The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  He regarded her dubiously. “I cannot think that his Lord- ship will be wanting the doctor to come, milady. He does not hold much with doctors.”

  “His wants need not concern us at this time. Have the goodness to do as I bid you. I will take responsibility for his presence.”

  Thus adjured, the butler regarded her with considerably more respect than he had shown heretofore. “Yes, milady,” he said. “I’ll send the lad for him.”

  As he went out of the room, Alicia sank down on a chair. She felt shaken, and the memory of her confrontation with Lucian still filled her with pain. She looked wistfully at the stairs. She would have liked to retire to her own room and weep, but she could not do that. For better or for worse she was yet the mistress of the abbey.

  8

  Alicia, sitting in the great hall, heard footsteps on the stairs. She rose swiftly and moved toward them, looking anxiously upward. The doctor must be returning. She had not gone with him to Lucian’s rooms, guessing that, since she had not been vouchsafed as much as a look at them, she would not be welcome there.

  In a minute she saw Jacob descending and behind him Dr. Hep worth, who was talking in a low voice, obviously giving him instructions as to the care of his master. The doctor was, as she had noticed earlier, a younger man than she had expected, but she thought, he did inspire confidence. Almost as fair as herself, he had a frank, open, and handsome countenance, lighted by deep-blue compassionate eyes. For the rest, he was tall and broad-shouldered. He dressed plainly but wore his garments with a decided air. That he was gently bred was obvious, both in his manner and in his speech. As they reached the first floor, Jacob turned and hurried up the stairs again. The doctor moved to Alicia, and in answer to her anxious query, he said, “He is resting easier, milady. I gave him a little laudanum to alleviate the pain.”

  “Is he in much pain?” she asked.

  “Some. Fortunately, he did not jar the leg as badly as I feared. Whoever set it did a fine job. However, he should not do any strenuous walking, nor should he wander through the

  ruins where a misstep can easily result in . . . well, what has just taken place.”

  “I know. ’Twas unwise of him,” she said regretfully. “He is much troubled in his mind and not careful where he steps. You do know of his condition, I am sure.”

  “I do that, milady,” he said commiseratingly. “A most unfortunate turn of events.”

  Though she had already received answers aplenty, Alicia could not keep from demanding, “Do you believe that he will ever regain his memory?”

  “I think it likely, milady, though, of course, I cannot ascertain when this awakening will take place.”

  She felt a surge of hope. “You’ve treated similar conditions, then?”

  He nodded. “One or two. There was one I did not treat, but ’twas a most extraordinary case. Should you like to hear about it? It might take some time in the telling.”

  “Oh, I should,” she assured him hastily. Pointing to a settee that was nearest the fire blazing on the hearth, she said, “But pray sit down.”

  “I thank you, milady.” He sat in a comer of the settee. Alicia, also sitting down in the opposite comer, added, “Should you care for a glass of wine?”

  He shook his head. “I thank you, milady, but I never partake of spirits whilst I am on call.”

  “You are to be commended, sir,” she said warmly. “I can think of physicians who are not so circumspect. But, please, I beg you will tell me of this extraordinary case.”

  “Of course.” His eyes lingered on her face for a second. “I know you must be anxious, but the condition can be cured or, rather, changed at any time. The man to whom I refer, I met in Glasgow, in the hospital where I took my medical training. He worked as an orderly, scrubbing the floors, emptying out, er, the most menial tasks. He had been there several years. He had been brought in as a patient, much bruised and battered, clad only in a shirt and trousers—boots and jacket gone and not a penny in his pockets. The theory was that he had been set upon by thieves in some Glasgow close, struck on the head, and left for dead. When he regained consciousness, it was discovered that he had lost his memory. However, his condition was considerably worse, say, than that of your husband, for he had not lost two years only—he had lost an entire lifetime.”

  ‘‘Oh, dear.” Alicia clasped her hands. ‘‘How tragic for him ... for his loved ones.”

  “Tragic indeed, and probably even more tragic for them, who did not know what could have happened to him.” Again the doctor’s eyes were on her face. After a moment he continued, “Since this unknown man could not produce an identity and, indeed, seemed afraid, even after he had regained his strength, of leaving the hospital, the doctors, finding him willing and dependable, retained him in the capacity I have mentioned. His speech, however, was good. It bespoke an education and we were sure he had been a man of substance once.”

  As he paused, Alicia asked, “Were no inquiries put about, no descriptions circulated?”

  “There had been when he first came, but there was no response. ’Twas the general assumption that he had come from out of town, which might have accounted for his wandering into some part of the city dangerous to travelers. There are many such enclaves in Glasgow and ’twould also account for his terror of venturing out of the hospital—some memory of violence must have been lodged in his brain.

  “All this speculation was corroborated later, when in scrubbing the stairs one morning, he slipped and, falling, struck his head. Knowing that he and I had a certain bond, the other orderlies brought him to me.

  “At first I was much alarmed, for his head was covered with blood, but though it was bleeding profusely, ’twas not a bad cut. As I was bandaging it, he suddenly opened his eyes and demanded to know where he was. Before I could answer him, he had recognized me and talked wildly, I thought, of a castle in East Lothian and of one Jeanie, his wife. But ’twas not wild talk merely. He was a member of the MacKenzie clan, an earl, with a young wife and two children whom he could scarce bear to be parted from. He had come to Glasgow on business, and being unfamiliar with the city, he had lost his way. As ’twas ascertained, he had been set upon by thieves, robbed, and beaten senseless.”

  "Oh, dear.” Alicia clasped her hands. "His wife, had she waited?”

  “She had that, and summoned, she arrived still in the very deepest mourning with a girl of fourteen and a boy of twelve.” He swallowed. “Their reunion was most affecting and at the same time sad, for the children had been but seven and five at the time of his inexplicable disappearance."

  She liked him for the emotion that still colored his speech. “His wife must have been very happy,” she said wistfully.

  “She was . . . and they still are. At their urgent request, I have managed to visit them from time to time.”

  Alicia said gratefully, “I do thank you for telling me. As you said, Lucian is certainly better off, for he has but forgotten two years and—and the events therein.”

  “You must have faith, milady,” he said compassionately. “One day, when you least expect it, there will be recognition in his eyes.”

  “Oh, I pray that you are right," she breathed.

  “Think of the Highlands chief,” he said. “And at least you do know where he is and are not in ignorance as to whether he is alive or dead.”

  There was an excess of bitterness in his tone that surprised her, and glancing up, she found that his eyes had grown somber and his expression gloomy. She had a feeling that he too must have suffered some loss—but meeting her eyes, he said merely, “I must go, milady. See that his lordship rests for the next two days. I have told him he must, but he might not heed me. Active people often lack patience.”

  Alicia rose. “I . . she began and, pausing, flushed,

  “But what is amiss, milady?” he asked, smiling at her now.

  Warmed by his sympathetic manner, Alicia said, “He does not remember me, nor that we were married in Brussels. ’Twas just before Wate
rloo.”

  “Ah.” His gaze grew intent. “That would account for— for an attitude I found inexplicable, if you will pardon me for mentioning it, milady.”

  “I am pleased that you did. He is sadly confused. I did want you to understand. And I have told you because ’tis best you communicate whatever orders you have for him, to him directly or to his manservant. Tis possible that if I were to issue them, he would do quite the opposite. I tell you this is the very deepest confidence, sir.”

  “You may be sure that I will respect that confidence, milady.”

  The understanding and the sympathy in his eyes made Alicia want to cry, but she was able to maintain her poise as she responded, “I thank you, sir. Will he be well by Sunday, do you imagine?”

  “Sunday is five days off, milady. He should be quite recovered by then. If he is not, do send for me.”

  “I will, of course.” She managed a smile. “I will have your horse brought around.”

  “No need, milady. My cottage is but a mile or two distant. I walked here. I am a fast walker, lest you imagine I took your husband’s accident lightly.”

  “I am sure you did not,” she said. “And I do thank you for all you have told me. ’Tis very comforting to hear.”

  “May you have greater comfort than I can bring, and soon,” he said gently.

  At the kindness in his tone, tears once more came into her eyes. She blinked them back hastily, hoping that he had not noticed them. “I do thank you,” she repeated gratefully. “I will pray for it.”

  “And I,” he said gravely.

  After he had gone, Alicia went to her chamber. She felt unexpectedly weary. The events of the afternoon had drained her. Yet, despite her unsettling confrontation with her husband, the day had not been entirely miserable. She had acquired a friend—two friends, if she could believe all that Lady Hewes had told her. And upon mature reflection, she did not see why she should not. To be sure, she was a chatterbox, but her chattering had been to the point. As for the physician, she could never, never doubt his sincerity.

  She found herself wondering about him. Clearly he was a gentleman. Why, then, had he chosen to practice in this small village? Did he have a history similar to her own? Had his father spent too lavishly and left his children impoverished? She thought of poor Timothy, heir to a baronetcy that was only an empty title, and of herself, who had no dowry, something that had not mattered to the Lucian she had married, but that must be very puzzling to the man he was now, the man she did not know and was not even sure she liked.

  That startling thought gave her pause. Had she fallen out of love with him in one fell swoop? She moved restlessly around the room and. coming to the window, stared out at the ruins, thinking of their unpleasant confrontation among those stones. He had looked at her so coldly and . . . Had he been serious when he had accused her of witchcraft? His other accusation had been equally hurtful, the suggestion that she had trapped him into marriage when he was foxed. The Lucian she had known could never have said such cruel things to her, but had she really known him?

  A tap at the door brought her out of these most uncomfortable speculations. “Yes,” she called. “Come in.”

  “Milady.” It was the housekeeper who appeared on the threshold. “ 'Is Lordship be askin’ for you. Would you come please?”

  “Oh, yes, at once. I thought he must be asleep,” Alicia said to cover the fact that she had not gone to him for fear he would not welcome the intrusion.

  “ ’E did sleep a bit, milady, but ’e’s that restless. An’ ’e do want to see you.”

  Lucian had finally asked for her, but as Alicia followed the housekeeper across the front hall and toward the wing where his chambers lay, the events of the afternoon were still large in her mind, and marching beside them was uncertainty. She could not be sure of her reception and she did not rule out another unpleasant altercation. And if that were in his mind, she would not stay to listen, she thought determinedly. Indeed, if she were subjected to another scene such as that she had experienced in the graveyard, she would go back to Brussels.

  As she had been walking after the housekeeper, she had been so occupied with her own thoughts that she had scarcely noticed the rooms through which they had been passing, but having made her decision, she did look about her. It seemed to her that these, unlike those on her side of the house, showed signs of a continued occupancy. One chamber must have served as a sort of nursery, for there were shelves of toys and books set about. The next had a definite feminine atmosphere—possibly this one had belonged to his long-dead mother. She was sure that once they had passed through a dressing room hung with delicate Watteau engravings and having among its furnishings a dressing table with triple mirrors and, on it, a silver-backed hand mirror with matching brush, comb, and jars. In other circumstances she, as mistress of the house, must have occupied these quarters, she knew.

  The housekeeper was knocking at a paneled door that must lead to Lucian’s rooms, but Alicia had half a mind to turn and leave. However, in that moment, she heard him say faintly, “Come,” and found that she was not impervious to the weakness in his tones.

  The housekeeper opened the door. “Please go in, milady,” she said, and dropped a respectful curtsy.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gibbs.” As Alicia moved inside, she heard the door softly closing behind her. She had come into a large room, and facing her was a huge canopied bed with green velvet hangings. Sweeping velvet draperies of that same hue covered the windows, and another Aubusson carpet picked up some of the green in its patterns. All this caught her eye as she entered and was as swiftly dismissed as she saw Lucian, lying back against his pillows and looking almost as pale as their linen covers.

  Some of her resentment melted away. He must have been more shaken by that fall than the doctor had admitted.

  He said, “Ah, I am glad you’ve come. I’d not have blamed you had you refused. I beg you will pardon my imputations, though I fear you will believe them as unpardonable as I do myself, in retrospect.” A flush mounted his cheeks. “One does not, you understand, like to see himself in the light that I am bathed at present. The situation between myself and Barbara Barrington has been of such long duration that—that when I found myself wed to you, 'twas difficult for me to understand. I looked about for some excuse in which to clothe my perfidy. And Barbara thought . . .” He flushed. “But never mind that. She is prone to exaggeration and she, too, was much hurt and disappointed. Our engagement was about to be announced and our wedding to follow fast upon it, but all this you know. And considering the hurtful and unjust manner in which I spoke to you in the ruins, I’d not have blamed you had you left me there to get back to the house as best I might, but you did not, for which I thank you.”

  “You are welcome, sir. I do not believe you were aware of how much you had hurt yourself.”

  “I was not, but the doctor has told me ’twas well you flouted my orders and sent for him. And I agree. He is new here and seems most capable.” His flush deepened, “I have been rude again, I see, keeping you standing so long. There’s a chair near you.” He pointed to a padded Queen Anne chair not far from the bed. “Will you not sit down?”

  Alicia remained standing. “Should we not converse when you are more rested?”

  “No, please,” he actually begged. “ ’Tis time and past that we spoke. I pray you will sit down.”

  “Very well.” Alicia took the proffered chair.

  He gave her a long look, and she, being closer now, read shame in his eyes. “I wish you to know that I do respect you. Given the circumstances attendant upon our situation, you have been very brave to have come this far. It bespeaks an affection ... Oh, God!” He pressed both hands against his head. “I do wish I could remember, but”—a long sigh escaped him—“I cannot.”

  “I know it must be very confusing, very difficult to bear,” she said softly.

  “It is terrible,” he burst out. “Not to know and to learn that some you loved are dead—my father and my
best friend, Dick Seeley.”

  She nodded. “I can imagine that it must be very, very hard.”

  “Yes ...” He was silent a long moment before saying, “I have been thinking that I ought to take you back to London—sure the winters there are easier—but since I have come to the abbey, I realize that I have been most neglectful of my old home. When I was a lad, I was very happy here, very proud to be here, too. Tis odd that I should have forgotten it, for unlike those of more recent vintage, these memories remain intact and I can conjure up visions of my mother, my father, and others who are gone. I find it much to my liking and would like to see it refurbished as it should have been before now. If you feel you can bear the coming winter and”—he flushed—“myself, I should prefer to remain. Mrs. Gibbs has told me that you asked to be taken through the rooms. Having seen them, what is your decision? Would you prefer to live in London? ’Tis your choice.”

  She had been, she realized, anticipating another sort of proposition—one involving her return to Brussels. Despite her earlier resolutions, she had discovered that she did not want to go. Indeed, as Lucian had been speaking, she had found that her anger had evaporated. She had, in fact, seen something of the Lucian she had known . . . how long ago? It seemed years rather than a few months. He was regarding her anxiously, she thought, and again she was reminded of that other Lucian who had looked not unlike that when he had proposed to her. And in a sense this, too, was a proposal, though she could not deceive herself as to the spirit in which it was proffered. She said, “It is a beautiful house.”