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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.
