A Lady of Notoriety. Diane Gaston
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family? Good God, no.
After this trip he intended to throw off the shackles of family responsibility for a time. He’d been at the family’s beck and call ever since leaving the army.
‘Do not write to my family.’ He raised his voice. ‘They must know nothing about this.’
She did not speak.
He shook his head, realising how he must have sounded. ‘I apologise again.’ He spoke in a milder tone. ‘My family would be the very worst of caretakers.’ They were not expecting him, so they would not worry. He’d not written that he’d left Brussels. Better to not give them any time to find a new task he might perform for them. ‘I beg you would find another solution. I realise I am imposing, but I can well pay for my care. I must not be put in the hands of my family. On that I must insist.’
‘Very well. I will not contact your family.’ He heard the sounds of her picking up the tray from the table. ‘But you must rest now. Someone will check on you later.’ He heard her footsteps walking towards the door. It opened and she spoke once more. ‘Mr Westleigh?’
‘Yes?’ He stiffened, expecting a rebuke.
‘You are not imposing.’
The door closed.
He was alone again. In the dark.
Mrs Asher’s presence was a comfort, an anchor. Alone it was as if he floated in a void. He listened and thought he heard a bird singing outside, a dog’s bark at some distance, footsteps outside the room.
He stilled, waiting to hear if the door would open.
The footsteps faded.
His head ached, his throat ached, his eyes ached, but he was determined to remain awake. If he remained awake, he was not totally helpless.
To keep awake, he recalled the details of the fire.
He’d been leaving the inn’s tavern, returning to his room, when shouts of ‘fire!’ reached his ears. He’d jumped into action, knocking on doors, getting people out. The fire had started in a room on the ground floor. He and others had cleared that floor and worked their way up to the higher floors while the fire kept growing and the task grew more dangerous.
The excitement of it had spurred him on. People had needed saving and someone had to brave the threat to save them, a perfect role for Hugh. He always did what needed to be done. If there was risk involved, so much the better.
He’d fought in the war because England needed him and, if truth be told, he’d loved the adventure of it, the risk to one’s life, the chance to test his mettle. The army in peacetime was not for him, though. He’d sold his commission and prepared to discover his next adventure. He’d travel, he thought. To Africa. Or the Colonies. Or Chile—no, not Chile. With his luck he’d get embroiled in their War of Independence. It was one thing to risk one’s life for one’s own country, quite another to act as a mercenary. Besides, it was his own independence he yearned to indulge.
Instead, a family crisis had snared him. First his father had nearly impoverished the family by gambling and philandering away its fortunes, then he had tried to cheat the man who’d come to their rescue, his own natural son, John Rhysdale.
After that, Hugh, his brother Ned and Rhysdale had forced their father to move to Brussels and turn over the finances and all his affairs to Ned. Hugh was charged with making certain their father held to the bargain, which meant repeated trips to the Continent. At least this last trip had been the final one. Hugh had been summoned back to Brussels because his father had dropped dead after a night of carousing and drinking.
Hugh suffered no grief over his father’s death—the man hadn’t cared a whit about him or any of the family. His father’s death freed him at last.
Now Hugh’s independence was again threatened when nearly in his grasp. Only this time it might not be family obligation holding him back.
This time it might be blindness.
* * *
Daphne strode immediately from Westleigh’s bedchamber through the cottage and out into the garden where beds of red tulips and yellow narcissus ought to have given her cheer.
How could she be calm? She’d counted on Westleigh’s family coming to care for him. Who would not want family to nurse them back to health? She’d planned on leaving as soon as a family member arrived. They would never see the elusive Mrs Asher. A mere note would be all they knew of her.
The Westleighs would detest knowing the despised Lady Faville had cared for a family member. Hugh Westleigh would detest it, as well. She’d once tried to steal away Phillipa Westleigh’s new husband after all.
And, because her vanity had been injured, she’d heaved a lighted oil lamp against the Masquerade Club’s wall. It had shattered, just as her illusions had shattered in that moment. In a flash, though, the curtains and her own skirts had caught fire.
Her hands flew to her burning cheeks. She’d been so afraid. And ashamed! What sort of person does such a thing?
Yes, the Westleighs would hate her, indeed.
She’d been a coward that day, running away after Phillipa had saved her from her burning skirts. She was a coward still. She should simply tell Hugh Westleigh her identity—she should have told him from the beginning—
What would the abbess have said? Do what is right, my child. You shall never err if you follow the guide of your own conscience. Do always what is right.
But what happens if one does not know what is right? What is one supposed to do in that event?
Was it right to tell him the truth or better to hide the truth and not upset him?
Daphne paced back and forth. It would only be two weeks until his bandages came off and he’d be on his way. She stopped and placed her hands on her cheeks.
Unless he was blind.
Please, dear God. Let him not be blind!
She shook her head. Who was she to pray?
She, Carter and Monette simply must take the best care of him. Not upset him. Give him the best chance to heal.
Perhaps the dear abbess would intercede with God for him on Daphne’s behalf. And perhaps the abbess would forgive her if she did not tell the truth this time. No real harm in him thinking she was merely Mrs Asher for such a little while. Feeling only slightly guilty, Daphne strolled around to the front of the cottage.
Two young women approached from the road and quickened their pace when they saw her.
‘Beg pardon, ma’am. Are you Mrs Asher?’ They looked no more than fifteen years, each of them.
‘I am Mrs Asher,’ she responded.
‘We’ve come looking for work, ma’am,’ one said. ‘Mr Brill, the agent, told us you might be needing some help in the cottage—’
‘We can do whatever you need,’ the other broke in. ‘We’re strong girls. Mr Brill will vouch for us.’
Both were simply dressed and their clothing looked very old and worn. In fact, their gowns hung on them.
‘We need work very bad, ma’am,’ the first girl said. ‘We’ll do anything.’
‘I am not sure...’ Daphne bit her lip. Would it be right to hire maids to work in a house where she would stay for only two weeks?
‘Please, Mrs Asher,’ the second girl said. ‘We can show you how good we work. Give us a chance.’
What difference did it make to her? She had plenty of money to pay them. It was the easiest thing in the world to say yes. Besides, the abbess would say she’d done a good thing.
‘Very well, girls,’ she said. ‘Follow me. If Mrs Pitts approves, you may become our new maids of all work.’
They