A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) (4 page)

‘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

H
ugh 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.