by Allison Lane
“It is most unlike her,” he agreed. “But that is all the more reason to tread softly. She is confused, and she must be terrified. Agitating her can only worsen the effects.”
“But liver? Cooked without fat?” Charles emptied his glass and poured another. “It’s not healthy.”
“Of course not, but she is obsessed by the blood Harvey took. You must admit that liver is very bloody. At least she didn’t request a glass of the stuff.”
“True, but nettles are almost as bad.” Charles shuddered in disgust. “That is precisely my point. Emily faints at the mere mention of blood, let alone the sight of it. Why would she discuss the subject?”
“I’ve been wondering that very thing. And not just the part about diet. You’ve seen the list of remedies she demanded. Some of them I’ve never heard of. Do you suppose that her meekness has been an act all these years? You must admit that her demeanor has always conformed to what she was taught. But her am-amnesia” —he stumbled over the word he had heard for the first time from McClarren— “made her forget those teachings, allowing her true character to surface.”
“Fustian,” snorted Charles. “Even as a rebellious child she was never like this. I was talking to McClarren before dinner. Though he has no personal experience with lost memory, he knows several doctors who do. Not one has ever encountered profound personality changes. Bewilderment, fear, anxiety, and even anger, but never new traits.”
“What did she say that bothers you so much?” Charles was more upset than Drew had ever seen him. They had been friends since Eton, though they often disagreed with each other. Charles was traditional, disdaining the newfangled notions Drew often espoused, but even their most heated debates had never upset him the way Emily’s accident was doing.
“Besides not recognizing me?” Bitterness filled his words.
“She doesn’t know anybody,” he said in excuse, though that wasn’t strictly true. Her first words to him had been You’re dead. The idea may well have come from a dream, but she had recognized him and connected him with Broadbanks. “How odd,” he murmured.
“What? That she knows none of us? You are the one who reported that she remembered nothing.”
“No, not that. When she first awoke, she thought I was the marquess. Why would she know that my father is Broadbanks?”
“But amnesiacs’ brains are not completely blank,” said McClarren from the doorway. “They recall many things. Take Lady Emily, for example. She has no trouble speaking, recognizes most common objects, and seems to have a firm understanding of medicine and the human body. What she cannot produce are memories of her childhood or of the people she knows.”
“But the condition is temporary,” said Drew hopefully.
“Usually.” The doctor pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat down. “In most cases, the problem corrects itself within a short time, though I know of at least one victim who did not return to normal until six months after his accident.”
“Six months!” exclaimed Charles.
“And there have been a few who never remembered. We know little of how the brain works. A man in Edinburgh suffered a blow to the head some years ago that wiped out all memory of who he was. He recovered from the injuries and was building a new life when he was again struck in the same place. When he recovered consciousness, he had regained his early memories, but recalled nothing of the two months that separated his accidents.”
“So Lady Emily might forget these days?” asked Drew sharply.
“I think it unlikely. In most cases, restoration of memory does not erase what happened during the amnesia episode.”
McClarren left to check his patient. Charles accompanied him.
Drew stared into the fire. Emily’s amnesia was almost a blessing. Since she had no memory of their relationship, he was able to sit with her and talk to her without constraint, though he had to admit that her nearness was taxing his control. But that was a small price to pay for a few days of contentment. It was all he would have in his lifetime.
Yet he could not forget her words when she first awoke. Even delirium could not explain some of them. How could she have undergone such a total change? The Emily he loved would never have defied a doctor, even such an unprepossessing one as Dr. Harvey. The Emily he loved would never have made demands that ran counter to what others advised. And it was not just the liver. She had been specific about fruits, vegetables, cooking methods, and quantities. When he had delivered the first infusions to her an hour before, she had elaborated on the health benefits of each item, claiming attributes that he had never considered, using words with which he was unfamiliar. But she had sounded so sure of herself that he had acceded to every request – even to the demand that her windows be opened and the draperies drawn back to allow excessive light into the room.
He had asked McClarren about the herbs she specified. While the man had not personally used a couple of them, he had agreed that none should cause any damage.
Had she received divine knowledge in answer to his fervent prayers? He doubted it. God would hardly grant favors to a sinner such as himself. And when her memory returned, she must reconcile herself to his betrothal. She had loved him for years. One of her few deviations from strict propriety had been to tell him how much she cared. He had long suspected that her feelings were more powerful than his own, a fact that prompted a nagging sense of guilt. Had he taken advantage of her? After Fay’s determined possessiveness, Emily’s selfless devotion had seemed a blessing. She would be a perfect wife, catering to his every need without intruding on his privacy or objecting to his activities. His own love was strong enough to keep him faithful . . .
At least it was now. Had losing her deepened his feelings? Life with Fay would be anything but congenial. And Emily’s pain would make it worse. Poor Em would actually be better off dead. So why would a loving God return her to a life that promised misery? She had been on the verge of death only a day ago.
And that was another puzzle. How could someone who had hardly been able to breathe, and who had not had enough energy to move so much as a finger, be ranting and making demands on him with such vigor?
He headed for the kitchen. From the moment that he had yielded to those demands, he had taken the full responsibility. The servants were so horrified at his unconventional orders that he could not demand obedience. If this odd regimen killed her, he wanted no one else to feel guilty. He was already damned. One more death would make no difference.
* * * *
Cherlynn awoke in a pool of sweat. For the first time since falling, her mind was coolly logical. She could think. She could remember. Her fever had broken.
She glanced around the room, but someone had shut heavy curtains, blocking any trace of light or air. Only deep shadows marked the location of furniture. She hated being shut in. But as she tried to sit up, her body protested.
Her head still throbbed. Whatever analgesics they had given her must have worn off, which was probably what had awakened her. But she felt weak, weaker even than the morning after Willard had driven them into a tree, triggering a miscarriage that destroyed their unborn son. Her subsequent hemorrhage and infection guaranteed that she would bear no more.
But she thrust that tragedy away, focusing instead on her current weakness. Surely she had not been ill long enough for her muscles to atrophy! Her mind was hazy, but she shouldn’t have been in bed longer than two or three days.
Or had she? Snatches of hallucinations and voices lingered in her mind. Her fever must have reached at least 105 degrees to have produced delirium. If she had been that ill, then she could easily have lost a week of her life. Or more.
Fighting dizziness, she carefully rolled toward the edge of the bed and sat up, stretching her feet toward the floor. Once she switched on the lamp, she could take stock of her situation.
But the floor was not where it should have been. By the time she realized that, it was too late to prevent a fall.
New waves of pain rolled through her h
ead. She must be in a hospital for the bed to be so high. But she could not recall ever seeing a hospital so dark – nurses were always popping in and out and left the doors to the lighted halls open so they could keep an eye on the patients. But English hospitals might be different. She was no longer in Massachusetts.
She lay on the floor for several minutes until she felt strong enough to stand. Why had no one noticed that one of the patients had fallen out of bed?
But a new puzzle deflected the question. When she put out her hand to grasp the bed, it encountered a set of steps. Using them to pull herself up, she next discovered that the bed was a four-poster with a complete set of bed curtains. Even English hospitals would hardly include something so unsanitary.
Those fragments of hallucinations returned. Had they been real images? Perhaps she had not been taken to a hospital after all. It was possible that she was being housed at Broadbanks.
No lamp rested on the bedside table. She lurched to the window and fumbled her way through the curtains, sinking thankfully onto a window seat. Moonlight faintly illuminated a grand vista of formal gardens. Catching a glimpse of the thin crescent that floated above a tree, she grimaced. She had last noticed the moon the night before leaving for England. Some rapid math confirmed that a full week had passed since her fall.
The cool air chilled her soaked nightgown, raising goose bumps. Looking down, she cringed at the sight of heavy cotton clinging to her body instead of her preferred nylon. Hopefully whatever second gown had been loaned to her was more comfortable. If not, she would have to sleep nude and pray that the other side of the bed was dry.
She was moving slowly toward the door, where she expected to find a light switch, when it opened.
“What are you doing out of bed?” demanded a male voice. One hand held an oil lamp that pushed the darkness into the corners.
But Cherlynn paid no attention to the speaker. She had been facing a dressing table when the door opened, and now froze in shock. The girl in the mirror was a stranger. Long jet-black hair raged wildly about a face so white she might have been a ghost. An elegant neck disappeared into the ruffled nightgown, whose damp fabric clung like skin, revealing tall slenderness and shapely curves.
She fainted.
* * * *
Drew shoved the lamp onto the table as he sprang forward to catch Emily. What was she doing out of bed? And where was the maid who was supposed to be watching her?
At least she hadn’t hit her head again. And she seemed stronger. Perhaps the weeks of forcing all manner of strange foods and potions down her throat had helped. Or perhaps she was possessed by the devil as the servants whispered. He grimaced at the tightly shut windows. Some beliefs were too strong for even direct orders to overcome. A fear of night air was one of them.
But at least she was stronger. With relief came awareness. She was soft and feminine. Holding her was spiraling intense need into his loins. He tore his mind from the woman in his arms and carried her to the bed. But the moment he set her down, he realized that both her gown and the sheets were soaked. That must be what had driven her to her feet.
Pulling the coverlet loose, he wrapped her warmly and deposited her on the couch. The fire was nearly dead, but the scuttle was full, so he set about warming the room. The maid would be dismissed.
“Emily,” he called urgently, chaffing her wrists to awaken her. He needed a vinaigrette, but didn’t know where she kept hers, and he could not leave her. “Are you all right?”
She blinked. “What happened?”
“You unwisely got out of bed,” he murmured. “Why did you not ring for help?”
“The mirror,” she murmured. “It wasn’t me.”
“Mirror?”
“When the light came on. The reflection wasn’t me.”
“I know you dislike looking rumpled,” he said with a sigh. “But we could not brush your hair properly while you have been so ill. We feared the tugging would harm you. Your injury is only beginning to heal.”
“Who are you?”
He fought renewed pain, reciting the litany with which he was all too familiar by now. “Lord Thurston. You fell during the ball and struck your head. You have been recuperating at Broadbanks Hall ever since. We feared that you would succumb to your fever, but it appears that it has finally broken. Your brother and mother are also here, but both are resting at the moment. I can fetch them if you like.”
“No!” She seemed to be making a mental struggle, but her question when it came was unexpected. “How long have I been ill?”
“Nearly three weeks.”
A shudder wracked her body. He tucked the coverlet closer. “It can’t be.” Her voice was pleading. “The moon is a waning crescent. It can only have been a week.”
“Relax, Emily. You are still disoriented by the fall.” He brushed the hair from her brow, feeling her puckered forehead, a sign that she was deep in thought.
“The date. What is the date?”
“July 4, 1812.” He had answered this question so often that he added the year almost automatically, though he had never considered it a vital part of the date.
“The Fourth of July,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll miss the fireworks.”
“Emily?”
She shook her head, then winced. “Nothing, my lord. You call me Emily?”
“I shouldn’t, of course.”
“Because it is not my name?”
“You still don’t remember, do you?” He sighed, his thumb idly stroking her palm. She didn’t seem to mind the impropriety. “You are Lady Emily Fairfield, sister of Charles Fairfield, seventh Earl of Clifford. I am his closest friend. But that does not give me the privilege of addressing you by your given name. Forgive me.”
“Of course. I am sorry to be such a bother.” She frowned. “Do I recall a doctor bleeding me?”
“Yes, but I put a stop to that at your request. The new doctor agrees that routine bleeding does more harm than good.”
“So I was not hallucinating.” She sounded disappointed. “And you are seeing that I get the food I need to recover.”
So harping on food had not been a product of delirium. “You needn’t fear for your recovery, Lady Emily. But if it is to continue, you must return to your bed.”
“No. Being bedridden for three weeks explains why I am so weak. I need exercise.”
“In the morning, if you remain free of fever. Now let me summon a maid to change the bed linen, and we will get you tucked back up.”
“What time is it?”
“About two.”
She glared. “You can’t awaken some poor girl in the middle of the night! Get me a couple of sheets and I’ll do it myself.”
“What?”
They argued for several minutes before he finally gave in and collected the sheets. Not that he would allow her to make up the bed. She would swoon the moment she stood up. He did it himself. Poorly, but after subjecting him to such stubborn insistence, she could sleep on wrinkles. She had to change her own nightgown, of course. But aside from grumbling over the style – at least he thought that was what she found wrong with the garment – she managed. The effort tired her so much that she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
Succumbing to temptation, he placed a lingering kiss on her forehead before he left to track down the maid who was supposed to keep watch in her room.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cherlynn paced slowly from window to door and back. Each time she passed the mirror, her eyes searched the glass, hoping to see her familiar image restored. Who would have thought she could long to be short and fat, with frizzy brown hair, gray eyes, and a plain face? But she had never anticipated finding herself in this predicament.
Each pass brought new disappointment. Cherlynn Cardington never lurked in the mirror. Instead, long black hair rippled to her waist, and China-blue eyes stared hesitantly from a pale oval face, their depths reflecting shock, fear, and lingering disbelief. Hands repeatedly skimmed her figure, tremblin
g at the change from chunky to slender.
Acceptance gradually subdued the shock. This was no dream. The flesh and blood her fingers touched matched the image in the mirror.
Lord Thurston had left her with much to ponder, not least of which was his parting kiss. Their argument had wearied her, so she’d taken the coward’s way out by pretending sleep, thus raising new questions. When his lips had pressed against her brow so gently, it had taken all her willpower to remain motionless. Before she spoke with anyone else, she needed to figure out what was going on.
His claims validated the scraps of memory from her illness. If they were all true, then she was no longer Cherlynn Cardington, failed wife, unsuccessful author, and unwilling marchioness.
Again her eyes locked onto the vision of beauty in the mirror. Lady Emily Fairfield. Lady Travis’s first letter had described the accident during Thurston’s betrothal ball. If this was the fourth of July, then the girl had died of her injuries sixteen days ago. Thus Cherlynn must now occupy Emily’s body. Her own fall on the same date in the same room must have wafted her into the past.
But why?
She moved to the open window. The maid had implied that Emily loved Lord Thurston. His concern and tenderness suggested that he returned her regard. He had been at her bedside nearly every time she’d surfaced from her delirium, feeding her, supplying the remedies she demanded, bathing her face with cool water – not typical Regency behavior. Even Emily’s brother had visited only rarely, and her mother even less.
Cherlynn returned to the mirror, forcing her thoughts past her renewed headache as she recalled everything she had read about Emily. There wasn’t much. The press had concentrated on the curse. Since Emily had had nothing to do with the Broadbanks’ fortunes, even the tabloids had ignored her. Her only knowledge had been gleaned from that single letter and the maid’s comments.