Why could she simply not tell him who she was, which she should have done in the beginning?
She could not bring herself to do it. Better he think she left for some mysterious reason than that the despised Lady Faville had deceived him the whole time.
The abbess had been correct about lies. They grew worse with time. If at the beginning she had told him she was Lady Faville, not Mrs Asher, he probably would have left for London immediately and this past week would never have happened.
No, she would never regret this week with him. She’d learned so many lessons she could not have learned otherwise. She’d learned that she could love unselfishly, that another person’s well-being could mean everything and her well-being nothing. She’d learned that joy came from managing some kind gesture to Hugh. Like helping him to ride. Like reading to him, playing the pianoforte for him. She learned that lovemaking could be glorious when pleasure was mutually shared and when two people loved each other.
Daphne also learned one more thing, perhaps the most important of all. She learned a man could love her for herself and not merely for the beauty of her face or the shape of her figure. She would for ever be grateful to Hugh for that gift.
What had she given him in return? Lies. Deceit. Would she be able to live with herself for it?
She hoped—and prayed—that Hugh would be rewarded for what he’d done for her. She prayed he would open his eyes and see.
Even if he would never see her.
She heard the tapping of his cane as he approached. May this be the last day he would need the cane! She quickly wiped her eyes and blew her nose into a handkerchief and placed a smile on her face, ready to play her part one last time.
* * *
Hugh had ridden that morning. He’d galloped over the fields, heedless of the risk he’d open his eyes. What difference would it make now? Today he would either be blind or not.
He could not pretend to be free of anxiety. He wanted so badly to be whole for her, to not have to wrestle with the issue of whether he could stay with her or not.
The whole cottage seemed to have caught his nerves. The very air felt different. Tense with waiting. At breakfast he could tell Daphne was putting on a cheerful front. She spoke with her governess voice, always a sign she was feeling other emotions than she was willing to reveal. After breakfast she excused herself to tend to some servant matter. He retired to the drawing room to practise his scales.
Instead, he played ‘The Last Post’, which he now could play without hesitation. Its mournful notes seemed foreboding. The other tune he knew by memory was ‘Barbara Allen’, but it, too, was depressing. He didn’t want to think of loss—the potential loss of his sight.
Daphne should have taught him a happy tune.
There was a knock on the door and Toller’s voice said, ‘Mr Wynne is here, sir.’
‘Wynne?’ The surgeon was early. ‘Find Mrs Asher and ask her to come immediately. I’ll see Wynne here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Toller sounded tense.
Hugh was touched that even the servants were worried for him.
He moved to his usual chair in the drawing room, where he had been sitting when Wynne had called before.
The surgeon bustled in. ‘Good morning, Westleigh.’ He paused. ‘Mrs Asher is not here today?’
‘I’ve sent for her,’ Hugh said. ‘You’ve come early.’
The surgeon unbuckled the straps of his bag. ‘Sometimes I cannot help being late.’
Hugh did not try to make sense of that. ‘Did you wish to wait for Mrs Asher?’
‘Well...’ Wynne sounded tempted. ‘I would be delighted to see her, but I cannot stay long.’
‘Pardon, sir.’ Toller entered the room again. ‘I cannot find Mrs Asher.’
‘You do not say.’ Wynne was obviously disappointed. ‘We might as well get started. I imagine you are anxious to know what’s what.’
Hugh was disappointed, as well. He had counted on her being with him. ‘Yes, proceed.’ Perhaps it would be for the best, though. If the removal of the bandages went as he feared, she would not witness his despair.
Hugh sat in a chair and Wynne pulled up another to face him. He rummaged in his bag and Hugh heard the blades of the scissors open and close. Wynne snipped the bandage at the back of his head and started to unwind it.
‘Keep your eyes closed, now,’ the surgeon cautioned. ‘Toller, would you close the curtains? We don’t want any bright light.’
Hugh heard Toller attending to the task.
Wynne placed his fingers on the pieces of cloth covering each of Hugh’s eyes and unwound the last of the bandage that held them in place. ‘Now keep them closed. I’m going to take these last bandages off and examine your eyes first.’
Hugh kept his eyes closed with difficulty. He could feel his eyes darting behind his lids. Was that a good or a bad sign?
Wynne lifted his lids slightly. ‘All good so far.’
Hugh saw light from the slit beneath his eyelids. Seeing light was not the same as having vision, though.
Wynne took a breath. ‘Now slowly open your lids. If there is pain,’ he added quickly, ‘close them again.’
Hugh carefully lifted his eyelids, the first time he’d done so deliberately in a fortnight. There was pain, but not like when he’d opened his eyes before. This pain was more akin to staring into the sun. Everything was blurred. He blinked and tried again. This time he saw shapes. Another blink and the shapes took on a more exact form.
He stared into the weathered face of an older man and laughed. ‘I can see. Wynne.’ He pointed to him, as if to prove it.
The older man’s face creased into a smile. ‘Bravo!’
Hugh turned to a tall, skinny young man standing to his right. ‘Toller!’
Toller grinned. ‘That I am, sir.’
Wynne gathered up the old bandages and set them aside. He placed the steel scissors in his bag, a worn black leather satchel. ‘Mind that you do not strain your eyes, young man. Stay out of strong sunlight for a few days. Don’t read too much. Rest your eyes often. Work up to normal use gradually.’ He touched Hugh’s face. ‘You have a few burn marks, but those might fade in time.’
Hugh glanced around the room. The decor was plain and a little worn. The chairs were upholstered in green and the curtains matched them. He knew precisely where to look for the pianoforte, for the cabinet that held the brandy. ‘It is just good to see.’
Wynne stood. ‘I must go. Give my best to Mrs Asher.’
It had taken no time at all. After hours, days of anticipation.
Hugh walked Wynne out of the room into the hall. The walls of the hall were all oak wainscoting. The front door was oak as well, as was the stairway and the door to the dining room.
Toller handed Wynne his hat and gloves, and Hugh walked him to the door. ‘Thank you again, Wynne.’ He reached into his pocket and placed coins into the man’s hand.
Wynne handed the coins back to him. ‘Mrs Asher already sent payment. Quite as generous as she is beautiful.’
She was beautiful? Hugh had known so. He’d felt her beauty under his fingertips. Soon he would see for himself.
He opened the door and Wynne gave a little wave and strode off.
Hugh turned to Toller. ‘I must find Mrs Asher.’
He could hardly contain his excitement. He would surprise her, take her in his arms, ask her to marry him.
Toller frowned. ‘She’s not here, Mr Westleigh.’ He handed Hugh a folded and sealed note.
Hugh gave him a puzzled look, broke the seal and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was neat and precise with a decorative flourish to some letters, just as he would have expected her handwriting to look.
Dearest Hugh,
If you are reading this, then my heart soars for you. If not,
words cannot express how very sorry I am. I am gone. I cannot explain the reason, except to tell you it is for the best. It is no use to try to find me.
There is no Mrs Asher. I am not who I said I was. The only truth about me is how dearly I came to love you. I thank you for the most glorious week of my life. I shall live the rest of my life on its memory.
Forget me and be happy.
My enduring love remains with you for ever.
Daphne
The air whooshed from Hugh’s lungs, as if he’d fallen from a great height. He’d plunged, all right. From the highest joy to the deepest anguish.
She was gone?
No. Impossible.
He rubbed his eyes and read the letter again. What good was seeing now, if he must read these words? There was no mistaking it. She was gone.
He glanced over to Toller, despair creeping through his body like a venomous snake.
‘Does she tell you she has left, sir?’ Toller asked, distress written on his face. ‘She, Mr Carter and Miss Monette left in their carriage—’
Hugh would have heard a carriage. Unless it waited for her at some distance. She’d deliberately fooled him.
Toller went on. ‘She wrote letters for Mr and Mrs Pitts, for Mary and Ann and the stable boys. She left us all with pay to cover two years instead of two weeks. That is all I know, sir. We are to help you in whatever way you need. You may stay here as long as you like, because we’re all paid for two years.’
How generous of her. Why so generous to them when she’d robbed him of what he’d needed most?
‘Thank you, Toller,’ Hugh managed, although it felt as if his insides had been eviscerated. ‘I—I will let you know if I need anything.’ What he needed most had left him. Vanished.
And he did not even know what she looked like.
Toller bowed and left the hall.
Hugh glanced around him, but sight was no comfort. He felt as disorientated as when he’d first woken in this house. His hand gripped her letter. He lifted it and read the words again:
The only truth about me is how dearly I came to love you. I thank you for the most glorious week of my life. I shall live the rest of my life on its memory.
Pretty words, but surely as false as the story she’d told him from the start. Was any of it true? Love. It was not love to lie, to leave with no goodbye, with no explanation.
His chest ached and he cried out, a frustrated, helpless, angry sound.
There was more than one way to be blind. She’d blinded him to the truth of her. Deliberately. She’d made a fool of him, pretending at love.
His fist crumpled the paper.
Curse her! He did not even know who she was.
Chapter Twelve
The next day was overcast with grey clouds that threatened showers, but Hugh was determined to leave. Even Wynne’s warning to rest his eyes would not stop him. He unpacked his greatcoat and arranged to have his trunk shipped to his mother’s house in London. He purchased the horse he’d been riding for nearly two weeks and settled generous vails on the cottage servants. Daphne, if that was her name, was not the only one who could be generous.
With one last look at the place he’d been unable to see, he bid the servants goodbye and mounted the horse. Let it rain, let the heavens pour down on him, he did not care. He wanted to be away from this place. He needed the open road. He needed the air. He needed freedom. A carriage would close him in like a coffin and trap him with his own thoughts.
London was less than a day’s ride away, but he took it slowly, not changing horses, instead sticking with his old equine friend, who had offered him such essential diversion when he’d needed it. She had arranged that diversion. How was he to make sense of that?
Hugh wanted the miles to strip away memories of the cottage in Thurnfield, but that was futile. The memories would never fade. The memories flooded his mind, repeating over and over, and if he stopped them, the questions rushed in. Why had she deceived him? What sort of woman would do such a thing? Had she merely been toying with him? Seduce the blind man. Make him think it is his idea and convince him he is a great lover. Then what? And why? Why do that? Why make herself a part of him, then strip herself away? Would it have made a difference if he’d not regained his sight? Had Toller been given two letters, one for each situation?
No. She’d known the whole time she would leave.
Curse the woman.
She might as well have sliced him with a sabre. The ache inside him began to burn white-hot. It was good that he could not go in search of her. His anger seethed so strongly, who knew what he would do?
Anger was preferable to the sheer despair of losing her.
* * *
His mind and his emotions had spun in circles as the horse plodded steadily forwards. By the time he neared the shores of the Thames and spied the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, he’d made some decisions. First, he would not say anything to his family about the fire or Daphne or his recuperation. There was no reason they should know any of it. He’d say he came directly from Brussels. If they noticed any burn marks on his face, he’d tell them he came too close to some flames, which was true. Second, he’d cut himself loose from the family and book passage to...somewhere. He’d continue on his original plan to travel the world and do anything he damned well pleased.
Hugh crossed the Thames and made his way to Mayfair. Riding past the familiar buildings on familiar streets gave him more comfort than he would have guessed. He rode on Piccadilly, passing near the Masquerade Club. He was half tempted to drop in to see how it was going, but his eyes were aching from the strain of riding all day. He continued on to the family stable at Brooks Mews and gave charge of the horse to the Westleigh stablemen, trying not to remember Daphne’s stablemen, workers she’d had no need to hire.
He walked the short distance to Davies Street and, finding the door locked, sounded the knocker.
Mason, the butler, opened the door. ‘Why, Mr Hugh! Did we know you were to arrive today?’
Hugh suspected there would be a scramble to make certain his room was ready. ‘I didn’t send word, I’m afraid. But do not fuss for me.’
‘Oh, your mother would want your room properly prepared.’ Mason peeked out the door. ‘No luggage?’
Hugh lifted the satchel he’d carried with a change of clothing. ‘My trunk is being shipped.’ He stepped into the hall. ‘Is my mother at home?’
Mason took the satchel from Hugh’s hand. ‘I believe she and General Hensen are in the drawing room.’
The ever-present General Hensen, his mother’s lover. ‘I’ll go in and let her know I’m home.’
He glanced around the hall, at the portraits that hung on the walls and thought of a smaller, wainscoted hall he’d known only by feel until yesterday. He walked to his mother’s drawing room, gave a quick knock and entered the room.
His mother and the general were seated together on a sofa, looking into a kaleidoscope. Both looked up.
‘Hugh!’ His mother’s face lit up in a smile and, to his surprise, Hugh felt uncommonly glad to see her. She might act the tyrant at times, but, to be fair to her, it was always on behalf of her children.
General Hensen helped her to her feet. ‘How nice this is, eh, Honoria?’
His mother hurried over to him and waited for his kiss on the cheek. ‘Mother. General. Yes, here I am, back from Brussels.’
The general shook his hand. ‘It is good you are back, safe and sound.’
‘I am so glad to see you, but you look a fright.’ His mother touched his face. ‘What happened here?’ Of course she would notice the burn marks.
He shrugged away from her touch. ‘Nothing of consequence. Some cinders blew in my face.’
She pursed her lips. ‘You ought to be more careful, Hugh. Fire is nothing to trifle with.’
As well he knew. He’d run into an inferno after all.
The general chuckled. ‘Now, Honoria. He is not two years old. Hugh is a man who has fought in war.’
Hugh wanted to dislike a man who took his mother to bed, but Hensen was a decent sort and good to her. Hugh laughed at himself. He was not unlike Hensen. He’d been bedding a widow, too.
If she’d really been a widow. She might have lied about that, too.
He stepped away from his mother and looked down at himself. His clothes were damp and mud splattered. ‘You are quite right, Mama. I am not fit for company at the present moment. I merely wanted to inform you of my arrival.’ And to see you, he thought, because I feared I might never see you again. ‘I must change out of these clothes.’
‘Yes, do,’ His mother settled back in her chair.
He bowed and turned to the door.
His mother’s voice followed him. ‘So fortunate you have come today. We have a family dinner tonight.’
A family dinner? He’d hoped to have a day or two in relative peace, if peace and his mother could coexist in the same house.
He turned back to her. ‘Who is coming?’
She beamed. ‘All of them!’
* * *
Hugh washed off the dirt of the road and unpacked clean clothes to wear, but his eyes ached so much all he wanted to do was close them. Clad only in his drawers, he lay on the bed. Best he rest his eyes for a few moments. Wynne had told him not to exert himself.
Next thing he knew, Higgley, his mother’s footman, knocked on the door. ‘Almost dinnertime,’ Higgley said. ‘Your mother sent me up here to assist you.’
Hugh groaned as he sat up. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ Not that it had helped his eyes. They still ached.
Higgley went straight to the clothing he’d laid out. He handed Hugh a shirt.
‘Tell me what is happening in the family, Higgley.’ Hugh pulled his arms through the sleeves. ‘Anything I should know?’
A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) Page 13