A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  “How long do you suspect his amnesia will beset him?” Constance asked for probably the twentieth time.

  The physician stamped his cane on the wood floor. “I have told you, Miss Pamberley,” he responded forcefully, “cases of this nature have been known to resolve in a day, others not for years. There is no way of knowing. How am I to convince you of my beliefs?”

  She ignored this. “But you have said there is nothing physically wrong with him, so could he not be moved without harm?”

  “Without physical harm. But he is so well settled within your walls, and gives every appearance of thriving under the care of”—he pointed his cane toward the door—“your sisters, that I am convinced he ought to remain right where he is. I fear that to move him to a place where he will be surrounded by a new passel of strangers would cause permanent damage. But this I have said before. Several times.”

  “You add no confidence to my fears, sir,” she retorted, pacing the library, also for perhaps the twentieth time. “I am convinced his family is nigh on sick with worry at his absence. We do a great disservice keeping him here. He has been in our house five days now and not one inquiry.”

  “So you have said,” he responded wearily. “More than once.”

  She heard a thump against the door and then Katherine’s hushed voice saying, “Do stop shoving at me, Celeste. Marianne, what did the doctor say?”

  All four of her sisters were clustered on the other side of the richly grained mahogany door, waiting the outcome of the interview. She had already told them—as well as the young gentleman—that she felt obligated to place him in the care of Dr. Deane at Four-Mile-Cross. No one had as yet come to Lady Brook asking after Mr. Albion. Dr. Deane, with his large practice, would undoubtedly enjoy greater success in finding Mr. Albion’s family.

  The younger sisters had protested strongly against Mr. Albion’s removal from the house, since his health was obviously so precarious. Actually, all had protested except Augusta, who had listened to the quarrel with intense misery, especially when Constance firmly announced Mr. Albion must go. Then she had turned the shade of oyster pearls and fainted.

  Once she had been revived through the help of Marianne’s vinaigrette, the argument had been rejoined and each sister had pressed home her own particular point. Katherine insisted the poor gentleman was still not sufficiently recovered to be moved from the sickroom, Celeste stated emphatically that she had not yet completed stitching the rents in his coat sleeve to her satisfaction, and Marianne announced that she had fallen so violently in love with Mr. Albion that were he to leave Lady Brook she would fall into a decline and perish.

  Augusta was still too dizzy from swooning to add her voice to the quarrel.

  Constance, viewing Mr. Albion through a practical eye, felt these arguments were ridiculous beyond words. For one thing, Marianne frequently fell violently in love and prophesied her demise in the absence of her current favorite. For another, though Mr. Albion gave the appearance of bearing a delicate constitution, she was convinced that any young man bent on taking Lady Brook Bend at a neck-or-nothing pace could not be as helpless as he appeared. Finally, with regard to his apparel, Celeste was merely being overly fastidious, as well she knew.

  Constance was convinced that he must go, and the sooner the better.

  “So, Dr. Kent, are you telling me that in your opinion, he should stay?”

  Dr. Kent nodded impatiently. “I have said nothing else for the past hour.” He rose to his feet. “You are a stubborn young woman and in many ways persuasive, but your tenacity in holding me captive in your library all this time, and pelting me with the same questions again and again, will not move me to alter my opinions. And now, if you please, I must go. I have a patient awaiting my attention in Reading.”

  Constance felt a measure of panic rise in her chest. Dr. Deane would not take Mr. Albion without Dr. Kent’s approval. She tried another tack. “But, sir, will you not at least stay to nuncheon? You must be feeling a trifle peckish since it is past noon.”

  Dr. Kent dipped his head and glared at her over his spectacles. “I wouldn’t stay if you were serving a twelve-course meal such as is served at the Pavilion.”

  His words, his demeanor, brought a reluctant smile to her lips. She surrendered. “Very well—if you must go.”

  He chuckled. He seemed to understand her quite well. “Thank you for the brandy—it was very good. I am sorry I can’t be of service to you.” His eye then took on a peculiar gleam as he looked at her steadfastly for a moment. He touched the tip of his finger to his chin. “Miss Pamberley, by any chance, are you in need of a husband?”

  Constance was entirely taken aback by this odd turn of conversation. “No, as it happens, I am not,” she stated, wondering what he was about. She couldn’t help but smile.

  “Pity.”

  “Now, why is that?” she asked. “Do you have a nephew in need of a housekeeper disguised as a wife?” Dr. Kent knew she saw to the management of Lady Brook.

  He gave a crack of laughter and his blue eyes sparkled. “I like your manner of funning very much, and your style, though a trifle managing, quite pleases me—arch, determined—you’ve no idea. But I must confess, I do not have a nephew, I was thinking of myself. I am a physician by choice, but I have a snug property in Wiltshire, four thousand a year, and a dislike of children.” His gaze grew penetrating. He added, as though recollecting for a moment his initial impulse, “Besides, you are uncommonly pretty. You might even be beautiful were you to wear something other than what is, by general account I am sure, a quite fetching cap.”

  Constance was astonished. “Are you offering for me, Dr. Kent?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  He nodded and smiled. He was probably fifty if a day, balding, and portly. He was also oddly attractive in a compelling way. She admired his strength. Not many professional men would have withstood her badgering as he had. She respected him for that.

  Alas, however, he was assuming a great deal about her. But then, he couldn’t know how much she longed for love, for a true love, for a husband and, yes, for children.

  She extended her hand to him. “You do me a great honor,” she said kindly and sincerely. “But I cannot accept of your offer.”

  “Are you sure? I have an uncanny sensation that we should deal extremely well together.”

  “You may be right. However, my answer must be no.”

  “Well,” he said, showing a faint but amused disappointment, “I know better than to try to argue you into the arrangement.”

  She laughed with him. Then, for her sisters’ benefit, she said in a loud voice, “I am sorry you must be leaving now. I shall have your coach brought ‘round at once. Pray, let me escort you to the drawing room.” She heard her siblings scurry down the hall in the general direction of the nursery, undoubtedly to relate their news to Mr. Albion.

  She led Dr. Kent to the formal receiving room of an elegant azure blue and waited with him until his traveling chariot arrived. They chatted for some few minutes, and when the wheels of the conveyance were heard to crunch on the gravel of the drive, she began slowly walking him to the door, aware that she was reluctant to surrender his companionship entirely. She enjoyed the company of intelligent, strong-minded men. She had been her father’s favorite, and his demise eleven years earlier had been a significant loss in her life. With some reluctance did she lead Dr. Kent to his carriage.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Lord Ramsdell had searched through Bedfordshire for five days, hunting his cousin, who had decided that on this particular adventure he would avoid the main highways completely in order to evade his pursuer. But this morning, having on a whim decided to venture into Berkshire, he found the news he had been seeking. At a village just to the south of a mansion known as Lady Brook Cottage, he had finally learned of Charles’s whereabouts. Apparently, a young man fitting Charles’s description, but suffering from some sort of memory loss, had crashed into the fence at Lady Brook and had been cared for by five
spinsters of small means since.

  Ramsdell received the information at first with relief, then with strong irritation that he had been forced to hunt for his cousin for days on end and now must rescue him from a household of impoverished females undoubtedly determined to keep him. The landlord at the Turtle Inn had opened his budget quite thoroughly on the precise nature of the Pamberley sisters—their beauty, their penurious state, and the managing eldest sibling who would not permit any of the ladies to marry unless the husband was in possession of a fortune.

  He was in no tender mood to deal with a set of country mushrooms. So it was that he found himself nearing the now-infamous Lady Brook Bend in the devil’s own temper. Through the fine tall fir trees he could see the outlines in the distance of a mellowed brick house reputed to have some fifteen bedchambers and a fine prospect of the entire neighborhood positioned as it was on a lovely rise.

  When the lane opened up into a long, inviting stretch of excellent highway, he slapped his spirited team across their backs with the reins and let them have their head.

  One more turn, if he had judged the landscape properly, would bring him to Lady Brook.

  The wind moved briskly over his face, and for the first time in his vigilant pursuit of a relative he intended to strangle when next he laid eyes on him, he felt better. He was an accomplished horseman and driver and had been a member of the Four-in-Hand Club since his first days in London. He was fully confident he could manage the turn which the landlord of the Turtle Inn indicated had been the bane of many a notable whip. Charles, apparently, had succumbed to the difficulty of the endeavor. For himself, he would be appropriately cautious, yet would hold nothing back.

  The turn approached quickly. He could see the bend was sharp, yet the remainder of the lane was sufficiently wide for two coaches to pass each other. He eased his horses back a trifle and began rounding the bend with skill. He had succeeded at a dozen far more difficult than this, and he scoffed at his cousin’s lack of skill. He was not prepared, however, for the deer that bounded some ten feet out of the forest directly in front of his horses, then darted back to safety just in time. His horses were not prepared either. They immediately bolted and swerved, and before Ramsdell knew what was happening, his team was racing through a breach in a white picket fence, crossing a border of some kind of purple flower and dashing headlong over a wide stretch of green lawn. In a matter of seconds the path would take them crashing directly into another coach and pair, beside which stood a tall woman and a portly gentleman, who were eyeing his approach with horrified eyes. He realized they would not have sufficient time to move.

  He rose up like a gladiator, knowing such an effort was his only chance at saving the lives before him as well as his own. He let go of a dreadful oath and pulled with all his might on the reins.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Time had slowed to a standstill for Constance. A tall, broad-shouldered man careening across her lawn in a dashing curricle led by two panicked chestnuts was heading straight toward herself and the good doctor. She was frozen by the knowledge that she would soon be dead, as well as the physician, who took strong hold of her hand and said, “By Jove, what a way to pay one’s debt to nature!”

  Constance had laughed a little hysterically, then the driver of the curricle had risen up like an ancient Celtic warrior commanding his chariot.

  “Hell and damnation!” he had said, cursing the air. He pulled hard on the reins. The horses swerved and drew to a painfully abrupt halt directly beside Dr. Kent’s traveling chariot. The warrior, however, was sent flying through the air to strike the ground hard and tumble twice across the rough gravel to land facedown at her feet. His cheek was scraped and bleeding, he had lost his hat, and his left arm was bent at an unnatural angle. He didn’t move at all, but his back rose and fell with reassuring regularity.

  The very air grew remarkably quiet. Even the habitually noisy robins and larks had silenced their melodies for a brief moment. The only sound to be heard was the blowing of the chestnuts and the shuddering of their flanks as they stood frightened and paralyzed on the drive.

  She heard the door behind her open. Constance turned, her eyes dry with shock, and watched Morris step out onto the shallow steps.

  The butler surveyed the odd scene before him. His bushy gray brows rose in some surprise. “What, again?” he queried.

  Constance nodded slowly.

  Dr. Kent turned and stared at him for a stunned moment, then met Constance’s shocked gaze as she slowly shifted back to the man lying at her feet. He queried, “Just how often does this happen?”

  “This is the sixth, no, seventh, occurrence this year,” she stated faintly. “Recently, when I was inquiring of the landlord at the Turtle about Mr. Albion’s possible identity, I learned that Lady Brook Bend has gained a certain notoriety among the sporting set.”

  “Indeed, it seems he was right. I know this man. He is reputed a great Corinthian in London circles, a nonesuch, which makes it a wonder that he was unable to navigate the bend better than this.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Ramsdell. Viscount Ramsdell. A rather hardened fellow by all accounts. Good God, will you look at that arm. Well, well, it appears I shall be staying with you for a little while longer after all.” He then took command of the situation by ordering Stively to see to the horses and carriages and Morris to bring several pairs of hands to move what anyone could see was a large, well-built man of athletic physique and undoubtedly corresponding weight.

  Constance added, “Prepare the buttery. He’s broken his arm and perhaps more. Dr. Kent will need room to work.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ramsdell awoke and didn’t know where he was. His head ached like the devil, and other parts of him as well. His face burned in spots. His left arm was wrapped up tightly and strapped to his chest. He felt as weak as a kitten.

  Good God, he’d taken the devil of a spill!

  The accident came back to him—the deer, the fright of his horses, the mad dash across a lush lawn, the sight of a man and woman . . . had he killed them?

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. He didn’t think so, but his memory was hazy.

  Where was he? How long had he been here? Where was here? He smelled herbs or something of the like.

  He opened his eyes and stared up at a faded blue canopy. The walls to the right were painted a pale blue and a sampler stitched quite intricately and portraying an elegant peacock was the only adornment. The wall opposite the bed held a single chest of drawers on which three tapers glowed softly. Beside the chest was a closed door, leading, he supposed, to a hallway beyond.

  With some difficulty, he turned his head to the left and saw that the fireplace was aglow—how odd for summer—and a heavy pot, hung on a bracket over the coals, sent aromatic steam into the air. Ah, a broth of some sort. With a harder twisting yet, a strange view came into sight of a tall woman, stretched out in what seemed to him a deuced uncomfortable half-reclining position, asleep on a daybed. She was dressed in nightclothes and a robe with some sort of cloth clutched in her hand.

  She awoke suddenly with a start, seemed to recollect herself, relaxed, stretched, and yawned. Her long, light brown hair was draped about her shoulders and down the front of her robe. Though she looked very tired, he could not remember seeing such a beautiful face before—or maybe he was dreaming, or perhaps the firelight was confusing his eyesight. Still, she blinked several times, apparently trying to awaken herself.

  He had a marvelous view of an oval face, sparkling light blue eyes, a straight nose, slightly bowed lips, and a chin with a dimple. He felt the strangest tug somewhere deep in his chest. He smiled faintly. He could fall in love with such a female.

  Good God, he must be delirious to have had such a thought. He was long past his salad days and the foolishness of tumbling in love at first sight. For all he knew, she meant to compromise him by her presence in his bedchamber at what appeared to be an ungodly hour and demand
he marry her.

  He drew in a long, deep breath and felt very sad suddenly. When had he become so dashed cynical?

  She glanced toward him. Had she read his thoughts? She sat up, her brows lifted in surprise. “Are you awake?” she asked softly.

  “What a silly question,” he said through strangely thickened lips. His mouth was wretchedly dry. “Of course I am.”

  The relief that flooded her face, however, did not add to his confidence one whit.

  “You are awake,” she stated. “Do you know where you are?”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated very hard on the question. “Lady Brook,” he said, “by my closest estimation.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, precisely.” She rose from the chaise-longue and took up a straight-backed chair next to his bed. She drew very close and took hold of his hand. He was immeasurably comforted by the touch of her soft, warm fingers and again his chest tightened and tugged. He swallowed.

  She said, “Now, you must tell me exactly what you are feeling at this moment.”

  She was searching his eyes, and he was embarrassed by the question. Should he tell her of the sudden rush of affection that seemed to be pouring out of his heart toward her at this very moment? Was that what she meant for him to say?

  She explained. “The doctor has left specific instructions to be administered once you awoke, so you must tell me, are you chilled, or hot? Hungry, thirsty?”

  Oh, those kinds of feelings. “I feel as though I’m lying in a lake of water, and, yes, I feel cold.”

  She smiled faintly. “You’ve been perspiring for the past several hours. You may feel uncomfortable because of it, but I assure you, it gave us such hope.”

  Hope? “Why?”

  She pinched her lips together quickly. He didn’t like that. She meant to conceal something.

  “No,” he said sharply. “Tell me.”

  She drew in a deep breath as though to fortify her nerves. “You suffered a terrible fall and broke your left forearm in two places. The bone—” She broke off for a moment before continuing, her eyes searching his. “The bone pierced the skin. There was a great deal of blood and later infection, but you were fortunate to have been in the hands of a very fine surgeon at the time. Indeed, I have since considered the circumstances and timing of your arrival as extremely fortuitous.”