Читать книгу A Lady of Notoriety - Diane Gaston - Страница 14

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.