“I’m still concerned about internal injuries,” the doctor said as they walked toward the green room. “It’s possible a slow internal bleed could be causing the lack of appetite.”
When Emma walked in the room, Phillip was sitting in a plush chair by the window with his leg propped up on an ottoman to help keep swelling down. Face pale, his blue eyes had a haunted look in them. He was rubbing the scar on the left side of his face, a scar he had before arriving at their home. She watched as the doctor sat across from him.
“Is your eye hurting?” he asked in concern.
“No,” the man answered in a dreamy, far off voice.
“Lady Amelia told me about the restless dream you experienced a week ago. Does the dream have anything to do with the scar near your eye?”
He nodded his head in the affirmative.
“Did you get it when you climbed a tree?”
His head came up at the question. “Was I speaking out loud?”
“Yes. You said the name Marianne a few times,” Lady Amelia said as she walked over to him. “Do you know who Marianne is?”
He smiled as he responded, “My sister. She climbed an apple tree when she was younger. She went too high, and I climbed up to help guide her down.”
The doctor smiled at him and picked his hand up to check his pulse. “It’s promising to have you regain a memory.”
Emma wanted to cry for him when he looked over at her mother and asked, “Did I say any other names?”
Her mother shook her head. “You did call out for your father.”
He looked questioningly at her mother. “I did?”
“Does this surprise you?” the doctor asked.
“I’m not certain.”
Phillip turned his head and continued looking out the window. He didn’t speak again as the doctor checked him.
“I believe we have given him a dose or two too much of laudanum. His mind should clear by tomorrow,” the doctor said as he stood to leave.
Emma walked over to the chair the doctor vacated and picked up the book on the side table. She opened to the page he had marked as his last reading spot and read Macbeth to him as he continued to stare out the window.
As she read the scene where the witches predicted Macbeth would be king one day, he looked up and asked, “How do you think the story would have gone if Macbeth didn’t speak to the witches?”
Emma was taken by surprise but thought it an interesting question. “I suppose he wouldn't have been power hungry wouldn’t have sought the throne.”
“Do you think,” he asked, “Lady Macbeth would have spurred the ambition in him even without the help of the witches?”
She noticed a look of intrigue in his eyes as he spoke about the literature. The subject seemed to bring life back into him. “I believe there are some women in this world who make a living out of vexing their husbands,” Emma said with a smile. “I have an uncle who would say this about his wife.”
He chuckled a little before asking, “Was she a wife of his choosing? Or was it an arranged marriage?”
She was taken aback by his question. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “I want to marry for love.” He laughed. “I have amnesia. I have no idea if I have always wanted this or if it’s new for me.” He looked back out the window. “Was their marriage one of love or convenience?”
Emma smiled. “It was one of convenience. But I believe they made the match during a London season. My uncle has been known to say my aunt was looking for a husband with a title and money.”
“What was he looking for when he married her?”
“I think he was looking for a wife and future heirs,” she admitted. “Neither one was in it for love.”
He kept his eyes on her. “Do you want a marriage of love or one of convenience?”
She knew her cheeks went red as he finished his question, but she wanted to answer him. “I want a marriage of love.”
She watched as he turned his head again to look out the window. When he didn’t say anything more, she picked the book back up and resumed the reading.
Nine
The inhabitants of Wentworth Hall were in full mourning. The family wore black as each day continued without information regarding Phillip. Edward often spent time in his brother’s library, trying to feel close to him while contemplating what had happened. Why hadn’t he known his brother was in trouble? As a twin, he should have known something was off. He could only attribute the lack of insight to his activities of the afternoon. Even the thought of Lady Caroline and his attentions to her made him ill. After eight weeks the constable was still unable to give the family and Ashby’s solicitor conclusive information regarding the disappearance and the shooting.
The piano his brother played so well was lonely by the window. It’d been too long since Phillip sat playing songs of his composition. Edward didn’t have musical abilities. Music wasn’t interesting enough when they were younger, and he hadn’t developed the talent. Over the years he enjoyed listening to his brother and sisters as they played, but as he sat at the piano remembering his twin, he wished he could reproduce some of the music the house had been filled with for so many years.
“Edward.”
He looked over to the door as his parents entered. Lady Ashby wore a plain black dress, and Ashby had the same black band on his arm as Edward. His mother walked over, and he moved on the piano bench so she could sit next to him. Although it made him ill, every time his mother saw him she grabbed him and cried.
He and Phillip were identical, other than a scar on Phillip’s face by his left eye. Before he received the scar, the only way anyone could tell them apart was by their personalities. Phillip was philosophical, musical, and a lover of classical books. Edward was a flirt, who loved to joke around and make his family laugh. Of late, he hadn’t found anything to laugh about.
“Edward, your mother and I need to speak with you.” Ashby sat in a plush chair close to the piano. “There isn’t an easy way to say this, but our family needs to move forward.”
“I don’t want to move on,” Edward said, holding his mother. He patted her back to comfort her.
“I understand this is difficult. But we are in the forefront of society. People watch and look to us for strength in these types of situations. If a family as strong and wealthy as ours cannot survive the loss of a child, how do we expect others with less to do so?”
“Tell people to stop looking,” Edward responded. He didn’t care about social expectations. If Phillip was dead, words he rarely allowed himself to think, he would need a lot more time to process the loss. “How did society respond when I was sitting in a jail cell? Was it not in the society section?”
“We don’t get the luxury of spurning society. We are expected in town for Parliament. Your brother was going to start taking an active role this year.” He paused as the words sunk in and the situation made itself clear. “As the spare, this responsibility now falls on your shoulders.”
Edward pulled out of his mother’s arms and stood, shaking his head. “No, Father. It’s too early to make this decision.”
“Edward, when they find your brother’s body we will hold a memorial service, and we will pay our respects. But responsibility can’t wait. When my father passed away, I had to take on the role of duke immediately. I didn’t get the luxury of a month—”
“Father, I don’t mean to be disrespectful and I understand what you are saying, but I don’t believe Phillip is gone from this world. I know I would feel his loss much more than I do at present if he were . . . gone.”
Ashby sat back against the chair, eyes closed as though he were trying to control his temper. “Edward, this is much harder on me than it is on you. I will give you another week to come to terms before I announce your move to heir and your new title.”
Edward sat back down on the piano be
nch next to his mother and rested his head on the keys. The piano made the jumbled sound of multiple chords being hit at the same time. Phillip’s title and wealth were to be given to him. How could it be harder on him? he thought with bitterness.
He knew a lot of people who would rejoice at the change in status from the spare to the heir, but he was not one of those men. He wanted to have his brother back much more than a title.
In an effort to forget about the change in title, Edward left the library and found his way down to the stables. He waited for the groom to saddle his horse, Winter. Winter had a coat of white with black hooves and reminded him of fresh fallen snow. Edward rode out to the hillside where they knew Phillip was last, due to the blood they had found. He navigated Winter down the hill and started to search.
Ten
Phillip continued to try and reconcile the dream he experienced with the feeling of anger, hurt, and fear from the memory of his father. He wanted to believe he was a strong, capable man, but the memory he experienced made him feel weak and vulnerable. The fog in his brain cleared by the following morning, but only after he experienced another dream.
The dream started with a boy sleeping under an apple tree in the same orchard he had been in before. The boy had been reading a book but decided to sleep in the warmth of the sun. He already had the scar on his face, indicating this memory took place after the previous. A younger boy snuck up on the one sleeping and took the book, then ran away.
As the book was taken, the sleeping boy woke up and chased the younger.
“Charles, what are you doing with my book?” he called out as he ran to retrieve his novel.
Charles laughed as he ran. He was taunting his older brother. It wasn’t long before they came upon a river. He could tell the last days of summer were approaching and the water in the river was high and flowing faster than the last time he’d been near it. He experienced fear as he looked at the boy getting closer to the raging water.
“Charles, stay away from the water.”
Without warning, while taunting Phillip by pretending to throw the book into the river, the younger boy’s feet slipped, and he fell into the flowing water.
“Phillip!” Charles called as his head came above the water. “Help!” he called before his head went under again.
Phillip sprinted to the river and jumped in. As he fought to take hold of the younger boy and hold him above the water, Phillip’s head went under. The thrashing of the younger boy caused the older to lose his footing. The rush of the water dragged them farther away from home and pulled them both under the water.
Relief came as Phillip grabbed hold of a tree branch and pulled himself and Charles out. His mind registered the struggle he had as he pulled both of them onto the bank of the river.
When Phillip fell on the grass, he noticed his younger brother wasn’t breathing. He turned the boy on his side and started hitting him on the back, trying to release the water and causing him to choke while also coughing and releasing water from his own lungs.
“Don’t die on me, Charles. Please don’t die,” he cried as he continued to hit his brother on the back.
Relief rushed through him as the younger boy coughed up water and let out a breath. Phillip looked up when he heard someone on his left yell. Edward and his parents were running toward him.
“Phillip, what happened? I saw you both go in the water,” Edward yelled as he reached the boys. Both were still coughing to expel the excess water they had swallowed. Phillip tried to catch his breath to speak when their father and mother arrived.
“Charles. Phillip,” their mother said, pulling both of them into her embrace and holding them as she cried. “I almost lost you both.”
“Arundel, what happened?” his father demanded, yanking him by his arm away from his mother.
Gulping in air he replied, “Charles was running, and he fell into the river.” He stopped to catch his breath before continuing. “I jumped in to pull him out. We were both pulled under and—”
His father didn’t wait for the rest of the explanation before he grabbed Phillip’s arm, dragged him back to the river, and forced his head into the water. His father held him down as he fought to be released. Pulling his head out of the water, his father yelled at him, “You could have killed your brother!”
Phillip tried to gasp air before his father pushed his head back under, but he was too busy coughing up water to take in air. His father pushed his head under the water and pulled him out four times before it ended.
Phillip woke with a start and was thankful he didn’t have anyone sitting by his bed. He remembered the fear he experienced while his head was under water. He had never found the opportunity to explain to his father what had happened with Charles. He remembered thinking it was the last time his father would be able to punish him, because he was certain he was going to drown. He also remembered the disappointment when he woke up in his bed the next morning. Doctor Bell, his father’s physician, stayed by his bed until he was able to assure his parents their son would live.
The last thing he remembered from his dream was his name. He now knew his name was Phillip.
He lay awake the rest of the night remembering his fear as the doctor told his parents he would live. He remembered berating himself for fighting his father to get his head out of the water. He wished his father had killed him. As the sun came up, he whispered aloud, “It would have been easier if he’d killed me.”
Emma walked into his room for the first time in a week. He was sitting in a rocking chair across from the nurse, covered in a blanket and looking out the window at the scenery.
Emma knocked on the door to get their attention. “Do you mind if I come in?”
“Please join me,” he said, pointing to another chair. He pushed his breakfast tray away.
She moved the chair closer to him and sat. At first, she also sat looking out the window but then broke the silence by saying, “You’ve been here for more than a month, and we still don’t know your name.”
He thought about telling her his name but decided to wait and see what she had planned. “What do you suggest we do about it?”
She made a show of concentrating hard. “We could give you a temporary name. What about George?”
He scrunched his nose up. “Doesn’t feel right.”
“Nathaniel.”
“Do I look like a Nathaniel?” He drew the words out, showing his reluctance for the name.
“Hmm. No.” She laughed as she said, “Romeo.”
This brought a big smile to his withdrawn face. “Only if I have a Juliet by my side.”
She giggled for a bit and then said, “Fine, if Romeo won’t work, what about James?”
He shook his head, enjoying the flirtation. “Still doesn’t feel right.”
“We could call you William.”
“Is this due to my love of Shakespeare?” he asked.
“You’re right, it does not fit you,” she said, tilting her head to examine him.
He handed her the book he had in his hands. “I’ve been reading The Merchant of Venice. What about Shylock?”
“I think the Duke of Venice matches your stamina much better than Shylock,” she said in jest.
A sudden memory flashed though his mind—a picture of the formidable man he knew was his father when she said “the duke.” It must have shown on his face because she stopped speaking about names and asked, “Are you ill again?”
“No, what about the name Phillip?” he asked, wondering what she would say.
“Phillip? It could work. It isn’t ridiculous like Romeo or Shylock.”
“What if I told you my name is Phillip?”
He watched as she considered his words. “Have you remembered your name?”
He nodded as though it was no big deal.
“Phillip! I’m so happy for you,” Emma sa
id with excitement. “When did you remember?”
“I had a dream last night. I’m certain my name is Phillip.” He rubbed the side of his head.
“You are ill again!”
The nurse stood and walked over to him. “Let me help you back into bed.”
“I’m well enough. Please let me stay here by the window.”
The nurse forced him out of the chair, and Emma helped pull him over to the bed. He watched Emma walk out of the room as the nurse grabbed the bottle of laudanum.
“Please, I don’t want the medication.”
“Don’t argue with me. I can see another headache is starting. Open your mouth.”
He quickly fell back into a drugged sleep.
His first day out of bed found him slowly walking with a pair of crutches. The headache he experienced after the flirtation with Emma ended, and the nurse stopped administering the medication so he could wake from the haze.
Walking with crutches was a strenuous task, but he continued to go for walks, hoping to move from crutches to a cane in record time. The doctor told him not to expect to use a cane for at least another month due to the severity of the breaks.
Emma and Henry walked next to him, both of them ready to catch him if he fell. As time continued, small memories would come back as his mind healed. Many of them were positive, unlike the dreams he experienced under the laudanum. He remembered going to Eton and attending Oxford. He knew he had gone to London for the season every year since he was a boy.
“Is your leg doing well, or should we turn back?” Henry asked in concern.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue.”
Emma looked worried as she responded, “Doctor Price will be displeased if you injure your leg again.”
“I won’t overextend myself.” Phillip hoped his words were reassuring.
“Once we get to the bench, you’re going to rest before returning to the house.” Henry’s tone left no room for argument, and Phillip agreed out of respect for his friends.
When they reached the bench, Henry took the crutches and set them to the side. “Will one of you tell me about your favorite memory?” Phillip asked. He didn’t care which one responded, but he noticed they exchanged a curious glance.
The Earl of Arundel (Earls of England Book 1) Page 6
