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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?’
