Elizabeth Mansfield (9 page)

"What we
should
be asking," Jeremy pointed out, "is how to help her recover."

"Yes," agreed Eva. "Lord Inglesby is quite right. What can we do for her?"

"You may not like my answer to that, your ladyship," Dr. Swan said, "for I must ask you and your niece to stay away from her until she asks to see you."

"But
why?"
cried Cicely in tearful chagrin.

"Because seeing you frightens her. You both are too close to her. She understands that she ought to recognize you, and she can't. That must be a terrifying feeling. We do not wish her to become more upset than her condition has already made her. What she needs most is rest and calm." He rose from his chair and picked up his bag. "And as for the rest of you, those who go into her room, do not keep telling her who you are and expecting her to remember," he advised as he went to the door. "Answer her questions simply. Let her learn at her own pace."

After his departure, a strained silence fell upon the occupants of the room, all of them suddenly imagining how they might feel if suddenly deprived of memory. None of them had ever before considered how important memory was. The only sound in the room was the incessant reverberation of Cicely's sobs.

Upstairs in the bedroom Mrs. Stemple had not yet come to sit with Cassie, and she was frightened of being alone. Despite having drunk Dr. Swan's potion, she was too uneasy to let herself fall asleep. She did not want to dream. But neither did she want to lie awake and think, because thoughts were frightening, too. She could not create any pictures in her mind. She could not imagine herself in any place but this room, nor could she bring to mind any faces but the few she'd seen in the past twelve hours. Everything else was a vast emptiness.

She sat up and looked around her. Strangely enough, she could identify everything she saw—the bed hangings, the draperies at the windows, the little dressing table with the mirror above it...

Good heavens! A
mirror!
she thought with a burst of excitement. She knew perfectly well what a mirror was. She could look into it and
see
herself! If she could see herself, she'd know who she was!

She sat up and threw off the covers with her good hand. Painstakingly, ignoring the agony from her numerous bruises, she slipped down from the bed and limped across the room to the dressing table. She covered her eyes with her good hand before sitting down on the little bench. Then, taking a deep breath, she dropped her hand.

The face staring back at her was that of a not-very-young, not-very-beautiful woman. Far from beautiful, in fact, with that great purplish bruise disfiguring almost half her face. But the worst shock was that it was the face of someone she'd never seen before. A complete stranger! The unfamiliarity of that face dashed her hopes.

She pressed her fingers against the glass, trying like someone blind to touch the face of this creature she'd never before seen. "Oh, dear
God"
she cried out in anguish, "who
are
you?"

Chapter 11

The doctor, already late for his next appointment, stood in Lord Inglesby's entryway fiddling impatiently with the catch of his umbrella. Hickham, who'd just handed him the ancient apparatus, was taking a perverse glee in watching the medical man struggle with the simple mechanism. He was just about to offer his assistance when he heard a sound down the hall. It was Lord Lucas, emerging somewhat stealthily from the drawing room and closing the door carefully after him.
What's afoot now?
the butler asked himself curiously.

Lord Lucas hurried down the hall. "Dr. Swan, please wait a moment," he said as he strode across the large entryway to where the doctor stood.

The doctor paused. "Yes?"

Charles glowered at Hickham, who showed no signs of taking himself off. "You may go, Hickham. I shall see the doctor out."

"Yes, m'lord, but I was about to 'elp Dr. Swan with 'is umbella," Hickham objected.

"I'll take care of it," Charles said, taking the umbrella from the doctor's hands.

"Very well, m'lord," the frustrated Hickham said with a shrug. "I'm happy t'leave it in yer 'ands. An' ye can 'ave as many of me other duties as ye'd like as well." With that, he made a quick retreat, adding under his breath, "Per'aps ye'd like t'serve the tea fer me, too!"

"Insolent jackanapes!" Charles muttered, looked after him.

"Have
you
some indisposition you wish to inquire about, Lord Lucas?" the doctor asked impatiently, pulling his pocket watch from under his coat and consulting it. "If it should require me to examine you, I'm afraid I haven't the time—"
 

"No, no, not I. Fit as a fiddle, I assure you. This is a question about your patient upstairs."

"Lady Beringer?" The doctor's brow rose. "What about her?"

"It's about what you said back there in the drawing room. That we shouldn't expect her to remember who we are."

"Yes. So many faces, all new to her." The doctor sighed and shook his head. "It will be hard for her."

"I understood that," Charles said uneasily, "but what I was wondering was ..." He paused and rubbed his chin.

Dr. Swan took another glance at his watch. "Come, man, out with it. What's troubling you?"

"A rather awkward matter, I'm afraid. It's about Jeremy's identity. Of all the people whose identity Lady Beringer will learn, Jeremy's will probably be the first."

"Yes, I expect so. He is her host, after all."

"And she will think of him as Lord Inglesby."

"Naturally."

"But you see, before her accident, I led her to believe that his name was Lord Lucas."

Dr. Swan gaped at him. "You let her think he was
you!
Whatever for?"

Charles's eyes dropped guiltily. "It was... er... a sort of joke."

The doctor frowned at him in disgust. "Seems a foolish sort of joke. Did Lord Inglesby take part in it, too?"

"Yes. But it was I who pushed him into it. It was all my fault. I take full responsibility. That's why I felt impelled to tell you about it. You see, in the next few days Lady Beringer will surely learn to know him as Lord Inglesby. But when she comes back to herself, she'll recognize him as Lord Lucas. Will that not confuse her, and complicate her recovery?"

"Hmmm. I see your point. You may very well be right. Never having had a patient with a memory dysfunction before, I'm not sure how to answer you. Perhaps the safest thing to do is to continue the masquerade."

"Do you mean... to keep on letting her believe that Inglesby is Lucas?"

"Yes. Then, when memory returns, she will have a sense of continuity. She can be told the truth when she's fully recovered."

"But, Doctor, suppose her memory doesn't return."

"I don't think that will happen. When her concussion heals, I believe the numbness causing the mnemonic difficulty will fade. If I am mistaken—if the dysfunction lasts beyond the healing of the trauma to her head—we will confer again. In the meantime, we should proceed on the assumption that she will recover."

"And that means we should continue to deceive her." Charles shook his head worriedly. "That may not be easy. If her illness— her dysfunction, as you call it—continues for any length of time, someone is bound to make a slip."

"That, my lord, is your problem," the doctor said curtly. "You joked yourself into it. Now it's up to you to deal with the consequences." He took the still-closed umbrella from Charles's hand and turned to go. As he stepped over the threshold, he threw a last rebuke over his shoulder. "After you dance, my good fellow," he said, snapping opening his recalcitrant umbrella with a vigorous shake, "you must pay the piper."

Chapter 12

Charles, chastened by the doctor's scolding, turned slowly back toward the drawing room. But halfway down the hall he came face-to-face with his friend. "Ah, Jemmy, there you are," he said in greeting. "I was just coming to find you."

Jeremy eyed him with some concern. "I noticed you slip out of the drawing room after Dr. Swan. Is something wrong?"

"Not with me, if that's what you're asking," Charles replied.

"I didn't think so. It's Lady Beringer, isn't it? Is there something in her condition—something the doctor didn't speak of— that worried you?"

"As a matter of fact there was." And Charles repeated to Jeremy the gist of his conversation with the doctor. "He expects me to see that the masquerade is carried on. Made some rebuke as he left... to the effect that if one makes one's bed one must lie in it, or if one makes the brew one must drink it, or some such chastisement."

Jeremy glowered. "I'd like to do more than chastise you, you clunch. I wish you'd never played that deuced trick. I shan't like having to continue the pretense at all."

"Neither shall I. We'll have to warn everyone in the household. It'll be a damned nuisance."

Jeremy noted his friend's downcast expression and was softened. "Well, we'll manage," he said with a forgiving shrug. "I'm quite aware that you only did it for my sake. But if you'd truly like to make amends, there is something you can do for me."

Charles eyed him suspiciously. "Something I shall not like, no doubt."

"It will not be unpleasant. Just go back to the drawing room and play the gallant for Cicely. I must go up to Lady Beringer. I promised her I'd not leave her alone for long."

"Why can't Lady Schofield keep Cicely company?" Charles demanded. "I didn't come to the country to dance attendance on silly chits just out of the schoolroom."

"Lady Schofield has gone upstairs to lie down. This business has naturally upset her."

"Lie down?
Here,
in this house? Don't tell me you've invited the ladies to move in!"

"Yes, of course I have. They want to be near Lady Beringer. I couldn't offer them less than my hospitality."

"I suppose you couldn't," Charles sighed. "But our peace will be completely cut up."

"Can't be helped," Jeremy said flatly. "But you, Charlie, are under no obligation to remain. You may go back to London anytime you wish."

Charles glared at him. "As if I would leave you to the mercies of all these females, and one of them an invalid! What sort of rotter do you take me for?"

Jeremy smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you. Now, go in and entertain Cicely, like the good fellow I know you to be."

"Damnation, much to my surprise I find I am a good fellow," Charles muttered as he went to do as he was bid. "I wish at least
one
of us was a cad."

He found Cicely standing at the drawing room window, her back to him and her head down. When she heard his footstep, she made a quick swipe at her cheek with the back of her hand and turned round. "Oh, it's you, Lord Lucas," she murmured, trying bravely to smile.

"Yes, but since I understand that you'll be staying with us for a while, you may as well call me Charlie. There's no point in formality while we're stranded here in the country."

"Thank you, Charlie. And you must call me Cicely, for I, too, prefer informality under the circumstances."

"Good. Then, Cicely, would you please sit down, for if you don't, I shall have to remain standing here like an awkward schoolboy."

She gave a pathetic little laugh, crossed the room to the sofa and sat stiffly on the edge, her hands folded in her lap. After a long moment of silence (during which Charlie, who was hardly ever at a loss for words, found himself hard-pressed to think of what to say), she seemed to steel herself—as if she were about to perform a courageous act—and spoke up. "I was wondering, Lord Lu— Charlie, if I might ask you a... a question."

"Yes, of course," he assured her, taking a chair opposite her. "Ask me anything at all."

"It's about Mama. I don't understand why she came here in the first place. Do you know why? She'd never met Jeremy, after all, so what could have possessed her to come and see him?"

"Didn't she tell you her purpose before she left home?"
 

"No. Not a word."

"I see." Charles hesitated, not at all sure he should reveal what he perhaps had no right even to know. "Why don't you ask Jeremy?"

"It would be... awkward."

"Why awkward?"

"Well, you see …" Her cheeks flamed, and she dropped her eyes in embarrassment. "You must know he... he jilted me."

"He did nothing of the sort," Charlie declared flatly. "He never made an offer, did he?"

"All right, then, he
almost
jilted me."

"See here my girl, if he
did
almost jilt you—and mind you, I'm not saying that I agree that he did—does that mean you can't speak to one another?"

"It means that it's... awkward."

Charlie looked at her in impatience. Although he had to admit that there was a certain charm in her shy blushes and a certain appeal in the way her lashes fluttered against her creamy cheeks and her full underlip quivered when she tried to hide her emotions, he was too old and jaded to have to endure her missish diffidence. "I'm certain you can overcome that awkwardness, my dear," he said, trying his best to hide his annoyance. "Jeremy is very easy to talk to."

"Not for me. Especially now, after..." She lowered her head and twisted her fingers nervously together. "Especially since he so suddenly changed his mind about offering for me." She lifted her head and fixed her eyes on his face in what Charlie felt was a completely unexpected and disconcerting directness. "You two are the best of friends, are you not?"

"I would say so, yes."

"And you confide in each other?"

"I suppose we do, to some extent. Not as I believe young ladies like to do, telling each other every passing thought. But we do exchange views."

"Views?"

"Yes... on politics and such."
 

"And on people?"

Charlie peered at her suspiciously. "People?"

"Yes. Do you tell each other how you feel about... well, about females?"