LITMIR.BIZ

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‘I must see he receives care. Wait for me here.’

      They carried him to what looked like a nearby shopfront. Inside several people sat on benches while one man, the surgeon apparently, bandaged burns.

      ‘We have a bad one here, Mr Trask.’

      The surgeon waved a man off the chair where he’d been tending to him and gestured for the men to sit Westleigh in it. He was still limp.

      Daphne wrung her hands. ‘Will he live?’

      ‘I do not know, ma’am,’ the surgeon said.

      ‘He was hit on the head,’ she said. ‘I saw it.’

      The man checked Westleigh’s head. ‘Appears to be so.’

      Westleigh groaned and Daphne released a pent-up breath.

      The surgeon lifted his head. ‘Wake up, sir.’ He turned to Daphne. ‘What is his name?’

      ‘Mr Westleigh,’ she said. ‘He is the younger brother of the Earl of Westleigh.’

      ‘Is he?’ One of the men who had carried him in raised his brows. ‘Who would have expected it of the Quality? The man has pluck.’

      ‘Westleigh!’ The surgeon raised his voice. ‘Wake up.’

      He groaned again.

      ‘Open your eyes.’

      Westleigh tried to comply, straining. He winced and tried to rub his eyes. ‘I cannot...’

      Thank God he could speak.

      The surgeon pulled his hands away. ‘Do not do that. Let me look.’ He examined Westleigh’s eyes and turned to Daphne. ‘His eyes are cloudy. Damaged from the fire.’ He tilted Westleigh’s head back and rinsed his eyes with clear water from a nearby pitcher. ‘His eyes must stay bandaged for two weeks or he will lose his sight.’ He shrugged. ‘He may lose his sight no matter what, but sometimes the eyes heal remarkably well. I’m more concerned about his head. He is certainly concussed. He needs to be cared for.’

      ‘In what way?’ Daphne asked.

      ‘He needs rest and quiet. No excitement at all. For at least a week.’ He looked into Westleigh’s mouth and in his nose. ‘No bleeding. That is good.’

      ‘Head hurts,’ Westleigh mumbled.

      The surgeon folded bandages over Westleigh’s eyes and wrapped his head to keep them in place. No sooner had he finished than another victim of the fire was brought in, covered with burns. The surgeon’s attention immediately went to his new patient. ‘I must see this man.’ He waved Daphne away. ‘Keep his eyes bandaged and keep him quiet. No travelling. He must stay quiet.’

      Daphne dropped some coins from her purse on the table. The surgeon deserved payment.

      The man who had carried Westleigh to the surgeon got him to his feet. ‘Come along, sir.’ He turned to Daphne. ‘Follow me.’

      He must think she was in Westleigh’s party.

      They walked out of the building into a day just beginning to turn light.

      Carter, her footman, ran up to her. ‘M’lady, John Coachman found a stable for the horses. He and your maid are waiting with the carriage, which was left near the inn.’

      The man assisting Westleigh strained with the effort to keep him upright. ‘Give us a hand, would you?’ he asked her footman. Carter rushed to help him, but the man handed off his burden entirely. ‘I must see to my own family, ma’am.’ He pulled on his forelock and hurried away.

      Westleigh moaned.

      ‘What do I do with him?’ Carter shifted to get a better hold on Westleigh.

      Daphne’s mind was spinning. ‘Take him to the carriage, I suppose. We must find someone to care for him.’

      Men were still busy at the inn, extinguishing embers, salvaging undamaged items, of which there were very few. Daphne’s and her maid’s trunks had been with the carriage, so they had lost only what had been in their portmanteaux.

      Carter and John Coachman helped Westleigh into the carriage.

      ‘Is he coming with us?’ Monette asked.

      ‘Oh, no,’ Daphne replied. ‘He would detest that. He must have been travelling with someone. We should find out who.’ She turned to Carter. ‘Can you ask, please? His name is Hugh Westleigh, Lord Westleigh’s brother.’

      Westleigh stirred and tried to pull at the bandages covering his eyes.

      ‘No, Westleigh!’ Daphne climbed inside the carriage and pulled his hands away. ‘You must not touch your bandages.’ She arranged the pillows and rugs to make him more comfortable.

      ‘Thirsty,’ Westleigh mumbled.

      How thoughtless of her. He must have a raging thirst after all his exertion.

      ‘Monette, find him some ale and something nourishing.’ What ought an injured man eat? She had no idea, but dug into her purse again and handed both her maid and footman some coins. ‘Both of you buy something for yourselves to eat and drink and bring something back for John Coachman, as well.’

      * * *

      Monette returned within a quarter-hour with food and drink from a nearby alehouse for Westleigh and the coachman.

      ‘They have a room where we might change clothes,’ she told Daphne. ‘I paid for it and for a meal, so that we can eat privately.’

      It was better than eating in the carriage on the street with the smell of ashes still in the air.

      ‘I’ll tend to the gentleman, m’lady,’ John Coachman said. ‘I must watch the carriage in any event. He’ll be comfortable enough inside, with your pillows and all.’

      Monette climbed on top of the carriage and retrieved clothing from the trunks, rolling them into a bundle. She led Daphne to the alehouse, about two streets away.

      The place was crowded with people in various stages of dress and from various walks of life, who had all apparently escaped the fire. Daphne followed Monette through the throng. The smell of sweat, smoke and ale made Daphne’s empty stomach roil.

      Surely a lady of her stature should not be required to endure this sort of place.

      She placed her hand over her mouth.

      The words of the abbess at Fahr came back to her. You must practise compassion for all people, my lady. We are all God’s children.

      The dear abbess. The nuns at Fahr had told her the abbess was very old, but to Daphne she’d seemed ageless. For some unfathomable reason the abbess had bestowed her love and attention on Daphne.

      Her eyes filled with tears. The woman’s death had been a terrible blow, worse than her own mother’s death, worse than her husband’s. She could not bear to stay at Fahr after such a loss.

      At least the abbess’s words remained with her. Sometimes, when Daphne needed her words, it was almost as if the woman were at her side, whispering in her ear.

      Daphne glanced around once more and tried to see the people in the alehouse through the abbess’s eyes. Most looked exhausted. Some appeared close to despair. Others wore bandages on their arms or hands.

      Daphne ached for them.

      More truthfully, a part of her felt sorrow for their suffering; another part was very grateful to have been spared their troubles.

      As they reached the door to the private room, a gentleman rose from a booth where he’d sat alone. He was the gentleman who had spoken to her before, who remembered her from the Masquerade Club. What was his name?

      Lord Sanvers.

      ‘My good lady. There you are. I was concerned about you.’ His silver hair was neatly combed and

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