A Lady of Notoriety. Diane Gaston

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      ‘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 to make even the smallest of decisions, like what their duties should be, whether they should live in the house—yes, they should. Why have maids if they were not around when you needed them? Mrs Pitt also would have offered the girls a pittance for what would be very hard work, tending to the fires, cleaning the house and otherwise seeing to her needs. It was also very clear that they needed new clothes.

      And that they were hungry. They both kept eyeing the bread Mrs Pitt had taken from the oven, and neither could pay attention to the discussion. So Daphne told Mrs Pitt to feed them, which led to a long discussion of what to feed them and what to feed Mr Westleigh and how was she—Mrs Pitt—to cook all that food, now that there were two more mouths to feed and two more workers to supervise.

      By the time they’d finished, Daphne had given Mrs Pitt permission to hire a cook, a kitchen maid, another footman and two stable boys to help John Coachman. Mr Pitt was sent into the village to speak with some people he and Mrs Pitt thought would be perfect for the jobs, and Monette was getting her cloak and bonnet so she could accompany the girls to the local draper for fabric to make new dresses and aprons.

      What fuss. Her husband would have been appalled at her being so bothered by such trivial matters. Even at the convent at Fahr, someone else saw to the food, the clothing, the cleaning.

      As tedious as it all was, Daphne walked through the hall with a sense of pride. Her decisions were good ones after all. And she could well afford to pay all the servants even if she stayed here a year instead of two weeks.

      As she crossed the hall, Carter descended the stairs.

      She smiled up at him. ‘How is Mr Westleigh this morning, Carter?’

      He reached the final step. ‘Much improved, ma’am. He wishes to speak with you.’

      Oh, dear. And she wanted to avoid him.

      ‘What about, do you know?’ Perhaps he’d changed his mind about contacting his family.

      Carter frowned. ‘He wants to see a local doctor. I believe he is most unhappy about being bandaged and confined. He wants to see a doctor immediately.’

      It was a reasonable request. He’d been nearly insensible when the surgeon at Ramsgate examined him. If only she’d known a few minutes earlier, she could have asked Mr Pitt to fetch the doctor.

      ‘Could you go to the village and locate the doctor? Or find Mr Pitt and give him the errand? He left for the village a few minutes ago.’

      Carter’s brows knit. ‘Shall I take Mr Westleigh his breakfast first, ma’am? I told him it was coming.’

      The poor man must be famished. He’d only eaten a bowl of porridge since they’d arrived here.

      She sighed. ‘No. I will take him his breakfast. Perhaps there was something else he wanted to say to me.’

      Carter came with her to the kitchen where Mrs Pitt gave him the doctor’s direction and fixed the tray for Mr Westleigh.

      Daphne carried the tray up the stairs and knocked upon Westleigh’s bedchamber door.

      ‘Come in, Carter.’ His voice sounded stronger than the day before.

      She opened the door and entered the room, kicking the door closed behind her.

      He was seated at the table and chair where he’d eaten the porridge, and was dressed in a clean white shirt and dark brown trousers that showed off his broad shoulders and lean hips. She swallowed, suddenly remembering his strong arms carrying her in the inn.

      ‘I can smell the bread from here.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I will eat at the table.’

      She crossed the room. ‘It is Mrs Asher, not Carter.’

      He tensed, as if he’d not liked mistaking her identity, and stood as a gentleman does when a lady enters the room. ‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly.

      ‘Please sit,’ she responded. ‘Carter said you wished to see me, so it is I who brings you breakfast.’

      He lowered himself back in the chair. ‘I appreciate you coming so quickly.’

      She placed the tray of food in front of him. ‘I sent Carter to fetch a doctor and we did not wish you to wait. Are you hungry?’

      ‘Ravenous.’ He carefully ran his hands over the food.

      She’d instructed Mrs Pitts to serve foods he could eat with his hands and spare him the struggle of manoeuvring utensils. They’d settled on warm bread sliced open with melting butter inside, two cooked eggs, cubes of cheese and a pot of tea.

      He hesitated.

      It made her uncertain. ‘I will pour your tea,’ she said. ‘I remember how you take it, but do, please, eat. You must be very hungry.’

      ‘I hope my manners will not offend.’

      Oh, he was merely being polite. ‘Have no fear. I am not easily offended.’

      How odd of her to say such a thing. At a formal dinner party, she once would have had much to say about poor manners, and she’d often shaken her head at the way some of the lower classes consumed their food. Perhaps she was developing some tolerance, like the abbess had often encouraged her to do.

      ‘I am surprised to see you dressed,’ she went on in a conversational tone. ‘I thought you would still be in bed.’

      ‘No more bed.’ His voice was firm. ‘I am well enough to be up.’

      She pursed her lips. ‘Are you certain? The surgeon in Ramsgate said you would need time to recuperate. I think he meant you should remain in bed.’

      ‘I think him wrong,’ he said stiffly. ‘I feel recuperated. Perhaps the village doctor will say I may have my bandages removed and be on my way.’ He paused. СКАЧАТЬ