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.
Chapter Five
As promised, Carter appeared the next morning in time to ready Hugh for breakfast, and, rather than eating alone, Hugh had company. Mrs Asher breakfasted with him, making polite conversation as if seated with a man who could see. The food was easy for him to eat. He suspected she’d made certain of that.<
br />
Her chair scraped against the floor. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Westleigh, I must meet with the housekeeper.’
He stood.
‘A new cook and kitchen maid are arriving today,’ she explained. ‘A new footman, as well. Mr and Mrs Pitts need to involve me in the arrangements, for some reason. Carter will attend to you. He is here to assist you when you are finished eating. Do take your time, though.’
The dining room held no further appeal after she left and Hugh did not remain long. Carter walked with him to the drawing room, although what he would do there, he did not know.
He sat in the same chair as the day before. ‘How long have you been with Mrs Asher?’ he asked Carter.
‘Not long,’ the servant replied somewhat hesitantly. ‘She hired me right before her travel home.’
‘You were in Switzerland?’ An odd place to find a footman for hire.
‘I was, sir,’ Carter responded, but did not explain.
Not that Hugh required an explanation from the poor man. It was merely that Hugh had nothing to do but talk.
‘I must beg your leave, sir, to complete my other duties,’ Carter said. ‘I will return to see if you are in need of anything. Say, in an hour or so?’
‘Go, Carter. I shall do very well on my own.’ What other choice did he have?
He heard Carter walk towards the door.
‘Carter?’
‘Yes, sir?’ the man answered.
‘Could you find me a cane?’
‘A cane, sir? Forgive me, sir, I had not noticed you walking with any difficulty.’ His voice was distressed.
‘No difficulty,’ Hugh assured him. ‘I merely thought that if I had a cane, I could keep myself from bumping into things. I could walk around without assistance.’
‘I see, sir.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘I will look for a cane for you.’
Carter closed the door and Hugh drummed his fingers on his knee. What the devil was he going to do to pass the time?
He rose and explored the room, treading carefully and trying not to tumble over furniture or break priceless ornaments.
It was a modest drawing room. He found at least three separate seating groups and some cabinetry along the walls. One of the cabinets held the claret. He was tempted to pour himself a glass, but feared he would spill the liquid and stain the carpet. He could drink from the carafe, but that seemed too ill mannered. Besides, he’d just consumed breakfast. It was a little early for imbibing.
He continued through the room and along the wall until finding a window. He knew from opening his window before breakfast that the day was a chilly one for April and to open this one would defeat the fire’s battle to warm the room, but he could not resist. The fresh air smelled like freedom.
He took in big gulps of air, as hungry for it as he’d been for his first meal here. But he closed the window again. Nothing was more of a nuisance than a guest who took over and changed a household’s entire routine. He was just so extremely tired of being closed inside walls.
But that was his lot for the moment. He ought, at least, to bear it without this constant pitying of himself.
He continued his way around the room.
He found a pianoforte in one corner of the room and ran his fingers down the keys. He pressed one. It sounded a note.
And reminded him of his sister.
How was Phillipa faring? he wondered. Was she still spending long hours at the pianoforte, composing those songs of hers? Was her husband still selling her music? Hugh had heard one of the songs played by the orchestra at Vauxhall Gardens, quite an unusual accomplishment for a well-bred young lady.
Phillipa followed her own desires, no matter the pressure from their mother and the neglect of her father and brothers. Look at the result. She’d married Xavier—a man decent enough to put the whole Westleigh family to shame and well able to provide for her. And she’d just become a mother.
Hugh hoped Phillipa still played music, even though she was now a mother. He’d never given her music much thought—if truth be told, he never gave Phillipa enough thought. With her scarred face, she’d always hidden herself away. And she was seven years younger. He’d been at school, then in the army while she grew up.
He admired her now.
Phillipa’s scar, her music, the abominable way everyone had treated her, all freed her from any responsibility to the family. Ned, now the earl, was charged with preserving the family property and good name for coming generations. Hugh had been given the task of family workhorse.
Difficulties emerged at the country estate? Send Hugh to fix them. Papa engaging in bad behaviour again? Dispatch Hugh to set him straight.
All that was at an end. Ned must attend to his property now and their father would no longer trouble anyone. Hugh was free.
Or would be, if his sight returned.
He made a fist and struck the keys of the pianoforte again. The sound was as discordant as his emotions. His freedom was dependent upon his eyes. What if they did not heal?
He straightened. Enough self-pity.
He drummed his fingers on the keyboard and made more pleasant music.
For want of anything else to do, he sat at the pianoforte’s bench and felt the keys, hearing his sister’s endless scales that echoed through their house for so many years. He found middle C and played the simple C scale, which pretty much exhausted his knowledge of playing.
He played the scale again. And again. And again until his fingers moved smoothly from note to note and the novelty wore off. He tried picking out a tune, an exercise in trial and error, but he kept at it.
He picked out the tune for the military bugle call that signalled the end of the day—or the end of battle.
It brought back memories.
‘Do you play, Mr Westleigh?’ Mrs Asher’s voice came from the doorway.
‘Not at all.’ He turned. ‘You may have heard all the skill I possess.’ The extent of his pleasure at having company at last shocked him. ‘Are your cooks and maids and footmen all hired?’
‘They are.’
She said no more. Moved no more. Her wariness towards him persisted and it puzzled him still.
He turned back to the keyboard. ‘Tinkering with the pianoforte is at least something I can do without sight. There seems little else.’
He heard her approach from the rustle of her skirts, knew she’d come close by the scent of roses and the warmth of her body. She excited his senses, but he was unsure whether it was due to the loneliness his lack of sight produced or the fact that she was mysterious and female.
Good God. He must watch himself.
* * *
Daphne had resolved to stay away from Westleigh as much as possible, but Carter was busy with the new footman and could not attend him. She should simply ask Westleigh if he needed anything and be on her way, but he’d sounded so...so lonely, it was difficult not to play the hostess.
At least that was what she told herself.
He placed his fingers on the keys. ‘See? I can play a scale.’
But he started on the wrong note.
She covered his hand with hers. His hand was large, but with long, strong fingers. She placed one on middle C. ‘Try it now.’
He obliged her, then turned and smiled.
She flushed.
It was good he could not see that his smile set her heart to racing. Really, it was nonsensical for her to react so to a man. She’d vowed she would never do so again. Or perhaps she thought she could never do so again.
‘Do you play?’ he asked. ‘I am guessing that you do, because you knew how to find C and you have a pianoforte in your drawing room.’
She thought of all the hours of her childhood spent practising scales. ‘I learned, of course, but my playing is unexcep
tional at best.’
Unlike his sister, who had been so skilled Daphne thought she’d played at Covent Garden. Even though her own husband’s praise of her skills had been effusive, Daphne had always known he greatly exaggerated.
‘What was the tune you played?’ she asked, shaking from her mind the guilt she felt about Faville’s devotion.
‘“The Last Post”,’ he responded. ‘A bugle call signalling the end of the day.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She did not know much about bugle calls and military matters. ‘I have heard it before, of course.’
He picked out the melody again. ‘I believe I hit the right keys this time.’ He slid over on the bench. ‘Your turn. Come sit and play me something.’
She’d not played since her husband had died, she realised, and she did not wish to play now, but it seemed rude of her to refuse.
‘Very well.’ She sat next to him, realising for the first time how much larger he was than she.
She played the first piece she could think of, ‘The Battle of Prague.’
He laughed.
She lifted her hands, her face burning. ‘Was it that dreadful?’
He reached for and found her hand. ‘No, that is not it at all. It brought back a memory. My sister played that piece so often, I used to pull out my hair.’ He grabbed a fistful of hair and demonstrated.
She pulled her hands away and placed them in her lap. ‘Your sister?’
‘Lady Phillipa,’ he said. ‘She loved the pianoforte above all things—until she met her husband, I mean.’
‘Oh.’ The stab of pain was not nearly what it once might have been. That was not due to Xavier, but her own behaviour; her year at the abbey had done some good.
You will recover, the abbess had assured her. Perhaps she’d made a little progress.
‘Please continue playing,’ he said.
She wished to flee the room, but her good manners won over. This time she played ‘Barbara Allen.’
To her surprise, he began to sing.
‘In Scarlet town where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin’.
Made every youth cry well-a-day,
A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) Page 6