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