‘In Switzerland.’
‘Ah, Switzerland. A place I should like to visit.’
Carter placed a dish in front of him and the aroma of the stew filled his nostrils. ‘Here is the stew, sir. I will place the bread on the left for you.’
‘Thank you, Carter.’ He lifted his head in what he hoped was Mrs Asher’s direction. ‘It smells quite delicious.’
He could hear her being served, as well. She thanked Carter and his footsteps receded.
‘Do eat, Mr Westleigh,’ she said.
He felt for the fork first. Spearing meat with the fork seemed the easiest means of getting the food into his mouth. It took him several tries, but he finally succeeded. The lamb was flavourful and tender. Next he managed to spear some potato. Eating so little in the past two days had wreaked havoc on his appetite. It indeed felt like he could not get enough.
‘Is it to your liking?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘You cannot tell? I am certain I am shovelling it in like an ill-mannered peasant.’
‘You are allowed some lack of graces due to your injuries.’ His blindness, she meant.
He forced himself to slow down, searching for the bread and tearing off a piece. ‘What brought you to Switzerland?’ he asked.
‘A...’ She paused. ‘A retreat, you might say.’
He’d heard of spa towns on the Continent, places where a wealthy widow might go for a lengthy recuperation.
Or perhaps to have a child out of wedlock. Was that her secret? She seemed sad enough for such a happenstance. It would explain that air of concealment he sensed in her.
A wave of tenderness towards her washed over him. Women always had a more difficult lot in life. Men seduced women and women paid the price. A child out of wedlock—it made perfect sense.
* * *
Daphne toyed with her food, her appetite fleeing under his questions and the impact of his appearance, attired in coat and waistcoat. His coat fit beautifully, accenting his broad shoulders and tapering to his lean waist. He made it difficult to ignore that he was more than an invalid, more than a member of the family who despised her. He was a man, and his presence seemed to fill the room.
He’d paused and she feared he could sense she was staring at him. She averted her gaze, now wishing he would ask her about her retreat in Switzerland, even if she did not know how to tell him her retreat was in a Catholic convent.
He tore off another piece of bread. ‘My stay in Brussels was anything but a retreat.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. He was like most men. Wishing to talk about himself.
‘Is that so?’ she responded politely.
‘My time was spent disentangling my father’s affairs,’ he went on. ‘He was living there, you see. And he died there several months ago.’
‘I am so sorry.’ She felt genuinely sympathetic. She’d not known of the earl’s death.
She’d heard the Earl of Westleigh had been living on the Continent. Some scandal associated with the Masquerade Club, she recalled, but she could not remember the details. In her nights spent in attendance at the club, she’d not paid much attention to anything but her own interests.
‘Do not be sorry,’ he countered. ‘He was the very worst of fathers. The worst of men. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The infamous Earl of Westleigh?’ He exaggerated his father’s name.
‘I have heard of him.’ He’d been an acquaintance of her late husband’s and only a few years older. ‘But only his name, really.’ It was true. Her husband had not gossiped with her about the people he knew.
‘My brother Ned, the new earl, sent me to deal with whatever trouble our father caused. I am glad this was my last trip.’
She did not know what to say to this, so she offered more food. ‘Would you like more stew?’
‘I would indeed.’ He smiled.
He had a nice smile, she thought.
He was also the first person she’d ever met who admitted to not grieving the loss of a family member. Perhaps she wasn’t so strange after all, that the deaths of her parents had left her feeling so little emotion. She’d hardly known them. She had regretted that.
‘Did you not like Brussels, then?’ she asked, just to make conversation.
‘It is a beautiful city.’ He averted his head. ‘But too full of memories for me. When I walk through its streets, all I can think of is Waterloo.’
‘You were in the great battle?’ All she knew of the battle was what she read in the newspapers that reached Faville.
‘Yes.’ His voice turned wooden.
She took a big gulp of wine. ‘War and battle are not good topics for dinner conversation, are they?’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled again. ‘Tell me about Switzerland. I’ve seen the Alps from France, but not the other side. Are they as majestically beautiful?’
The Abbey was in a valley. The craggy stone mountaintops of the Alps were not greatly visible there.
‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed brightly. ‘Quite beautiful. It was a lovely place.’
‘I should like to travel there.’ He laughed. ‘I should like to travel anywhere and everywhere. That is what I will do after I report back to the family in London. Travel.’
But he might be blind. What would happen to his dreams of travel then?
‘There are many places to see,’ she responded conversationally.
They continued though dinner, talking of various places on the Continent where they had travelled. Daphne had seen only the countries through which she travelled to Switzerland and a little of Italy when her husband had taken her there.
The meal was companionable, more pleasant than any meal Daphne could remember in a long time. She enjoyed it far more than she ought, especially considering her resolve to stay away from him.
* * *
After dinner, they retired to the drawing room.
‘I do not have brandy to offer, I am afraid.’ She’d send Carter into the village to procure some the next day, however. ‘Would you care for tea?’
‘Tea will do.’
He’d been so churlish that morning, but now was agreeable and diverting. She could almost forget that she was Lady Faville and he was a man who would certainly despise her, if he knew.
As they finished their tea, she could see his energy was flagging.
‘I believe I shall retire for the night,’ she said, saving him the need to admit he was tired.
He smiled. ‘Will you escort me upstairs? I am uncertain I will be able to find my room again.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ she said.
As they climbed the stairs, he asked, ‘What time is breakfast served?’
Goodness. She did not care. ‘Whenever you wish.’
‘Name a time.’
She ought to check with Mrs Pitts before making a decision. The woman had toiled very hard this day. The new maids had caused her more work and the prospect of hiring more workers had created more anxiety in the poor woman.
What thoughts were these? When had she ever considered the feelings of servants?
‘I will send Carter in the morning to help you dress. We will have breakfast ready soon after.’
She left him at his doorway. ‘Goodnight, Mr Westleigh.