by Mary Balogh
Christopher turned without another word and left the room.
Rain was beating against the window of Elizabeth’s dressing room by the time the tap sounded at her door and Christopher came inside. It was actually more like a sitting room than a dressing room. She had already sat down in a comfortable chair with a book to await his arrival. She looked up and smiled, setting the book to one side.
“It is raining,” she said, pulling a face before getting to her feet and raising her arms to set up about his shoulders as he crossed the room toward her. “Could anything be more disappointing? I was looking forward to an afternoon in the lovers’ cave. Aren’t I shameless?” She laughed.
He kissed her, wrapping his arms right about her and hugging her hard.
She leaned back in his arms and searched his eyes. “What is it?” she asked.
He set a hand at the back of her head and drew her face against his neckcloth. She felt him swallow. “The real world has come to call,” he said.
She kept her head where it was though his hand was exerting no great pressure. She felt breathless. So this was it, she thought. Something had changed. Something irrevocable. Nothing was going to be the same again. The idyll was over. The honeymoon was at an end.
“Your brother—your stepbrother—is waiting downstairs for you,” he said.
She had never asked him about her family and had been half conscious of the fact that the omission had been deliberate. She had not wanted to know too much about her family—and her past, about that whole bulk of her life that had been lived before she met Christopher. She had been unconsciously afraid that she would remember everything.
“My stepbrother,” she said, her voice toneless.
“Martin,” he said and paused. “Do you remember him?”
“No,” she said.
Martin? Her stepbrother? No, she had no memory of him. She felt frightened again. She had not felt frightened for almost a week.
“Come down and meet him,” he said softly.
She drew back her head and looked up at him. Into steady blue eyes. “I don’t want to,” she said. “I am afraid. Why am I afraid?” She laughed.
“Come and meet him,” he said.
She drew away from him and brushed at the folds of her dress. His arm was waiting to take hers. She took a deep breath and linked her own through it.
“Martin,” she said, “does he know?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Has he come from far away?” she asked.
“London,” he said.
He was as nervous as she was, she realized. Why? Was he afraid that she would remember everything? Or afraid that she would not? She felt dizzy suddenly and had to concentrate on her breathing. But she drew her arm from his when they reached the hallway. She could do this without having to cling to him.
She did not know the man who was standing before the fireplace in the salon. Of that she was sure. He was not very tall, perhaps no taller than she and there was a suggestion of stockiness about his build. His fair hair was wavy. He was good-looking though not startlingly handsome. He was about her own age, she guessed. She had been expecting an older man for some reason. He was elegantly dressed.
“Lizzie?” The name was spoken very quietly, but his hands reached out and he was striding across the room toward her.
Lizzie? She recoiled from the name. But she recovered herself and set her hands in his.
“Martin?” she said. “I am afraid I do not know you. I believe Christopher has explained. Is it a long time since I saw you last?”
“Just over two weeks ago,” he said, “in London. Lizzie, it’s me. I am here now. You are going to be quite safe. I won’t let anyone harm you. I never have, have I?”
In London? Just over two weeks ago? She tried to draw her hands away from his without openly pulling on them. But he had them in a strong clasp.
“We were returning from London,” Christopher said from behind her, “when you fell out of the carriage, Elizabeth. We were there with your family.”
“You are safe now,” Martin said.
She did not like him. Were they usually close? Or had she always disliked him? “I know,” she said, an edge to her voice. “Christopher always keeps me safe. You are my stepbrother?”
“Your father married my mother two years after yours died in childbed,” he said. “I am three months older than you, Lizzie. We grew up from the age of two as brother and sister. Or more like twins really. We even look a little alike. It has always been a bit of a joke—like married couples sometimes grow to resemble each other.”
His manner was jovial and kindly. His face was open and good-humored. She felt guilty for being slightly repelled by him. She tried again to withdraw her hands from his and succeeded.
“Who is my father?” she asked.
“Chicheley,” he said. “The Duke of Chicheley. Good Lord, Lizzie, surely everything cannot have been blanked from your memory, has it?”
“Everything, yes,” she said. “Is he still alive? And your mother?”
“He is still alive,” he said. “Mama died when we were sixteen. Don’t you remember? You cried as if she were your own mother.”
“Are there any more members of our family?” she asked.
“John,” he said. “Your brother, Lizzie. He is five years older than us. He is a lieutenant-colonel with Wellington’s cavalry. They have been fighting a war, but peace has been declared at last.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “It seems that it is only the personal part of my memory that has gone. I remember less important things. John.” She tried to picture a thirty-year-old brother, a cavalry officer, and failed.
She set her hands loosely over her face and shook her head. “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel as if I am living in the middle of a nightmare. Why is everything so blank? Why is it that I recognize no one? It is all so terrifying.”
It was Martin’s arms that came around her even as she felt Christopher’s hand against the small of her back. And it was Martin who hugged her and rocked her and murmured soothing words to her. She stiffened and jerked away and turned blindly toward her husband. He took her shoulders in firm hands and squeezed reassuringly.
“Enough for now,” he said. “She is bewildered, Martin. Let’s take matters a little at a time. I’11 have you shown to a room where you can freshen up. And then we will have tea in the drawing room. You are probably ready for some refreshments. Nancy will join us there. You remember my sister?”
“Yes, indeed,” Martin said. “How could one not remember Lady Nancy? Though it is many years since I last saw her.”
“She will he pleased to see you again,” Christopher said. He patted Elizabeth on the shoulders before releasing her in order to open the salon door and send a servant on his way to summon Mrs. Clavell. “Our housekeeper will take you to a room. I will come myself in half an hour’s time to bring you back down to the drawing room.”
Martin turned before leaving the room and kissed Elizabeth on the cheek. She forced herself to smile and not flinch.
“I don’t like him,” she said when the door had closed again and she was alone with her husband. “I feel threatened. I don’t think I want to remember. Can we just send him on his way, Christopher?” She laughed. “That was a stupid and extremely unmannerly thing to say, wasn’t it?”
He framed her face with his hands and gazed into her eyes. His face was expressionless and rather harsh. “You are very fond of him, Elizabeth,” he said. “And so am I. He has always been a good friend to both of us. To everyone, in fact. Martin is that kind of person—always more concerned for other people’s happiness than his own. Try not to flinch from him. It must hurt him when you do so.”
She bit her lower lip. “I will try,” she promised. “He does have a kind face. I just wish he would not call me Lizzie and talk about keeping me safe just as if you were not even here.”
He lowered his head and kissed her warmly on the lips. She wrapped her arms about his n
eck and relaxed into the comfort of his embrace.
Chapter 10
NANCY was playing the pianoforte in the music room. But she was not concentrating and kept having to go back to replay a phrase she had stumbled over. She had seen the carriage arrive. A strange carriage. And since no servant had come to call her, she must assume that the visitor was for Christopher.
He had been discovered. They had found him. And now he was going to be in the worst trouble of his life. This time he would not be able to plead innocence—not that the plea had done him any good the first time. No one had believed him except her. She was not even sure that Papa had believed him.
She wondered who had discovered him. Who had arrived? Some constables with a magistrate, perhaps, to haul him off to prison? The Duke of Chicheley? John? Her fingers stumbled over the keys. She hoped it was not John. Martin? She stopped playing altogether, pushed back the stool, and walked to the window.
Oh, please God, please dear God, let it not be Martin. But she knew it would be he just as she had known for days that he would come.
The door opened behind her but she did not turn. “Here you are, Nance,” her brother’s voice said. It sounded strained. “I have been looking for you.”
“Who is it?” she asked. “Who has come?”
There was a pause. “Martin Honywood,” he said. “He tracked me down. I might have guessed he would. He was always fonder of Elizabeth than all the rest of them put together.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I guessed it would be he. He must be dreadfully angry.”
“He met me with a pistol,” Christopher said, words that caused her to turn at last. His face was pale. “But once we got past that crisis, he was remarkably civil and understanding. But then he always was fair-minded. And he understood, of course, that Elizabeth has to be treated with care under the circumstances.”
“Well,” Nancy said, crossing the room to fold the sheet music and put it away, “it looks as if you are going to get off easily after all, Christopher. Unless the duke turns nasty when he knows what has happened to her, of course. They are leaving immediately?”
“Who?” He looked at her blankly.
“Elizabeth and her stepbrother,” she said. “There is a good deal of daylight left. He cannot intend to spend a night under this roof, surely?”
“They are not leaving,” he said. “That would do terrible things to Elizabeth. She has no memory of Martin or Chicheley or anyone. She is going to have to be told the truth very gradually. Martin and I have just spent some time talking about it and we are both agreed on that. He is being very decent about the whole thing.”
Nancy sat down on the stool. She was not sure her legs would support her without shaking. “He cannot stay at this house,” she said. “I will not have it, Christopher.”
He raised his eyebrows.
She closed her eyes briefly. “I sometimes forget,” she said, “that this house belongs to you. I am so used to being mistress here. So you are to tell Elizabeth tomorrow?”
“Over the next few days,” he said. “We have planned it carefully. We are not going to rush her. I came to fetch you to tea, Nance. You will be civil?”
“I will be absent,” she said firmly. “I want nothing to do with any member of that family.”
“Nance,” he said, his head to one side, “he could have come here with half an army and a warrant for my arrest. He is trying to be fair. And he is trying to do what is best for Elizabeth despite what he might feel about me.”
Nancy got to her feet. This was it, then. She had known deep down that she could never find a haven that would be safe for life. She had known that sooner or later she was going to have to confront her nightmares. She had even known that this business with Elizabeth would bring it on.
“Very well, then,” she said, taking her brother’s offered arm, “I will be civil, Christopher. But don’t expect any more.”
Martin had been a boy when she saw him last, a good-looking, sunny-natured, charming boy whom everyone liked. He had changed very little, Nancy discovered when she entered the drawing room on Christopher’s arm. He had gained a little weight, perhaps, and he was now a man rather than a boy. But he still looked good-natured. He rose to his feet, smiled, and reached out a hand to her.
Sometimes over the years she had wondered if she could have imagined everything that had happened. Now she found herself wondering again.
“Lady Nancy,” he said, “how pleasant to see you again. Some ladies, I see, only improve with the years.”
Christopher had left the room to fetch Elizabeth down for tea. Nancy pretended she had not noticed the offered hand and seated herself.
“I trust you had a pleasant journey, Mr. Honywood,” she said. She talked determinedly about his journey and the weather until her brother reappeared with Elizabeth. But she gradually forgot about her own distress during the next hour in her interest in observing the other three occupants of the room.
Elizabeth sat close to Christopher, though she did not lean against him. She sat straight-backed and self-possessed and silent. She scarcely removed her gaze from Martin. But there was no recognition in her look and no fondness. If anything, Nancy thought, there was hostility there, though Elizabeth was too polite to show it openly.
Strange, Nancy thought. Those two had been more like twins than brother and sister—or stepbrother and stepsister, to be more accurate. Could Elizabeth see Martin differently now that memory had stripped away all preconceived ideas about his character? Or was that unfair? Perhaps what had happened, dreadful as it had been, had been uncharacteristic of Martin. He had, after all, been under considerable strain at that particular time.
But Nancy was glad that Elizabeth disliked Martin. And glad too that Martin knew it and was smiling all the harder to hide the fact that he was hurt.
“Why did you come?” Elizabeth blurted at last, looking directly at Martin and interrupting a rather labored conversation in which only the two men had been participating.
“To see you, Lizzie,” Martin said gently. “Trevelyan sent to tell us about the accident and I left without delay. I was sick with worry about you.”
“Why did my father not come too?” she asked.
“He suffers from gout and finds long journeys difficult,” Martin said. “But he sent his love, Lizzie. I’ll be staying for a while. Perhaps your memory will return in that time. But even if it does not you will have a chance to get to know me again before I take you back to London.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “I am not going to London,” she said. “I am going to stay at home with my husband. This is where I belong.”
Martin smiled and changed the subject.
Nancy wanted Elizabeth gone. And Martin too. She wanted them on their way as soon as possible—preferably today or tomorrow. And yet perversely she found herself silently cheering Elizabeth’s answer.
Elizabeth cuddled closer to Christopher beneath the blankets, burying her nose against his nightshirt below his chin. He had not unclothed them before coming to bed as he very often did and had made no move to make love to her. He just held her in his arms. It was what she most needed.
“Do I have to?” she asked him.
“Have to what?” he asked, his lips brushing her hair.
“Spend the morning with him,” she said. “With Martin. Can you not take the morning off for once and be with us?”
She heard him inhale slowly. “Things cannot remain as they are, Elizabeth,” he said. “You have not been totally happy, have you? I think we have to assume at this point that your memory may never come back. If that is so, then you must reach out and get to know your family again and your history. Only so will you be able to get to know yourself again. Martin is no threat to you, believe me. He has always been devoted to you.”
“You want me to know everything, then?” she asked.
He kissed the top of her head before replying. She heard him inhale again. “To be quite honest and quite selfish,” he said, “no.
These two weeks have been surprisingly good, Elizabeth. But it is not fair to you to keep you from the truth forever.”
“These weeks have not been typical of our life together, then,” she said and her words were not a question. She felt infinitely sad and tried to burrow even closer. “But you are right. You must go about your business as usual tomorrow and I shall go walking with Martin. Up onto the cliffs, perhaps. But not down onto the beach. The beach is ours. I’ll not take him there.”
He kissed the top of her head again.
She was aware that she was clinging to him. Surely by the age of twenty-five she must have learned to be less dependent on others than she had apparently been at the time of her marriage. She must have learned to depend upon her own strength. And yet it was so easy to give in to terror, to want to climb right inside him, to want to beg him to protect her, to shield her from reality. She knew reality was going to be painful. She had seen it in his eyes when Martin arrived. She could feel it now in his arms.
She took his hand in hers and lifted his arm away from her shoulders, setting it at his side.
“There must be a great deal to tell,” she said. “Twenty-five years to explain to me. I have a feeling that you and Martin, and perhaps Nancy too, have decided on a plan—what to tell first, what to keep until last. Am I right?”
“Something like that,” he said.
“What is to be kept until last is the most painful part,” she said, her voice dull. She knew it as a certainty.
“Why do you think there is anything painful to tell?” he asked.
“I know,” she said. “You have told me without saying so in words. Do you think that because I have forgotten everything about you except what I have learned in two weeks I do not know you? I do. There is something painful. And not in the past either. In the present. Or at least something that has continued to the present. I don’t want to know, but I realize that I must. Is that why I lost my memory, do you think? Was my mind unable to cope with the pain?”