Anne Barbour (3 page)

Amanda smiled sadly. Derek had gone on to great things in the art world, but she had not gone with him. A few months later, their relationship was only a bitter memory of rejection and hurt.

Absently, she allowed the pendant to slide back into its position between her breasts. Crossing to the window, she observed a steady procession of carriages trundling over the cobblestoned street outside. Some were open and rather rakish in appearance, others were closed and more sedate. There were riders on horseback, too, calling to acquaintances and all but strutting in their saddles. Ladies, obviously dressed in the height of fashion, paced with mincing steps, accompanied by soberly clad maidservants. Others, not so fortunate, made way for these goddesses.

Amanda shook her head in amazement. She had certainly created a world of precise verisimilitude for her moment of temporary insanity. A sudden chill gripped her. How temporary was the moment to be? She supposed time was a subjective entity in this sort of thing, just as in dreams. In her perception of reality, she had been living in Regency England for two or three hours, but perhaps the actual time elapsed since her collapse in the church was only a few seconds. She was seized by a frantic urge to release herself from this bizarre illusion. Perhaps if she were to go back to bed and fall into a natural sleep, she would awake to find herself back in Grosvenor Chapel in her own time period. Or, better yet, in her own bed in her own hotel room.

On the other hand ... She grinned, and moving back to the bed, flung one leg up to rest her foot on the counterpane. The grin widened. She’d never been able to do that before without almost falling over.

Well. She’d created a world for herself in which she was whole and strong, and six years younger. To say nothing of beautiful and rich and pampered. She perched on the edge of the bed with her legs extended straight in front of her and wiggled her toes thoughtfully. With any luck, this lovely fantasy would continue until Amanda Bridge was ninety years old, still rich and pampered, hopefully, even if no longer young and beautiful. Amanda McGovern would then awake in twentieth century London with a mere few seconds gone from her life in the real world.

Her smile faded. No, pleasant as it sounded, in that way lay madness. Her life and her responsibilities lay in the twentieth century. After her brief sojourn in London she would return to her position in the English department of a prestigious university. It had taken her a great deal of hard work to reach her present status. She was a good teacher, and her studies on women poets in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries had achieved a wide circulation in academic circles. She was sought after as a lecturer and had been invited to submit articles to several prestigious journals. It was whispered that in the not-too-distant future she might well become the youngest department head in the history of the university.

She must determine how she had come to hallucinate in the first place, and then attempt to return herself to reality. She cast her thoughts back to Grosvenor Chapel and the strange little man with whom she had held such a strange little conversation. Had she already been on the verge of some sort of stroke, perhaps, when she had experienced her uncharacteristic urge to unburden herself to him?

It must have had something to do with her headache. The episodes prior to last night had been painful, but nothing like—

“Amanda, you have revived!”

Amanda whirled, to be met with the sight of Serena Bridge bustling into the room. She hastened to her daughter and kissed her cheek.

“I am so relieved you are feeling better, dearest.” The woman’s fingers were busy, patting and stroking as though to assure herself of Amanda’s continuing physical presence in the room. “But you must get into bed. The doctor is here.” She urged Amanda under the quilt, pulling the sheets up to her neck. “See? Here is Dr. Beddoes now.”

Amanda twisted her neck to observe the entrance of an elegantly dressed cadaverously thin gentleman. Placing a small, black bag on the end of the bed, he removed one or two unidentifiable shiny instruments and laid them atop the quilt before bending to his patient.

“Well, now, Miss Bridge, not feeling quite the thing today, are we?” The line of his mouth split in what was no doubt intended as a reassuring smile. To Amanda, it seemed more of a self-satisfied smirk. He seated himself on the edge of the bed.

“Ah—no, we’re not,” replied Amanda faintly, eyeing the instruments with disfavor.

“Mmm.” A bony hand descended on her forehead. “There seems to be no fever. Did you say she was unconscious when you found her in, er, Grosvenor Chapel, was it?”

“Yes,” replied Serena Bridge with a quaver. “She had gone there with her maid to ... er... sketch the new altar hangings. It was ... um ... an assignment from her drawing master.”

“Mmhm,” intoned the doctor noncommittally. “Did she hit her head as she fell?”

“I don’t know,” Serena said. “I did not see her until after she had swooned.”

Dr. Beddoes peered into her eyes. “I see no evidence of concussion,” he remarked after some minutes. “Tell me, is she still having those headaches?”

At this, Amanda raised herself up on one elbow. “I am right here in the room, Doctor,” she said tartly. “And I’m perfectly able to speak for myself.”

The doctor jerked as though she had bitten him.

“And, yes,” continued Amanda coolly, “I have been having headaches. In fact, I was experiencing one that was excruciatingly severe just before I blacked out.”

“Bl—? Oh,” said the doctor, eyeing her warily. “How is your head now?”

“It’s fine, except that I seem to be suffering from amnesia.”

“Amnesia!” The doctor rose abruptly and stared at her.

“Oh dear,” she continued, “you are familiar with the word, I hope?”

“Of course, I am, but I would not expect to hear it on the lips of a person not educated in medicine.”

“But, what does it mean?” interposed Serena shrilly. “Doctor, what is wrong with the girl? When she opened her eyes—in the church—she did not appear to recognize any of us.”

“Well, yes,” the doctor replied in a harassed tone of voice. “That’s what amnesia means—a loss of memory.”

“What?” shrieked Serena. “Are you saying ...?” She swung to Amanda. “Do you not recognize me, my love, your own dear mama?”

“I’m afraid not.” Amanda spoke soothingly, as to a distraught child. “It is as though I never saw you before.”

“And Papa?” Serena continued faintly.

Amanda shook her head. “And I am only aware of my own name because the maid—Hutchings, is it?—filled me in.”

“Filled you in?” Serena asked vacantly.

“Yes—explained,” said Amanda. Lord, she was going to have to watch her speech. Although, that was an odd circumstance, now that she came to think of it. She had recognized a difference in the timbre of her voice, but her accent was impeccably upper-class British. Curiouser and curiouser! She forced her attention back to “Mama” and the doctor.

“But this simply will not do!” Serena was saying. “Lord Ashindon will be here soon. Oh, dear Lord, Amanda, never say you do not know who
he
is, either!”

Amanda shook her head again. “To my knowledge, I never saw the man before this morning.”

Serena moaned, and began to wring her hands. “Oh, dear, what will Mr. Bridge—” She paused abruptly and stiffened. “Amanda,” she said ominously, “are you telling the truth? If you are trying to hoax us in an effort to escape punishment—”

“No, truly, er, Mama. Everything is strange to me—this room, the street outside, everything is as though I had just been born.”

“Arrump!” The doctor cleared his throat portentously. “Perhaps,” he said with a significant glance at Serena, “we should let our little patient rest for a while. Perhaps some sleep and some reflection will bring her to herself. I think I shall not bleed her just yet,” he concluded judiciously, returning the glittering little instruments to his bag. “In the meantime”—the doctor’s bushy eyebrows waggled meaningfully—”if I could see you outside, madam.”

“What?” Serena said absently. “Oh, of course. Mr. Bridge is waiting downstairs to speak with you, as well.”

The two left the room, and Amanda hunched into the quilt. Bleed her! No way, she resolved furiously. She took several deep, calming breaths and closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to sleep. Surely, if she were to fall into a natural slumber she would awake refreshed and rid of this baffling malady. It had been years since she had availed herself of the services of a shrink, but she vowed that making an appointment would be her first priority on arriving back home in the States.

Sleep would not come, however. Which, she concluded, was natural after all she had been through.
I am a cloud.
She formed the words determinedly in her mind.
I
am drifting high over the earth, serene and silent. There is nothing to disturb me here....
But the soothing phrases, culled long ago from a magazine article on how to defeat insomnia, failed in their purpose on this occasion.

Amanda tossed restlessly on the puffy mattress and had just punched her pillows for the fifth or sixth time when the bedroom door opened once more, this time to admit the master of the house. Serena trailed behind him, twittering anxiously.

Jeremiah Bridge strode into the room, and to Amanda it seemed less of an arrival than the advent of an elemental force of nature. He was not a tall man, but he was constructed along the lines of a gravel truck and wore an air of power like a medieval warrior might bear his armor.

Continuing his progress, he arrived at Amanda’s bed and planted his feet in a wide stance. He bent to grasp her shoulder, shaking it roughly. “All right, missy, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Sitting upright, Amanda, with great precision, removed the man’s fingers. “Just what is it you wish to hear?” she asked, unruffled.

As had the doctor before him, Jeremiah straightened abruptly, glaring in outrage as though she had just chucked him under the chin.

“You dare to speak so to your father?” he bellowed in a voice like freight cars derailing.

Deciding on a more prudent course, Amanda tried out a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry—you must be my father, but I don’t know you. I don’t know anyone,” she said helplessly. “I am so confused—Papa.” She shot a glance at him from under the weight of her luxuriant eyelashes. Apparently, she had taken the right tack, for the glare faded, to be replaced by an expression of wary concern.

“Now, don’t think to cozen me, missy,” he rumbled. “You’ve really torn it this time, and you’d better be prepared to face the consequences.”

“Oh, Amanda, how could you?” moaned Serena in the background.

Hugging her knees, Amanda gazed thoughtfully at her “parents.”

“Perhaps if you tell me what I’ve done, we could discuss the matter more intelligently.” She paused as Jeremiah swelled ominously. “Look, sir, I’m as much at a loss as you are. I really, truly, don’t know what you’re talking about. So, suppose you drop the wounded walrus routine?”

Jeremiah looked as though he might explode.

“Dearest,” said Serena to her husband, pulling at his sleeve, “she is not our daughter!”

Amanda gazed at her, startled, but relaxed when the woman continued tremulously. “Can you not see? Her behavior is completely unlike that of our little girl. Her speech, her manner... The doctor says he believes she is telling the truth. She has come down with some sort of brain fever, and has lost her memory.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “We can only hope it is temporary.”

“Temporary?” shouted Jeremiah. “It had better be. What are we to do with her? I tell you, Serena, I’m not going to have everything I’ve worked for destroyed because your daughter has suddenly taken leave of her senses. What about Ashindon?” He concluded with a furious gesture.

“Oh dear,” moaned Serena. “He said he would return later this afternoon. What are we going to tell him? Oh—ohh—perhaps we should just pack her away to the country before he gets here. Tell him she needs to recuperate from her, er, fall.”

“Have you gone round the bend, too?” asked Jeremiah crudely. “The man is on the verge of making a declaration. I’m sure that’s why he came to the house earlier today. No, we’ll have to think of something else.”

“We could tell him the truth,” interposed Amanda, beginning to enjoy herself. What a pair these two were! Why, she wondered, would she dream up parents that were so unlike her own loving mother and father?

“What!” exclaimed Jeremiah and Serena in unison.

“Well,” she said in a reasonable tone of voice, “I don’t see how we’re going to hide it from him.”

“You could pretend—” began Serena, but was interrupted by Jeremiah’s irritated snort.

“How is she to do that, for God’s sake? She can’t talk about any of their acquaintances, or the ball they went to last Tuesday, or—Oh, God.” Jeremiah sighed, sinking down on the bed as the enormity of the situation descended on him.

“Lord Ashindon is a reasonable man,” said Serena at last in a not-very-hopeful voice. “Perhaps, if we explain ...”

“Explain that his prospective countess has gone dotty?” Jeremiah produced yet another snort. Then his expression lightened suddenly. “On the other hand, his precious lordship hasn’t much to say about it, has he? His creditors are yammering at his heels like a pack of beagles.”

Hmm, thought Amanda. Had she created in Lord Ashindon a typical Regency rake, then? A desperate gambler? A guzzler of port and brandy and pursuer of unfortunate chambermaids? Somehow this image did not fit the fleeting picture she retained in her mind of the cool, self-possessed, prideful aristocrat who had escorted her to his carriage.

She leaned back against her pillows. She was, she thought, rather looking forward to another meeting with this enigmatic peer and his steel gray gaze.

Chapter Three

Refusing what Serena referred to as “a nice tray in your room,” Amanda, dressed in a floating muslin gown of pale blue, descended to the dining room for luncheon. She peeked into the various rooms she passed, and again, she marveled at the detail of the setting she had grafted in her mind. Next to her own bedchamber lay another, larger one. This presumably belonged to Jeremiah and Serena. Doors led off to other smaller chambers.