The Memory Keeper

by C. J. Archer

  She pulled back to get a better look at him. I couldn't see her face, but I suspected she was as horrified as I felt. How could he speak to his mother like that? His father looked as if he'd explode.

  "We haven't seen you in an age!" Mrs. Gladstone cried.

  He sighed. "How are you both? And is Bert well?" This last question was asked with more earnestness than the first.

  "Well enough. He has missed his brother," Mrs Gladstone said. "Oh, Samuel, why didn't you tell us where you were? It's been months. It's not like you."

  He grunted. "It's exactly like me, Mother. Don't pretend otherwise. Charity—"

  "Samuel!" Mr. Gladstone ground out. "Your mother has asked you a very reasonable question. Answer her."

  Samuel's body went rigid. His dark eyes flashed. "I've been at Frakingham House. I found Mr. Langley and his family to be very accepting of my kind."

  "Your… kind?" Mr. Gladstone's gaze slid to me.

  "You can talk freely around Charity. She knows what I am. She accepts it. Accepts me."

  I thought him overstating my tolerance of his hypnosis, but I didn't say so. I would not get involved in their family squabbles. Indeed, I rather thought I should leave. But it was so terribly interesting. My curiosity had been prodded until it was standing to attention. I wanted to learn all I could about Samuel, and this seemed to be a good way to do it.

  "Please excuse us, Miss Evans," Mr. Gladstone said to me with barely strained patience. "As you can see, we have family affairs to discuss with our son."

  It would seem I had to listen at the door instead. I rose to leave, but Samuel shook his head.

  "She stays," he said. "She's my… friend."

  Why did he hesitate? Was I not his friend? Or did he consider me to be something more? His parents must have taken it as the latter, and their wrinkled noses were a clear indication of what they thought of it, too.

  I glared at Samuel. He merely shrugged and gave me an innocent look in apology.

  "Are you mad?" his father snarled.

  "Quite possibly." Samuel grinned. It was indeed the grin of a madman. "But the fact remains, Charity is not someone you can order about. She stays."

  "Actually, I think it's best if I do leave." I shrugged an apology back at him and mimicked his puppy-dog look. "Clearly you need to spend some time alone with your parents."

  "The last time I spent a few minutes alone with them, they accused me of all manner of ills. They then had me thrown in prison."

  I gawped at him. "Prison?"

  "Newgate, to be precise."

  "Only for a few days," his mother said with a wave of her hand.

  "You thoroughly deserved it," his father added.

  Samuel sighed. "Something you reminded me of frequently, after my release. So, you see, forgive me if I don't wish to endure that again. It grew tiring."

  "There!" His father pointed a finger at him. "That is precisely why you ought to be reminded of what you did. You're much too glib about it. I see not a whit of remorse in you."

  Samuel bowed his head, hiding his reaction. What had he done? It must have been heinous indeed. But if it had been, wouldn't he have remained in prison for longer than a few days? It didn't make sense.

  "You don't know what is in my head or my heart," Samuel said quietly. Ominously. "Do not pretend otherwise. Do not pretend that you want me home again, because you, sir, do not. You were relieved when I went to University College. Finally I was out of your house."

  "We were relieved because it meant you were making something of yourself. Why did you leave?"

  "I was learning nothing there. I already knew more about how the mind worked than my lecturers. My hypnosis—"

  "Don't! Don't mention that word. It's an abomination."

  I tried to catch Samuel's gaze, but he wasn't looking at me. My heart weighed heavily in my chest. How could people who professed to love him be so cruel to their son? I may not have parents, but I expected a mother and father would love their child, no matter what. And Samuel certainly deserved their love. Whatever he was, he was a good man. He was not the disgusting creature his father made him out to be.

  "What your… power has led you to do is an abomination," his father went on. "It's time you buried that part of you for good. Look at you. Look at what it's doing to you. You could be mistaken for a vagrant."

  Samuel barked a harsh laugh. "There's no need to insult the vagrants."

  Mr. Gladstone clicked his tongue and was about to speak again, but his wife put her hand on his arm to stop him.

  "Please, come home with us," she pleaded. "You'll be safe there, around people who can help you."

  "Help me?" Samuel scoffed. "You misunderstand, Mother, yet again. I do not need help. I am what I am. Nothing will change that."

  "Don't be absurd," his father spat. "You're a Gladstone. Gladstones are solid people. They're not… hypnotists." He whispered the word, as if speaking it aloud would leave a bad taste in his mouth.

  "This one is. I will not be returning home with you. I live at Frakingham House, now. I'll be leaving for Hertfordshire today."

  His mother emitted a small sob. "Why there and not with us? We're your family."

  "By blood only."

  She stepped back as if he'd struck her. Her husband put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. I watched them, wishing I had the courage to defend Samuel, but I did not. I wasn't so sure they were wrong. Samuel did indeed look harried, and I wasn't comfortable with his ability to hypnotize, any more than they. I could see why they would want him to be rid of such a dubious skill.

  There was no point in giving my opinion, however. They were the sort of people who wouldn't listen to a lowly teacher.

  I watched the stand-off between parents and son until the gazes of Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone shifted to the doorway. I turned to look, as did Samuel.

  A beautiful, dark-haired woman stood there. She was perhaps the most elegant lady I'd ever seen. She was as tall as me, with a tiny waist and deep bosom, shown off to perfection by the sea-green dress. The color matched the pert little hat atop her head and her lovely eyes. She pressed a hand to her lips and gasped, but even that movement was graceful.

  "You're here," she whispered. "My darling, you've come back."

  "Ebony," Samuel said, darkly. "Why are you here?"

  "To see us," Mr. Gladstone told him. "We come to London, from time to time, and like to see your fiancée while we're here."

  CHAPTER 7

  Samuel was engaged.

  It took several moments for me to digest the news and another several to tear my gaze away from the beautiful woman who couldn't stop smiling at Samuel. She looked as if she'd opened a chest and found treasure inside.

  I felt a little sorry for her. Samuel may have been engaged to her, but he'd flirted with me, and probably other women, too. He was hardly devoted.

  "Don't call her my fiancée," Samuel said over his shoulder to his parents. "Ebony was your choice, not mine."

  I cringed at his harsh words as Ebony's eyes filled with tears. She stepped closer to him, but he stepped back. "I was your choice, once," she said, her voice throaty. "And you were mine. You still are."

  He turned his face away from her and I caught a glimpse of his eyes as he glanced at me. They were full of shadows and emotions that I couldn't begin to fathom.

  Ebony followed his gaze and her nostrils flared. She gave me a brief nod of greeting and appeared to be waiting for an introduction. Samuel didn't make one.

  "Excuse me," I whispered, slipping past them. It was growing too crowded in that small room; I felt like I was suffocating.

  "Charity!" he called after me. "Don't leave, yet."

  I lifted my chin. "I'll wait for you outside." I hazarded another glance at Ebony. She watched me with a sad twist to her mouth. It would seem she was as disturbed by my presence as I was by hers.

  My reaction unnerved me. I shouldn't be shocked. I'd always known Samuel's family was well-to-do. The son of an important family
always married, and married well. It was their duty.

  I waited in the hotel foyer until Samuel emerged a few minutes later, alone.

  "Come with me." He grabbed my arm hard at the elbow and pulled me towards the door. "We'll go for a walk."

  I jerked free. "Do not force me," I hissed.

  He stopped and stared at me, his eyes round. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't realize what I was doing. Please accept my deepest apology."

  I winced. Perhaps I'd spoken too harshly. I knew he hadn't meant to hurt me and that was the important thing. Clearly he was troubled by the meeting in the parlor.

  "Bloody hell," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm so sorry, Charity. I don't know what's wrong with me."

  "I accept your apology. A walk is a nice suggestion."

  I glanced back into the hotel before the door closed and caught sight of Samuel's parents and fiancée staring at us. Mr. Gladstone scowled, but the two women seemed rather forlorn. I felt sorry them—both of them. And yet, Samuel must have a good reason for snubbing them.

  It must have something to do with them sending him to prison. I was considering how to ask him about it when another thought struck me.

  "We touched and didn't get a vision. Do you think that's the end of them? Are we cured?"

  "Perhaps," he said. "Or perhaps they come at random moments now, like the last one."

  A chilling thought. "Why now, when we had to touch before?"

  "The connection is stronger, perhaps? Or the third time was the charm, as the saying goes. We'd touched three times, had three visions, and then the fourth was triggered by something else."

  "What?"

  "I don't know."

  That was as disturbing as having the visions themselves.

  Brook Street was busy with Mayfair madams and their friends, taking leisurely strolls in the feeble spring sunshine. The gentlemen were more likely to be at their clubs or work, if they did indeed work at all. Coaches and horses sped along the road, sometimes at alarming rates, their wheels flicking up dirt and muck. It wasn't the most pleasant walk, but there was nowhere else for a gentleman and an unwed woman to go without raising eyebrows.

  "Something's happened," Samuel said, before I could ask any questions of my own about his parents and the woman named Ebony. "What's wrong?"

  "I need you to take me to Frakingham. When do you leave?"

  He held up his hands for me to slow down. "Of course I'll take you, you'll be very welcome there. But I thought you were determined not to see the place again. Or me," he added quietly.

  I swallowed. "I… I'm sorry that we didn't part on friendly terms. It's ironic that I'm now in need of your help and must humbly apologize to you."

  "Don't apologize, there's no need. It's my fault. I was much too forward, yesterday."

  True, but I wasn't going to admit that. I needed to remain in his good graces for the time being. "Thank you," I said. "You see, the police have suggested I leave London until they can ensure my safety."

  "The police? Your safety? Hell." He went to reach for my hand, but he drew back before touching. "You'd better start at the beginning."

  I told him about the intruder, and watched anxiously as the color drained from his face. By the end of my tale, his lips were bloodless. His hands shook. He closed them into fists. "Dear God, Charity. Did he… did he hurt you?"

  "No." It seemed unnecessary to tell him that my scalp had burned for hours afterwards, or that I had a bruise on my hip from where he'd dropped me on the floor.

  "Everybody is well. I'm well. But he escaped and he may try again. That's why I need to leave."

  He nodded somewhat numbly. "We'll leave today. Immediately."

  "I was hoping you would say that."

  He closed his eyes. "Have the police any clue as to who he might be?"

  I didn't answer straight away and he opened his eyes. It was obvious that his question was for my benefit. He already knew who the man was, or at least, knew that he was connected to my lost memories.

  "None," I said.

  I watched and waited for his next question. He started moving again, his pace quickening, and I had to trot to keep up. I touched his wrist, indicating for him to slow down.

  "Samuel," I said heavily. "I have to describe him to you."

  "Why?"

  "You know why."

  He looked straight ahead. "No."

  "The man knew me and spoke as if I knew him. He's from my past. He's the one I asked you to block from my memories."

  He shook his head. "It's not possible."

  "Why not?"

  Another shake of his head. "What makes you think this man is linked?"

  "I just do. I can't explain why."

  "The memories could be of a woman, or your family, not a man."

  "I just know it is." I didn't tell him that I'd guessed, based on my reluctance to be intimate with men, and that echoes of fear rippled through me whenever a man restrained me, even when that restraint was as harmless as Samuel steering me out the door. "I also know that he hurt me."

  He glanced at my gloved hands.

  "There are scars on my back too."

  He didn't say anything for several heartbeats. When he did, it was after a long sigh. "I wondered if you would notice them."

  "Not at first. Samuel, you need to tell the police about the man who… gave me those scars. You need to give them a name. I want him arrested for attempting to abduct me last night. I cannot live with the knowledge that he could return any moment. The children…" I finished on a choke.

  "Bloody hell," he muttered. "It can't be him. It just can't."

  "Why not?"

  He rubbed his temples with both hands, as if scrubbing away a memory. My memory. "If there is a connection… how did he find you?"

  "I don't know. That's not important. What is important is a name."

  He swore softly. "I can't give you one. He never used a name. It's not him, anyway."

  I sucked air between my teeth. "The attacker mentioned he was returning me to his master."

  Samuel stopped. Stared. His Adam's apple jerked up and down.

  "He was a big fellow," I forged on. "He had a brutish face and small piggy eyes."

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. "Dark hair? Massive hands?"

  I nodded. "So you do know him?"

  "Him, yes. But I can't tell the police how to find him."

  "What about the master he was referring to?" I swallowed heavily. "Surely you can give them an address or name for him."

  He shook his head. "I told you, it can't be him."

  "And I'm telling you it is. I feel so sure. Your reaction just now would imply that you know someone known as the master."

  He said nothing. His gaze slid to the footpath and he closed his hands into fists so tight the knuckles turned stark white.

  "Do you know how to get to the man's house or place of work?" I went on.

  Another shake of his head. I had the suspicion he wanted to explain why, but did not want to divulge even the smallest piece of information from my lost memory.

  "What sort of man was he? A sewer rat or a toff?"

  "Don't ask me, Charity. No more questions. I can't answer them and there's no point. Someone is playing a trick. I recognize the attacker, but his master… it's not the same man who gave you those scars. It can't be."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he's dead."

  ***

  No matter how many questions I asked, Samuel wouldn't answer them. All he would tell me was that the man known as 'the master' was dead. He wouldn’t even tell me how it had happened.

  We traveled out of London in August Langley's coach. My heart weighed heavily in my chest as the gray pall shrouding the city disappeared over the horizon. I would miss the children terribly, but I prayed that my absence would mean no more visits to the school from that brute.

  We spent much of the first leg of our journey in silence. Samuel was a far cry from the amiable gentleman of our first meeti
ng, months prior. There were none of his charms on display, no friendly banter, just an uncomfortable silence in which I pretended to sleep or he did.

  But there was only so long one could ignore one's traveling companion. There was also only so long before my curiosity became too much.

  "Congratulations," I said.

  He had been staring at the scenery whipping past the window, but now turned to face me. "On what?"

  "Your engagement. When were you going to announce it?"

  "I'm not engaged."

  "The lady and your parents seem to think otherwise."

  "I do have some say in whom I marry."

  I arched an eyebrow.

  He sighed. "If I don't mind being cut off, that is."

  Ah, now we got to the crux of it. "Your father would cut your allowance if you didn't marry Ebony?"

  "Cut it and exclude me from the will. I was to be given one of the lesser houses upon Father's death, while my brother inherited the main estate, but he's made it known that my brother will get everything if I don't marry Ebony."

  "Is her family that important?"

  "Her father is a viscount."

  "Ah. Say no more. Surely you could see your way to accommodating your parents' wishes in the matter? After all, the daughter of a viscount would be a great prize." I was only being partly sarcastic. A wealthy family could do almost anything, but a noble one could reach to even greater heights. Samuel's life would be far superior to anything I could even imagine if he wed her. I couldn't quite see why he had such a problem with it.

  "She is not a game to be won or lost," he said. "There are no prizes."

  "Perhaps not a game, no." But marriage was a form of gambling. If one married up, for example, and was able to pull oneself out of poverty through a well-chosen marriage, then who could deny that it was a win? If I wanted to take the path of marriage to better myself, then I would choose someone living in a nice house with a secure position, perhaps a bank clerk or teacher. That was as high as someone like me could climb.

  But I didn't want that. I didn't want to give up the school or my savings. I didn't want to stop working so that I could keep house. I didn't want to be a man's wife, or a man's anything. I wanted to be me. I'd gone through a lot to get where I was and have a measure of freedom. I would not give it up. I had children—the orphans—and I had my own room. With regard to love between a man and woman, I wanted to believe in it, but I was yet to feel that emotion. It was quite possible I wasn't capable, even now without the dark memory holding me back.