George was far enough away during the walk that he could not hear much of what was said. What he did overhear he disregarded, as he kept an eye out for signs of fatigue in the young lady. Cardinals flitted to and fro in the hedges and bushes of the garden, and attracted George’s eyes more than once.
When they wound their way back to the house, George thought perhaps something was amiss between the two people ahead of him. Lord Ridlington’s eyes had shifted away from Miss Morton and she had a confused expression on her face. Perhaps there had been some quarrel or misunderstanding.
George pondered if he should intercede and speak with Lord Ridlington, to assure him that any oddities of personality were to be overlooked until her memories sorted themselves out. After all, were we not all just a sum of our memories?
Inside they made their way back to the entrance hall, where Lord Ridlington turned towards Miss Morton. “Forgive me, but I must go to see your father before I have to go meet up with an associate of mine.”
“Of course,” Miss Morton said with an inclination of her head. “It was good to talk to you.”
Lord Ridlington nodded. “And you.” He turned to George. “You do not mind seeing her back up to her room, do you?”
“Actually, I would rather go to the library,” Miss Morton interjected.
George nodded. “I shall see her safely to her destination, Your Grace.”
Lord Ridlington gave them a bow and swept off down the hallway towards Lord Chaplin’s study. George cleared his throat and offered her his arm. “To the library then?”
“Yes,” Miss Morton said as she placed her hand on his arm. It was a short walk to the library and George was thankful for that, for Miss Morton had fallen silent.
Upon arriving at the library he seated her in a cushioned chair and went over to the rope hanging by the door. “I shall call for some refreshment. The morning was rather warm.”
Miss Morton nodded. George pulled the rope and went back over to where she sat looking down at her hands. “Pardon my boldness, Miss Morton, but did something happen during your walk? You seem very quiet.”
She looked up at him; the sea in her eyes looked like there was a storm brewing, but she shook her head. “I just wish I could recall things clearly. That way, I would know if it is my memories acting up or if perhaps it is something else.”
George sat down near her. “We should try walking through those days. From those in your household, I feel that I have a good picture of that particular day. If I can walk you through those events, perhaps it will open up the memory of the accident.”
Miss Morton’s lips flattened into a thin line as if she did not like that at all. The door came open and a maid, one that George did not readily recognise, asked, “You needed something, Sir?”
“Refreshments, please,” George called over to the young maid. The girl dipped into a curtsey and then vanished back out of the door. “I know it may not be the most appealing thing, Miss Morton, but you cannot hide from that memory forever.”
She turned to look at him, her sea-colored eyes threatened to drown him. “Why can I not? I feel sometimes as if I should want to know. I, perhaps, even sometimes want to know, but why should I have to know? If it was so terrible that my brain locked it away, is it not better to let it stay there?”
He had never been in her shoes. Reasoning only got one so far, and George was aware of that. He cleared his throat. “You asked me once why I became a doctor.”
Miss Morton nodded her head cautiously. George continued, “I did not lie when I said that I did it for my loved ones.” He clasped his hands together and drew in a steadying breath. “My mother was very ill. She had been desperately ill for some time. The doctors could do nothing, so I became a doctor...”
“To save her,” Miss Morton whispered. She looked as if she did not really wish to speak, but she did so anyway. “And did you?”
George shook his head. “No, Miss Morton, I did not. I am not a God, I am merely a man as the other doctors were. I could not save her.”
Miss Morton reached out her hand and put it, warm and comforting, on his forearm. The weight of it there seemed to anchor him, and keep him from giving in to the despair that always came with thoughts of his mother. He looked into her eyes and they baptised him.
“I am so sorry, Doctor Rowley.” Her words were simple. They were polite and reasonable. Yet they felt intimate and close, too close.
George shifted his arm slightly, causing her hand to fall onto the chair arm. George could not meet her gaze. He was too raw, too open. The clatter of a tray saved him from having to explain himself.
He was swiftly up and all too eager to help the maid with the tray. “That looks heavy. Let me,” he said soothingly, coaxingly. The maid smiled shyly at him and allowed him to rescue her from her burden. “Thank you so much,” George said, for the tray, and for the interruption.
The maid gave them a curtsey and swiftly left the room. George brought the tray over to the same low table they had eaten at on the last day in the library. Miss Morton appeared by his side, startling him somewhat, even if George did try to not let it show. She dropped down gracefully, far too gracefully into the chair next to where he was.
He eased around the table and sat so that the wooden table was between them. “Shall I pour?” He mostly asked out of habit. Ladies would never pour their own tea or serve themselves when a gentleman was in the room. The little etiquettes and manners came back to George along with the voice of his governess in his mind.
He did not hand her cup to her, he instead set it on the table. He slid the honey into her reach. “You remembered,” she said, her voice pleased.
George blinked at her. He had remembered something? She motioned towards the honey. “You remembered that I take honey,” Miss Morton said with a smile. “You are a doctor though, and your attention to detail is probably what makes you such a good one.”
“I suppose it must be,” George said feeling foolish for acting so ridiculously over something so minor. He had more control over himself than that.
Still, he would take no chances with Miss Morton’s reputation. She had a duke to marry and that would mean a good life for her. Lord and Lady Chaplin were kind folks to him and he did not wish to bring ill upon any in their household.
“I will do your exercise, Doctor Rowley,” Miss Morton informed him as she lifted her cup to her lips.
Yes, that was right. That was why he had told her that story. “Memories are important,” George said with a sigh. “Without them who knows who we would be?”
Miss Morton frowned. “Who would you have been without that memory? If your mother was still well, would you still be a doctor?”
George had never thought about it. He took a sip of his tea and hummed to himself. “You know, for all these years, I never really had time to think of it like that.”
“You had to have a notion of what you wanted before that time?” Miss Morton picked up one of the little spiced cakes that the cook had made for tea. “Do not most little boys dream of being something?”
George laughed. “I think all children do.” He shook his head. “I dreamed of being a military general.”
“So, why did you not go into the military after your mother’s death?” Miss Morton asked the question as one would poke a bear, unsure of what response it would receive.
George sighed a long, drawn-out sound. “I felt like I had to balance the scales somehow.”
“Balance the scales?” Miss Morton leaned forward as if truly intrigued.
George cleared his throat. “We should be talking about you.”
“You do not like talking about yourself at all. You have listened to me talk about myself for hours on end, and yet I know next to nothing about you, Doctor Rowley, other than your love of folk songs.” Miss Morton gave him a smile that could persuade the sun to shine through the rain.
He chuckled and gave up trying to dissuade her to see things his way. “You know more about me than
most.”
“That is very sad,” Miss Morton informed him, which only caused George to chuckle all the harder. He supposed that he had to agree with that.
George waved his hand to brush away her silliness. “Let me turn the tables then. Let us talk about your sister. You and she seem to be at odds. Is this recent?”
“No. Bridgitte and I are just two different people,” Miss Morton replied. “My mother wishes we were closer, and sometimes I wish that as well, but Bridgitte and I just seem to not get along.”
George nodded. “That sounds like sisters.”
“Tell that to my mother,” Miss Morton said with a smile.
George took his opening. “The day of your accident you spoke to Gwen about Bridgitte. You told her that you were going to make amends with her. Your mother wanted Bridgitte at the wedding. Does that sound familiar?”
Miss Morton’s brow furrowed. “I think Gwen mentioned it to me, but I do not know that I recall it myself. Maybe.” She bit her lip. “I remember Gwen. Her auburn hair. Or was it Cook?”
George coaxed, “You saw Mrs. Sandler. Do you remember her?”
She nodded her head slowly. “I think I remember. It is all so foggy.”
“You saw your father as well. He said you were heading to talk with your sister.” George did not want to lead her too much, but if she could recall any little bit of information it might well open the floodgates.
Miss Morton shook her head. “No. I do not want to anymore. I do not want to remember.” George noticed how she shook, and a tear slid down her face. He quickly came around the table and put his hand on her arm. “What is your name?”
He was surprised by the question but if it helped her focus on something other than her anxiety then it did no harm. “My name is George,” he said softly. She was shaking so badly that he put his arm around her to steady her. It was then that the tears truly came. She sobbed against his shoulder.
Confusion, fear, or grief; whatever it was she shook with it, George felt like a monster for putting her through it. He closed his eyes and rubbed her back soothingly. “It is alright.”
After several minutes, her shaking subsided and she sat up awkwardly keeping her eyes away from him. “Do not be embarrassed, Miss Morton. It might not seem like an improvement, but this means you are very close to remembering.”
“I do not want to remember,” Miss Morton whispered, her voice dry and cracked with emotion.
He did not blame her for that. He did not know if he would want to remember under the same circumstances or not. “We do not have to try again right now, or even in the next few days.”
“Would that I could just forget forever. Perhaps I could just be a new person.” She pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed her reddened eyes.
George knew that feeling. “It feels easier to push it all away, push it down and lock it out of your mind, but it will still be there. It will just eat you up from the inside.”
“Like you?” Miss Morton looked at him, her eyes the sea after the storm.
George nodded. “Like me, Miss Morton.”
“I like your name, George,” Miss Morton whispered as she looked away.
He nodded even though she could not see him. He took a breath and asked, “I have heard your father and mother call you Priscilla. That is a lovely name.”
She looked around at me. “My sister calls me Priss. I always hated that name.”
“I promise not to call you that,” George vowed.
Miss Morton gave him a smile weathered by the storm and George felt hope that she was recovering. He whispered, “My brother calls me Georgie sometimes. I always hated that too.”
“As adorable as I think the name is, I promise not to refer to you as such.” Miss Morton laughed lightly and drew in a breath as she straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for not making me feel ashamed of how I behaved. I am sorry that I subjected you to that. I do not even want to think of what my mother would say if she knew.”
George waved off her concern. “It is our secret. A patient always has her doctor’s full confidence. I shall never breathe a word of it.”
“You must have lots of secrets.” Miss Morton’s mouth twitched as if she were trying to not laugh.
George gave her a wink. “More than you think.”
He stood up and smoothed down his jacket. He cleaned up their tray and made his way over to the rope to call the maid back. Miss Morton turned towards him. “I guess our time is up for the day?”
“I think it would be best if you rested for the rest of the day.” George wondered if it was disappointment that he saw go over her face.
Miss Morton nodded her head slowly. “Am I to only get one constitutional a day then?”
“Today has been rather stressful,” George began, then he changed his mind. “I shall leave that up to your discretion. I do not want you to feel caged in by my restrictions.”
She gave him a smile. “I suppose I shall wait and see how I feel then.”
“That is a very wise decision,” George agreed.
Gwen came into the room and gave him a curtsey. “Doctor Rowley. How is our patient?”
“She is grumpy,” Miss Morton called, which earned a snicker from Gwen.
George confided, “She is a bit tired. We worked on her memory and it was a draining session.”
Gwen frowned and looked over at Miss Morton. Miss Morton waved off Gwen’s expression. “I am going up to my room to rest.”
“I can take the tray to the kitchen, if you aid her,” George told Gwen who seemed happy to stay with her friend. George left the ladies with a bow and headed with the tray to the kitchen
The halls were quiet. He nodded his head at the doorman as he passed by the front door. He pushed the kitchen door open with his foot and was greeted by Mrs. Sandler’s warm chuckle. “Put you to work, have they?”
“Not at all, I begged for the chance to stop by your lovely kitchen,” George bantered back as he set the tray down. Despite her protest, he unloaded the tray for her. “Do you always protest having help so loudly?”
Mrs. Sandler informed him, “There are scullery maids who need to earn their keep.”
“I dare say they have already earned their wages with the number of trays I have seen sent out all over this household.” George settled down on the stool and sighed heavily.
“Heavy heart or full stomach?” Mrs. Sandler poured a cup of coffee and pushed it across the large wooden table toward him.
George smiled at the woman and took the coffee with a grateful nod. “I think a bit of both.”
***
Priscilla waited anxiously for the doctor to come by the next morning. She had had Gwen lay out one of her favourite dresses. Her brown hair was pinned up off the nape of her neck and graceful curls lay against her cheeks.
Gwen watched her with an amused expression. “You sure look awful fancy for a constitutional.”
“Cannot a lady simply grow tired of looking like a washerwoman?” Priscilla refused to give in to the embarrassment. She had a right to dress how she chose, within reason. She was perfectly modest, and her mother always said that a lady should dress well.
Gwen nodded. “Ya never looked like you did a day of laundry in your life.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. “You seem sore this morning. Is something bothering you?”
“I fix ya hair every day, Miss. I do not appreciate it being spoken of as such.” Her chin rose as she spoke.
The Awakening 0f A Forbidden Passion (Historical Regency Romance) Page 16
