by Bess McBride
“You are too fastidious in your tastes, William. Simply choose a girl of good breeding and sound reputation. Affection and friendship will surely follow.”
When his mother turned her attention to other departing guests, William pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. She did not miss the gesture and turned a shrewd eye upon him.
“Are we keeping you, dear? Did you have other plans this evening?”
William smiled, well used to his mother’s omniscient ways.
“Not at all, Mother. I was simply checking the time as a matter of curiosity. I feel somewhat tired this evening.”
“Only several more guests remain to bid farewell, William. We shall soon see the end of them for another evening.”
“Mother!” he reproached playfully. He pressed his lips together as Lady and Sir Wallingford, and their pale daughter, Emeline, made departing curtsies and bows.
“Yes, William? Are you saying you feel differently?” His mother smiled serenely when the Wallingfords had passed.
“Not at all. I agree with you wholeheartedly. If you despise these functions so, why must you put us through them?”
“Because your sister needs gaiety and you need a wife.”
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “The wife.”
The last of the guests departed within twenty minutes, and William was able to bid his mother and sister good night, stating he would take a glass of brandy in his study prior to retiring for the night. As the last rustle of silk skirts disappeared up the stairs, he hurried back through the dining room and clattered down the stone steps to the kitchen. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and came to an abrupt halt.
There, standing before the hearth holding her hands to the fire, stood the young woman—dark, reddish hair hanging about her shoulders in a most primitive fashion, the ridiculously fluffy garment draped about her person, and equally unsuitable shoes upon her feet.
She swung around upon hearing him enter.
Cheeks rosy from the fire burned suddenly brighter. Her eyes widened, he supposed in fear. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came.
Good gravy! Was it possible she did not speak English? Or perhaps could not speak at all?
William sighed with relief when out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. White bustling forward. He really did not feel equal to handling the strange creature who stood before him, hands now covering her mouth, cheeks suddenly pale, a decided unsteadiness to her stance.
He slid his eyes toward the cook.
“Mrs. White! Is she faint? She looks as if she is about to—”
He jumped forward to catch her just as she would have slid to the stone floor. She slumped into his arms, and he staggered for a moment.
“Oh, my goodness, Master William! Not again. The poor girl. Put her here, sir.” Mrs. White pulled the rocking chair forward. “Gently now. Have a care.”
William half dragged her into the chair once again. Her head lolled to the side.
“What ails her, Mrs. White?” William turned to the cook. “Did you have a chance to speak with her? Did she take some tea? A refreshment? Shall I send someone to fetch the doctor?”
“No, Master William. I do not think you should call for the doctor at this time. She awakened some time after you left, and I was able to exchange a few words with her. I think you should talk to her before you send for anyone. She is just as likely to end up in Bedlam as anywhere else at the moment, and I hate to see the poor thing shipped off to such a place.”
William straightened and eyed the older woman with a raised brow.
“What do you mean, Mrs. White? What has she said? Is she some sort of…em…”
Mrs. White shook her head, gray wisps of hair straying from her cap. She gazed at the unfortunate creature in the chair with a knit between her brows.
“I can’t explain it, Master William. She seems somewhat…lost. When she awakened, she asked where she was.” Mrs. White bent forward to lay a hand against the young woman’s forehead. “I told her she was here at Ashton House. She didn’t seem to understand. And she has a very strange way of speaking English. A foreign accent of some sort. Perhaps from the south of England? The coast?”
William bent to study the apparition in the rocking chair with misgiving. What was he going to do with her?
“How long do you think she will stay like this?” he asked.
As he spoke, dark lashes fluttered on pale cheeks.
“She awakens now, it seems.” William clasped his hands behind his back and straightened.
“Yes, Master William, and I wish you the best of luck.”
He threw Mrs. White a suspicious look before he turned back toward the young woman. Vivid hazel eyes stared at him, eyes the color of the forest in fall.
“Mr. Sinclair?” the young woman whispered. So, she did speak English. Excellent!
He executed a small bow.
“Yes, madam. William Sinclair, at your service. Mrs. White will have told you who I am.”
As before, her eyes widened when she saw him, and she attempted to struggle to her feet.
He reached as if to stay her, but thought better of it and reclasped his hands behind his back.
“Stay seated, madam. You seem to have sustained some shock. I would not have you rise precipitously only to swoon in my arms once again.”
“Swoon?” she repeated in a small voice. She gave up her efforts as Mrs. White, having hurried over to moisten a cloth once again with cool water, pressed it against her forehead, thereby keeping her in the chair.
“There, there now, dear,” Mrs. White murmured soothingly.
William stared in confused fascination while the young woman tried to peer at him from under the cloth. She twisted to the side to see him better, and Mrs. White struggled to keep the wet cloth to her forehead.
Mrs. White looked over her shoulder at William and then straightened with a sigh.
“Well, if the two of you must stare at one another, you might as well hand me that cup of tea, Master William.” She nodded toward a long wooden table behind him.
William’s face colored, and he straightened. He turned around and picked up the teacup and saucer and handed them to Mrs. White, who in turn offered them to the young woman. She shook her head.
“Well, madam”—William cleared his throat—“how may we be of assistance to you? Mrs. White tells me she thinks you are…lost.” He cleared his throat. “Do you live nearby? In the village, perhaps?”
The young woman shook her head, and William threw an uncertain glance at Mrs. White.
“You are not a guest in this house, certainly? I would have met you before now. Not a friend of my sister’s, surely?”
She continued to stare at him with wide eyes. Another slight shake of her head.
“Come, now, madam. Tell us who you are and how we may return you to your home. I found you outside on the lawn, fainted dead away, not two hours ago.”
She opened her mouth to speak but pressed it shut again.
“Very well, Mrs. White.” William turned towards the cook in frustration. “She seems disinclined to speak to me. Did she say anything else?”
Mrs. White shook her head with a sympathetic glance at the young lady, who sat rigid in the chair with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
“Oh, dear. You would do well to tell the master where you come from, my dear,” Mrs. White urged. “He cannot help you if he does not know.”
William turned back to the small thing, wishing he could wash his hands of the affair, and knowing he could not walk away from her. Not that Mrs. White would allow him to leave her in any case.
“Your name, madam. Can you at least give us your name?”
Her lips moved, the lower lip charmingly fuller than the top. He heard a whisper and bent forward.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mattie.”
He furrowed his brow and straightened once again.
“Maddy? A very unusual name, to be sure.”
She shook her head.
“No. Mattie,” she repeated. “Short for Matilda.”
“Ah, Matilda. I see now. A fine name. Matilda…?” he coaxed.
“Crockwell.”
“Indeed. Miss Matilda Crockwell. Excellent! And where do you live, Miss Crockwell? How did you come to be in the garden…in…em…?” William left the words hanging. It was not seemly to speak of her clothing.
The unfortunate creature stared at him but seemed unwilling to say anything more. He was at a loss.
He decided on a different tactic, raising his voice just a bit and speaking slowly and clearly.
“Do…you…require…a…physician?”
A twitch at the corner of her mouth took him by surprise.
“No.” She shook her head and raised a pale hand to cover her mouth. Was she laughing?
A sparkle of gold on her slender wrist caught his eye, and he squinted at it.
“Is that…? What is that you wear on your wrist, may I ask? Is that a timepiece of some sort?”
Miss Crockwell lowered her hand to look at the jewelry, then covered it with her other hand. She narrowed her eyes and nodded mutely.
“How very unusual! I should like to study it further at another time.” He pulled his watch from a pocket in his waistcoat. “The hour grows late, madam, and I am afraid we are keeping Mrs. White from her sleep. Is there no information you can offer us to help you find your way home? Surely, you have only just risen from bed yourself? In that attire? You cannot live far?”
Miss Crockwell shook her head once again.
“I don’t know.” The words came out in a whisper.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t know where I live. I don’t know where I am.”
William looked at Mrs. White, who shrugged helplessly.
“But surely Mrs. White informed you that you are at my estate, Ashton House. You must be staying nearby, else how could you have ended up in the garden? Perhaps a midnight walk from the nearest inn? The Village Inn, perhaps? Do you have lodgings there?”
She shook her head, lovely auburn curls swaying against her face. William cleared his throat and focused on the task at hand—discovering her identity.
“I don’t think so.”
He turned to Mrs. White, but she shrugged her shoulders helplessly. He returned his attention to Miss Crockwell.
“You do speak English with an accent. Are you a servant? Perhaps from one of the neighboring houses? Did something happen to you to make you run in the night?”
William suspected he might be on to something. Roland Satterfield was known for bothering the maids in his father’s house. Though if this young woman had run from her employment, the gold bracelet timepiece on her wrist could only have been stolen. In his experience, maids did not possess such jewelry. Still, the poor thing seemed too frightened at the moment to be taxed with suggestions of thievery.
She shook her head once again.
“No, not a servant.”
He sighed pointedly. She was sorely trying his patience.
“Well, madam, I must insist you tell me what is to be done with you. You hardly know your name. You do not know where you live, nor what your status may be. Is there anything you can tell us so that we may help you?”
Her next words took him by surprise.
“I think if you just let me go back to sleep, I’ll get back to where I’m supposed to be.”
“I beg your pardon?” He exchanged a troubled look with Mrs. White.
“Sleep. I think I’m probably dreaming, so if you could just let me get back to sleep, then I can get out of your hair.”
William took a step back. What odd language she used.
“Out of your hair?” He peered at her. “When I found you on the lawn, you were…ah…sleeping. And you fell asleep—or fainted—just a few moments ago. Still, you are here. This is not a dream, madam.”
She grasped the arms of the rocking chair. White knuckles showed her distress. It was then that William noticed something even more unusual about her.
“Good gravy! Is that…paint on your fingernails, Miss Crockwell?”
Mrs. White bent over and peered at Mattie’s hands just before she thrust them into the pockets of her garment.
“Yes,” Miss Crockwell answered.
William rubbed the back of his neck.
“How very odd you are, to be sure, madam. Are you from England?”
She shook her head.
“Pray tell then, where are you from?”
“The United States.”
Mrs. White gasped.
“Of America?” William choked. “Then surely you are no servant. How did you come to be here?”
Miss Crockwell shook her head. “I’m in England, aren’t I?” Her voice grew small, and William leaned forward to hear her.
“But of course you are, madam. Where else would you be?”
“Back home?”
The hopeful look on her face tugged at his heart. It seemed as if the young woman were truly lost. What were they to do?
“Have you had an accident recently? Perhaps you hit your head?”
Miss Crockwell’s face brightened and she nodded. “I did. I fell…on my balcony.”
“That’s it then, Master William.”
William nodded. “I agree, Mrs. White. It is likely she has had some sort of head injury and does not now understand where she is.”
Miss Crockwell gave him a look from under veiled lashes that he did not quite comprehend.
“This is what I think we must do for tonight, Miss Crockwell. The hour is late, and everyone needs to sleep. Mrs. White will escort you to one of the guest bedrooms. In the morning, if you still have not recovered your memory and your address, we will call for the doctor. You do understand, of course, that we need to be…ah…discreet in this matter.”
Miss Crockwell watched him carefully but said nothing.
“Master William. You know I don’t go above stairs. How would I know what room to put her in? Mrs. Bailey will have my head. Perhaps you should ring for one of the maids.”
William eyed her with a frown on his face.
“No, that will not do. We cannot have every servant in the house wondering about Miss Crockwell.” He looked toward the kitchen door with a harried expression.
“Very well then, Mrs. White, I will take her above stairs myself.”
“Master William. Begging your pardon, but don’t you think you ought to wake your mother and ask her advice?”
“No, Mrs. White, I would rather not do that just yet. If Miss Crockwell regains her memory in the morning, I could whisk her away to her address with none the wiser except you and I. You have held my childhood secrets these many years—therefore, I have no fears in that quarter.”
Mrs. White flashed a toothy smile.
“That is certain, Master William.”
William held his hands out to Miss Crockwell to help her rise.
“Shall we, madam?” Her widened eyes gave him pause. “Mrs. White, I think you must accompany us at least for propriety’s sake. She looks somewhat wary. I do not blame her.”
Mrs. White nodded and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Yes, Master William. I can see that. Come now, dearie. Let me help you up, there’s a good girl.”
Mrs. White pulled Miss Crockwell from the chair, and William led the way to the door of the kitchen. He grabbed a candle from the sconce in the wall and pulled open the heavy wooden door. A slight creak of the door hinge stilled him, and he listened intently. Hearing no other sounds, he moved through the door and beckoned for the women to follow. Miss Crockwell seemed reluctant—appearing, in fact, as one heading to the guillotine—but Mrs. White had a plump arm firmly around the smaller woman’s shoulders.
They climbed the stone steps in silence and reached the family dining room. William passed through the dining room and led the way to the main hallway. With a finger to his lips and a glance over his shoulder, he b
eckoned to them to follow him up the great staircase. Miss Crockwell’s eyes grew wider still, as if she had never seen the inside of a house before. She did indeed look frightened, and he wondered if putting her into a room by herself was a wise thing for her, or for the safety of his mother and sister. What if she were an escapee from some institution?
He glanced over his shoulder once again. The idea seemed unlikely. Her clothing appeared clean, albeit somewhat strange, bringing to mind a large pink rabbit. However, if she were from America, that certainly might explain things.
They reached the landing to the second floor, and William paused once again to listen. No sound. His mother and sister seemed to be safely tucked in bed. He led the way to a door directly across from his own bedchamber, with every intention of leaving his own door open throughout the night in case the hapless young woman decided to stray. He should have had Mrs. White take her to her own room, but something told him that Miss Matilda Crockwell was not from the working class. He did not like to put her in the servant’s quarters.
He opened the door and stood back while the women preceded him into the room. Miss Crockwell entered slowly on Mrs. White’s arm and paused just inside the door as William shut it behind them. He lit a candle on the side table, illuminating the room. He set his own candle down beside it.
“My sister and mother sleep farther down the hall. My room is directly opposite this one. I shall sleep with my door open tonight should you require anything.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Sinclair. I’m not dangerous, and I’ll be quiet if that’s what you’re worried about,” Miss Crockwell surprised him by saying. “I’m fairly sure I’ll be gone in the morning, so you won’t have to worry about me anyway.”
William and Mrs. White both stared at the unexpectedly loquacious Miss Crockwell, who moved away to study the furnishings in the room.
“I never suggested…” William paused. “Might I ask? Where do you think you will be able to go in the morning—without clothing, without conveyance?”
She turned to face them. “Well, this can’t be real, can it?” She smiled ruefully and held up empty palms. “I mean…who really gets their dreams?”
William exchanged a look of concern with Mrs. White once again.