“You were in an accident, young lady,” Miss Horatia told her as she poured out a glass of water.
“We have been so worried about you,” the other lady added. “But we will tell you everything that happened, I promise.”
“No more talking now, it will tire you,” Miss Horatia said, helping her to sit up a little so she could drink the cool water. As grateful as she was, Emily was glad to lie down again, for her head was swimming. “Now you must rest until the doctor comes,” Miss Hortense added.
Emily closed her eyes obediently, for she felt very weak and shaky and so she did not see the two old ladies tiptoe to the door. As they went out, Emily frowned. It was all so confusing. There was no sound in the room but the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel, and comforted a little by the homey, familiar sound, she dropped off to sleep.
She slept until the doctor came an hour later, and she woke feeling stronger when she felt his hand on her pulse.
“Welcome back,” he said with a comfortable smile. “You were beginning to worry us, young lady.”
Again, Emily’s hand went to her head. There was a swelling there, tender to the touch, and she winced as the doctor gently probed the spot. “It was much larger four days ago,” he reassured her, and then he asked, “You have the headache, do you not? How else do you feel?”
Haltingly, Emily told him of her weakness, but assured him that she did not hurt anywhere except for the bump on her head.
The doctor nodded and patted her hand. “That is to be expected. You must remain in bed until you are stronger, but I expect some nourishing food will soon take care of that. When you do get up, I do not want you to rush into too much activity at once. I will leave you some powders to ease the pain and help you to sleep.”
He moved away to his bag that was set on a table near the bed, and Emily stared at her nurse. “But where am I?” she asked.
“You are at Rutherford Hall, my dear, and I am Miss Hortense Rutherford,” the lady replied, bobbing her curls and smiling. “I live here with my sister, Miss Horatia. Do you remember seeing her before?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “But ... but where is Rutherford Hall?”
“It is some six miles from Brighton, where the accident happened. I was never more shocked in my life when Pegasus ran you down. Dear, dear! I would never have forgiven myself if you had been hurt seriously, although it was all the fault of those nasty bo—children.”
Emily closed her eyes again. Rutherford Hall ... Brighton ... Pegasus? Nothing made any sense to her.
“Now, dearie,” Miss Hortense said, taking her hand and patting it gently, “you must tell us your name so we can notify your family. We have been so concerned, for we know how they must be worrying about you.”
Emily opened her mouth to answer, and then shut it as her eyebrows came back together in a frown. “I ... I don’t know who I am. My mind is completely blank.”
While Miss Hortense clucked, Doctor Spears came quickly back to the bedside and stared down at her. “I had not foreseen this, but of course with a head injury it is entirely possible. But you are not to worry about your loss of memory, young lady, for it may reappear at any time. Just concentrate on getting well and do not be racking your brains for your identity. It will come back in its own good time. I will return in a few days to see how you are getting along.”
Emily swallowed and nodded a little, as Miss Hortense, her blue eyes wide with shock at what she had just heard, went to the door with the doctor.
As soon as they left the room, Miss Horatia came around the screen set at the dressing-room door. Emily was staring straight up at the canopy of the four-poster bed, frowning a little, as if she expected to see her name written in its soft pleats.
“Now, none of that,” Miss Horatia commanded, straightening the bedcovers and raising her patient to plump the pillows. “You heard the orders!”
“I know,” Emily agreed. “But it is frightening not to know who you are, Miss Rutherford. Oh, what can my name be?”
“From what we can discover, you may have a choice,” the elder lady said dryly, but at Emily’s bewildered look she took pity on the girl and would say no more. “When you are stronger. Do not worry, there is plenty of time.”
Emily drifted off to sleep again and Miss Horatia stalked over to the window to stare with unseeing eyes into the unkempt garden below. “Yes, do not worry, we will keep you safe, my girl,” she whispered. “And yet, why do I have the strongest feeling that you are neither Regina Wiggins nor Margaret Nelson?” She closed her eyes for a moment and then shook herself as she added, “I am sure of it! As sure as I am that all your troubles are the doing of one or more of them. Hmmph!”
Physically, Emily regained her strength rapidly now that she was able to sit up and eat the good food that the maids brought her so regularly. She had made the acquaintance of them all, but besides wondering why the Rutherfords kept such elderly servants, she did not ask any questions. In a few days, she was able to take a few steps around the room, supported on either side, and she was glad she did not have to call for a bedpan anymore for her needs. She felt she was enough trouble as it was.
The Misses Rutherford were often with her, and although Miss Horatia was kind in her abrupt way, Emily much preferred her dithery sister. No one was allowed to mention her loss of memory, or ask her if it was coming back by orders of Miss Rutherford, but every morning Miss Hortense would bustle into the room in her dressing gown, the papers she put her curls up with still bristling all over her head, and her faded-blue eyes would look eager for a moment, until Emily shook her head with regret.
And so she became “the young lady” or “miss” to the maids, “dearie” to Miss Hortense and “my girl” to her sister.
Miss Horatia had sent Agnes into Brighton to inquire for either a Miss Nelson or a Mrs. Wiggins at all the inns, and the maid returned with Emily’s portmanteaus after settling her bill at the hostelry where she had been staying. The Rutherford ladies went through the baggage carefully, but nothing revealing Emily’s identity came to light, for all her papers and her mother’s letters were at the bottom of her trunk in the box room of Bradley’s Hotel awaiting her new direction.
The doctor continued to visit, at carefully specified times when Miss Horatia was sure to be absent, for Emily was still troubled with an occasional severe headache and dizzy spells, but outside of commending her on her returning good health, he had no new suggestions for any way she might regain her memory, merely telling her that nature would take care of that eventually, and all the fretting in the world would not bring back a single remembrance, either good or bad, before it was time.
Some days later, when Miss Horatia felt Emily was strong enough, they told her about the letters they had found in her reticule. They were all three taking tea in Emily’s room, and as soon as Bessie had curtsied after bringing in the tray and taken herself off, Miss Horatia laid the four letters before their guest.
Emily read the contents with a frown creasing her forehead. “But this does not make any sense, Miss Horatia,” she said. “Why are there two different names? Which one is mine?”
“You were known as Mrs. Wiggins at the Blue Boar, where we found your baggage,” the older lady said, frowning at her younger sister as she broke in to say impulsively, “Oh, do not be Mrs. Wiggins, dearie! Such a common, horrid name. Wiggins-Higgins-Piggins! Please try to be Miss Nelson.”
Emily had to laugh at her. “Of course I shall do my best, ma’am,” she twinkled. “I must admit I have no liking for the name ‘Wiggins’ myself. But where do you suppose, if that is truly my name, is Mr. Wiggins?”
Miss Hortense gasped and put her hands to her heart, blushing a bright red, while Miss Horatia turned pale and stiffened. Emily looked from one to the other in confusion.
“Well, my dearie, we cannot be sure there is one. No, I quite refuse to consider that such a lovely girl as you are would be burdened with such a name,” Miss Hortense said, speaking quickly and darting litt
le glances at her sister’s rigid face.
Emily was rereading the letters and not attending. “It appears I am a lady’s maid. How strange. I don’t feel like one.”
Miss Horatia deigned to speak again now that the dangerous subject of the possible Mr. Wiggins had passed. “Your educated words and accent are much at odds with the occupation. Perhaps you have been a lady’s maid, but I do not think you were meant to be one. The aura against it is very strong—very strong indeed.”
Emily looked confused again, and Miss Hortense patted her hand and said proudly, “Horatia sees auras, you know. She can sense things that are hidden from the rest of us.”
“I wish she could see who I am, then,” Emily remarked.
“It is impossible to make demands on the spirits,” Miss Rutherford said, pouring out a cup of tea while her sister concentrated on selecting another cream puff. “The gift comes and goes; I cannot summon it at will.”
“The doctor said it would do you good to go out in the fresh air, dearie,” Miss Hortense said next, as soon as she had swallowed the last delicious bit of her pastry. “Perhaps tomorrow you can come outside to a lawn chair if it is a nice day.”
“I would like that.” Emily smiled. “I feel I must regain my strength so I can leave soon. I have been such a burden to you, and even if I do not know who I am, I cannot trespass on your hospitality much longer. Why, I have been here two weeks now.”
Both ladies refused to listen to her plans to go away; in fact, Miss Hortense became quite mournful, and a little tear slid down her fat cheek as she cried, “Oh, do not leave us, my dear! We never have any company anymore and we should enjoy a longer visit.”
Emily promised to remain some while longer to cheer her up, but insisted on helping with the work about the hall as soon as she was able. “I cannot sit in idleness like a grand lady forever,” she said. “Perhaps if I was a lady’s maid, I could take care of you both, do some sewing or laundry, or arrange your hair.”
But this, it seemed, was not to be allowed. “You are our guest, and besides, we have more servants than we need already,” Miss Horatia said sternly.
“Many more than we need,” Miss Hortense added. “But Horatia will take them in! Besides Agnes, Bessie, and Gertrude, whom you have met, there is Annie and Gladys and Rose and Millie and Joan and Bertha and Mabel as well.”
“Have you forgotten Daisy, Pauline, Jane, and Sally, Hortense?” Miss Horatia asked, passing the plate of cakes to Emily, who was once again looking stunned at the number of maids the sisters employed.
“No, nor Deirdre and Deborah neither,” Miss Hortense crowed. “You forgot about them.”
“How could I forget when they cook such delicious meals,” Miss Horatia replied, rising from the tea table. “Come away now, Sister, and let the young lady rest. Your chatter has tired her, I know.”
Emily denied she was tired, but Miss Horatia refused to listen and swept her sister before her to the door. After the two had left, Emily sat on in her chair, her hands tightly clasped in her lap and her unseeing eyes staring at the opposite wall as she tried to still the terror she was beginning to feel rise in her breast whenever she thought about this mysterious lapse of memory she was suffering.
Who was she? What was her name? Where did she come from? Was there someone, somewhere, who loved her? Someone who might even now be frantic with fear and concern for her?
And even though she had spoken those brave words to the Rutherfords about leaving the hall, how could she, in this condition? Where would she go? What could she do, not knowing who she was? There had been very little money in her reticule, and even if she had more banked somewhere, how could she claim it?
She felt as if she were lost in a deep, enveloping fog that swirled around her, now parting a little as if to tantalize her, now thickening again into a heavy white curtain that mocked her efforts to fight her way clear of it. Was she always to be lost, never to know who she was and where she belonged? It was almost as if she did not exist—as if she were not really a person at all, but only a nameless shade. She wondered if this was the onset of insanity and shivered in fright. Then she shook her head, determined to put such terrifying thoughts from her mind before she succumbed to panic and hysteria. Wandering over to the tall mullioned windows, she gazed outside. How wonderful it would be to go out tomorrow, she thought. And how kind the Misses Rutherford were to her, a complete stranger. Of course, she admitted to herself as she leaned against the pane, they were a little odd. But then, lots of old ladies have their little eccentricities. At least they do not keep a hundred cats, and if they feel they need so many maids, who am I to say them nay? I do not even know how big the hall is. Perhaps it is a huge old pile, and an army of women is necessary to keep it up.
But the next day when she came slowly down the stairs between the two sisters, followed by Agnes carrying a blanket and some pillows, she saw that Rutherford Hall, although a pleasant manor, was only of ordinary size. It was built of rough gray stone, and all the windows were arched and narrow with tiny panes, so she suspected it was of a great age. The stone hall that they were traversing was decorated with old family portraits, and there was very little furniture to be seen except a few tall chairs and one massive polished table that held a large bouquet of wild flowers.
Emily paused for a moment when they reached the front door, feeling a little dizzy from her exertions, but when that passed, she moved forward between her escorts, both of whom were carefully supporting her. With Miss Hortense clucking encouragement, they went down a shallow set of stone steps to the gravel drive and then made their way over the lawn to a long chair set under a huge old elm that looked at least as ancient as the hall.
When Emily had been settled in the chair, she looked up to see Miss Hortense gasping a little, her rosy face even redder from her efforts, and she said contritely, “I am so sorry, Miss Hortense, for I see my weight was too much for you. You should have called for a groom or one of the footmen...” Agnes, busy arranging pillows at her back, moaned out loud, and Miss Hortense exclaimed, “Oh, no, you must not! Sister, Sister, come back! She did not mean to say it!”
But Miss Horatia was running back to the hall as fast as she could go, her black skirts swinging with the rush of her passage, and she did not turn her head.
“Oh, dearie me,” Miss Hortense said, wringing her hands as she sank into another lawn chair. “She will be distressed for hours. Go after her, Agnes, and stay with her until she is calm.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and went away, and Emily asked, “But what did I say? I do not understand.”
Miss Hortense sighed. “Of course you do not understand, dearie, and I should have warned you I know, but you see, we never mention them here at the hall.”
“Them?” Emily asked.
Miss Hortense refused to look at her. “Yes, them,” she whispered. “Men!”
“Why ever not?” Emily asked in a normal tone of voice.
Miss Hortense looked around, making shushing motions with her little fat hands. “Sister hates them, she always has. I do not really know why, and since she refuses to speak of them, I cannot ask. She never used to be quite so bad, but after my father died, she declared he was the last man whose name would ever pass her lips, and the last one she would ever speak to. That is why we have no footmen or grooms or a butler. The maids do it all.”
Emily looked around her in bewilderment. Down at the bottom of the garden near a small stream, two elderly women with sunbonnets and aprons, their skirts looped up out of the way, were busy scything the grass, and she could see three more kneeling in the kitchen garden at the side of the hall. The stone walls and the pointed windows of the hall, as well as all the women servants, suddenly reminded her of a convent.
“But, my dear Miss Hortense, how unfair to you,” she said after a moment. “Did you never wish to marry? There must have been a man in your life at one time?”
The old lady blushed and simpered. “Well, yes, there was, but he was part of th
e problem, you see. Horatia said he was not worthy of me and sent him away.” At Emily’s murmur of sympathy Hortense added quickly, “You must not think I minded too much, dearie. Now that I think of it, he wasn’t worthy of me. But, of course, there was no chance to go to town for the Season, not with Horatia feeling the way she did, and somehow the years slipped away. You must not be sorry for me, for I declare I have been happy here with my dear sister. Perhaps it is true that there are some women who are happier without them.”
“So that is why you have so many maids,” Emily remarked, trying to hide how appalled she was at the life Miss Hortense had led.
“Not only because of the work,” Miss Hortense replied. She seemed eager to talk, now the secret was out and her sister had left them. “Horatia cannot bear to see a woman out of work or in need, for she is sure it is all some of their doing when a woman is placed in such a predicament. And, of course, she chooses the older ones because it is so much safer.”
“Safer?”
“The younger women want some of them around, and when they discover sister’s hatred for the sex, they run off to be with them. Older maids are not so flighty; they have more sense.”
Emily stifled a giggle. “No wonder you were so upset when I mentioned the possibility of a Mr. Wiggins yesterday,” she said. “I will be more careful from now on, for I would not distress Miss Rutherford for the world.”
Miss Hortense beamed and patted her hand. “I knew I could rely on you to understand. And you will not mention the fact that there are only female portraits in the hall, will you? Horatia even had the suits of armor that used to stand by the stairwell thrown away.”
Emily nodded her agreement, determined to enter into the spirit of things. “So that is why Miss Horatia never speaks to the doctor or is present when he comes to see me. It is all clear to me now that you have explained it, Miss Hortense.”
“I will be so glad when his visits cease, for Horatia frets so when he is in the house. And then she sulks for hours, after setting the maids to scrub everything he might have touched. But never mind, dearie, as soon as you are able, I will drive you into Brighton to see the doctor, and then Horatia can be comfortable.”
The Emerald Duchess Page 17