hugh was charged with making certain their father held to the bargain, which meant repeated trips to the Continent. At least this last trip had been the final one. Hugh had been summoned back to Brussels because his father had dropped dead after a night of carousing and drinking.
Hugh suffered no grief over his father’s death—the man hadn’t cared a whit about him or any of the family. His father’s death freed him at last.
Now Hugh’s independence was again threatened when nearly in his grasp. Only this time it might not be family obligation holding him back.
This time it might be blindness.
* * *
Daphne strode immediately from Westleigh’s bedchamber through the cottage and out into the garden where beds of red tulips and yellow narcissus ought to have given her cheer.
How could she be calm? She’d counted on Westleigh’s family coming to care for him. Who would not want family to nurse them back to health? She’d planned on leaving as soon as a family member arrived. They would never see the elusive Mrs Asher. A mere note would be all they knew of her.
The Westleighs would detest knowing the despised Lady Faville had cared for a family member. Hugh Westleigh would detest it, as well. She’d once tried to steal away Phillipa Westleigh’s new husband after all.
And, because her vanity had been injured, she’d heaved a lighted oil lamp against the Masquerade Club’s wall. It had shattered, just as her illusions had shattered in that moment. In a flash, though, the curtains and her own skirts had caught fire.
Her hands flew to her burning cheeks. She’d been so afraid. And ashamed! What sort of person does such a thing?
Yes, the Westleighs would hate her, indeed.
She’d been a coward that day, running away after Phillipa had saved her from her burning skirts. She was a coward still. She should simply tell Hugh Westleigh her identity—she should have told him from the beginning—
What would the abbess have said? Do what is right, my child. You shall never err if you follow the guide of your own conscience. Do always what is right.
But what happens if one does not know what is right? What is one supposed to do in that event?
Was it right to tell him the truth or better to hide the truth and not upset him?
Daphne paced back and forth. It would only be two weeks until his bandages came off and he’d be on his way. She stopped and placed her hands on her cheeks.
Unless he was blind.
Please, dear God. Let him not be blind!
She shook her head. Who was she to pray?
She, Carter and Monette simply must take the best care of him. Not upset him. Give him the best chance to heal.
Perhaps the dear abbess would intercede with God for him on Daphne’s behalf. And perhaps the abbess would forgive her if she did not tell the truth this time. No real harm in him thinking she was merely Mrs Asher for such a little while. Feeling only slightly guilty, Daphne strolled around to the front of the cottage.
Two young women approached from the road and quickened their pace when they saw her.
‘Beg pardon, ma’am. Are you Mrs Asher?’ They looked no more than fifteen years, each of them.
‘I am Mrs Asher,’ she responded.
‘We’ve come looking for work, ma’am,’ one said. ‘Mr Brill, the agent, told us you might be needing some help in the cottage—’
‘We can do whatever you need,’ the other broke in. ‘We’re strong girls. Mr Brill will vouch for us.’
Both were simply dressed and their clothing looked very old and worn. In fact, their gowns hung on them.
‘We need work very bad, ma’am,’ the first girl said. ‘We’ll do anything.’
‘I am not sure...’ Daphne bit her lip. Would it be right to hire maids to work in a house where she would stay for only two weeks?
‘Please, Mrs Asher,’ the second girl said. ‘We can show you how good we work. Give us a chance.’
What difference did it make to her? She had plenty of money to pay them. It was the easiest thing in the world to say yes. Besides, the abbess would say she’d done a good thing.
‘Very well, girls,’ she said. ‘Follow me. If Mrs Pitts approves, you may become our new maids of all work.’
They could deliver the meals to Mr Westleigh. Daphne would be able to avoid him altogether. Then it would not matter who he thought she was.
Chapter Three
Hugh lost his battle to stay awake. He had no idea how long he slept, but he woke again to darkness.
Cursed eyes!
Was it day or night? Was he alone or was someone in the room?
Was she here?
He remained still and strained to hear the sounds of someone moving, someone breathing.
It was so quiet.
The hiss of the fireplace; otherwise, silence. Was anyone near? Would they hear him if he called out for help?
Although he’d be damned if he’d call out for help.
Or for water.
His throat was parched with thirst. There must be water somewhere in the room. She must have left some for him.
He climbed out of bed, not as steady on his feet as he might wish. The carpet on the floor was soft and cool on his bare feet. Carefully, he started from right next to the bed, groping—and finding—a side table. He ran his hand over the table’s surface. No water. Merely a candlestick—certainly an item for which he had no need.
He groped past the table and bumped into a wooden chair. He backed away and knocked the table onto the floor. The carpet muffled the sound. No one would be roused by the noise.
Crouching, he felt around for the table, found it and righted it. The candlestick must have rolled away. Useless to search for it anyway.
Moving cautiously again, he made his way past the chair. With the wall as his guide, he inched his way towards the fireplace, feeling the fire’s heat grow stronger as he neared. His hand found the mantel. His toes smashed against the hearth.
He backed away and found more chairs and another table upon which there was a book. Another item for which he had no use.
Continuing, he discovered a door. It was a dressing room, smelling of dust, its shelves empty. He closed the door and his fingers felt along the wall until he came to another door. The door to the hallway. He turned the latch and opened the door and felt the change in temperature. But the hallway was silent.
He closed the door again and groped his way back to the bed. On the other side was another table. On the table he found a drinking glass and the water pitcher. He could never pour the water into the glass. He lifted the entire pitcher to his lips and took several gulps of the cool, minty liquid.
Placing the pitcher back on the table, he felt his way back to the bed, but halted. Lying abed like an invalid held no appeal.
He might as well continue his haphazard search of the room.
He found his trunk in one corner, his boots, smelling of bootblack, next to it. He found a rocking chair and a window.
A window! Fresh air. Hugh found the sash, opened the window and felt a cool breeze against his face. On the breeze was the scent of green grass, rich soil and flowers. He stuck his hand out the window and tried to sense whether it was day or night.
Without eyes, he could not tell.
He felt for the rocking chair and turned it towards the window. She must have sat in this rocking chair while in the room; her scent, very faint, clung to it. He lowered himself into it and rocked. The rhythm soothed him. The breeze cooled his skin. And banished the memory of the fire’s infernal heat.
* * *
He must have dozed. For how long this time? Half awake, half asleep, he became aware of a knock at the door. The door opened. He knew instantly it was not she.
‘Sir! You are not abed.’ A male voice.
Hugh shook himself awake. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Carter, sir. La—Mrs Asher’s footman.’ The voice did not come closer, so Carter must have remained by the door. ‘I came to attend you.’
‘I am grateful.’ She’d said her footman would come. ‘Can you tell me what time it is?’
‘Seven, sir,’ Carter replied.
‘Morning or evening?’ Did they not see he could not tell?
‘Morning, sir.’
‘What day?’ Hugh tried not to let his impatience show.
‘Oh! You must not realise—’ Carter’s voice deepened. ‘Forgive me—I will explain—it is Friday. We arrived here Wednesday. The day after the fire. You slept most of yesterday. It is Friday morning now.’
He’d lost two days.
‘I will assist you, sir. Shave you and whatever else you might require.’
Shave? Hugh scraped his hand against the stubble on his chin. He must have appeared like a ruffian to her.
Carter’s voice came closer. ‘Unless you would like me to help you back into bed.’
‘No.’ Hugh forced himself not to snap at the man. It was not Carter’s fault he needed the assistance. ‘I will not return to bed. Shave me and help me dress, if you would be so good.’
Gentlemen of Hugh’s rank customarily employed a valet, but Hugh never did. He had no qualms about borrowing the services of someone else’s valet when absolutely necessary, but what he could do for himself, he preferred doing. It made him free to come and go as he wished without having to consider anyone else’s needs.
Now, though, he was not free. He was as dependent as a suckling babe.
He submitted to Carter’s ministrations with as good grace as he could muster, even though Carter needed to help him with his most basic of needs. He’d do them all without help as soon as he could, he promised himself. After he was shaved, bathed, toileted and dressed, he found his way back to the rocking chair, more fatigued than he would ever admit.
‘Thank you, Carter,’ he said. ‘What of breakfast?’ His hunger had returned. ‘Will you help me to the breakfast room?’
He sensed Carter backing away. ‘I—I believe Mrs Asher preferred you eat here, sir. Your health is fragile, I’m given to understand.’
Hugh refused to be fragile. ‘Very well, but tell Mrs Asher I wish to speak with her as soon as it is convenient.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Carter moved towards the door.
‘In fact—’ Hugh raised his voice ‘—tell Mrs Asher that I would like to see the village doctor. I am well able to pay for his services, so let there be no worry over that. I wish to see him today.’ And find out, if possible, if he was to be blind or not.
‘As you wish, sir.’ He imagined Carter bowing. ‘Breakfast as well, sir.’
The door closed and the footman’s steps receded.
Hugh rose again. It felt better to be dressed, even if he was merely in shirt, trousers and stockings. At least when Mrs Asher returned, he would look more like a gentleman and less like an invalid.
If one could ignore the bandages covering his eyes.
He made his way around the bed. If his memory served him, the table on the other side of the bed, the table he’d knocked down during the night, was where he had eaten the porridge. He found the table again, bumped into the wooden chair again and kicked the lost candlestick with his toe, sending it skittering away.
Nonetheless, he managed to arrange the table and chair for eating. It was a minor matter, but a victory all the same. He was not entirely helpless.
Even so, a lifetime like this would be unbearable.
* * *
Daphne had left the two prospective maids in the company of Mrs Pitt after finally sorting out the matter. She’d thought she could simply hand them off to the housekeeper and be done with it, but the woman was shockingly dependent upon Daphne to make even the smallest of decisions, like what their duties should be, whether they should live in the house—yes, they should. Why have maids if they were not around when you needed them? Mrs Pitt also would have offered the girls a pittance for what would be very hard work, tending to the fires, cleaning the house and otherwise seeing to her needs. It was also very clear that they needed new clothes.
And that they were hungry. They both kept eyeing the bread Mrs Pitt had taken from the oven, and neither could pay attention to the discussion. So Daphne told Mrs Pitt to feed them, which led to a long discussion of what to feed them and what to feed Mr Westleigh and how was she—Mrs Pitt—to cook all that food, now that there were two more mouths to feed and two more workers to supervise.
By the time they’d finished, Daphne had given Mrs Pitt permission to hire a cook, a kitchen maid, another footman and two stable boys to help John Coachman. Mr Pitt was sent into the village to speak with some people he and Mrs Pitt thought would be perfect for the jobs, and Monette was getting her cloak and bonnet so she could accompany the girls to the local draper for fabric to make new dresses and aprons.
What fuss. Her husband would have been appalled at her being so bothered by such trivial matters. Even at the convent at Fahr, someone else saw to the food, the clothing, the cleaning.
As tedious as it all was, Daphne walked through the hall with a sense of pride. Her decisions were good ones after all. And she could well afford to pay all the servants even if she stayed here a year instead of two weeks.
As she crossed the hall, Carter descended the stairs.
She smiled up at him. ‘How is Mr Westleigh this morning, Carter?’
He reached the final step. ‘Much improved, ma’am. He wishes to speak with you.’
Oh, dear. And she wanted to avoid him.
‘What about, do you know?’ Perhaps he’d changed his mind about contacting his family.
Carter frowned. ‘He wants to see a local doctor. I believe he is most unhappy about being bandaged and confined. He wants to see a doctor immediately.’
It was a reasonable request. He’d been nearly insensible when the surgeon at Ramsgate examined him. If only she’d known a few minutes earlier, she could have asked Mr Pitt to fetch the doctor.
‘Could you go to the village and locate the doctor? Or find Mr Pitt and give him the errand? He left for the village a few minutes ago.’
Carter’s brows knit. ‘Shall I take Mr Westleigh his breakfast first, ma’am? I told him it was coming.’
The poor man must be famished. He’d only eaten a bowl of porridge since they’d arrived here.
She sighed. ‘No. I will take him his breakfast. Perhaps there was something else he wanted to say to me.’
Carter came with her to the kitchen where Mrs Pitt gave him the doctor’s direction and fixed the tray for Mr Westleigh.
Daphne carried the tray up the stairs and knocked upon Westleigh’s bedchamber door.
‘Come in, Carter.’ His voice sounded stronger than the day before.
She opened the door and entered the room, kicking the door closed behind her.
He was seated at the table and chair where he’d eaten the porridge, and was dressed in a clean white shirt and dark brown trousers that showed off his broad shoulders and lean hips. She swallowed, suddenly remembering his strong arms carrying her in the inn.
‘I can smell the bread from here.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I will eat at the table.’
She crossed the room. ‘It is Mrs Asher, not Carter.’
He tensed, as if he’d not liked mistaking her identity, and stood as a gentleman does when a lady enters the room. ‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly.
‘Please sit,’ she responded. ‘Carter said you wished to see me, so it is I who brings you breakfast.’
He lowered himself back in the chair. ‘I appreciate you coming so quickly.’
She placed the tray of food in front of him. ‘I sent Carter to fetch a doctor and we did not wish you to wait. Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’ He carefully ran his hands over the food.
She’d instructed Mrs Pitts to serve foods he could eat with his hands and spare him the struggle of manoeuvring utensils. They’d settled on warm bread sliced open with melting butter inside, two cooked eggs, cubes of cheese and a pot of tea.
He hesitated.
It made her uncertain. ‘I will pour your tea,’ she said. ‘I remember how you take it, but do, please, eat. You must be very hungry.’
‘I hope my manners will not offend.’
Oh, he was merely being polite. ‘Have no fear. I am not easily offended.’
How odd of her to say such a thing. At a formal dinner party, she once would have had much to say about poor manners, and she’d often shaken her head at the way some of the lower classes consumed their food. Perhaps she was developing some tolerance, like the abbess had often encouraged her to do.
‘I am surprised to see you dressed,’ she went on in a conversational tone. ‘I thought you would still be in bed.’
‘No more bed.’ His voice was firm. ‘I am well enough to be up.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Are you certain? The surgeon in Ramsgate said you would need time to recuperate. I think he meant you should remain in bed.’
‘I think him wrong,’ he said stiffly. ‘I feel recuperated. Perhaps the village doctor will say I may have my bandages removed and be on my way.’ He paused. ‘I told Carter I am well able to pay whatever the expense. I intend to compensate you, as well.’
‘Money does not concern me. I certainly need no compensation.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I—I do not know if Carter can produce a doctor this very day, though.’
The village did have a surgeon, Mrs Pitts had said, but he was kept very busy.
Westleigh took a bite of bread, chewed and swallowed it. She could not help but notice the muscles in his neck move with the effort. She touched her own neck.
‘Let us hope he can come today,’ he said.
He must be as eager to be on his way as she was for him to leave, but should she trust his care to a village doctor? Perhaps she should send for a London physician. She would love to send for the physician her husband had used when he was in town, but that man knew her.
Of course she could simply tell Westleigh now who she was.
She opened her mouth.
But he spoke first. ‘Might I have a clock?’ he asked. ‘A way to keep track of time. I cannot even tell if it is day or night.’
How awful! All sorts of things must be difficult if one was not able to see. How much worse if one would never see again.
She vowed she would leave a large coin in the cup of the next blind beggar she came upon.
‘I am so sorry,’ she cried. ‘I should have thought to provide you a clock. Perhaps I can purchase a watch that chimes. I have seen such watches. You could keep it next to you.’
Although, now that she thought of it, would a small village have such a watch? She’d only seen them in London shops.
‘A clock will be sufficient,’ he responded. ‘And I am well able to pay for it, if there is not a spare one in the house.’
‘We’ll find you one, do not fear.’ There was one on the mantel in the library. She’d have it brought to him immediately.
Or she would have to bring it herself, since she’d sent everyone else away besides Mrs Pitts, who would be much too busy.
‘Wait here a moment,’ she said, which was a silly thing to say. Where could he go without sight?
She hurried out of the room and ran down the stairs to the library. Carefully she took the clock from the mantel and carried it back to his room.
‘I’ve brought you a clock!’ she said as she entered. ‘I’ll place it on the mantel and we’ll make sure Carter winds it for you.’
‘I did not mean for you to bring it so quickly, but I am very grateful.’ He had finished the food and was feeling for the tea cup.
She walked over and guided his hand to it.
He stilled and his face tilted towards hers.
She wished she could see him, see all his face. She had seen him a few times at the Masquerade Club and had been introduced to him once. It was the only time she could remember speaking to him, and she’d paid little attention.
‘Is there anything else?’ she murmured. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’
He continued to seem as if he was facing her. ‘I want to leave this room,’ he said. ‘To come and go as I wish. Surely there must be a drawing room or a library or someplace I could sit without disturbing anyone.’
‘But how can you? You can’t see,’ she cried.
He scowled. ‘I can walk.’
She feared he would injure himself even more. What would she do then?
‘The surgeon at Ramsgate said—’ She cut herself off. ‘Let us at least wait until another doctor examines you. I would hate to risk your recovery.’
He gulped down the cup of tea.
She leaned closer to pick up the tray.
‘Roses,’ he said softly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You smell like roses,’ he explained.
She felt her cheeks flush. It delighted her that he’d noticed. It was her favourite scent. She always rinsed herself with rosewater and any perfume she purchased must smell like roses.
‘I—I should leave now, unless there is something else I can do—’ She bit her lip.
‘Nothing.’ His voice dipped low. ‘I am grateful for the breakfast and the clock. And for sending for the doctor.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Let us hope he comes soon.’
Balancing the tray, she exited the room and only then did she realise she’d again not told him who she really was. Maybe when the doctor came, he would indeed say Westleigh was recovered. Maybe he would remove Westleigh’s bandages and his eyes would work perfectly and she could have her coachman take him to London this very day.
* * *
It was late afternoon before the doctor called at the cottage.
Carter announced him to Daphne as she sat in the drawing room, writing a letter to her man of business, informing him of her arrival in England and her stay at Thurnfield.
She, of course, did not explain why she remained at Thurnfield.
She rose at the doctor’s entrance. ‘Mr Wynne, how good of you to come.’
He was a man of perhaps fifty years, with a rough but kindly appearance. When he saw her, his face lit with surprise, then appreciation. ‘Mrs Asher! My word. May—may I welcome you to Thurnfield. You are a very delightful addition, if I may be so bold as to say.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Daphne’s response was well practised. Men who saw her for the first time often reacted so. In this instance, however, she did not want her beauty to distract the doctor from why he was here. ‘I do believe Mr Westleigh is anxious for you to examine him. Carter can take you up to him directly.’
He tapped his lips. ‘In a moment. I understand from Mr Carter that you witnessed the injury and the examination by the other surgeon. I think it best I should speak with you first.’
She sat again and gestured to a chair. ‘Do sit.’
He lowered himself into the chair and leaned towards her, all ears. And eyes. ‘Now. Tell me what happened.’
She relayed the information as succinctly as she could, but he asked several questions about the injury and other surgeon’s examination, forcing her to repeat herself.
It was a good thing she had not ordered tea, or the man would never make it up to Westleigh’s room.
Her patience frayed. ‘I do think you should see Mr Westleigh now, sir. He has been waiting a very long time.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ Mr Wynne took his time rising from his seat. ‘You will accompany me? I may need information only you will have.’
She’d just given him all the information she possessed. Several times.
But it seemed expedient to do as he requested, merely to get him to actually see Westleigh, who had waited all day for the man. She rose. ‘Come with me.’
Daphne heard the clock in Westleigh’s room chime the quarter-hour as she raised her hand to knock.
‘Please, come in.’ Westleigh sounded impatient.
‘Mr Westleigh, it is Mrs Asher,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘I have brought Mr Wynne, the surgeon, to see you.’
Hugh had been seated in the rocking chair next to the window, which was open to the afternoon breeze. He stood and extended his hand almost in the surgeon’s direction. ‘Mr Wynne. I have been eager for your arrival.’
Wynne clasped his hand. ‘Westleigh. Pleased to meet you. Mrs Asher has told me of your injuries.’
‘She has?’ His posture stiffened. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what she said.’
‘I told him you were in a fire,’ Daphne responded. ‘And that you were hit on the head and your eyes burned. I told him the other surgeon said you were concussed and that your eyes needed to remain bandaged for two weeks.’
‘I could have told him that,’ Westleigh remarked.
‘I agree.’ She had not wished to be this involved. Should she tell him the surgeon preferred her company to the duties that called him here?
‘A nasty business, eh?’ Wynne finally turned his attention to the patient. ‘Please do sit and I will bring a chair closer to you.’
Westleigh lowered himself back into the rocking chair and Wynne brought the wooden chair over to him. Daphne stood near to the door.
‘Now,’ Wynne said, ‘tell me—do you have any difficulty breathing?’
Westleigh took a breath. ‘No.’
Wynne nodded, but from his bag pulled out a cylindrical tube. ‘Best to check, in any event.’ He placed one end of the tube on Westleigh’s chest, the other against his own ear. ‘Breathe deeply for me.’
Westleigh did as requested and the surgeon moved the tube to various locations on his chest.
‘Your lungs are clear,’ Wynne said. ‘Have you experienced any dizziness?’
‘None now,’ Westleigh answered. ‘Not even if I walk. I am quite steady on my feet.’
‘Any pain?’ the man asked.
Westleigh shrugged. ‘My throat feels a bit rough. My head aches still, but not excessively. It is my eyes—my eyes concern me the most. They ache with a dull sort of pain. Again, not excessive. If I try to move my eyelids, however, the pain sharpens a great deal.’
‘Best you not move your eyelids.’ Wynne chuckled.
Westleigh frowned.
This was not a joking matter to him, Daphne wanted to say.
Wynne leaned forwards. ‘Let me have a look at you.’
He placed his fingers on Hugh’s head. His fingers looked stubby, but his touch seemed sure.
‘It is most remarkable you were not more burned.’ Wynne moved his fingers around his head and looked closely at the exposed parts of his face. ‘The eyes can get the worst of it even if your skin’s damage is superficial. Your hair is singed in places and I cannot see under the bandage, but I suspect you are fairly unscathed.’
Daphne had seen his eyes, though. His eyes had been alarmingly cloudy.
Wynne leaned back. ‘I would like to examine under your bandages, but you must promise me something.’
‘What is that?’ Westleigh asked.
‘Keep your eyes closed.’ Wynne emphasised each word. ‘If you do not keep your eyes closed, you risk further injury and blindness. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand.’ Westleigh answered in a low voice.
Wynne turned to Daphne. ‘Mrs Asher, may we close the window and draw the curtains?’
‘Certainly.’ She hurried to do as he asked.
Westleigh remained still as Mr Wynne unwound his bandages. He was like a taut string vibrating with tension. The bandages seemed endless, but finally Wynne came down to the two round pieces of cloth that were pressed against Westleigh’s eyelids.
‘Remember, keep your eyes closed,’ he warned.
He removed the last and moved even closer to peer at Westleigh’s eyelids. He touched one very gently with his thumb.
Westleigh winced.
‘Does that pain you?’ Wynne asked.
‘Some,’ Westleigh responded tightly.
Wynne held the lids closed, but turned to Daphne. ‘Will you bring me a lighted candle?’
She took the candlestick from the bedside table and lit it with a taper from the fireplace.
Wynne brought the candle close to Westleigh’s face.
Westleigh’s eyelids were still red and a yellowish crust clung to his eyelashes. If he did open his eyes now and could see, he’d know instantly who she was, but Daphne thrust that thought aside. He was more important this moment than her pride...and shame.
Westleigh remained like a statue.
‘Are you able to see the light?’ Wynne asked.
‘Yes!’ His voice filled with excitement. His eyelids twitched.
‘Keep them closed,’ Wynne warned again.
‘Does that mean I will be able to see?’ Westleigh asked.
‘I wish I could make that promise.’ Wynne leaned back and pulled out more bandages from his leather bag. ‘Your eyes need more time for us to be certain. Two weeks, like the other surgeon said. If you want a chance to heal completely, wait the two weeks. There is no infection now, but to open your eyes now—well, I cannot stress how urgent it is that you wait the two weeks. It is your only chance.’
Westleigh’s chin set and his head remained erect.
For some silly reason, Daphne felt proud of him for not giving in to emotion.
He might yet be blind.
Chapter Four
Hugh was through with confinement. He was through giving in to his fears. He would see again. He must. He would not sit in one room for two weeks waiting. He’d move around, act as if he could see, no matter how many pieces of furniture he bumped into, no matter what came crashing to the floor. He’d pay for the damages.
But he would not be confined.
Mr Wynne did not require him to remain in bed. The only admonition the surgeon had made was that he was not to remove the bandages over his eyes. Wynne said he’d return in a few days to check him and change the bandages, if necessary. In the meantime, Hugh intended to leave this room.
Wynne also said he could travel, if he wished. He could be in London in one day’s coach ride and straight into the suffocating confines of his mother’s care.
He’d rather impose on Mrs Asher. Was that ungentlemanly of him? He suspected so, but an unwanted invalid would receive the least fussing and he had no wish to be fussed over. It might cause the lady some annoyance if he did not remain in his room, but he’d go mad otherwise.
Carter knocked and entered the room. ‘Do you require anything, sir?’
‘Nothing at the moment,’ Hugh replied.
‘Very good, sir.’
The door sounded as if it was closing and Hugh raised his voice. ‘Carter?’
It opened again. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘What time is dinner to be served?’
‘Whenever you desire, sir,’ Carter responded.
‘I do not wish to cause undue inconvenience,’ Hugh countered. ‘When is Mrs Asher served dinner? I can wait until she is served, certainly.’
‘M’l—’ Carter faltered. ‘Mrs Asher dines at eight o’clock.’
‘Eight o’clock. Splendid. I can be served after she dines.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Carter said again. The door closed.
Hugh listened for the next chiming of the clock.
Six chimes. Plenty of time for him to prepare.
He groped his way to the corner of the room where he’d discovered his trunk. Opening it, he dug through until he felt smooth, thick fabric, a lapel and buttons.
As he’d hoped. One of his coats, and beneath it, a waistcoat.
He felt around more until his fingers touched the starched linen of a neckcloth. He could tie it blindfolded, could he not? How many neckcloths had he tied himself over the years?
He wrapped the cloth around his neck and created a simple mail-coach knot. Or hoped he had. Next he donned his waistcoat and coat and carried his boots over to the rocking chair. Seated on the chair, he pulled on his boots.
For the first time since the fire, Hugh was fully dressed. Already he felt more like a man.
He made his way confidently to the door.
But missed, touching the wall instead. He ran his hand along the wall until it touched the door. Excitement rushed through him. Would a man released from prison feel this way? Free, but wary, because he did not know what was on the other side.
He took a step out into the hallway and paused again, trying to listen for sounds, searching for the staircase.
This time he could hear sounds coming from below. He must be near the stairs. He stepped forwards carefully and reached the wall. Good. The wall could be his guide. He inched his way along it until he found the banister. His excitement soared.
Hugh laughed. You’d think he’d discovered a breach in the enemy’s defences.
He carefully descended the stairs, holding on to the banister. Amazing how uncertain he felt. He’d crept around buildings and other terrains in the dark before without this much apprehension.
Although he could at least see shadows then. Now he could see nothing.
He reached the last step and still kept one hand on the banister. Chances were that the front door to the house was ahead of him, facing the stairway, which meant that the rooms would be to the right, left or behind. Which would be the dining room?
It would have helped if he’d once seen this house, even from the outside.
He took a breath and began walking straight ahead until he, indeed, found the front door. Then, following his strategy for the bedroom, he started to feel himself along the wall.
‘What are you doing, sir?’ A woman’s voice. A village accent. The housekeeper of whom Mrs Asher spoke?
‘Are you Mrs Pitts?’ he asked.
‘Goodness, no, sir,’ the voice replied. ‘I am Mary, one of the housemaids, sir.’
Mrs Asher had not mentioned housemaids.
‘But what are you doing here, sir?’ she went on. ‘You should be upstairs, should you not? You are recuperating, is that not the way it is?’
‘I came downstairs for dinner.’ He spoke with a confidence a maid would not question. ‘I realise I am early, but if you direct me to the dining room, I would be grateful.’
‘It is early for dinner, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like to wait in the drawing room? Mrs Asher said we are to announce dinner to her in the drawing room.’
‘The drawing room it is, then.’ Hugh smiled. ‘Can you show me where it is?’
‘Oh!’ The maid sounded as if she’d just figured out a big puzzle. ‘You cannot see and you haven’t been there yet! I remember Mrs Asher saying you were taken directly upstairs.’
He heard her approach him.
She touched his arm. ‘Come with me.’ She led him to the right and through the threshold of the drawing room. ‘I think Mrs Asher will be here soon. She and Monette are talking about our new dresses, you see, so I expect she will come here after that.’
‘I expect so,’ he replied.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, I should be about my duties.’ She said this with a surprising sense of pride.
‘Thank you for your help, Mary.’ He did not wish her to leave quite yet. ‘I have just one question.’
‘Yes, sir?’ She sounded very young. And inexperienced. Otherwise she would not talk so much.
‘How long have you worked for Mrs Asher?’ Because the lady had not informed him of the presence of a housemaid.
‘Oh, this is my first day, sir. For me and my sister, Ann. So I must not dawdle.’ She paused. ‘May I go, sir?’
‘By all means.’ Were the extra maids hired because of him? ‘Thank you again, Mary.’
She gave a nervous little laugh and he heard the door close.
Once again he was in a strange room with no sense of his bearings.
But he was getting used to it. He turned around and listened carefully for the hiss of the fire and the heat of it on his skin. He memorised the location of the fireplace and the location of the doorway. Somewhere in between there would be chairs and other seating. He trod carefully until he found one. When he was still, he also heard the ticking of a clock. Good. He’d keep track of time that way.
The half-hour, then three-quarters chimes sounded.
Shortly after, the door opened and Hugh smelled roses.
‘My goodness.’ It was Mrs Asher. ‘Mr Westleigh, you gave me a start!’
He stood. ‘My apologies.’
‘What are you doing here?’ She did not sound very pleased.
‘Carter said dinner was at eight. Since I am not confined to bed, I saw no reason to trouble your servants to wait on me.’
She came closer. ‘But Carter did not tell me—’
‘I did not consult with him.’
She sounded confused. ‘Then how did you get here? From upstairs, I mean.’
He straightened. ‘The way of all men, I suppose. I walked.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Well, I made it to the hall by myself,’ he said. ‘Mary helped me to the drawing room.’
‘Mary?’ She sounded confused again. ‘Oh. Mary. The new maid. That was kind of her.’ She paused before saying, ‘Do sit, Mr Westleigh.’
He lowered himself back into the chair.
She was a puzzle to him. She’d taken the trouble to bring him into her home to care for him, yet at the same time she seemed displeased at his presence. She was a woman who concealed things, that was certain.
He heard her move about the room.
‘Would you like a glass of claret before dinner?’ Good manners crept back into her voice.
‘I would dearly like a glass of claret.’ He missed wine. He missed brandy even more. He wondered if she would have brandy for after dinner.
He heard her open a cabinet and then heard the sound of pouring liquid. She handed the glass to him.
The scent of the claret was pleasure enough. Fruity and spicy, he savoured the aroma before taking a sip. Drinking from a wine glass proved to be quite easy. And the smooth, earthy flavour was a comfort to his sore throat. He felt like gulping.
He heard her sit. ‘I understand you just hired Mary and another maid. If that was because of me, you must permit me to bear the expense.’ Might as well speak plainly. She might like to conceal, but he favoured being above board.
‘The expense is nothing.’ She indeed made it sound as if it was a trifle. ‘And I did not hire them because of you, not precisely. They needed the work and I thought it would make it easier on everyone to have more help.’
‘I should still like to compensate you for the trouble I am causing you.’
‘Please say no more about money.’ She spoke the word as if it left a bad taste on her tongue. ‘I detest talk of money. I have well enough money to be a good hostess, you know. You are here to recuperate and that is what you shall do. The cost of it means nothing to me.’
Why was she so tense?
He tried some humour. ‘Are you a wealthy widow, then?’
She was silent for a moment before answering in a serious tone, ‘Yes. I am a wealthy widow.’
They drank their claret in such silence Hugh could hear the ticking of the clock and each small rustle of her skirts, but it did not take long for Carter to come to the door to announce dinner.
‘Dinner is served, m’l— Oh!’ He cut himself off. ‘Mr Westleigh! You are here.’
‘Mr Westleigh will eat dinner in the dining room with me, Carter.’ Mrs Asher made it sound as if nothing was amiss. She must be practised in hiding emotions from servants.
‘Very good, ma’am,’ Carter said. ‘I shall run ahead and set his place.’
Hugh heard Mrs Asher stand, and rose himself, offering her his arm—or hoping he was not merely posturing to the air.
Her fingers curled around his upper arm. ‘I’ll show you to the dining room.’
He smiled. ‘That is a good thing, else I might wander the house bumping into walls.’
‘You were very clever making it to the drawing room.’ She did not sound annoyed.
Perhaps this was a truce of sorts.
She led him out the door. ‘We are crossing the hall. The dining room is on the other side, a mirror to this room. The cottage really has a very simple plan.’
So, coming down the steps, the drawing room was to the left; the dining room to the right. ‘What other rooms are on this floor?’
‘A library behind the drawing room,’ she began.
He cut her off with a laugh. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll make much use of that.’
Her step faltered. ‘Behind the dining room is an ante-room with cupboards for dishes and cutlery and such. From that room there are stairs down to the kitchen and housekeeper’s rooms.’
He was able to visualise it. It did not seem like a large home for a wealthy widow, though.
They crossed the threshold to the dining room and she walked with him to what must have been the head of the table.
He heard the chair being pulled out. She released his arm and sat.
Carter came to his side. ‘Your chair is here, sir.’ He helped him to a seat adjacent to hers.
‘Our meal will be rather simple, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Asher said. ‘Some lamb stew and bread.’
It must have been near because Hugh could smell it. ‘It will be perfectly adequate for me. My appetite appears to have returned full force. I am very likely to eat whatever you put before me and demand seconds.’
He heard Carter pour some liquid. A glass of wine, Hugh could tell by its fragrance.
‘That is a healthy sign, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Perhaps tomorrow we shall have fancier fare. We shall have a cook tomorrow. And another footman.’
He frowned. ‘You are hiring many new servants.’
‘Y-yes.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Well.’ She recovered. ‘I just came from a lengthy stay abroad, you see.’
‘You are rebuilding your staff?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘That is it.’
He tilted his head. Why did she always sound as if she had something to hide?
He had no desire to challenge her at the moment, though. Not when she briefly seemed at ease with him.
‘I was abroad, as well,’ he said instead. ‘In Brussels. Were you there?’
‘No.’ She paused as if there were more for her to conceal. ‘In Switzerland.’
‘Ah, Switzerland. A place I should like to visit.’
Carter placed a dish in front of him and the aroma of the stew filled his nostrils. ‘Here is the stew, sir. I will place the bread on the left for you.’
‘Thank you, Carter.’ He lifted his head in what he hoped was Mrs Asher’s direction. ‘It smells quite delicious.’
He could hear her being served, as well. She thanked Carter and his footsteps receded.
‘Do eat, Mr Westleigh,’ she said.
He felt for the fork first. Spearing meat with the fork seemed the easiest means of getting the food into his mouth. It took him several tries, but he finally succeeded. The lamb was flavourful and tender. Next he managed to spear some potato. Eating so little in the past two days had wreaked havoc on his appetite. It indeed felt like he could not get enough.
‘Is it to your liking?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘You cannot tell? I am certain I am shovelling it in like an ill-mannered peasant.’
‘You are allowed some lack of graces due to your injuries.’ His blindness, she meant.
He forced himself to slow down, searching for the bread and tearing off a piece. ‘What brought you to Switzerland?’ he asked.
‘A...’ She paused. ‘A retreat, you might say.’
He’d heard of spa towns on the Continent, places where a wealthy widow might go for a lengthy recuperation.
Or perhaps to have a child out of wedlock. Was that her secret? She seemed sad enough for such a happenstance. It would explain that air of concealment he sensed in her.
A wave of tenderness towards her washed over him. Women always had a more difficult lot in life. Men seduced women and women paid the price. A child out of wedlock—it made perfect sense.
* * *
Daphne toyed with her food, her appetite fleeing under his questions and the impact of his appearance, attired in coat and waistcoat. His coat fit beautifully, accenting his broad shoulders and tapering to his lean waist. He made it difficult to ignore that he was more than an invalid, more than a member of the family who despised her. He was a man, and his presence seemed to fill the room.
He’d paused and she feared he could sense she was staring at him. She averted her gaze, now wishing he would ask her about her retreat in Switzerland, even if she did not know how to tell him her retreat was in a Catholic convent.
He tore off another piece of bread. ‘My stay in Brussels was anything but a retreat.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. He was like most men. Wishing to talk about himself.
‘Is that so?’ she responded politely.
‘My time was spent disentangling my father’s affairs,’ he went on. ‘He was living there, you see. And he died there several months ago.’
‘I am so sorry.’ She felt genuinely sympathetic. She’d not known of the earl’s death.
She’d heard the Earl of Westleigh had been living on the Continent. Some scandal associated with the Masquerade Club, she recalled, but she could not remember the details. In her nights spent in attendance at the club, she’d not paid much attention to anything but her own interests.
‘Do not be sorry,’ he countered. ‘He was the very worst of fathers. The worst of men. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The infamous Earl of Westleigh?’ He exaggerated his father’s name.
‘I have heard of him.’ He’d been an acquaintance of her late husband’s and only a few years older. ‘But only his name, really.’ It was true. Her husband had not gossiped with her about the people he knew.
‘My brother Ned, the new earl, sent me to deal with whatever trouble our father caused. I am glad this was my last trip.’
She did not know what to say to this, so she offered more food. ‘Would you like more stew?’
‘I would indeed.’ He smiled.
He had a nice smile, she thought.
He was also the first person she’d ever met who admitted to not grieving the loss of a family member. Perhaps she wasn’t so strange after all, that the deaths of her parents had left her feeling so little emotion. She’d hardly known them. She had regretted that.
‘Did you not like Brussels, then?’ she asked, just to make conversation.
‘It is a beautiful city.’ He averted his head. ‘But too full of memories for me. When I walk through its streets, all I can think of is Waterloo.’
‘You were in the great battle?’ All she knew of the battle was what she read in the newspapers that reached Faville.
‘Yes.’ His voice turned wooden.
She took a big gulp of wine. ‘War and battle are not good topics for dinner conversation, are they?’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled again. ‘Tell me about Switzerland. I’ve seen the Alps from France, but not the other side. Are they as majestically beautiful?’
The Abbey was in a valley. The craggy stone mountaintops of the Alps were not greatly visible there.
‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed brightly. ‘Quite beautiful. It was a lovely place.’
‘I should like to travel there.’ He laughed. ‘I should like to travel anywhere and everywhere. That is what I will do after I report back to the family in London. Travel.’
But he might be blind. What would happen to his dreams of travel then?
‘There are many places to see,’ she responded conversationally.
They continued though dinner, talking of various places on the Continent where they had travelled. Daphne had seen only the countries through which she travelled to Switzerland and a little of Italy when her husband had taken her there.
The meal was companionable, more pleasant than any meal Daphne could remember in a long time. She enjoyed it far more than she ought, especially considering her resolve to stay away from him.
* * *
After dinner, they retired to the drawing room.
‘I do not have brandy to offer, I am afraid.’ She’d send Carter into the village to procure some the next day, however. ‘Would you care for tea?’
‘Tea will do.’
He’d been so churlish that morning, but now was agreeable and diverting. She could almost forget that she was Lady Faville and he was a man who would certainly despise her, if he knew.
As they finished their tea, she could see his energy was flagging.
‘I believe I shall retire for the night,’ she said, saving him the need to admit he was tired.
He smiled. ‘Will you escort me upstairs? I am uncertain I will be able to find my room again.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ she said.
As they climbed the stairs, he asked, ‘What time is breakfast served?’
Goodness. She did not care. ‘Whenever you wish.’
‘Name a time.’
She ought to check with Mrs Pitts before making a decision. The woman had toiled very hard this day. The new maids had caused her more work and the prospect of hiring more workers had created more anxiety in the poor woman.
What thoughts were these? When had she ever considered the feelings of servants?
‘I will send Carter in the morning to help you dress. We will have breakfast ready soon after.’
She left him at his doorway. ‘Goodnight, Mr Westleigh. Carter will be up to tend to your needs soon.’
His hand slid down her arm to clasp hers. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable evening.’
Her heart fluttered with pleasure. Appreciation from a gentleman had always gratified her, but did not usually excite such emotion. Not from her husband, certainly. From only one man, the man who’d married Westleigh’s sister.
It must merely be the novelty, she thought. She’d been secluded from men for a long time when at the convent. Certainly Hugh Westleigh was the last man on earth who should excite her sensibilities.
She crossed the hallway to the bedchamber opposite Westleigh’s. It was smaller than the one she’d given Westleigh, but there was another, even smaller room next to it that was perfect for Monette.
Besides, she’d become used to sleeping in a room in the Abbey even smaller than a maid’s room. A cot. A side table. A chest for her clothing. It had been all she needed.
Inside the room, Monette was laying out her nightdress.
She looked up at Daphne, her brows raised. ‘Was that Mr Westleigh I heard with you? Carter said he came down on his own for dinner.’
‘Yes. I walked with him upstairs.’
‘Is he to be up and about, then?’ Monette asked.
‘Yes. He has no wish to spend time in his room.’ Unfortunately.
‘That makes you unhappy,’ Monette guessed.
Monette was not in Daphne’s confidence. In fact, Daphne had told the younger woman very little about her life. She was the widow of a viscount, that was it. Daphne had not told anyone, even the abbess, any more than that. While in the convent, she wore her unhappiness as plainly as the sisters wore their habits, but she’d never explained.
She needed to give some answer, though. ‘It makes matters more complicated. No matter what he thinks, he cannot get about on his own.’
Monette folded down the coverlet and bed linens. ‘It is good, then, that you have hired more help. There are more of us to tend to him.’
Yes, but Westleigh was her guest, and a hostess did not leave a guest to be entertained by the servants.
‘That is so,’ she said, there being no reason why Monette should know precisely how difficult it would be for her to spend time with Westleigh.
Spending time with him was like a constant reminder of her lie and of what she was most ashamed.
And now she was also too much aware of him as a man.
Chapter Five
As promised, Carter appeared the next morning in time to ready Hugh for breakfast, and, rather than eating alone, Hugh had company. Mrs Asher breakfasted with him, making polite conversation as if seated with a man who could see. The food was easy for him to eat. He suspected she’d made certain of that.
Her chair scraped against the floor. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Westleigh, I must meet with the housekeeper.’
He stood.
‘A new cook and kitchen maid are arriving today,’ she explained. ‘A new footman, as well. Mr and Mrs Pitts need to involve me in the arrangements, for some reason. Carter will attend to you. He is here to assist you when you are finished eating. Do take your time, though.’
The dining room held no further appeal after she left and Hugh did not remain long. Carter walked with him to the drawing room, although what he would do there, he did not know.
He sat in the same chair as the day before. ‘How long have you been with Mrs Asher?’ he asked Carter.
‘Not long,’ the servant replied somewhat hesitantly. ‘She hired me right before her travel home.’
‘You were in Switzerland?’ An odd place to find a footman for hire.
‘I was, sir,’ Carter responded, but did not explain.
Not that Hugh required an explanation from the poor man. It was merely that Hugh had nothing to do but talk.
‘I must beg your leave, sir, to complete my other duties,’ Carter said. ‘I will return to see if you are in need of anything. Say, in an hour or so?’
‘Go, Carter. I shall do very well on my own.’ What other choice did he have?
He heard Carter walk towards the door.
‘Carter?’
‘Yes, sir?’ the man answered.
‘Could you find me a cane?’
‘A cane, sir? Forgive me, sir, I had not noticed you walking with any difficulty.’ His voice was distressed.
‘No difficulty,’ Hugh assured him. ‘I merely thought that if I had a cane, I could keep myself from bumping into things. I could walk around without assistance.’
‘I see, sir.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘I will look for a cane for you.’
Carter closed the door and Hugh drummed his fingers on his knee. What the devil was he going to do to pass the time?
He rose and explored the room, treading carefully and trying not to tumble over furniture or break priceless ornaments.
It was a modest drawing room. He found at least three separate seating groups and some cabinetry along the walls. One of the cabinets held the claret. He was tempted to pour himself a glass, but feared he would spill the liquid and stain the carpet. He could drink from the carafe, but that seemed too ill mannered. Besides, he’d just consumed breakfast. It was a little early for imbibing.
He continued through the room and along the wall until finding a window. He knew from opening his window before breakfast that the day was a chilly one for April and to open this one would defeat the fire’s battle to warm the room, but he could not resist. The fresh air smelled like freedom.
He took in big gulps of air, as hungry for it as he’d been for his first meal here. But he closed the window again. Nothing was more of a nuisance than a guest who took over and changed a household’s entire routine. He was just so extremely tired of being closed inside walls.
But that was his lot for the moment. He ought, at least, to bear it without this constant pitying of himself.
He continued his way around the room.
He found a pianoforte in one corner of the room and ran his fingers down the keys. He pressed one. It sounded a note.
And reminded him of his sister.
How was Phillipa faring? he wondered. Was she still spending long hours at the pianoforte, composing those songs of hers? Was her husband still selling her music? Hugh had heard one of the songs played by the orchestra at Vauxhall Gardens, quite an unusual accomplishment for a well-bred young lady.
Phillipa followed her own desires, no matter the pressure from their mother and the neglect of her father and brothers. Look at the result. She’d married Xavier—a man decent enough to put the whole Westleigh family to shame and well able to provide for her. And she’d just become a mother.
Hugh hoped Phillipa still played music, even though she was now a mother. He’d never given her music much thought—if truth be told, he never gave Phillipa enough thought. With her scarred face, she’d always hidden herself away. And she was seven years younger. He’d been at school, then in the army while she grew up.
He admired her now.
Phillipa’s scar, her music, the abominable way everyone had treated her, all freed her from any responsibility to the family. Ned, now the earl, was charged with preserving the family property and good name for coming generations. Hugh had been given the task of family workhorse.
Difficulties emerged at the country estate? Send Hugh to fix them. Papa engaging in bad behaviour again? Dispatch Hugh to set him straight.
All that was at an end. Ned must attend to his property now and their father would no longer trouble anyone. Hugh was free.
Or would be, if his sight returned.
He made a fist and struck the keys of the pianoforte again. The sound was as discordant as his emotions. His freedom was dependent upon his eyes. What if they did not heal?
He straightened. Enough self-pity.
He drummed his fingers on the keyboard and made more pleasant music.
For want of anything else to do, he sat at the pianoforte’s bench and felt the keys, hearing his sister’s endless scales that echoed through their house for so many years. He found middle C and played the simple C scale, which pretty much exhausted his knowledge of playing.
He played the scale again. And again. And again until his fingers moved smoothly from note to note and the novelty wore off. He tried picking out a tune, an exercise in trial and error, but he kept at it.
He picked out the tune for the military bugle call that signalled the end of the day—or the end of battle.
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Diane Gaston
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: DESIRED FOR HERSELF ALONE…When fallen beauty Daphne, Lady Faville, is carried to safety from a rampaging fire, she’s horrified to recognise her rescuer as Hugh Westleigh – a man with every reason to despise her!But Hugh has been blinded and Daphne must nurse him back to health. Unable to see, he is driven to distraction by her tantalising scent and gentle touch. For the first time Daphne feels truly desired for herself alone. But when Hugh finally regains his sight will she find forgiveness in his arms?The Masquerade ClubIdentities concealed, desires revealed…