The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  “Violet would be the thing.”

  “White,” Timothy contradicted.

  “Gray,” Alicia said firmly.

  “Gray, it is.” Looking over Alicia’s head, Lady Octavia directed a grateful glance at Timothy. “And fortunately,” she continued decisively, “my mantua maker will be able to provide the gown by tomorrow night. She is awaiting only my instructions. She has your measurements—though I must advise her to make it a trifle narrower, you have lost weight, I see. Now, my love, you must rest and, Timothy, I charge you, let your luggage be taken from here to my house. I have all the room in the world.”

  “No,” Timothy said firmly. “I think we must stay here, Octavia. Alicia, as you say, must rest, and immediately. I do not think she should stir another step until then.”

  “Very well, as you choose. But remember, my dear, my house is yours.”

  “You are too kind. May I escort you downstairs?”

  “Please.” Lady Octavia kissed Alicia, and coming into the hall with Timothy, she waited until they had reached the head of the stairs before saying worriedly, “I would hardly have known her! She has lost much in looks. Has she starved herself for these last three months?”

  Timothy’s face darkened. “It has been a matter of forcing her to eat. Until your letter arrived, we feared that she would fall into a decline.”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear, I guessed as much.”

  “It was a terrible shock,” he said grimly. “Alicia has an intense nature and does nothing by halves, as I am sure you know.”

  “I am,” Lady Octavia commented. “I have been extremely worried about her. She was so deeply in love with that young man.”

  He nodded. “And he with her—or so it appeared, but I need hardly refine upon that. You also saw them together.”

  “I did, and I agree with you. He had eyes only for her. Oh, dear, it is all such a puzzle.”

  “A puzzle, indeed,” Timothy said harshly. “And if it turns out that this man is really Lucian Morley, the Lucian Morley we knew—”

  “But he must be,” Lady Octavia interrupted. “Charles, my fiancй, knows someone who knows Lord Dome and he described his appearance. Dome is tall, dark, and has gray eyes. He is known to be exceptionally handsome. He served with Wellington on the Peninsula, was subsequently posted to France and then to Brussels. This Lord Dome was engaged to a Miss Barbara Barrington, whom Charles’ friend also knows. He said that she was voted an Incomparable and that the so-called honor had gone to her head. He also said that she had cast out lures for Pryde.”

  “Pryde?” Timothy questioned.

  “The Duke of Pryde,” Lady Octavia amplified. “Nothing came of it, of course. The present duchess lives up to her title. Indeed, she would frown on anyone the duke chose as consort. She, it is said, can trace her lineage back to Queen Bodicea, so it seems, but never mind that bit of nonsense. I have also heard that Barbara Barrington was almost a match for her, which says something about her character, or rather, lack of it.”

  “But evidently she was not a match for her son,” Timothy commented dryly.

  Lady Octavia laughed. “Oh, the duchess won, as she always does, but the fact that she was almost outfoxed is a point for la Barrington. I would imagine that they are two of a kind and . . .” She sighed. “Oh, dear, I cannot see such a creature with Lucian, who was so very much in love with Alicia.”

  “But evidently on the rebound?”

  “Possibly,” Lady Octavia agreed. "Oh, God, Timothy, what is to come of all this?”

  “If it is, indeed, the same Lucian Morely, he will answer to me with the weapon of his choice,” Timothy said grimly.

  “I pray you’ll not rattle your sabre yet,” Lady Octavia begged. “In talking about this it suddenly strikes me that there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  “You are more perceptive than I.”

  “I think I told you that the butler would not let me see him, something I found very peculiar. There is a condition known as amnesia ...”

  “Loss of memory?” Timothy nodded. “But that is very rare.”

  “Yet, it is a possibility,” she said. “Timothy, I met Lucian Morley, and though I did not see him more than once or twice, he was so entirely in love with Licia and, at the same time, so frank and honest in that adoration that I cannot believe that I . . . that all of us were deceived.”

  “I pray we were not. Indeed, I pray you are right. I, too, formed an impression similar to yours. I should not like to be totally mistaken in my estimate of Lucian Morley if, indeed, this is the man we knew. It would mean that I have less judgment when it comes to character than I imagined and my poor sister is the sufferer for that.” Timothy loosed a long sigh.

  She gave him a compassionate look. “I think you must not blame yourself, Timothy, my dear, not until we see what transpires tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night, yes,” he said grimly. “Then at least we will have an answer.”

  “I hope,” she said, looking worriedly up into his set face, “that mine is the correct one.”

  Alicia, sitting at the large dressing table in her bedroom while Effie, looking concerned, arranged her hair, stared regretfully into a glass that was much clearer than the one at home. Though she had yielded to Octavia’s order that she rest most of the day, she could not see that the fitful slumber of the afternoon had helped her. Indeed, she was much distressed by her appearance. In the three months of her widowhood, she had paid little attention to her looks, and now it was with a shock that she realized that the color Lucian had praised had fled. Furthermore, she had lost a great deal of weight so that there were hollows in her cheeks and her eyes were actually sunken. The dark circles beneath them resulted from a combination of weeping and lack of sleep. The gray muslin gown that Octavia had given her was stylishly cut, but she could not call it becoming. In fact, she thought, it made her appear almost wraithlike, and this is how he would see her, this man who might be Lucian Morley, arisen from the dead. Was he alive? She could hardly believe that—even though, as Timothy had said, the indications were that he very well might be.

  Lucian alive!

  How could that be? It could not be. The young man who had so joyously wed her and with whom she had spent the happiest moments of her life could not have coldly turned from her to another and offered for her . . .

  “No, no, no,” she whispered. In common with poor Richard Seeley, his best man, Lucian was dead. But he must be buried with others who had fallen there on that vast field over which she had walked, searching, searching, searching for him. There were many bodies that defied identification, she recalled . . . But she must not recall those scenes, which were like nightmares and had subsequently become nightmares during which she relived her travail upon the battlefield, walking and looking . . .

  “Oh,” she moaned. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Milady.” Effie put her arms around Alicia’s shoulders, holding her against her bosom. “Do not take on, yet. ’E might be alive. It’s ’appened before an’ ye’ll soon know.”

  Alicia blinked back her tears and attempted to smile at Effie. “I am becoming dreadfully tearful,” she apologized.

  “An’ ’oo ’as a better right to be,” Effie said hotly. “Oh, milady, I do ’ope ...”

  “So do I,” Alicia said, realizing that no matter what the circumstances were, she wanted Lucian alive. Yet she felt cold and alone, even more alone than she had in the terrible days of waiting for the husband who, in spite of his assurance concerning his “charmed life,” had not returned from the wars. He had returned in dreams, happy dreams that made her wish she had never awakened, but she could not think of that now. Soon it would be time to go, and she, who had vowed never to dance again, would be present at a ball to see a man named Lucian Morley, who might be her husband, and if so . . .

  “No, no, no,” she whispered a second time. He could not be her Lucian; it was unfair to her husband’s memory to even entertain such a suspicion! She ought not
to be going. She was half-inclined to divest herself of her gown and remain behind, but she could not. Her shameful curiosity kept her from giving in to that impulse. She had not traveled all this way to turn tail and flee before possibilities she feared to confront. She rose from the dressing table and let Effie drape her gray cloak about her, thinking, as she saw her image in the mirror, that she looked more like a ghost than ever: a ghost going to meet another ghost, for he could not be alive, not Lucian! At least, she amended, he could not be her Lucian!

  “I should not insist that Lucian go through the paces of a waltz, my love,” Lady Barrington advised Barbara as they came into the ballroom at Barrington House.

  “Of course, I shall not, Mama, I . . .” Barbara paused on passing a tall mirror. Coming to a complete stop, she stared at herself with considerable satisfaction. Her hair, arranged in a Psyche knot, was ornamented with a diamond and emerald half-moon. She longed to wear that same combination of stones in a tiara, and once she wed Lucian, he would give it to her. She knew she had only to say the word. It was a mite dear but he could afford it. He was not as wealthy as Pryde, of course, but he was very well-off, and so handsome. Pryde could not hold a candle to him in looks. She had always been aware of that, and now that he had the title and the lands, she did not give a fig for the duke or his horrid mama. They would have read the announcement and she could imagine Pryde’s chagrin. Had he expected her to wear the willow forever?

  “My love,” her mother prompted, “do come away from that mirror. Let others do the admiring.”

  Barbara flushed and stepped back quickly. “I was not admiring myself. Mama. I was thinking," she emphasized. She looked about her. “Where has Lucian gone?”

  “He must be still in the garderobe. You know it’s difficult for him to move quickly—that is why I do not want you to insist on more than one waltz.”

  ”I will not, Mama. I am quite cognizant of the state of his health,” Barbara said testily.

  “Good,” her mother commented. She frowned. “But do you know, my dear, I still find myself most concerned over—”

  Barbara raised an impatient hand. “Even if he should regain his memory, I cannot think he will suffer unduly.” With a touch of asperity, she added, “Not when he finds himself wed to me, Mama.”

  “No, I expect not,” Lady Barrington agreed. “He was much in love with you—but you heard nothing from him once he had gone to Brussels.”

  ”I did not expect to hear anything from him, Mama. He was much cast down. He said I had blighted his life.” Barbara frowned. “Furthermore,” she continued impatiently, “I cannot understand why you should raise these cavils tonight. Supposing Lucian should suddenly come upon us?”

  Thus adjured, Lady Barrington cast a glance over her shoulder and was pleased to note that the bridegroom-to-be was not approaching. “You are quite right, my dear,” she said apologetically. “Come, let us go and join dearest Frederick.” She took her daughter’s arm and in another moment was being welcomed by her brother-in-law and his lady. If Lady Barrington entertained qualms, Barbara’s uncle was beaming.

  “My dear,” he said to his niece, “I have never seen you in such looks. Your Lucian is, indeed, a most fortunate young man.”

  Across the room, Alicia was standing with Timothy, Lady Octavia, and her fiancй, Sir Charles Graves, a pleasant- looking young man who seemed very much in love with Octavia. It was Sir Charles who had pointed out the Honorable Barbara. “But,” Alicia breathed, “she is very beautiful.”

  “Is she not?” Timothy agreed.

  “She is,” Lady Octavia said shortly. “However, beauty is as beauty does.”

  “Quite right, my love,” Sir Charles agreed.

  “She is so tall and stately. She carries herself like a princess,” Alicia said.

  “And imagines herself a queen,” Lady Octavia snapped.

  Alicia, her eyes lingering on the Honorable Barbara, had, she realized, hoped to find her less attractive than Octavia had suggested. However, there was no denying that she deserved the designation “Incomparable.” And with her crown of red-gold hair, her green eyes, her oval face, and her excellent figure, set off by a green silk gown that bore the stamp of Paris, she caught and held the eyes of many gentlemen in that large room. Yet, with all her beauty, there seemed to be something cold about her, Alicia decided—cold and proud. Her speculations came to a sudden end as a young man in black evening clothes and walking with a slightly halting step joined the Honorable Barbara. Seeing him, all the sound in the room—the talking, the laughter, and the music— suddenly ceased, for, of course, it was Lucian!

  “Licia.” Timothy’s arm was around her shoulders for comfort and support. There was urgency in his tone, an urgency tinged with anger. “I beg you will not swoon.”

  “No,” she mouthed, the while a plethora of emotions arose in her—anger, pain, amazement, more than mere amazement, incredulity—as she watched Lucian, her husband, smiling at the redhaired beauty as once he had smiled at her. It was obvious, even from this distance, that he adored her, even worshiped her, and Miss Barrington was looking at him lovingly, no, not lovingly, triumphantly! And tonight their engagement would be announced.

  “No,” she said. “No!” She moved forward.

  “Licia, my love, are you all right?” Timothy muttered.

  She did not answer. She continued to move forward, pushing past people who stood in her way, unaware of their surprised and affronted exclamations. Timothy kept pace with her and then they had reached the receiving line and there were other guests arriving, but Alicia eluded them and came to stand in front of Lucian, who was accepting a couple’s congratulations and smiling and thanking them. Barbara was also thanking them.

  “Lucian!” Alicia cried.

  He looked at her in surprise, but before he could respond, Timothy confronted him. “Lucian,” he rasped, “what is the meaning of—of this travesty?”

  “Travesty?” the Honorable Barbara repeated. “Lucian, do you know these—these people?”

  Lady Barrington, her eyes wide and filled with concern, moved to her daughter’s side. “My dear, be calm,” she warned.

  Lucian was shaking his head. “I cannot say that I do know them.” He looked from Alicia to Timothy. “You have the advantage of me, I fear.”

  “The advantage!” Timothy roared. “If you are trying—”

  “Sir”—Lord Barrington glared at them—“I do not remember inviting either of you. Will you please explain—”

  “Wait, milord,” Lucian interposed. “I might have known them during that time. I—I cannot remember.”

  “You cannot remember?” Alicia said faintly.

  “Of course.” Lady Octavia had followed them, arriving in time to hear Lucian’s response. “Did I not tell you, Timothy, this is what must have happened? You have lost your memory, Lucian?”

  He regarded her concernedly. “Yes, I fear I have. The late conflict at Waterloo ... I am told I was there, but”—he shook his head—“I remember only Vitoria. Two years have been blotted out of my mind.”

  “Two years ...” Alicia gasped.

  Lucian turned to her. “I pray, ma’am, that you will help shed some light on this darkness. Please tell me who you are.”

  “And why you found it necessary to make such a scene at this time,” Barbara added. She continued witheringly, “We seem to have gained the attention of everyone present.”

  “Better now than later. Miss Barrington,” Lady Octavia said coldly. “I am told that this ball is in honor of your forthcoming marriage.”

  “My marriage?” Barbara echoed. “And what, pray, has that to do with—·”

  “Barbara,” her mother muttered, “be silent.”

  Alicia was trembling. “You do not know me, sir? Not at all?”

  He said regretfully, “I fear I do not, but again”—a slight touch of anger crept into his voice—“l hope you will help alleviate my ignorance.”

  “She is—” Timothy began.

/>   “No,” Alicia interrupted. “That question was addressed to me.” She fastened her eyes on Lucian’s face. “I am Alicia Morley, your wife.”

  “My—my—” He turned pale. “No!” he cried loudly.

  “Yes, milord,” Lady Octavia said. “I was present at your wedding. I was Lady Alicia’s maid-of-honor and your friend Lieutenant Richard Seeley was your best man.”

  “Richard . . .” Lucian said. “Richard is dead.”

  “Conveniently dead,” Barbara cried. “The dead tell no tales, they cannot say that all of you are lying!” Shaking off her mother’s restraining hand, she glared at Lady Octavia and then at Alicia. “I do not believe you. ’Tis some sort of plot. We are to be wed, Lucian and I. It is a matter of long standing. Years.” She glared at Alicia. “You heard of his infirmity, did you not? And recruited poor Dick Seeley to substantiate your tale and you have come here to confound him and to—”

  Alicia was trembling but she drew herself up as far as she might, given her slight stature. “I am here because I was sent an announcement in the Morning Post. One I could scarce believe and—”

  “You see!” Barbara shrilled. “She read the item and decided to press her fraudulent claim. She must have had some sort of a friendship with you. And do not tell me that you knew nothing of his loss of memory, you conniving little trollop.”

  “Barbara!” Lucian’s exclamation topped protests from Timothy and Lady Octavia. “You must not speak so. One can see that she is no—”