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 he appeared to have changed into fresh linen. Compared to the others he was pristine.
‘I am unharmed, sir.’
He blocked her way. ‘May I assist you in any way? I am at your disposal.’
He could take charge of Westleigh! Would that not be a better situation for everyone?
She glanced at the booth Lord Sanvers had all to himself and to the numbers of people who did not even have a chair.
Would he have extended his offer of help if she had not been the beautiful, wealthy widow of a viscount?
She curtsied to him. ‘My servants have seen to everything, sir, but I thank you.’
She walked past him and through the open door where Monette waited.
Once inside the room, Daphne collapsed onto a chair in relief.
And guilt.
Why should she have this private room and so many others so much less? Was she just as selfish as Lord Sanvers?
She hurriedly changed out of her nightclothes and into the dress Monette had pulled from her trunk. Monette did the same. After quickly eating a breakfast, she handed the innkeeper money and asked him to give the room and some food to those most in need. She and Monette did not stay to see if he honoured her request.
They left the alehouse and returned to the carriage.
Carter waited there with the coachman.
‘Did you find Mr Westleigh’s travelling companions?’ Daphne peeked in the carriage, but saw Westleigh lying against the pillows.
‘I found the innkeeper, m’lady,’ Carter told her. ‘He said that Mr Westleigh travelled alone. Not even with a manservant.’
Who would care for him, then?
‘How is he?’ she asked her coachman.
‘Sleeping,’ he answered. ‘Talking a bit and restless, but sleeping. He did drink the ale, though.’
Daphne glanced around. ‘We must find someone to care for him.’
Carter shook his head. ‘I believe that cannot be done. There were many people injured in the fire and many others displaced. It would be difficult to even find him a room. Or rooms for ourselves.’
‘We should leave today, then, m’lady,’ John Coachman said. ‘If we start soon we can find lodgings on the road and still reach Faville the day after tomorrow.’
It would take three days for them to reach her property in Vadley near Basingstoke. Her husband had left her the unentailed country house and estate instead of consigning her to the dower house in Faville. She’d spent very little time in Vadley, though, only a few weeks past her days of mourning. Now she planned to return and live a retired life. Whether by doing so she could atone for her days of vanity and thoughtlessness, she was not certain.
‘We cannot take him with us,’ she said.
But she could hear the abbess, clucking her tongue. You must find grace to help in time of need.
‘The surgeon said he cannot travel,’ she protested.
‘We don’t have a choice, m’lady,’ Carter said in a low voice.
‘I say we start out and ask at every posting inn until we find someone to care for him,’ her coachman added. ‘It will be a more practicable task once we are out of Ramsgate.’
‘We cannot leave him.’ Monette’s eyes pleaded.
These servants were prepared to take care of a stranger, but she was merely trying to think of a way to abandon him, just because she knew he would hate being cared for by a lady who’d wronged his sister.
Or
