Chapter Three
Hugh lost his battle to stay awake. He had no idea how long he slept, but he woke again to darkness.
Cursed eyes!
Was it day or night? Was he alone or was someone in the room?
Was she here?
He remained still and strained to hear the sounds of someone moving, someone breathing.
It was so quiet.
The hiss of the fireplace; otherwise, silence. Was anyone near? Would they hear him if he called out for help?
Although he’d be damned if he’d call out for help.
Or for water.
His throat was parched with thirst. There must be water somewhere in the room. She must have left some for him.
He climbed out of bed, not as steady on his feet as he might wish. The carpet on the floor was soft and cool on his bare feet. Carefully, he started from right next to the bed, groping—and finding—a side table. He ran his hand over the table’s surface. No water. Merely a candlestick—certainly an item for which he had no need.
He groped past the table and bumped into a wooden chair. He backed away and knocked the table onto the floor. The carpet muffled the sound. No one would be roused by the noise.
Crouching, he felt around for the table, found it and righted it. The candlestick must have rolled away. Useless to search for it anyway.
Moving cautiously again, he made his way past the chair. With the wall as his guide, he inched his way towards the fireplace, feeling the fire’s heat grow stronger as he neared. His hand found the mantel. His toes smashed against the hearth.
He backed away and found more chairs and another table upon which there was a book. Another item for which he had no use.
Continuing, he discovered a door. It was a dressing room, smelling of dust, its shelves empty. He closed the door and his fingers felt along the wall until he came to another door. The door to the hallway. He turned the latch and opened the door and felt the change in temperature. But the hallway was silent.
He closed the door again and groped his way back to the bed. On the other side was another table. On the table he found a drinking glass and the water pitcher. He could never pour the water into the glass. He lifted the entire pitcher to his lips and took several gulps of the cool, minty liquid.
Placing the pitcher back on the table, he felt his way back to the bed, but halted. Lying abed like an invalid held no appeal.
He might as well continue his haphazard search of the room.
He found his trunk in one corner, his boots, smelling of bootblack, next to it. He found a rocking chair and a window.
A window! Fresh air. Hugh found the sash, opened the window and felt a cool breeze against his face. On the breeze was the scent of green grass, rich soil and flowers. He stuck his hand out the window and tried to sense whether it was day or night.
Without eyes, he could not tell.
He felt for the rocking chair and turned it towards the window. She must have sat in this rocking chair while in the room; her scent, very faint, clung to it. He lowered himself into it and rocked. The rhythm soothed him. The breeze cooled his skin. And banished the memory of the fire’s infernal heat.
* * *
He must have dozed. For how long this time? Half awake, half asleep, he became aware of a knock at the door. The door opened. He knew instantly it was not she.
‘Sir! You are not abed.’ A male voice.
Hugh shook himself awake. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Carter, sir. La—Mrs Asher’s footman.’ The voice did not come closer, so Carter must have remained by the door. ‘I came to attend you.’
‘I am grateful.’ She’d said her footman would come. ‘Can you tell me what time it is?’
‘Seven, sir,’ Carter replied.
‘Morning or evening?’ Did they not see he could not tell?
‘Morning, sir.’
‘What day?’ Hugh tried not to let his impatience show.
‘Oh! You must not realise—’ Carter’s voice deepened. ‘Forgive me—I will explain—it is Friday. We arrived here Wednesday. The day after the fire. You slept most of yesterday. It is Friday morning now.’
He’d lost two days.
‘I will assist you, sir. Shave you and whatever else you might require.’
Shave? Hugh scraped his hand against the stubble on his chin. He must have appeared like a ruffian to her.
Carter’s voice came closer. ‘Unless you would like me to help you back into bed.’
‘No.’ Hugh forced himself not to snap at the man. It was not Carter’s fault he needed the assistance. ‘I will not return to bed. Shave me and help me dress, if you would be so good.’
Gentlemen of Hugh’s rank customarily employed a valet, but Hugh never did. He had no qualms about borrowing the services of someone else’s valet when absolutely necessary, but what he could do for himself, he preferred doing. It made him free to come and go as he wished without having to consider anyone else’s needs.
Now, though, he was not free. He was as dependent as a suckling babe.
He submitted to Carter’s ministrations with as good grace as he could muster, even though Carter needed to help him with his most basic of needs. He’d do them all without help as soon as he could, he promised himself. After he was shaved, bathed, toileted and dressed, he found his way back to the rocking chair, more fatigued than he would ever admit.
‘Thank you, Carter,’ he said. ‘What of breakfast?’ His hunger had returned. ‘Will you help me to the breakfast room?’
He sensed Carter backing away. ‘I—I believe Mrs Asher preferred you eat here, sir. Your health is fragile, I’m given to understand.’
Hugh refused to be fragile. ‘Very well, but tell Mrs Asher I wish to speak with her as soon as it is convenient.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Carter moved towards the door.
‘In fact—’ Hugh raised his voice ‘—tell Mrs Asher that I would like to see the village doctor. I am well able to pay for his services, so let there be no worry over that. I wish to see him today.’ And find out, if possible, if he was to be blind or not.
‘As you wish, sir.’ He imagined Carter bowing. ‘Breakfast as well, sir.’
The door closed and the footman’s steps receded.
Hugh rose again. It felt better to be dressed, even if he was merely in shirt, trousers and stockings. At least when Mrs Asher returned, he would look more like a gentleman and less like an invalid.
If one could ignore the bandages covering his eyes.
He made his way around the bed. If his memory served him, the table on the other side of the bed, the table he’d knocked down during the night, was where he had eaten the porridge. He found the table again, bumped into the wooden chair again and kicked the lost candlestick with his toe, sending it skittering away.
Nonetheless, he managed to arrange the table and chair for eating. It was a minor matter, but a victory all the same. He was not entirely helpless.
Even so, a lifetime like this would be unbearable.
* * *
Daphne had left the two prospective maids in the company of Mrs Pitt after finally sorting out the matter. She’d thought she could simply hand them off to the housekeeper and be done with it, but the woman was shockingly dependent upon Daphne