“I would not wish to intrude any longer on what must be family time.” He studied the marquess. And soon-to-be-family time.
Another bow, expressed hopes for their good health, and he returned to instruct Griffiths in what needed to be packed.
He was making his descent, when a “Ned!” from the top of the staircase gave him pause. He glanced up, saw Caro descending, and at her gesture they stole into the library, fortunately vacant.
“What is it?”
“Why are you leaving?”
Again, he could not admit the truth. Cecy did not care for him. “I fear I have been away too long from my work in London.”
“That’s right. Cecy mentioned something about that in her correspondence.”
She had?
“You have been working to help those affected by the awful events in Manchester, is that not so?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I’m so glad! Gideon’s brother owns some mills and has been so distressed about these things, and has sent financial and legal support to those who have been imprisoned.”
“They need every bit of support they can get. I fear this will be a long journey.”
“If only the politicians …” She bit her lip.
“I have presented a report to Lord Hawkesbury, and have hopes he will raise such matters in Parliament.” He swallowed. “And Lord Abbotsbury has promised to fund the establishment of a group to support these men and others like them with their legal concerns. Something I need to return to.”
“Well!” Her brows rose, like she was impressed. “But that is not why you are leaving, is it?” Her eyes narrowed. “It is Mother, isn’t it? She has warned you away?”
“How did—?”
Caro shook her head. “She was railing about you upstairs, until the doctor had to send her away.” She grinned. “Like a naughty schoolgirl.”
His lips tweaked without humor.
“The doctor said it was your words that helped poor Cecy.”
He shrugged. “He also said it may have been just a reflex.”
She frowned, eyes lowering, then rising to fix on him. “What you said earlier …”
Ned flushed, looked away. “Please, forget it.”
“But I cannot! You said that you loved her, then called yourself a fool for doing so.”
He did not think it was exactly like that, but held his peace.
“So, do you?”
“Forgive me, Caro, but I do not know what you mean.”
She hissed, “Do you love my sister?”
Ned closed his eyes briefly. If he owned the truth, what good would that do? But … Wasn’t he done with pretense, with withholding truth?
He met her scrutiny, and said quietly, “Yes.”
“But you—”
“Are not the right man for her, yes, I know that, thank you. I know that, Cecy knows that, and your mother has made it perfectly plain that it is what she thinks also, so you don’t need to tell me that I am not good enough for her. I know myself to be a fool to aspire to someone of her quality, and so I aspire no more. You may rest easy on that score.”
“But—”
“Was that all your mother said?” Now the truth, the hurt, the pain rushed out. “Did she happen to show you Cecy’s journal, where she says she wants nothing more to do with me? That she prefers Abbotsbury to me?”
“Cecy wrote that?”
“Yes. Now, forgive me. I must depart if I am to reach Basingstoke tonight.”
“But, Ned—”
“No, Caro. I do not want to speak of this anymore.” His chest was so tight his words squeaked. “Please know that you and your family will always be in my prayers. Goodbye.”
He hurried away before she could say anymore, and took formal leave of Robert and Lord and Lady Aldershot.
He was done. It was time. The best man had won.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EİGHT
DARKNESS HELD HER in its grip. Nothing. No one. Occasionally the slightest memory would firm to press for attention, before dissipating.
Where had the low voice gone, the one murmuring sweetness in her ear? She liked that voice. Liked how it made her feel. She missed it. She wanted it. She needed it.
The other voices were too loud, strident, demanding. That voice, however, the low one …
She breathed in. But the delectable scent had gone away, too. Where? Why? Who?
Too much. Too hard. She sank once more into the fervent embrace of darkness.
London
“Ah, Edward, thank you.”
“Of course, Uncle.” Ned inclined his head, moved back to his desk, picked up the next document to avoid the searching look he could feel. The words held little meaning. Since returning to London a week ago he had thrown himself into his work, trying to distract from the grief that threatened to consume him. Work helped. Renewed awareness of the plight of others gave perspective. Writing letters and arranging details for the establishment of the legal aid society offered focus after work. Time spent with God praying, reading the Bible, helped give hope. He did believe Cecy would be healed; conviction firmed truth in his bones. And that’s all he could ask for. That God would heal poor Cecy’s mind was enough; He wouldn’t need to perform any other miracles. Not even the one to heal Ned’s fractured heart.
He would survive.
Probably.
Darkness. Voices. They were more distinct now. More insistent.
“Cecy, wake up! Wake up, Cecy.”
Cecy? Who was Cecy? Such an odd, silly sort of name.
She could feel her hand being stroked, picked up, squeezed. Who … ?
“Cecy, please, wake up.”
The person sounded desperate. This Cecy person should probably stop ignoring them. Who knew what they might do?
Her hand was squeezed again, none too gently, releasing a slight protest.
“Cecy? Oh, Doctor, did you hear that?”
Another sharp squeeze. Another squeak of pain. She tried to tug her hand away.
“Cecilia,” a deeper voice said. Breath scented of stale coffee wafted into her face. “Cecilia, it’s time to wake up.”
Why? Just because this person said so? Why should she—wait. Was she Cecy?
Her eyelids pried open, slowly, ever so slowly. Light stung her eyes. She closed them.
“Close the curtains,” the deeper voice commanded.
Who was he? Why were people rushing to obey? This was all so very confusing.
“Cecilia Hatherleigh.” Who was that? “Open your eyes, please.”
A sharper squeeze on her hand, a gentle slap on her face. Where had the earlier caress gone, when soft lips and a scent she loved had touched her brow? Why couldn’t she have that? Her eyelids lifted.
Faces. One, two, three. A man—he of the pompous instructions? Two women. All looked tired. But even as she watched, their faces melded into smiles. Into tears. Why?
She coughed. A large spoonful of water was placed before her. What—?
“Have a sip,” one of the women encouraged. An arm around her shoulders lifted her.
She sipped. Blessed coolness trickled down her throat. The spoon went away. The faces stared. She tried to frown. Pain hooped her head. So tired. Who … ?
“Who are you?”
Gasps. Faces drooped.
So exhausting. She closed her eyes.
“My lord, I cannot thank you enough for all you have done.”
Lord Hawkesbury shook his head. “I have done very little as yet. And we know that such measures will not be met with approbation by certain members of Parliament, who I’m sure will see treasonous intent. But I have talked to many others who seem to think such things are necessary to ensure the working man is protected. But even if it takes us years, it is better to try than not, would you not agree?”
Ned dipped his chin.
“Tell me, how do your plans progress regarding the legal aid society you mentioned?”
Ned told him of Abbotsbury’s largesse, further proof of his friend’s co
mmitment to this cause having arrived in a letter yesterday, with details about his bank and the sum he could access there.
“How very generous of him.”
“He is a very good man.” The better man, the better choice. Sorrow, selfish sorrow, panged again.
The sounds of busy officialdom drew awareness that he must depart. He pushed to his feet. “Thank you again for your time, my lord.”
“Thank you, Amherst. There are many who will benefit from your efforts, even where your efforts may seem to go unrecognized.”
He forced a smile, made his adieus, and walked out into London dampness, the earl’s last words ringing in his ears.
It appeared his efforts were doomed to go unrecognized in lots of areas, especially as far as the matter of Cecilia Hatherleigh remained. A letter from Simon two weeks ago had suggested Cecilia was now awake, and somewhat responsive, although her memory loss was severe. Apparently she did not recognize even her mother, a fact which had that lady in constant tears.
His friend’s words burned through his brain: Whilst I rejoice in this good news, I have taken my leave. It is very apparent that it is not the time to hope and pray for anything but Miss Hatherleigh’s total recovery.
In other words it was not the time for anyone to seek her hand, including Lord Abbotsbury.
A sigh seemed to draw from the soles of his boots. If the conscientious marquess was aware of such things, then how much more would he need to continue to stay away.
Because he must. He needed to forget her. He needed to fill his mind and heart and time with things other than thoughts of her. “Lord, help me.”
He returned to his uncle’s offices, worked until six, stopped at a public house for dinner with a colleague, then finally made his way home.
Griffiths met him at the door, helped remove his coat, divest him of his boots, then mentioned the day’s correspondence. “Here you are, sir.”
Letters from his mother, his brother. Another with a crimson seal.
He slit open the page. Stared at the contents. Mr. Whittaker had the great pleasure of informing him that Mr. Edward Amherst had “crossed the bar” and was now officially “a barrister.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Ned tossed the letter to him. The news had sparked no joy.
He turned to his mother’s letter, but before he could begin reading, Griffiths said, “I don’t understand. I thought this was what you were working so hard for.”
“I thought so, too, but now …” He shrugged.
“Is it the young lady, sir? There has been no word?”
He met the dark stare. “She …” He swallowed. “She suffers greatly with her memory.”
“Still? I’m right sorry to hear that.”
Ned nodded, turned to read the letter from his mother. Scanned the news about the family, the estate, the wider community.
I hope it will not be too long until we see you here again. The neighborhood is greatly saddened by poor Cecilia’s accident. She has returned to Aynsley, but there appears little change. Poor Lord and Lady Aynsley are like ghosts, their faces gray, with eyes that seem to look through one. Please pray for them. How much they need the hope that only our Lord can bring. I have tried to offer reassurance, but their hearts seem still so hard.
I hope you will return soon, and restore a touch of normalcy to our world. We have missed you so. And please keep dear Cecilia in your prayers. How she needs God’s miraculous touch.
His fingers clenched. He’d thought—hoped—that filling every waking hour with work and the legal aid society would distract his heart, allow it time to heal. It hadn’t. How was he supposed to forget with these constant reminders of her? Perhaps he should go far away … the Antipodes, perhaps.
“Griffiths, what place would you consider farthest away from here?”
“Southampton, sir.”
“I need something farther.”
“Are you planning on taking a trip?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, if you truly want a distant part of the world, I have read that the governor of New South Wales is looking for those with legal qualifications.”
Heart pricked, he nodded. Perhaps it would be best to leave. Perhaps he might forget her, half a world away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NİNE
SHE GLANCED ABOUT the room, this room they said was her bedchamber. But nothing looked familiar, everything looked strange. Weeks in bed in Hampshire had been followed by a nasty, jarring carriage ride to what they said was her home, Aynsley Manor. But even here nothing looked familiar, everything seemed strange.
These people waiting on her apparently expected to do so; but still, it felt wrong. She was not so very different from them. Ill, perhaps, but not incapable. But when she offered her assistance or tried to help ease their chores, she was always politely hushed and gently propelled back to bed.
The person everyone said was her mother had been adamant: “You will remember once you’re at home, my love.”
My love. That phrase gave her the strangest sense, a wisp of remembrance, that someone, somewhere, had called her such a thing before. But who?
“Ah, there you are,” the woman—her mother?—said.
“Where else was I supposed to be?”
The woman blinked, as if she had spoken rudely. Had she? She always seemed to be doing, saying, something wrong.
“You have a visitor. The Marquess of Abbotsbury is here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Oh, never mind. Come. Put on that shawl and let us go down and see him.”
“I don’t like that shawl. The wool is too scratchy.”
The woman sighed, her glance going to the ceiling.
What was up there? Her gaze followed to see what the woman looked at. There was nothing. The woman was so strange.
The woman murmured something that sounded like “… so much like Verity these days.”
Verity. Is that the one they called her sister?
“Very well. Don’t put on the shawl, but I warn you it is chilly. Winter has arrived early this year.”
She made no answer, wishing she could return to her room, but the woman was insistent, tugging at her.
“Please don’t pull at me.”
The woman’s mouth dropped. “Cecilia, I was not pulling.”
“Yes, you were.”
Another grumbled protest, this time the words sounded like “so different from before.”
She grasped the bannister and slowly descended the stairs. It had taken two weeks from when she’d first opened her eyes for her to learn to stand, then another week before she could walk. Or so she’d been told. Descending stairs still made her feel nauseous, everything moving a bit too quickly, blurring the edges of her vision.
She pushed a foot forward, saw the length of flat stone floor. The strain within eased.
The woman was right; it was cold here.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
“Cecilia, dearest, we are going to see the marquess.”
“Do I know him?”
“We shall see if you remember.”
They entered a room of windows and a fireplace. She moved to it, hands outstretched.
“Cecilia, come and say hello to the marquess.”
She peered over her shoulder. Saw a man push to his feet and bow. “Miss Hatherleigh.”
What was she supposed to say? Oh, that’s right. “Hello to the marquess.”
The woman sighed, the marquess smiled, his features slipping back to blankness as the woman glanced his way. How strange these people were.
“Cecilia, make your curtsy to Lord Abbotsbury.”
Who? Oh. Prompted once more by the woman, she curtsied, and sat down.
“I am pleased to see you again.”
She said nothing. How could she express pleasure when she remembered him not?
He glanced at the woman, and said in a lowered voice, “At the risk of sounding impertinent, I could have met you in an up
stairs parlor and saved Miss Hatherleigh the long walk down the stairs.”
“Oh, I assure you ’tis no trouble. The doctor says she must get used to moving again.”
“It is good to see her looking much as she was.”
“But not the same.” The woman’s voice cracked. “She’s not the same.”
The woman blotted her eyes, dabbed her cheeks, with a handkerchief, white, trimmed with yellow lace.
The marquess spoke, and she closed her eyes to better listen, but his was not the voice she half remembered. Her gaze shifted back to her purported mother. Was it possible this was all a giant conspiracy, and those who said they were related, those who said they were her friends, were scheming for some nefarious reason? She had vague recollections of another lady—a nursemaid, perhaps?—who had read aloud a story, one about a princess stolen away from her rightful family. Is this what had happened to her? Is that why everything was so strange?
“Am I a princess?” she asked, interrupting their murmurs.
“No, Cecilia. You are my daughter.”
She frowned.
What if she were a great heiress, and had been kidnapped, and now they wanted her to quickly marry in order to change her name? “Am I an heiress?”
The woman sighed again.
Really … “You sigh a lot.”
Another outraged expression crossed the woman’s features; another look of amusement quirked the man’s lips.
He engaged the woman in further conversation, glancing across occasionally, as if seeing if she listened. Movement caught her eye and she turned to gaze out the windows. The trees were bare, shaking, shuddering in the frosty air.
“Miss Hatherleigh?”
That was supposed to be her cue, was it not? “Yes?”
“What do you think of that?”
Think of what? “I beg your pardon. I was not attending.”
Her mother gasped, then immediately started talking.
Her gaze was again drawn to the windows. She stood.
The man rose quickly, muttered, “Forgive me, it seems I have been precipitant.” He bowed, murmured farewell, and exited amid the woman’s protests.
She moved closer to the windows. Gray curls of fog were lifting then sinking to reveal the park beyond. Something tugged within. She wanted to go there. Wanted to see—
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 28