Rosalind was now able to ride without Richard leading her horse, but she still needed him next to her and would not go above a trot. She graduated from Whitesocks to a dapple grey hack of Jenny’s, and had a new habit made up in York. The two of them explored the fields and woods around Arnden and once rode into York so that Richard could show Rosalind the Minster and the old city walls.
More than once he nearly asked her to marry him, then decided the moment was not quite right. He was far from sure that it would be honest to do so when the greater part of their relationship was a blank to her. Suppose she remembered everything after they were wed, and it changed her feelings toward him. Yet he could think of no way to remind her without risking her health. Uncertainty was a constant shadow over his enjoyment of her company.
Rosalind was aware that all was not well. She could not remain ignorant of Richard’s love for her and could not understand what held him back from declaring himself. Knowing that he was very dear to her, she was still not sure what her answer would be if he did actually ask for her hand. She had known him for such a short time, and most of that time she had been equally involved with Harry. She became more and more conscious that only a little over three weeks remained before she must give Ian Heathercot a final answer. In that short time she must get to know Richard well enough to decide between them. And she could not tell him of her deadline, so even if she did love him enough to marry him he might not ask her in time.
They spent every possible moment together.
The day came when they must go on to Toblethorpe or postpone the wedding for another week. With the long climb up into the Pennines ahead of them, they left immediately after breakfast. The children ran down the driveway after them, waving.
“See you in a few weeks, Aunt Annabel” they hallooed.
“Don’t forget, you promised I could ride Flame,” called Christopher.
Their last sight was of Anna and Lydia dancing in a ring and chanting. “I’m going to be a bridesmaid, a bridesmaid, a bridesmaid!”
Charles and Richard again rode most of the way. About five miles from home, Lucy decided to join them, and Richard tactfully retired to the carriage. Rosalind was commenting on the similarities between Toblethorpe’s surroundings and her own home country.
“The hills are very like those around Bennendale,” she told them, “except ours are greener. We have more bracken, where you have heather and gorse.” She and Richard discussed their relative merits as sheep fodder.
As they drove through Toblethorpe village, Rosalind fell silent. The weary team pulled steadily up the hill and they passed through the gates, greeted by old Matthew. Toblethorpe Manor appeared before them. Rosalind put her hands to her head and closed her eyes.
“I feel strange,” she said unsteadily. “I cannot think what is the matter with me.”
Richard and his mother bent toward her anxiously. The carriage pulled up at the front door.
“Take her inside quickly, dearest,” instructed Lady Annabel. “She had better lie down at once. Rosalind, dear child, I shall be with you directly.”
Richard helped Rosalind from the carriage, half supported her up the steps and into the house. She was breathing rapidly, unevenly, and the hand that was not on his arm was still at her head, but her eyes were open and she was looking around her in a puzzled way. There were several servants in the hall, and her gaze fixed on one of them.
“Mary?” she asked uncertainly.
“Oh, miss!” cried Mary, running forward with tears in her eyes. “I knowed tha’d not forget me.”
Rosalind held out her hand. “Of course not, Mary,” she assured her. She looked up at Richard, her face very pale.
“Come and sit down.” He led her gently into the drawing room and she sank into a chair. He pulled up a footstool beside her and took her hands in a reassuring clasp.
“I’m not going crazy, am I?” she whispered. He shook his head. “Then what is happening? I am so confused. I seem to see everything twice. What is happening to me, Mr. Carstairs? Richard?”
“You are simply remembering things you had forgotten,” he told her gravely. “I will tell you what occurred and I hope it will help you sort things out in your head.
“You ran away from your uncle. You remember that?” She nodded. “You rode all the way from Bennendale through the snow until you reached the moors near here. There your horse threw you and kicked you on the temple. That made you lose your memory. I—well, Lord Denham and I—found you and brought you here. We had no idea who you were or where you came from. We called you Clara Fell, for want of a better name, and my mother nursed you. You were very ill, we feared you would die.
“When you recovered you went to London with us, and there, after some weeks, you met Charles. The shock made you forget your time with us, and you remembered all your previous life.”
“Why did you not tell me all this long ago?” Rosalind gripped his hands tightly as she struggled to straighten out the sudden rush of memories. Lady Annabel had come into the room, but seeing that they were talking quietly, she did not interrupt.
“I…we wanted to, Rosalind. After meeting Charles, you started getting terrible headaches whenever you saw any of the rest of us. The doctor said you must go quite away from us, and not be reminded of us in any way. I was afraid I
might never be able to see you again. Disford Wood was an experiment. When you did not recognize us, nor suffer any apparent ill, we never thought that returning here might be dangerous.”
“Not dangerous,” said Rosalind slowly. “I have no headache. I think I need time to adjust to this. I should like to be alone for a while, Richard, if you do not mind.”
Lady Annabel intervened. “Bed!” she declared firmly. “Richard, you may carry Rosalind upstairs. I daresay it will make her feel quite at home. You shall have your dinner on a tray, my dear, and need not come down until you feel quite ready to face everyone.”
“I can walk,” protested Rosalind, with tolerable composure, but after a few shaky steps she was glad when Richard lifted her unceremoniously in his arms. Surprised at how natural it felt, she laid her head back trustingly against his shoulders and closed her eyes.
When they reached her room, the same one as before, they found Mary and Joan arguing about who was to wait on her. Lady Annabel shooed them both out, and Richard, too.
“I’ll help you into bed and then leave you in peace. I am sure you need a quiet period for contemplation, my dear, and no one shall disturb you.”
An hour or two later an unknown housemaid brought her a tray loaded with delicacies. She recognized Monsieur Pierre’s artistry, and more pieces of the complex puzzle that was her memory clicked into place. Lying quiescent, she let faces and scenes float by her mind’s eye and gradually everything came into focus. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.
Lucy and Charles had taken a long way round to the manor. By the time they arrived, Rosalind had been in bed for half an hour. Charles was horrified to hear what had happened and wanted to rush to his cousin’s side. Lady Annabel had great difficulty in dissuading him.
“She needs time,” she insisted. “I will send for Dr. Grimsdale if you will have it so, but I do not think it necessary. Rosalind will call for us if she wants us.”
Richard agreed with her. “Don’t worry, Charles,” he said soothingly. “The first shock was very agitating but her nerves were not overset and she very quickly grew calmer. She asked to be alone, and I do not believe anyone should try to see her until tomorrow.”
In spite of his reassuring words to Charles, Richard was far from tranquil himself. He spent the greater part of the evening pacing up and down, looking up eagerly every time a servant entered the room. In his dreams that night he proposed to Rosalind again and again, and every time she told him she did not know who he was.
Morning brought a warm, moist wind from the west, like a last breath of summer. After breakfast, Richard retired to the library, ostensibly to go over his accounts. Rosalind found him there, once more pacing up and down.
“Richard, would you take me up on the moor, where you found me?” she asked shyly. “I can’t explain why, I just feel a need to see the place.”
They were soon riding up the lane and turning onto the bridlepath. Rosalind was silent, so Richard did not speak until he recognized the spot where he had seen that limp bundle so long ago.
“It was there,” he pointed, “behind that gorse.”
“You remember the very bush?” she asked wonderingly.
“I spent a great deal of time looking at it last summer,” he admitted wryly, “for want of you to look at.”
She blushed. “Help me down,” she requested. “I want to go over there.”
Richard dismounted and lifted her down. Her closeness intoxicated him, and suddenly forgetting all his good resolutions, he drew her to him and sought her lips with his. After a moment of startled protest, she turned her face up to him and ceased to push against his chest.
A group of interested sheep raised their heads and watched in apparent fascination. The embrace was so protracted that after a while they returned to cropping the short wiry grass.
At last breathlessness forced the pair to draw apart a little, though Richard kept his arms firmly around Rosalind’s waist.
“I love you so much,” he murmured. “You will marry me, won’t you?”
“But I was planning to go home and marry Mr. Heathercot,” objected Rosalind demurely.
“Whoever Mr. Heathercot may be, I am sure he would never condone your behaviour at Disford Wood.”
“Ah, but I should not tell him.”
“Mr. Heathercot does not have a mother who loves you as a daughter and needs your companionship. At least, I trust he does not.”
“I have never met Mr. Heathercot’s mother. I have heard she is delightful.”
“Well, I have an ace up my sleeve. My heir.”
Rosalind looked up at him inquiringly.
“Only consider that if you do not become my wife, I shall never marry and Cousin Edward will inherit Toblethorpe!”
Rosalind, her eyes dancing, put her arms around his neck.
“You leave me no choice,” she murmured. “Besides,” she added practically, “I may have temporarily forgotten it, but I have been in love with you ever since the first time you smiled at me.”
“Then why did you refuse me, my darling?”
“I feared that I might turn out to be a butcher’s daughter, and you would regret having married me.”
“Once I had discovered that I loved you, I would not have cared if your father was a transported convict!”
“But you did not say that you loved me, only that you admired me and wished to protect me.”
“I did not? I am sure I meant to, my poor sweetheart. I was not altogether
compos mentis
at the time. I shall have to make up for my omission. Rosalind, my dearest love, will you marry me?”
“I thought I told you already, Richard.”
“You said I left you no choice. I want a plain answer. Once more, will you be my wife, beloved?”
“Yes, my darling,” she answered, and had the sheep been watching, they would have seen a repeat performance.
Copyright © 1981 by Carola Dunn
Originally published by Warner Books
Electronically published in 2002 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.