Felicia was still slightly bewildered by the conversation as Lord Umber swung himself into the coach and sat beside her. She would like to put it down to what Lady Louisa termed the “early morning syndrome,” in which things were said or discussed by people whose brains were still asleep. But her own forwardness had gone a long way to encouraging such impropriety. There was no denying that Lady Louisa would be pleased to learn that her son had no intention of making his relationship with Lady Barbara permanent, and she had to confess that the news was welcome to her as well. Surreptitiously she stole a look at the impressive profile Lord Umber presented her, and let out a tiny sigh. She would definitely miss his presence when the time came for her to leave, for she could not refute the simple fact that she gained enormous comfort from the self-confident air that exuded from him.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Lord Umber asked, for he had heard the sigh.
“No. That would be an impossibility in such a well-sprung coach. I was trying to perform the difficult task of marshaling my thoughts for Dr. Ross.”
“Do you find your sessions with him difficult?” He watched her closely as she answered. The idea that it could be this that caused her sleepless night crossed his mind.
“Actually, I rather enjoy them. My only concern is that I take up too much of the good doctor’s time.”
Satisfied with her response, Lord Umber wondered again what it was that was troubling her. It was too late to probe further for the coach came to a halt. “Don’t you worry about that,” he said gently. “Just remember that Dr. Ross is enjoying every second of his experiment.” He picked up her hand, squeezed it lightly. “Good luck, and I hope you give yourself some good news this time.” He released her hand as the footman opened the door, and Felicia murmuring something unintelligible, disappeared into Dr. Ross’s office.
Lord Umber sat back for the short ride to Lady Ormstead’s house and contemplated the upcoming interview. It would be extremely interesting to hear what the woman had to say. Maybe she could even shed some light on Felicia’s mysterious trip to Manchester, for that was the one truly puzzling aspect of the whole perplexing case. The woman’s attitude last night was most peculiar and supported his theory that she was trying to hide something. Why else would she behave so suspiciously?
He had his secretary to thank for tracking down the whereabouts of Lady Ormstead. That priceless bundle of efficiency had spent a fruitless hour searching for her name in
Who’s Who,
but finally succeeded when one of the undermaids confessed that her sister had, until recently, been in the employ of that “awful woman.” Lord Umber marveled at his secretary’s ingenuity, for he knew it would never have occurred to him to ask the servants.
Yet, now, on reflection, it was the most obvious thing to do.
The address was in a less fashionable thoroughfare of London, and as the coachman swung into Upper Grosvenor Street, Lord Umber was hard put to recognize the area. When the coach came to rest outside an unimposing, slightly shabby house, he wondered if perhaps his secretary had made a mistake. His doubts increased as he waited for someone to respond to his energetic hammering of the knocker and almost gave up in despair, when his summons was not immediately answered. Just as he was descending the steps, he heard the sound of chains being removed and so returned to wait impatiently for the door to be opened.
After what seemed to be mighty struggle with a bolt, the door was indeed opened, and a rumpled looking footman inquired if he could help.
“Indeed,” Lord Umber said haughtily. “You can confirm that this is the residence of Lady Ormstead.” He cast a look of disdain in the direction of the footman. Never had he seen such a slovenly servant.
“Yes, sir, m’lord. But she ain’t at ’ome,” the footman answered nervously, looking over his shoulder into the inky blackness of the house interior.
Lord Umber looked at him suspiciously, for it seemed unlikely that anyone had left the house that morning since the chains had still been in place until his arrival.
“Ah! I see,” he said sarcastically, “the neighborhood is sufficiently unsafe to warrant keeping the door bolted at all times.”
The footman looked uncomfortable as he nodded dumbly.
“Well, be so good as to take my card, young man, and make sure you tell Lady Ormstead that I shall return at 3 o’clock precisely, this afternoon.” He took out his wallet with a flourish and removed a heavily embossed calling card which he placed very deliberately into the outstretched, trembling hand of the servant. Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and was in his coach before the gaping footman could discharge the rest of the instructions Lady Ormstead had given him.
Slowly the footman closed the door and dragging his feet, made his way into the nether regions. When asked by the butler if he had said all the necessary, he shook his head.
“Didn’t ’ave a chance. ’E was gone afore I could say Bob’s my uncle. Said ’e’d be back this afternoon.”
“You utter imbecile,” the butler shouted, venting his spleen on the unfortunate underling. “I’ve a good mind to send you to Lady Ormstead to explain your stupidity.”
“M…m…me, Mr. Nestor. I ’ardly think so, if you don’t mind. ’Erself wouldn’t listen to the likes of me.”
Mr. Nestor gave him a stony look. “Enough of your impudence. Just make sure you deliver the entire message when Lord Umber returns.” He left the quaking footman to answer the impatient ringing of Lady Ormstead’s bell.
Lady Ormstead listened to Nestor in a distracted silence, merely commanding him to insure that her orders were carried out properly that afternoon. Her thoughts were on Felicia as she wondered what had happened to allow that scheming wretch to wriggle her way into such illustrious company. How had her carefully laid plans of losing Felicia in Manchester been overset. She had been so certain of success. Now she would have to think up another scheme.
Lord Umber gave way to his rising anger as his coach pulled away from Upper Berkeley Street. Never, never, had he experienced such rude or sloppy behavior. And, as if that wasn’t insulting enough, to have to listen to such an obvious lie. Of course, the woman was in, but why was she so intent on avoiding him? The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that she held the key to Felicia’s identity. Suppressing his annoyance, he vowed that he would force an interview with Lady Ormstead that afternoon, no matter what obstacle she put in his way.
Abruptly he ordered his coachman to drop him at White’s, for he suddenly wished for civilized company and conversation. He felt as though cobwebs draped his brain and that his preoccupation with Felicia’s predicament was becoming an obsession. He had neglected so many things since his mother had been in town, including the delicious widow, Janie Slagle. It was high time he got on with his life and he vowed that after today he would expend his energy in that direction.
Eleven
The door closed behind Felicia with a
thump as she stood in the entrance way. Her hand still felt warm from Lord Umber’s clasp, and she put it to her cheek.
Enough of this nonsense
, she whispered to herself crossly.
I must not attach any importance to his actions, for I know they are prompted by pity
.
She shrugged her shoulders and went forward to greet Dr. Ross.
Very quickly she told him of her dreams the previous night and waited expectantly for him to put her into a trance.
“I think I can clear up that mystery for you, Miss Richards,” he said, deliberately deviating from the usual pattern he followed with Felicia. “Lord Umber saw the woman you are talking about, too, and discovered that her name is Lady Ormstead. Does this name hold any significance for you?”
Felicia stared at him and repeated the name to herself in a strangled whisper. “No! No! It cannot be. Please say it is not so, doctor.” She jumped up from her seat and paced the room in agitation.
He tried to survey her calmly, but the realization that he had at long last broken through without the device of the trance caused an excitement that was almost too great to suppress. “Sit down, Miss Richards,” he said quickly, “and let us try to sort this out. Why does the name upset you so? Who is this Lady Ormstead?”
Felicia didn’t answer. Instead she clenched and unclenched her fists, only pausing in her pacing long enough to cast Dr. Ross a look of naked despair. Without warning she sank down on her knees and covered her face with her hands. The screams started as a low moan that seemed to come from deep within her, but by the time Dr. Ross had reached her side, they were agonizingly loud. Very gently he lifted her to an upright position, chiding himself for not recognizing her symptoms of hysteria sooner. No doubt the feeling of triumph he had just experienced had blinded him momentarily.
She continued to scream until he brought his hand down sharply across her face. Stunned into silence, she stared at him helplessly and then sagged against him limply. All color had fled her cheeks except for the scarlet lines his fingers had left
“Your memory has returned, hasn’t it, Miss Richards?” His voice was carefully controlled. He did not want to frighten her further, yet he knew that he must encourage her to speak before fear once again erased her memory.
“I remember everything. Everything. It’s so awful. Dr. Ross, whatever am I going to do. She was trying to get rid of me. She deliberately sent me to Manchester, knowing there was no position. Why, why, would she be so cruel?” Felicia broke off, suddenly aware of the position she was in. Immediately, Dr. Ross released his hold on her and helped her up, steadying her with an arm.
“I have no answers for you yet, Miss Richards. If you have the strength we can continue discussing not only Lady Ormstead, but the events that led to your obvious fear of the woman.” He led her to a chair and pushed her down into it. “Who is she?”
Felicia took time to compose herself before answering, and by the time she looked up at Dr. Ross an anguished look was chiseled into her face that made him swear softly to himself. “Lady Ormstead is my aunt.” Her voice was devoid of expression.
It was now Dr. Ross’ turn to pace. What a price this young girl had had to pay for his success! By rights he should feel elated for having successfully merged her conscious state with her unconscious mind. Undoubtedly, Mesmer and his colleague Nicolas Bergasse would, when he sent them his papers. His problem was he had allowed himself to become too involved, too close to the patient, for he now felt afraid for her and what the future held as the enormity of her disclosure struck him. “Do you want to tell me everything, as you remember it, or would you prefer that I put you in a trance? I do not want you suffering any more than necessary.”
“I shall be all right, doctor, once I have grown used to the idea that my only living relative sought to ‘lose’ me in Manchester.” She wrenched her mouth into a semblance of a smile. “The only mystery that remains in my mind is why she would want to do such a thing.”
Dr. Ross turned away from her and went over to a decanter that was set on a side table. Quickly he poured some of the amber liquid into a glass and handed it to Felicia. “Here, Miss Richards, drink this down before you begin your story, it will help steady your nerves.”
She smelt the liquid and pulled a wry face.
“It is only a drop of brandy and is very good medicine. Come, don’t worry that you will feel lightheaded, for as you can see I have given you only a drop.”
Felicia tossed the drink back and coughed as the fiery water burned its way down her throat. She gulped rapidly several times in a futile attempt to inhale some air. “Oh! Dearie me,” she gasped.
“Now, drink this water,” Dr. Ross continued, “and you will feel much better.”
She accepted the glass gratefully and swallowed the water greedily. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and felt the churning in her stomach subside. She placed a hand wearily on her forehead and massaged her brow thoughtfully. “I am finding it difficult to know where to begin,” she said finally, “for there is really so little to tell.” She opened her eyes and smiled forlornly at Dr. Ross. “What would you like to know first?”
He looked at her sympathetically, for he knew there was nothing more he could do to help her except ask questions that would ease her back into the past “I take it, from what you said earlier, that your mother is no longer alive?”
Felicia nodded sadly. “She died a few months ago. The doctor said it was due to a lung infection, but I believe now that Mama had lost her will to live.” She glanced at Dr. Ross tentatively and at his smile of encouragement, continued. “After my father was killed, we were forced to seek my aunt’s assistance. It was that, or the poorhouse.”
“There were no other relatives to help you?”
“None that I knew of,” Felicia answered, shaking her head. “You see, my parents eloped and that caused a terrible rift between them and their families which never healed. I do not know who my father’s parents were—indeed they may still be alive—for Papa never spoke of them. Mama once said he was the younger son of an influential family, and after they married, they changed their name to Richards so as not to cause any further embarrassment to Papa’s family. I do not even know Papa’s true name.”
“What of your mother’s parents?”
“They died when Mama was a baby. She and Aunt Gweneth lived with an uncle, and from the little mama let slip about him, he sounded like a tartar.”