He wrote down the names, shaking his head in perplexity, but she was too weak for further questioning. Protests raged through his head, but he thrust them down. If satisfying Emily’s demands was the only way he could serve her, then he would willingly do so.
“I will see to it,” he vowed, stroking the hair from her forehead. “Trust me.”
She nodded.
“One more question, Em. Do you remember your accident?”
“Somebody pushed me.” Her eyes drifted shut.
Shaking his head, he departed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Drew stared at the library fire through the glass of brandy he held loosely in one hand. Charles was similarly occupied.
“Am I to have any say at all in the care of my own sister?” demanded Charles suddenly.
“Surely you don’t approve of Harvey bleeding her to death!”
“Of course not! I should have fired the man myself, but I was too worried about Emily to think clearly. And I agree that McClarren is her best hope for recovery. So why are you ignoring his advice?” Anger underlay his voice, only precariously controlled.
He sighed. “Do not make too much of this. She is clearly delirious from fever, but she wishes something solid to eat – and who can blame her? McClarren also warned against agitating her. Talk to her yourself if you think refusing her demands is the best course.”
“I already have,” Charles grumbled.
“Did she recognize you?”
“No. I was prepared for that, for both you and McClarren had warned me. What I hadn’t expected was her determination. She doesn’t sound like herself. She doesn’t act like herself. Have you ever known Emily to put herself forward?”
Drew shook his head. Charles had put his own impressions into words. Emily was sweet, kind, and beautiful. But she was also the most biddable girl he knew. It was one of her attractions, for she was the antithesis of Fay. He would never have faced a wife who would intrude on his time, make irritating demands, or try to control his behavior. Emily would have served him faithfully, responding to his every whim, but without substantially changing his life.
“It is most unlike her,” he agreed. “But that is all the more reason to tread softly. She is confused, and she must be terrified. Agitating her can only worsen the effects.”
“But liver? Cooked without fat?” Charles emptied his glass and poured another. “It’s not healthy.”
“Of course not, but she is obsessed by the blood Harvey took. You must admit that liver is very bloody. At least she didn’t request a glass of the stuff.”
“True, but nettles are almost as bad.” Charles shuddered in disgust. “That is precisely my point. Emily faints at the mere mention of blood, let alone the sight of it. Why would she discuss the subject?”
“I’ve been wondering that very thing. And not just the part about diet. You’ve seen the list of remedies she demanded. Some of them I’ve never heard of. Do you suppose that her meekness has been an act all these years? You must admit that her demeanor has always conformed to what she was taught. But her am-amnesia” —he stumbled over the word he had heard for the first time from McClarren— “made her forget those teachings, allowing her true character to surface.”
“Fustian,” snorted Charles. “Even as a rebellious child she was never like this. I was talking to McClarren before dinner. Though he has no personal experience with lost memory, he knows several doctors who do. Not one has ever encountered profound personality changes. Bewilderment, fear, anxiety, and even anger, but never new traits.”
“What did she say that bothers you so much?” Charles was more upset than Drew had ever seen him. They had been friends since Eton, though they often disagreed with each other. Charles was traditional, disdaining the newfangled notions Drew often espoused, but even their most heated debates had never upset him the way Emily’s accident was doing.
“Besides not recognizing me?” Bitterness filled his words.
“She doesn’t know anybody,” he said in excuse, though that wasn’t strictly true. Her first words to him had been
You’re dead.
The idea may well have come from a dream, but she had recognized him and connected him with Broadbanks. “How odd,” he murmured.
“What? That she knows none of us? You are the one who reported that she remembered nothing.”
“No, not that. When she first awoke, she thought I was the marquess. Why would she know that my father is Broadbanks?”
“But amnesiacs’ brains are not completely blank,” said McClarren from the doorway. “They recall many things. Take Lady Emily, for example. She has no trouble speaking, recognizes most common objects, and seems to have a firm understanding of medicine and the human body. What she cannot produce are memories of her childhood or of the people she knows.”
“But the condition is temporary,” said Drew hopefully.
“Usually.” The doctor pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat down. “In most cases, the problem corrects itself within a short time, though I know of at least one victim who did not return to normal until six months after his accident.”
“Six months!” exclaimed Charles.
“And there have been a few who never remembered. We know little of how the brain works. A man in Edinburgh suffered a blow to the head some years ago that wiped out all memory of who he was. He recovered from the injuries and was building a new life when he was again struck in the same place. When he recovered consciousness, he had regained his early memories, but recalled nothing of the two months that separated his accidents.”
“So Lady Emily might forget these days?” asked Drew sharply.
“I think it unlikely. In most cases, restoration of memory does not erase what happened during the amnesia episode.”
McClarren left to check his patient. Charles accompanied him.
Drew stared into the fire. Emily’s amnesia was almost a blessing. Since she had no memory of their relationship, he was able to sit with her and talk to her without constraint, though he had to admit that her nearness was taxing his control. But that was a small price to pay for a few days of contentment. It was all he would have in his lifetime.
Yet he could not forget her words when she first awoke. Even delirium could not explain some of them. How could she have undergone such a total change? The Emily he loved would never have defied a doctor, even such an unprepossessing one as Dr. Harvey. The Emily he loved would never have made demands that ran counter to what others advised. And it was not just the liver. She had been specific about fruits, vegetables, cooking methods, and quantities. When he had delivered the first infusions to her an hour before, she had elaborated on the health benefits of each item, claiming attributes that he had never considered, using words with which he was unfamiliar. But she had sounded so sure of herself that he had acceded to every request – even to the demand that her windows be opened and the draperies drawn back to allow excessive light into the room.
He had asked McClarren about the herbs she specified. While the man had not personally used a couple of them, he had agreed that none should cause any damage.
Had she received divine knowledge in answer to his fervent prayers? He doubted it. God would hardly grant favors to a sinner such as himself. And when her memory returned, she must reconcile herself to his betrothal. She had loved him for years. One of her few deviations from strict propriety had been to tell him how much she cared. He had long suspected that her feelings were more powerful than his own, a fact that prompted a nagging sense of guilt. Had he taken advantage of her? After Fay’s determined possessiveness, Emily’s selfless devotion had seemed a blessing. She would be a perfect wife, catering to his every need without intruding on his privacy or objecting to his activities. His own love was strong enough to keep him faithful . . .
At least it was now. Had losing her deepened his feelings? Life with Fay would be anything but congenial. And Emily’s pain would make it worse. Poor Em would actually be better off dead. So why would a loving God return her to a life that promised misery? She had been on the verge of death only a day ago.
And that was another puzzle. How could someone who had hardly been able to breathe, and who had not had enough energy to move so much as a finger, be ranting and making demands on him with such vigor?
He headed for the kitchen. From the moment that he had yielded to those demands, he had taken the full responsibility. The servants were so horrified at his unconventional orders that he could not demand obedience. If this odd regimen killed her, he wanted no one else to feel guilty. He was already damned. One more death would make no difference.
* * * *
Cherlynn awoke in a pool of sweat. For the first time since falling, her mind was coolly logical. She could think. She could remember. Her fever had broken.
She glanced around the room, but someone had shut heavy curtains, blocking any trace of light or air. Only deep shadows marked the location of furniture. She hated being shut in. But as she tried to sit up, her body protested.
Her head still throbbed. Whatever analgesics they had given her must have worn off, which was probably what had awakened her. But she felt weak, weaker even than the morning after Willard had driven them into a tree, triggering a miscarriage that destroyed their unborn son. Her subsequent hemorrhage and infection guaranteed that she would bear no more.
But she thrust that tragedy away, focusing instead on her current weakness. Surely she had not been ill long enough for her muscles to atrophy! Her mind was hazy, but she shouldn’t have been in bed longer than two or three days.
Or had she? Snatches of hallucinations and voices lingered in her mind. Her fever must have reached at least 105 degrees to have produced delirium. If she had been that ill, then she could easily have lost a week of her life. Or more.
Fighting dizziness, she carefully rolled toward the edge of the bed and sat up, stretching her feet toward the floor. Once she switched on the lamp, she could take stock of her situation.
But the floor was not where it should have been. By the time she realized that, it was too late to prevent a fall.
New waves of pain rolled through her head. She must be in a hospital for the bed to be so high. But she could not recall ever seeing a hospital so dark – nurses were always popping in and out and left the doors to the lighted halls open so they could keep an eye on the patients. But English hospitals might be different. She was no longer in Massachusetts.
She lay on the floor for several minutes until she felt strong enough to stand. Why had no one noticed that one of the patients had fallen out of bed?
But a new puzzle deflected the question. When she put out her hand to grasp the bed, it encountered a set of steps. Using them to pull herself up, she next discovered that the bed was a four-poster with a complete set of bed curtains. Even English hospitals would hardly include something so unsanitary.
Those fragments of hallucinations returned. Had they been real images? Perhaps she had not been taken to a hospital after all. It was possible that she was being housed at Broadbanks.
No lamp rested on the bedside table. She lurched to the window and fumbled her way through the curtains, sinking thankfully onto a window seat. Moonlight faintly illuminated a grand vista of formal gardens. Catching a glimpse of the thin crescent that floated above a tree, she grimaced. She had last noticed the moon the night before leaving for England. Some rapid math confirmed that a full week had passed since her fall.
The cool air chilled her soaked nightgown, raising goose bumps. Looking down, she cringed at the sight of heavy cotton clinging to her body instead of her preferred nylon. Hopefully whatever second gown had been loaned to her was more comfortable. If not, she would have to sleep nude and pray that the other side of the bed was dry.
She was moving slowly toward the door, where she expected to find a light switch, when it opened.
“What are you doing out of bed?” demanded a male voice. One hand held an oil lamp that pushed the darkness into the corners.
But Cherlynn paid no attention to the speaker. She had been facing a dressing table when the door opened, and now froze in shock. The girl in the mirror was a stranger. Long jet-black hair raged wildly about a face so white she might have been a ghost. An elegant neck disappeared into the ruffled nightgown, whose damp fabric clung like skin, revealing tall slenderness and shapely curves.
She fainted.
* * * *
Drew shoved the lamp onto the table as he sprang forward to catch Emily. What was she doing out of bed? And where was the maid who was supposed to be watching her?
At least she hadn’t hit her head again. And she seemed stronger. Perhaps the weeks of forcing all manner of strange foods and potions down her throat had helped. Or perhaps she was possessed by the devil as the servants whispered. He grimaced at the tightly shut windows. Some beliefs were too strong for even direct orders to overcome. A fear of night air was one of them.
But at least she was stronger. With relief came awareness. She was soft and feminine. Holding her was spiraling intense need into his loins. He tore his mind from the woman in his arms and carried her to the bed. But the moment he set her down, he realized that both her gown and the sheets were soaked. That must be what had driven her to her feet.
Pulling the coverlet loose, he wrapped her warmly and deposited her on the couch. The fire was nearly dead, but the scuttle was full, so he set about warming the room. The maid would be dismissed.
“Emily,” he called urgently, chaffing her wrists to awaken her. He needed a vinaigrette, but didn’t know where she kept hers, and he could not leave her. “Are you all right?”
She blinked. “What happened?”
“You unwisely got out of bed,” he murmured. “Why did you not ring for help?”
“The mirror,” she murmured. “It wasn’t me.”
“Mirror?”
“When the light came on. The reflection wasn’t me.”
“I know you dislike looking rumpled,” he said with a sigh. “But we could not brush your hair properly while you have been so ill. We feared the tugging would harm you. Your injury is only beginning to heal.”