‘I did not mean for you to bring it so quickly, but I am very grateful.’ He had finished the food and was feeling for the tea cup.
She walked over and guided his hand to it.
He stilled and his face tilted towards hers.
She wished she could see him, see all his face. She had seen him a few times at the Masquerade Club and had been introduced to him once. It was the only time she could remember speaking to him, and she’d paid little attention.
‘Is there anything else?’ she murmured. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’
He continued to seem as if he was facing her. ‘I want to leave this room,’ he said. ‘To come and go as I wish. Surely there must be a drawing room or a library or someplace I could sit without disturbing anyone.’
‘But how can you? You can’t see,’ she cried.
He scowled. ‘I can walk.’
She feared he would injure himself even more. What would she do then?
‘The surgeon at Ramsgate said—’ She cut herself off. ‘Let us at least wait until another doctor examines you. I would hate to risk your recovery.’
He gulped down the cup of tea.
She leaned closer to pick up the tray.
‘Roses,’ he said softly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You smell like roses,’ he explained.
She felt her cheeks flush. It delighted her that he’d noticed. It was her favourite scent. She always rinsed herself with rosewater and any perfume she purchased must smell like roses.
‘I—I should leave now, unless there is something else I can do—’ She bit her lip.
‘Nothing.’ His voice dipped low. ‘I am grateful for the breakfast and the clock. And for sending for the doctor.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Let us hope he comes soon.’
Balancing the tray, she exited the room and only then did she realise she’d again not told him who she really was. Maybe when the doctor came, he would indeed say Westleigh was recovered. Maybe he would remove Westleigh’s bandages and his eyes would work perfectly and she could have her coachman take him to London this very day.
* * *
It was late afternoon before the doctor called at the cottage.
Carter announced him to Daphne as she sat in the drawing room, writing a letter to her man of business, informing him of her arrival in England and her stay at Thurnfield.
She, of course, did not explain why she remained at Thurnfield.
She rose at the doctor’s entrance. ‘Mr Wynne, how good of you to come.’
He was a man of perhaps fifty years, with a rough but kindly appearance. When he saw her, his face lit with surprise, then appreciation. ‘Mrs Asher! My word. May—may I welcome you to Thurnfield. You are a very delightful addition, if I may be so bold as to say.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Daphne’s response was well practised. Men who saw her for the first time often reacted so. In this instance, however, she did not want her beauty to distract the doctor from why he was here. ‘I do believe Mr Westleigh is anxious for you to examine him. Carter can take you up to him directly.’
He tapped his lips. ‘In a moment. I understand from Mr Carter that you witnessed the injury and the examination by the other surgeon. I think it best I should speak with you first.’
She sat again and gestured to a chair. ‘Do sit.’
He lowered himself into the chair and leaned towards her, all ears. And eyes. ‘Now. Tell me what happened.’
She relayed the information as succinctly as she could, but he asked several questions about the injury and other surgeon’s examination, forcing her to repeat herself.
It was a good thing she had not ordered tea, or the man would never make it up to Westleigh’s room.
Her patience frayed. ‘I do think you should see Mr Westleigh now, sir. He has been waiting a very long time.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ Mr Wynne took his time rising from his seat. ‘You will accompany me? I may need information only you will have.’
She’d just given him all the information she possessed. Several times.
But it seemed expedient to do as he requested, merely to get him to actually see Westleigh, who had waited all day for the man. She rose. ‘Come with me.’
Daphne heard the clock in Westleigh’s room chime the quarter-hour as she raised her hand to knock.
‘Please, come in.’ Westleigh sounded impatient.
‘Mr Westleigh, it is Mrs Asher,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘I have brought Mr Wynne, the surgeon, to see you.’
Hugh had been seated in the rocking chair next to the window, which was open to the afternoon breeze. He stood and extended his hand almost in the surgeon’s direction. ‘Mr Wynne. I have been eager for your arrival.’
Wynne clasped his hand. ‘Westleigh. Pleased to meet you. Mrs Asher has told me of your injuries.’
‘She has?’ His posture stiffened. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what she said.’
‘I told him you were in a fire,’ Daphne responded. ‘And that you were hit on the head and your eyes burned. I told him the other surgeon said you were concussed and that your eyes needed to remain bandaged for two weeks.’
‘I could have told him that,’ Westleigh remarked.
‘I agree.’ She had not wished to be this involved. Should she tell him the surgeon preferred her company to the duties that called him here?
‘A nasty business, eh?’ Wynne finally turned his attention to the patient. ‘Please do sit and I will bring a chair closer to you.’
Westleigh lowered himself back into the rocking chair and Wynne brought the wooden chair over to him. Daphne stood near to the door.
‘Now,’ Wynne said, ‘tell me—do you have any difficulty breathing?’
Westleigh took a breath. ‘No.’
Wynne nodded, but from his bag pulled out a cylindrical tube. ‘Best to check, in any event.’ He placed one end of the tube on Westleigh’s chest, the other against his own ear. ‘Breathe deeply for me.’
Westleigh did as requested and the surgeon moved the tube to various locations on his chest.
‘Your lungs are clear,’ Wynne said. ‘Have you experienced any dizziness?’
‘None now,’ Westleigh answered. ‘Not even if I walk. I am quite steady on my feet.’
‘Any pain?’ the man asked.
Westleigh shrugged. ‘My throat feels a bit rough. My head aches still, but not excessively. It is my eyes—my eyes concern me the most. They ache with a dull sort of pain. Again, not excessive. If I try to move my eyelids, however, the pain sharpens a great deal.’
‘Best you not move your eyelids.’ Wynne chuckled.
Westleigh frowned.
This was not a joking matter to him, Daphne wanted to say.
Wynne leaned forwards. ‘Let me have a look at you.’
He placed his fingers on Hugh’s head. His fingers looked stubby, but his touch seemed sure.
‘It is most remarkable you were not more burned.’ Wynne moved his fingers around his head and looked closely