For a moment, she disappeared. He heard the venetian blinds close over the window, blocking the assault upon his eyes.
“Thank you.” His voice was raspier than he had expected. His mind felt as if it were in a fog and he had trouble forming complete thoughts; the aching in his head made it nearly impossible to even speak.
“Please do not strain yourself,” the same soft voice said. He forced his eyes open and found that his vision was blurry. He could not see the woman properly but could make out her slender shape. She wore a white dress and in her dark hair he saw something red. A bandeau, perhaps?
“Shall I fetch the physician, My Lady?” Another voice sounded out from the other side of the room. He glanced over and saw a maid standing there.
“Yes, please. He has stepped outside to take the air and speak to the Duke about our guest. They will both want to speak to him at once now that he is awake.”
The Duke? Who is he? And where I am?
The thoughts formed in his mind with difficulty. He attempted to look around the room but found it all swimming before his eyes. It all appeared unfamiliar to him and he felt as if in a dream.
“I am so glad you are finally awake. We were ever so worried. As must your family be. If you like, we can send a messenger to inform them where you are, should they like to come and collect you.” The woman took a seat beside him and a faint, familiar scent wavered around his nostrils. What was it? He knew the scent but could not think of the source.
“What is your name, Sir?”
He opened his mouth to reply but found himself laying there with no words at all on his lips. He closed his mouth, utterly vexed by the question.
Who am I? I cannot think of my own name. Why am I here? Why am I in so much pain?
His breathing quickened as the thoughts began to race through his mind. He attempted to remember something, anything, but found his mind utterly blank.
“I…” he began to speak again, “I do not know. I do not know who I am, My Lady. What is wrong with me?”
He heard the panic in his own voice and was soothed only by the gentle touch of the woman’s soft hand on his forearm.
“Who am I?” he whispered again, growing ever more desperate at his inability to recall even his own name.
“Physically, he will be fine. It was only a flesh wound, some cuts and scrapes. The mighty bruise you see there appears to be a kick from a horse. As for the memory loss…amnesia, I suspect. Could be from the shock of it all, or from the fall.” A man peered over him. He was dressed in a dark-grey tailcoat, worn over a black waistcoat. A large white cravat was tucked into the waistcoat.
Beside him was another man, older. This one had an air of authority around him. Together they looked over him while the young woman who’d attended to him had disappeared into the back of the room, along with another woman he’d not previously seen.
“Amnesia, you say?” the older man said with a note of confusion in his voice.
“Indeed. The poor chap can’t remember anything, as is evident by his inability to tell us even his own name. Your Grace, I fear there is no way to find out who this young man is until his memory returns.”
“Will it though? Return that is,” the soft voice belonging to the gentle woman from earlier asked from somewhere far away.
“Seraphina, mind your manners,” the man the physician had called Your Grace hissed at her. If the woman, Seraphina, apologized for her outburst or not he could not say. He certainly did not hear her voice again.
“Good question in any case,” he managed to say, surprised at how his strength was returning.
“Your speech is improving at least. That’s a victory, eh, wot?” The physician said. “As for your memory, young man, I cannot give guarantees. Sometimes with injuries such as yours the memory will return within days, or weeks. Sometimes never. We can only hope for the best.”
His mind raced. What was this physician saying? He might never remember who he was? That couldn’t be.
He felt panic rise in his chest, and he looked around in fright. Why could he not remember anything?
The woman’s face appeared above him and she place a hand on his shoulder.
“Do not fret too much. All will be well. I am sure of it.”
Her voice sounded so confident, so sure, even though he knew there was no certainty in any of this. Still, she soothed him enough to where his heart slowed to a regular beat and he relaxed into the pillow.
He glanced at her, studying her face. She was lovely. Her dark eyes stood out against her pale skin, and he couldn’t help but watch her intently as she covered him up with a blanket.
She smiled at him kindly and he felt his heart leap.
“It is perhaps best to let the young man rest for a while. I shall return in the evening for one last examination. If he feels well, he may rise tomorrow morning. Physically, there is nothing stopping him.”
The older man, the Duke, nodded curtly and motioned to the door. “Seraphina, Cynthia. Come, let us leave the young man to rest.”
The young woman gave him a nod and made her way toward the door. He couldn’t help but notice the way her slender body moved across the room, almost floating.
“An angel,” he mumbled before he slipped back into darkness.
When he woke, the sun was beginning to set. He pushed himself up. His left side still hurt as he recalled the physician’s words. A flesh wound, he’d said. How had he acquired that?
He lifted up his nightgown and saw that a dressing had been applied to his side. Carefully he pulled the dressing away a little so he could see his skin.
It was red and angry looking, but he couldn’t tell any more than that. After placing the gauze back in place, he decided to get up.
He swung his legs out the right side of the bed and stood, swaying at first but finding his feet rather quickly. He held onto the mattress of the large four-poster bed and made his way to the window. He pushed the drawn blinds aside as he peered outside.
“What a lovely garden,” he muttered under his breath as he looked out at the expanse below. It reached far and wide. Close to the house, an assortment of roses had been planted: yellow, red, and pink. They were all still in bloom. Beyond the flower beds was a patch a grass, luscious and green. It made him think of youths playing bocce on it.
He paused. Bocce? What an odd thing to think of at a time like this. He shook his head and turned around, leaning against the windowsill for support.
I have to remember who I am. Certainly there is a way to jog my memory. There must be. Perhaps if I could see myself and ….
He broke into a smile when he spotted a small mirror hanging next to an armoire on the wall.
He made his way across, certain that once he could look at his own visage, he would remember who he was. He had to.
Stepping in front of the mirror, he braced himself for the flood of memories that were sure to come back to him. He raised his head toward it.
“No!” he exclaimed, stepping closer to the mirror, “no, it can’t be.”
The man in the mirror was a stranger. His heart sank. Without his memories he could not return to him, whoever that was. Without knowing his name, he could not find his family, if he had one. Without knowing where he was from, he was stranded; a stranger, even to himself.
He broke into sobs, unable to stop himself as he sank to the cold floor, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He was lost. Perhaps for good.
Chapter 4
That evening, the Camden family was gathered at the grand dining table and the main topic of conversation was of course, the mystery man upstairs.
“What will become of him, Papa?” Mary asked. She had not been involved in his care but had inquired after him regularly. Seraphina suspected it was more out of curiosity than genuine concern. It wasn’t that her sister was unfeeling, but she was young and had other things on her mind. Her upcoming coming-out ball, for one.
Her father was seated at the head of the table and was a
bout to dip a piece of fresh bread into his white soup. He looked up and shrugged.
“I am not certain. I had imagined when you first brought him here that we would patch him up and then send him on his way once he was recovered. But with the lad not knowing where he is, much less who he is, I supposed that is not an option. We may have to keep him around for a while.”
Seraphina smiled at his father’s words. She’d hoped that would be the case. She had to admit she had been completely unsure as to what to do when the young man had woken and looked at her with his frightened blue eyes, asking who he was. She hadn’t known what to say. This was not what she had expected would happen when she found him in the road two days before.
“That is true,” she heard herself say. “Perhaps once his amnesia has passed, but I would be ever so worried for his safety if he was to be sent away.”
“Amnesia, can you imagine? How dreadful not to know one’s own name,” Cynthia said. Seraphina locked eyes with her elder sister. She was ever so grateful to have her here. Cynthia, older than her by four years, lived at The Asylum, the orphanage in London where she also worked, for most of the year. However, twice a year she came for a visit. Their mother always took the opportunity to attempt to convince her eldest daughter to reconsider her decisions.
It had dismayed Lady Oxshire greatly to lose her daughter to the orphanage. She had done nothing but plan for her daughters’ futures since their birth. All three of them had been raised as proper ladies and educated as such. They each were fluent in three languages, could play at least one instrument, in Cynthia’s case three, and were well versed in the art of embroidery.
Cynthia, by all means, would have had no trouble finding a wonderful match. She had beautiful chocolate-brown hair and mesmerizing amber-colored eyes. Eyes which had always been a source of envy for Seraphina. Her figured, while fuller than that of her slender sisters, was womanly.
Indeed, Cynthia had been courted by a marquess when she’d announced her desire to forego marriage in favor of a life of charity.
At the head of the table, across from their father, Lady Oxshire now made her presence known. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief and cleared her throat.
“If indeed he suffers from amnesia. We don’t know that. He might just be saying that he cannot recall his name.”
Seraphina narrowed her eyes and glared at her mother. Lady Oxshire was a regal woman, the very definition of a lady of the ton. She was always dressed as though she was invited to an audience with the Queen herself. Tonight, she was clad in a beautiful peach-colored round dress. A spencer, decorated with pearls along the sleeves and peach-colored flowers on the front, matched her gown perfectly, as did the shawl she had wrapped around her neck, despite the warm evening.
Her emerald-green eyes surveyed her daughters and then rested on Seraphina as if challenging her. Taking on her mother in any discussion was not a problem for Seraphina and she quickly placed her spoon next to the bowl.
With her hands folded in her lap, she looked her mother directly in the eyes.
“What do you mean, Mama? Certainly, the young man would not claim to have lost his memory if it were not true. Who would do such a thing? It’s unconscionable.”
Her mother shook her head, the bandeau in her honey-colored hair was decorated with pearls and gave the smallest jingle as she did so.
“Seraphina please. Amnesia? Don’t you find it convenient? A man who looks as though he is no more than a farmhand is found on the grounds of one of the richest dukes in the county, with amnesia?”
“What are you saying, Mama? He is feigning his ailment in order to, what? Receive charity from Papa?”
Lady Oxshire shrugged, a smirk on her thin lips. She raised the spoon and dipped it into the soup, allowing only half of the spoon to fill, and then raised it to her lips as though it were made of gold.
Seraphina rolled her eyes. Her mother had to make everything appear prim and proper, even eating soup. Out of spite, she dunked her bread in the soup, waited for the dough to be soaked, and then shoved as much of it into her mouth as she could.
“Seraphina!” Lady Oxshire exclaimed as though scandalized by her daughter’s manners. Seraphina shrugged and smacked as she chewed. Across from her, Cynthia inhaled sharply, while Mary and her father snickered into their handkerchiefs.
“Merciful Heaven, with your table manners you would not be out of place at the dinner table of that insufferable Keswick lot. They may call themselves lords now, but they still have the poor manners of their grandfather. Once farmers, always farmers.”
Seraphina groaned and forced the bread down her throat.
“Must we talk about them again? First off, they started out as the Grandfather started out, as a baron, not a farmer, and second, I’ve had quite enough about the Keswicks. I feel as though every dinner ends in a discussion about them. I have never even met them, and I am already tired of them.”
Her father placed a hand on hers.
“Now, now. Let us settle down. I tend to agree with Cynthia. It is a terrible fate for anyone to experience. And I doubt the surprise and devastation the young man displayed could be feigned. No.”
Seraphina smiled to herself, pleased that her father had sided with her over her mother. She wasn’t proud of herself for feeling this way, but in the day-to-day battles with her mother, she rarely gained a victory.
“What do you propose we do then, Augustus?” Lady Oxshire asked, her words clipped and harsh.
He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief and laid it down on the table.
“Well, the physician said he is able to get out of bed tomorrow. We will see if that happens and then put him to work. Xavier can use help in the stables, I will send him there.”
Cynthia laid a hand on her father’s wrist. “You are truly a kind man, Papa.”
He clasped her hand as well and smiled at her. “I try to be.”
Seraphina noticed from the corner of her eye that her mother was rolling her eyes at the display of affection.
For her part, Seraphina felt elated at the prospect of the stranger staying a while. There was something about him, something special. It made her want to be near him and take care of him.
She’d never felt such a pull to another person before and it confused her, but at the same time, it felt good. In fact, she could not wait to tell him that he would be safe here, under the protection of the Duke of Oxshire.
“But what you are going to call him? He doesn’t know his name and we cannot simple call him ‘the stranger.’”
The Duke licked his lips and nodded slowly.
“Very well. We shall give him a name. What about…”
“Oliver,” Seraphina found herself interrupting her father. She wasn’t sure why she’d thought of that particular name, but it had felt right. As if it was meant to be his name.
“Oliver?” The Duke shrugged. “It is a wholesome name.”
“It is perfect,” Cynthia agreed. “Oliver could be a name for a poor farm hand, or a Peer of the Realm. Since we don’t know which he is, a compromise is perfect.”
Seraphina and her sister exchanged a smile as they looked at each other. Her sister had always been a pious woman. In fact, Seraphina sometimes wondered why she’d not gone into a convent. She would have been as happy there as she was with her orphan girls.
“Very well then, Oliver it is,” their father proclaimed and then took a large bite of venison, an expression of satisfaction on his face.
Seraphina poked her fork into the meat that had just been served to her and smiled to herself.
I cannot wait for him to find out. In fact, I shall tell him myself. Yes.
After dinner, when her family retired to their respective rooms, she would pay a visit to the stranger and let him know that he was safe. And that he had a name once more.
Chapter 5
Harry Keswick found it quite impossible to hide the expression of apprehension that was written all over
his face as he returned home. Not even when he saw his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Emberborough, appear on the porch. Her pelisse was wrapped around her as though she were freezing cold, despite the warm weather.
He dismounted the horse and handed the reins to the stable boy who led the horse back to the stable.
“Mother,” he called out and waved at her. She took the few steps down from the porch and glanced in his direction, her head slightly tilted to one side.
“Have you done as I asked?” Her voice was raspy, and he saw that her eyes were red from crying.
The Trouble with Saving a Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 3