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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.’
