“Cecilia, I cannot fathom why you were so rude to our guest.”
“He was my guest?”
The woman’s lips flattened to displeasure. “He wishes to pay you the compliment of his addresses.”
“What?”
“We do not say ‘what,’ Cecilia!”
Then what did they say? She put a hand to her head. “My head aches.”
“Then I think it best you return to your room.”
“Is it my room? I don’t remember.”
Her mother sighed, grumbled something, then stalked from the room, muttering about finding her father. Without further pause she turned the French door’s handle, stepped outside.
Coolness nipped her cheeks, tore through the light fabric of her gown. Pebbles pushed through the thin soles of her slippers. It was cold.
The tang of smoke and earth and dead leaves wafted to her nose. She sneezed, but pressed on. Something was down this path, she felt sure. Twigs brushed her face and she turned down another path, trailing her hand along the pointed tops of a stone wall. Why could she remember the names of such things but still not know her own? She might be Cecilia, or she might not.
Eventually the path gave way to a small thatched cottage, its chimney curling smoke. Who lived here? She moved closer to the window, saw an old lady inside, sitting in a chair. The lady looked up. Jumped. Her mouth fell open.
Seconds later the door opened. “Miss Cecilia?”
Maybe she really was this Cecilia, as they all avowed. After all, it would have been something of a feat to create so many dresses that fit her so exactly, although she supposed they could have taken her measurements whilst she’d been lying in bed …
“Miss Cecilia?” The old lady touched her arm.
She jerked away.
“Please, please come in. I can get you a nice cup of tea.”
A nice cup of tea sounded nice. Better than a not-nice cup of tea, anyway …
Within minutes she was sitting by the fire, teacup in hand, half listening as the lady chattered on. She had kind eyes, at least.
“You have kind eyes,” she said.
Those kind eyes seemed to blink away tears. “Thank you, Miss Cecilia.”
“Is my name Cecilia?”
“Yes, yes, it is,” she said gently. “I knew you when you were a baby.”
“Really?”
She sighed. “I remember when you used to call me Cherry.”
A spark of—something—fired, then quickly subsided. “Why don’t I remember?”
“You had a bad accident, my dear.
That scar on your forehead.” The scar, so ugly, like jagged red teeth across her brow. How could the marquess have said she looked so well?
“I don’t look pretty.”
“Oh, my dear …”
The lady’s face was wrinkling into tears. She was tired of so much emotion. She stood up. “I need to go now.”
“Oh, but you just got here.”
“I need to go.” She pushed past the hands that looked to want to hold her. “Thank you for the tea.” That’s what she was supposed to say. She stopped in the hallway. “I like your cottage.”
“Do you remember helping me here last summer?” the older lady asked, almost eagerly.
She glanced about. Shook her head.
The old woman’s face fell.
Was she supposed to say something to make her feel better? “It’s very little.”
“Why, yes. But it’s perfect for me.”
“Yes. You are little, too.”
The old lady laughed. “Dear Cecilia. So this is what years of politeness have masked.”
This lady was strange, too. She pushed her lips into something that might be a smile and grasped the door handle.
“You did not bring a wrap, did you?”
“No.”
“It is cold out. Please, wait here.”
But she wanted to go. So when the lady left the room she left, too, hurrying down the path.
“Miss Cecilia!”
She stopped. Glanced over her shoulder. The old lady was hobbling on a stick, clutching a big gray coat. A man’s coat, it seemed. “Please, put this on. It will protect you from that nasty wind.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do indeed, Miss Cecilia.”
The note of firmness arrested her attention, causing another faint flicker in her mind.
“Very well.”
She shrugged into the coat, noting its size several times too large. “Why do you have this?”
“It was left behind some months ago.”
She nodded, thanked her, and walked to the lane.
“Miss Cecy!”
She turned, and as she did, caught the faintest scent of bergamot and sandalwood and musk. She closed her eyes, drew in a deeper breath. Felt herself sway. This scent. She knew this scent.
“Miss Cecilia?” An arm was wrapped about her; she did not shrug it away. “Please, you do not look well. Please, come back inside.”
The dizziness in her head made her clutch at the smaller lady for support. “Who … who?”
“Who am I? I am Mrs. Cherry,” the older lady said, worry back in her eyes.
“No, no. The coat. Whose coat is this?”
The lips tilted, the eyes gentled. “That was one left behind by my former charge, Mr. Edward Amherst.”
A word formed. A memory firmed. Her skin prickled, then grew icy. “Ned Amherst?”
“Yes. I believe he was your friend.”
Her friend?
Her friend.
Oh …
Her body slumped. She was vaguely aware of shouts, of muttered thanks, of her shivers. She was picked up but could not protest, her face within the folds of the coat as she inhaled the scent she’d dreamed of. Bergamot. Sandalwood. Musk.
Tenderness. Security. Love.
The Thames glistened, the bitter wind sharp against his cheeks, but still he stood watching the boats ferrying passengers and goods. He’d be late to the office from his errand but he cared little for what Lionel might say. What would it be like to sail away? To leave London and his failures and start afresh where no one knew him?
Ships sailed for the Antipodes every Friday, the voyage only taking four months now, with stops at Brazil and Cape Town, among others. He had spoken to those at the Office for the Colonies, had presented a letter outlining his skills and services. The secretary he had spoken to sounded most impressed—he’d probably had few expressions of interest from sons of earls before—and had assured him of a speedy answer. He had thanked him, but the promise of a future far away held little joy.
Recent news meant joy was hard to find. Hawkesbury’s missive about the government’s intentions to suppress reform had felt like a body blow, stealing air from his purpose, from his plans. Hawkesbury had expressed his sorrow, had urged him not to give up, but it felt so hard. Too hard.
The boat tantalized, the flags flapping in the arctic breeze, as if begging him to forget his failures. He supposed life in the Antipodes would allow him to start anew. He could be known for who he was now, not have the past trail him like a bad smell. The only thing that gave a measure of concern was the thought he’d be so far away from his mother, and he feared such news might break her heart. His lips flattened. He’d nearly done that once before.
Thoughts of others—one particular other—he locked inside, not daring to speak her name. The news was not as hopeful as expected; she had no memories.
Mother’s letter yesterday had said as much, that Lady Aynsley was beside herself, saying that Cecilia had lost all sense of propriety and had grown headstrong and contrary, and taken to wandering off to strange places. Such knowledge only hurt his heart; if he was her husband he might be able to protect her, but Lady Aynsley had made her feelings plain. Cecy’s own words had made her feelings clear. His love still burned yet was doomed to die.
He would just need to reconcile himself with the fact that Simon would at least love her. His lip
s tweaked. Although it would be interesting to see his sweet shy Cecy headstrong …
He turned away, flagged down a hackney, was driven back to the offices, did his best to focus on the briefs he’d been presented with, then went to his flat in Aldford Street.
Griffiths welcomed him, pushed forward some letters. Another one, from his mother. He scanned it, pursed his lips. “She wants me home.”
“And that be quite natural, sir, it be getting close to Christmas and all.”
Christmas? He did not care.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but if you truly be thinking about leaving, then perhaps your mother might appreciate seeing more of you now, especially as they won’t get the chance once you’re gone.”
The corners of his lips twitched. “True.”
“So, does that mean you’ll go back to Somerset?” his valet asked, hope lining his voice.
“I suppose so. If Lionel agrees.”
“I don’t know why he would not, sir, seeing as you’ve been working as hard as you have and all. And as your mother is his sister. Well, I be right glad to hear it, sir. I think it will do y—us both a lot of good.”
Ned eyed his servant with an upraised brow. “Have I been that much of a trial?”
“You haven’t been your usual self, if I may say so, sir.”
But this was his usual now. A state of flatness where he had few expectations beyond the day. Hoping for anything else meant being destined for disappointment.
“When shall we leave, sir?”
“I don’t know. When Lionel can excuse us.”
“Well, I know your parents will be that glad to see you again. It will be good indeed to visit the old place once more.”
Perhaps it would. But going home meant he was likely to see …
Her.
CHAPTER THİRTY
WINTER HAD CAST its icy spell over the landscape, glazing the woods, lacing the trees. A pretty wintry wonderland that looked so enchanting from her bedroom window. But she knew it to be not quite so charming now, her icy walk a week ago leading to chills and long days spent in bed.
But time alone had allowed time to think, for the snatched blurs of her memory to sharpen, firm.
“Who is Ned?” she’d asked her mother.
“Nobody. No one with whom you should concern yourself, do you understand me?”
For someone who was a nobody, he seemed to have a powerful impact on her mother. “Why?”
The reactions of those around her suggested she might have formerly not asked such direct questions, or perhaps hidden them under layers of polite obliqueness. Had she been so meek? If only she could recall. Wisps of memory strengthened every day. She now knew herself to be Cecilia Hatherleigh; that the lady constantly badgering her was indeed her mother; that this too-large estate was her home. And that she and this Ned Amherst shared a strange and powerful connection.
“He is supposed to be nothing to you.”
“Why?”
Again, that question had her mother struggling for an answer. Eventually she hefted out a large sigh; something she did with great frequency.
“Perhaps you don’t yet remember, but when we were at Aldershot House, you and the marquess were forming quite an attachment.”
“The marquess who was here last week?”
“Yes. Lord Abbotsbury, to whom you behaved most abominably. It is most unfortunate, but he has been called away to his estates in the north.”
“That is unfortunate,” she finally said, conscious the pause meant she was supposed to give a response. “But who is this Ned?”
Her mother waved an impatient hand. “Oh, nothing but a neighbor. You have no care for him.”
“Really?”
But further enquiry refused answers, and her mother had soon left the room.
Later, in her bedchamber, she was once more hunting through her things, searching for anything to give clues about her past, about the mystery of this man. Her father was elsewhere, and she did not really want to gossip with the servants. But her clothes and accessories held no secrets. Her lap desk and Bible held few clues. How could she ever learn more about her past?
She sneezed, drew her thick robe closer, and pressed her forehead against the windowpane. Her head did not ache so much these days, something to be thankful about. “Thank You, God.”
The discovery of the Bible had at least revealed she had belief in God, a personal belief, that He not only was real but that He listened. That He cared. That He was love. She enjoyed reading the verses she’d once underlined; they made the passages come alive.
A visit from Lady Rovingham had helped also. She had explained about faith, had talked about prayer, had even prayed aloud for her, while Cecy’s mother stared. But the prayer had helped, she’d felt better, so she’d prayed as often as she remembered to. She chuckled. Funny that she remembered that.
A knock came at the door. She turned, called to enter.
“A package was delivered for you, Miss.”
She thanked the footman, then, when he was gone, used her paperknife to slice open the paper-wrapped parcel. A book. No, a journal.
She peered at the return address. Aldershot. The place where she had her accident?
A card inside said:
Dear Miss Hatherleigh,
I trust this note finds you feeling better, and well on the road to recovery. We believe this journal belongs to you, and regret it was not sent earlier. It appears to have slipped behind the dressing table in your mother’s room, and was wedged where no one could see it. Please accept our deepest apologies for the delay in its return.
With all good wishes for your speedy recovery, etc., etc.
Henrietta Aldershot
Her journal? She traced the embossed leather cover, then opened it.
Words, words, words. So many pages of words. She flicked through to the end. Only a few empty pages remained. She returned to the beginning and started to read.
IT WAS DARK by the time she finished. She knew now her mother had lied. She knew now just why she had thought she shared a connection with this Ned Amherst man. She had once believed herself in love with him. It seemed she had outgrown that notion. But that still didn’t explain why she thought she remembered a man’s lips on her brow, the sense of his chin abrading her cheek, and why this scent would have such power. For—despite her close reading—she could find nothing in her journal referring to these things.
Had that happened after the accident? Oh, if only she could know.
If only she could see him and ask.
A tap at the door was swiftly followed by her mother’s entry. “Ah, there you are, my dear. But out of bed?”
“I have been reading.” Cecy held up the journal. “This is my journal, isn’t it?”
Her mother’s breath caught.
“Mother? This is my journal?”
“Yes. I … I have not seen that for quite some time.”
“It arrived today from Aldershot.”
“Did it? Well, that was very good of them to send it on.”
“It was.” Cecy eyed her mother closely. “Apparently it was stuck behind a table in your room.”
Was that shame pinking her mother’s cheeks?
“I read it, and I learned about the past.”
“You remember?” Her mother’s eyes lit.
“No. But it gave great insight as to what I’d done in the past months.” And what she’d felt, and about whom she’d dreamed.
Ned Amherst. She had to speak with him. For he seemed to hold all the keys to her lost memories.
“Well, I’m sure things will come back to you one day.”
“And if they don’t?”
Her mother’s brows rose. “But they must.”
“Why? Because otherwise I’ll forever be your broken daughter?”
“No! No, no. You could never be that. Cecilia, dearest one, I love you so very much.”
Those words … that broken note. She closed her eyes, straining to rem
ember. The memory was there. It was there. But it kept slipping away, water droplets refusing to be caught, sliding ever out of reach.
“Cecy? Darling? Are you remembering?”
She opened her eyes. Shook her head. Bit her wobbling lip. “I hate not remembering who I am!”
Tears filled, then spilled, and she cried and cried in her mother’s arms.
It was good to be back in Somersetshire. Good to see his parents, good to see Franklin Park, even good to see John. Ned had never been especially fond of winter, but here the chilled air seemed to hold purpose, seemed to make sense. Here the fields and coppice held a stark beauty, something that caused a momentary lift to his heart.
During the past days he’d found himself slipping back into the old ways, the old rhythms. His rides. His visits to the tenants. Times of solitude, much like what he’d experienced back at the start of the year, as his body healed, and his soul grew strong again.
It was good to be back. And yet …
Ned paused at the path, the juncture between Rovingham House and Aynsley Manor. He longed to see her, but feared to, also. Not because of what she looked like—Mother had said the scar was healing well—but because he could not bear to think she’d forgotten him, too. How could he have spent so long unaware of her? How could he have spent so much time ignorant of her excellent qualities? Why had it taken him so long to realize just what a precious person she was, only to have her nearly snatched away in the next breath?
Such knowledge arrowed regrets within, making him soul-sore, snappish, dejected.
The wind shivered past his ears, moaning in a way that hurried his feet to Cherry’s door. He knocked, she opened, her smile as warm as the toasty air inside.
“Master Edward! How wonderful to see you again.”
“And you, Cherry.” He dropped a kiss on her hair, passed over the package. “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, but it’s not Christmas until next week!”
“I know.” He shrugged from his coat, went to hang it up. Paused. “This looks like my coat, Cherry.”
“That’s probably because it is.”
He smiled—for the first time in what felt like years. “Did I leave it here?”
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 29
