Intertwine (24 page)

On the road between

Kinningsley and Haldon Manor

Fifteen minutes later

May 12, 1812

“Oh heavens! What a disaster that was. Do you think that Marianne will ever forgive me?” Emme asked Georgiana, still wiping tears from her cheeks, her stomach muscles sore.

After helping them into the carriage, Arthur had merely shaken his head and nobly—with a healthy dose of long suffering—said he would stay for another moment to smooth things over with the viscount, obviously hoping to spend more time with Marianne.

Georgiana grinned fondly. “Most likely. Miss Linwood is not nearly as high in the instep as her brother. Though I daresay Lord Linwood may never speak to you again.”

“Considering he has barely uttered two sentences to me up to this point, that shall hardly be any loss.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what you found so humorous? You know I am often tired, so I’m not sure why my being knocked up would be funny.”

Oh no.

“Please, Georgiana,” Emme choked, “I would like to go a few minutes without laughing.” Emme took a deep steadying breath. Really, she needed to get a handle on herself. “Tell me, have you been feeling better?”

“Indeed, I have. And I must be honest, my dearest friend, you are very much the reason for it.” Georgiana nodded in amusement. “Everything about you is so diverting. Have you given any more thought to your history? How marvelous that you might be American with connections to the West Indies! I admit I stayed up half the night considering the possibilities. It is such a delightful mystery.”

Emme smiled. Georgiana had been relentless in exploring every potential explanation for her appearance. Most of them cast Emme as the unwitting victim of evil relatives. Her favorite so far had Emme escaping a cousin’s dank castle by crawling down a cliff and running for her life. Never mind the fact that Herefordshire, as a whole, generally lacked dismal dungeons, high cliffs and nefarious guardians.

“Of course, I made a list of all plausible ideas. Would you like to hear my personal favorite?”

Georgiana did not wait for a reply but instead instantly leaned forward, as if imparting something secret and thrilling.

“You are the daughter of a great nobleman but your beloved father remarried a horrid woman. And she demanded he cast you out, sending you to live with a kindly uncle in the Bahamas. After your uncle’s untimely death—eaten by sharks when his ship sank off Jamaica—you returned here to England, only to find your father dead and your stepmother refusing you entrance to the family estate. Grief-stricken and distraught, you wandered the countryside and would have perished but for James finding you.”

Georgiana gave her an eager expectant look, blue eyes wide, waiting to see if anything struck a chord with Emme.

Emme chuckled and shook her head. “Really, Georgiana, your imagination is unmatched. Though I sincerely hope that none of my relatives have been eaten by sharks.”

“True,” her friend agreed. “But it is fun to think of the possibilities.”

Georgiana leaned back into her seat and paused for a moment, staring out the window, and then shook her blond head.

“Emma, though I know you wish desperately for your memory to return, I hope it never does.”

Emme blinked in stunned surprise. Georgiana instantly blushed and then gave a resigned sigh.

“Oh dear,” she said with droop of her shoulders. “I did it again. Arthur is right. I really must learn to reflect more before I speak. Here, let me think for a moment and try to phrase that better.”

Emme watched as Georgiana pursed her mouth and tapped her fingers. The carriage swayed gently, trees slowly passing outside the window as they moved through the hills surrounding Haldon Manor. Emme enjoyed the smell of leather and polished wood that emanated from the carriage interior, the scent familiar somehow. After a moment, Georgiana brighten noticeably, as if coming to some conclusion.

“What I ought to have said, dearest Emma,” she began, “is that I greatly enjoy your company. Your presence improves my spirits. When you are around, I do not feel the weight of my illness as much. Because of this, I dread the thought that your memory will return and you will then leave us. Of course, for your sake, I hope your memory does return and you can be reunited with your loved ones. But please forgive me for being somewhat selfish in wanting to keep you here as long as I can. I have so valued having you as a friend.”

Touched, Emme reach out and took Georgiana’s hand. “Oh, you are too kind, Georgiana. For the time being, I am not going anywhere, particularly as no one has yet come for me. And if someone does come to claim me, that doesn’t mean that you and I cannot continue to be BFF’s.”

Now it was Georgiana’s turn to blink in surprise. “B . . . F . . . F’s?” she asked in confusion.

“Oh dear, is that an unfamiliar term?” Emme sighed. “Well, I believe it stands for Best Friends Forever. No matter what happens, you and I can still be dear friends.”

Georgiana gave a light-hearted laugh. “Oh, that is delightful! The odd phrases you come up with. I should love to be your B. F. F.” She pronounced the initials distinctly, obviously finding it humorous to abbreviate the words. They both laughed.

Suddenly, from the forest to their right, a tremendous crash sounded. Loud and booming, like the explosion of gunpowder. Crunching and grinding as it came closer.

The carriage abruptly lurched sideways, throwing Georgiana against Emme, both of them shrieking in terror. After a series of jolts, they came to rest slanted on the brink of the road. Georgiana and Emme stared in surprise, realizing that they were shaken but unharmed. Climbing awkwardly from the carriage, they stood in the rutted road, surveying an enormous boulder that now blocked their path.

In hindsight, Emme felt she should have seen the huge rock coming.

Not that she considered herself to have some sort of boulder sixth sense. But upon reflection, it just didn’t seem like that odd of an occurrence. As if nearly being killed by a rock the size of a house were something entirely normal for her.

They were still dusting off their clothing when James found them.

He rode up on Luther and stared in wonder. At the house-size boulder blocking the road. At his sister and Emme straightening each other’s bonnets. At the carriage resting at an angle off the track. At the coachman and footman struggling to unhitch the still spooked horses.

“Well,” James said when he had recovered. “No one can say life is boring with you around, Emma. The unexpected always manages to find you, doesn’t it?”

Chapter 19

Haldon Manor

In the gardens by the lake

A week later

May 19, 1812

E
mme was drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions.

She had been at Haldon Manor for nearly three weeks. Three amazing and yet equally difficult weeks. Every day was full of laughter (and James) and riding (and James) and visiting with Georgiana (and James) and . . . well . . . mostly just being with James.

Every night, she pulled the locket out of its hiding place in her vanity drawer and studied the man in it. Long ago, she had memorized each familiar detail, but she hoped maybe this would be the night her memory returned. This would be the moment when everything would slip into place—that she would remember the man who held her heart.

But she found studying the locket didn’t help. The more she looked at the small portrait, the more she saw James staring back—his wavy blond hair, his wry blue eyes assessing her. Her head knew that the man in the locket was not him. But her heart kept refusing to believe it.

James.

She let his name wrap around her mind. Let it drip into her soul.

She felt like a moth drawn to her own destruction. He burned too brightly. Scorching. She ached for him when they were apart and yet fought her attraction to him when together. Keeping her wayward heart in check was proving impossible.

Unable to force her heart back into her chest, back to the man in the locket where logic dictated it belonged, she followed James around like a love-sick fool.

She was an idiot.

She reminded herself—yet again—that the locket was her only tie to her identity. That she needed to let go of this obsession over James. That she only liked him because he looked like the guy in the locket.

End of story.

But what if?
Alter Emme whispered treacherously.

What if . . .

What if the mysterious F of the locket is dead and that’s why you kept it in the first place? What if you don’t love F? Or even worse, . . . what if you don’t love him enough? What if you love James more?

Love.

Emme shied from that. She didn’t love James. She barely knew him.
And how could she truly understand her heart without knowing her whole self? But w
hat if there were no Mr. F? What if her memory returned and she found herself free to give her heart to James?

What then?

Would James feel the same way about her? Would she feel the same way about him?

And then there was the worst thought of all.

What if she regained her memory only to be bound to a life that was unhappy? Had she been running away from something on that stormy night?

By this point, all the ‘what if-ing’ threatened to give her a headache. It was too confusing to sort through.

And so Emme didn’t.

She deliberately chose not to dwell on the similarity between the sitter in the portrait and James. It just tangled her emotions. Made her thinking crowded.

And then there were the “incidents.” Had she always been so accident prone?

After the boulder, there had been other minor scrapes: a small fire while visiting a tenant, a runaway cart that nearly ran her down, a stone which tumbled off the parsonage roof, narrowly missing her. None of which James had been present to witness, thank goodness. He was always blessedly absent when disaster struck, though he often showed up to help her afterward. And James being James, his ‘help’ usually involved as much teasing as actual aid.

Emme had faith this afternoon would be blessedly incident free. The day shone bright, hinting at full-blown summer. James was locked in his study with his steward and Georgiana rested. It seemed far too fine a day to waste indoors. And the little lake beckoned, the trees surrounding it rustling slightly in the heat, lush and inviting.

Upon reaching the water, Emme decided to take a small skiff from the boathouse. The sun warmed her back as she pulled the oars of the boat. She peeled off her heavy walking halfboots and gartered stockings, relishing in the feel of bare feet against the smooth bottom of the boat.

Well, until the skiff started leaking, cold water pouring in around her. Emme gasped as the freezing water lapped over her bare feet and then started to climb higher.

She immediately turned back toward the distant shore, trying desperately to reach it before the skiff foundered altogether. She panicked, momentarily, belatedly wondering if she knew how to swim. Emme made it about halfway to shore before the boat completely swamped, leaving her to swim slowly towards the edge of the lake.

The good news was she could indeed swim.

Unfortunately, her water-logged skirts dragged her down, making the going arduous and exhausting.

She managed to reach the more shallow waters where she could touch bottom, her bare feet squishing in the chilly mud when she heard a shout. Looking up, she saw James running toward the lake, struggling out of his coat as he came. He paused briefly at the water’s edge to cast off his boots, toss his coat, waistcoat and cravat on top of them, reaching to help her out of the water.

“Good heavens, Emma!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with worry. He took her cold hand in his warm one, steadying her. “What ever happened?”

The entire event suddenly caught up with her. Emme’s teeth chattered with a combination of cold and shock as she wrapped her arms around her chest. She muttered about the boat leaking. He guided her away from the water’s edge.

She staggered, dripping onto the sun-heated grass, and sank down gratefully. James picked up his coat and gently wrapped it around her shoulders. Assured that she was fine—just chilled—James sat beside her as she warmed up, propping one arm on a bent knee. Emme buried her head slightly into his coat, breathing in the smell of it, all wool and sandalwood and James.