Carousel of Hearts

by Mary Jo Putney

  His eyebrows lifted in a characteristic Adam gesture. “Crying off already, Antonia?” His hand moved across the counterpane to rest on hers. Even if he didn’t consciously remember her, he obviously felt comfortable in her presence.

  “No, most assuredly I am not crying off.” She squeezed his fingers affectionately, still savoring the miracle of his recovery. Now that Adam was awake and in possession of his wits, she was sure that he must be out of danger. “But the most important thing is for you to get well. Whether or not we marry can wait until later.”

  With that same disconcerting intensity, he murmured, “I can’t imagine that anything is more important than whether or not we are getting married.”

  Suddenly suspicious, Antonia fixed him with a sisterly eye. “Adam, do you really remember everything and you’ve just been teasing me?”

  She saw bleakness in his eyes before he closed them. “I only wish . . . that I were teasing.”

  Good Lord, here she was bantering with him when he had just emerged from a coma. Waking up without memories must be unnerving, to say the least. Antonia pressed his hand gently. “Don’t worry, love. Dr. Kinlock said that when you first woke up, you’d be confused. In a few days you’ll be as good as new.”

  The endearment slipped out with remarkable ease.

  * * * *

  The next time he awoke, he knew it was daylight, even though his eyes were still closed. Some animal instinct that feared the unknown kept him still as he searched his mind for memories.

  All that he found were a few brief minutes of conversation with a woman so beautiful that it was impossible to believe that he could have forgotten her. Odd that he had no memories, but he had language.

  Words floated through his mind and he understood them. Horse. He knew what a horse was. Was the image in his mind a particular horse, perhaps one he owned, or was it an essence of horseness? He put the problem aside as unanswerable from available data.

  He appeared to have a logical mind that could handle concepts and could even question that fact. How was it possible that he had a sense of himself even though he had no idea who he was? Another question to put aside.

  His body had tensed at the direction of his thoughts. He forced himself to relax. Physically he was in no danger.

  And mentally? The glorious Antonia had assured him that in a few days he would be as good as new, however good that was. He would like to believe her, but guessed that she was speaking from hope, not certainty.

  Enough time had been spent in the dark. He opened his eyes, hoping she would be there. He experienced a wash of disappointment that she was not. A different woman sat sewing by the bed, her head bent over an embroidery hoop. She was small and sweetly pretty, but she was not Antonia.

  Sensing his movement, she looked up and smiled, the gesture warming her fine gray eyes. “Thank heaven you are awake! How do you feel today, Adam?”

  “Since both of you called me Adam, I suppose that must be my name,” he murmured, half to himself. “I have no better suggestion.”

  His words disquieted her and she set her embroidery aside. “You still don’t remember who you are?”

  “No.” Seeing her disappointment, he said apologetically, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you, either. Are you another cousin whom I should know?”

  She regarded him gravely. “No, my name is Judith Winslow, and I am Antonia’s companion. You and I,” she paused as if wondering how much to say, “first met several weeks ago, when you returned from India.”

  “India?” The word triggered several simultaneous images: a map, a ship, a bazaar that teemed with humanity in a rich potpourri of scents and sounds and colors. “I seem to have a great deal to catch up on.”

  He wanted to sound unconcerned, but for the first time he felt fear. He was awake, feeling reasonably well, words came easily to his tongue, yet his life was a blank. With iron discipline he suppressed the fear. “I didn’t even remember Antonia, which is something of an insult when she and I are to be married.”

  Judith Winslow was so still that only the beating pulse in her slender throat showed that she was alive. “You and Lady Antonia are betrothed? I thought you could remember nothing.”

  “I see the news is a surprise to you. Antonia said no one had been told.” Adam thought back to the night before, his brow wrinkling as he tried to recall his reaction to the information. “I didn’t remember the betrothal any more than I remember anything else, but when she told me, it sounded right. Just as I didn’t really recognize Antonia, but she seemed familiar.”

  Judith opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, her eyes stark and unreadable. “I see. Yes, the news is a surprise.” Her voice shook and she stood before he could speak again. “I’ll call Dr. Kinlock. He wanted to be informed when you woke up.”

  Adam wondered at her strong reaction. There had been more than just surprise on her face. He sighed and set the thought aside as one more thing he could not understand.

  After the door closed behind her slight figure, he cautiously pushed himself up in the bed. His head swam for a minute and he had a variety of aches and pains, but everything seemed to work.

  While he was propping pillows behind his back, the door opened to admit a compact man with startlingly white hair over a young, dark-browed face. From his brisk air, doubtless this was physician Kinlock.

  “Should I know you?” Adam inquired with a touch of dryness.

  “No, you are in the clear this time,” the doctor said cheerfully. “I’m Ian Kinlock, and I happened to be in the vicinity when Mr. Malcolm’s engine chose to explode. I would have been in Scotland by now, but your charming cousin persuaded me to stay on for a few days.”

  Kinlock began the poking and prodding universal to physicians. After the physical exam, the doctor asked questions. Some were about his patient’s past, and for those Adam had no answer. Others were about things and places and ideas, and most of those Adam did know, though sometimes considerable thought was required to dredge up the information.

  After the interrogation, the physician presented him with a pencil and a blank sheet of paper and asked him to write his name. The pencil felt natural in Adam’s hand, but he had no idea how to write and felt a frustration that bordered on fury.

  Kinlock retrieved the writing implements and printed the words “Adam Yorke” on the paper. Handing it back, he asked, “Does that help?”

  Seeing the words was like setting a spark to tinder. Adam duplicated the printing easily, then, without thought, wrote his name in a bold script.

  He stared at his signature, knowing that he must have written it thousands of times before, yet feeling no kinship. “My hand remembers, but my mind doesn’t.”

  “I won’t tell you not to worry, because advice like that is both smug and useless.” Kinlock sat back in the bedside chair. “Not remembering one’s personal past must be disquieting in the extreme. On the other hand, in most ways you qualify as a singularly well-informed man. Even things that seem strange at first, like the writing, will probably come back to you quickly.”

  “Are you preparing me for the fact that I am unlikely to recall whatever I was?”

  “No.” The physician’s mouth quirked up wryly. “I can’t really say what will happen. You are suffering something called amnesia, which means loss of memory. The medical profession doesn’t really know a damned thing about it, but being able to name a condition makes us feel wiser.

  “The likelihood is that your memory will return very suddenly, and within the next few weeks. If and when it does, you will probably never remember events close to the accident, and you may forget all or most of the period from now until your memories return.”

  “But I might not remember?”

  “Perhaps not.” Kinlock sighed. “We know very little about the human body, and even less about the mind. Cases like yours are too unusual to have been much studied. You are fortunate that there appears to be no damage to your mental abilities. You can write, speak clearly, and
reason well. My personal belief is that you will soon remember your past.”

  “But if I don’t . . . ?”

  “If you don’t, your new life begins today,” the physician said bluntly. “Even if you never remember your earlier life, you have a strong foundation of knowledge and intelligence and friends willing to help however they can.”

  “You’re saying that matters could be worse.”

  “They could indeed. Try to remember that if your situation seems too overpowering.” Kinlock rose. “I’ll be leaving on the noon stage. It’s been five years since I saw my family, so I trust you will forgive my unseemly haste. I don’t think you have any further need of medical care. The rest of your recovery is not in human hands.”

  “Thank you for your help, Dr. Kinlock.” Adam knew that the doctor’s uncompromising advice was wise, though it might not be easy to follow.

  He offered his hand, but could not stop himself from asking with a trace of bitterness, “We are the sum of our experiences, choices, and memories. What is a man with no past?”

  The physician’s grip was firm, his keen blue eyes compassionate. “He is still a man, Mr. Yorke.” With a brusque nod of his head, he turned on his heel and left the room.

  * * * *

  Judith managed to leave Adam’s room and send the doctor to him with an appearance of normality, but her real attention was on the words ricocheting around inside her mind: “She and I are to be married.”

  During the past fearful days, Judith had accepted the fact that she might lose Adam to death, or that he might survive mentally crippled, but she had never imagined losing him to Antonia. Even after the rupture with Lord Launceston, Adam had treated Antonia like a fond brother, with nothing the least lover-like in his attitude. It was Judith he had confided in, Judith whom he had kissed.

  At the memory of his tenderness, her teeth sank into her lower lip, nearly drawing blood. She entered the coffee room, which their party was using as a private parlor. It was blessedly empty at the moment.

  Moving carefully, as if she were made of porcelain and might shatter, she sat in a Windsor chair in the corner. Could Adam have offered for Antonia and been accepted, and not yet ended his betrothal to Judith? The Adam she knew—whom she thought she knew —was too honest to behave in such an unpardonable way.

  But love had made fools of men before Adam, and he had always loved his cousin. Perhaps Antonia, heartbroken by the loss of Simon, had indicated that she was available and Adam had been unable to resist the woman he had wanted for so long.

  Judith forced herself to analyze her feelings about losing Adam. How much of her distress was simple possessiveness, how much was anger at losing the security he represented, and how much was regret at losing the man himself?

  Reluctantly she conceded that she was affected by all three considerations. She cared deeply for Adam, she had also looked forward to being protected and supported by him. It seemed bitterly unfair that Antonia should have Adam’s love as well as Simon’s.

  As her thoughts reached that point, the door opened and Antonia walked in, followed by a maid carrying a tray of food and tea. She must have just risen, and she looked years younger this morning, her apricot hair tumbling around her shoulders, her face shining.

  The two women had talked briefly in the early morning when Antonia was going to bed and Judith rising to take her place. At that time Antonia had revealed the happy news that her cousin had been awake and coherent, and the less-happy information that he did not remember his past.

  There had been no mention of marriage.

  In contrast to Judith, Antonia was exuberant. “I assume that Adam woke up this morning and you sent Dr. Kinlock to him.”

  She perched on a chair and prepared to eat, telling the maid to pour tea for both Judith and herself. After the servant left, she began buttering a warm muffin. “Did Adam remember more this morning?”

  “I’m afraid not.” The hot tea scalded Judith’s mouth, but she needed its warmth. “He didn’t recognize me or remember anything of his past. He did, however, mention that you and he are betrothed.”

  Antonia choked on her muffin. When she stopped coughing, she said guiltily, “I daresay you think it too soon after Lord Launceston and that I am some kind of monster of fickleness.”

  Judith wanted to scream, “You don’t know what I think!”

  But of course she didn’t. She merely made the astringent comment, “It does seem rather sudden.”

  Antonia concentrated on spreading marmalade on the other half of her muffin. “It’s not like that, you know,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve always cared for Adam, and he for me. After Simon and I ended our betrothal, I realized what an infatuated fool I had been, fancying myself in love with a handsome stranger whom I really didn’t know. It made me realize that it was Adam I wanted.”

  Her words had a sickening ring of truth. “How fortunate for you,’’ Judith said, unable to keep a caustic edge out of her voice. “Adam didn’t mind being second best?”

  “Adam is not ‘second best.’ “ Antonia looked up, her cinnamon eyes wide and stark. “You see why it seemed better not to speak of the betrothal for a while. I knew other people would not understand. Even you don’t.”

  Judith’s tea was bitter on her tongue. “When did you reach an agreement? I must be very dense not to have seen another romance budding under my nose.”

  A tinge of color showed high on Antonia’s cheekbones. “It was . . . only a few days ago, just before the accident,” she said vaguely.

  Judith knew instantly that Antonia was not telling the whole truth. Her ladyship was a terrible liar.

  Antonia continued earnestly, as if needing her companion’s approval, “Truly, I intend to do everything I can to make Adam happy. He deserves the best.”

  It was impossible to doubt Antonia’s sincerity. Whatever her motives, she genuinely cared about Adam and wanted to marry him.

  If it had been any other woman facing her, Judith would have fought for Adam, claimed him as her own. But this was Antonia, who had been more than generous to a hopeless young widow, who had given trust and love and respect, asking only friendship in return.

  What kind of friend would attack Antonia when she was so vulnerable? And how could Judith lay claim to a man who didn’t even recognize her and who had accepted Antonia’s claim?

  Her only chance was that Adam would recover and remember his engagement to Judith. But she couldn’t avoid thinking of another bleak possibility. Even if he recovered, would he choose Judith over Antonia if his cousin truly wanted him?

  Dr. Kinlock entered the coffee room at that moment, saving Judith the necessity of answering her employer’s last remark. The physician had baggage in hand and was dressed for traveling.

  “I wanted to have a word with you before I left.” Briefly he explained his patient’s condition and the uncertainty about whether he would regain his memory.

  “Is it safe to move him?” Antonia asked.

  “Aye.” The doctor’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “In fact, from what I’ve seen of Mr. Yorke, it would be well-nigh impossible to keep him in bed any longer. Just try to prevent him from doing anything too dangerous for a while.”

  Antonia asked, “What can we do to help him?”

  “You can reacquaint him with things he has known in the past. That might trigger his recovery. But don’t treat him as a freak and don’t pressure him,” Kinlock cautioned. “The harder he tries to remember, the more difficult it will be. Be patient if he is angry and frustrated.”

  He thought a moment more, then said slowly, “And don’t be too surprised if he seems different than the man you are used to.”

  “What do you mean?” Antonia asked, not liking the doctor’s implication. “Can a head injury result in madness?”

  “Possibly, but I see no signs of that in your cousin.” Kinlock frowned, trying to define his idea more clearly. “We all choose what facets of ourselves we will show to the world. Since Mr. York
e doesn’t remember how he presented himself in the past, you may see aspects of him that are unfamiliar to you.”

  “But I know Adam!”

  “How well does any person ever know another?” Kinlock asked philosophically. “The people we have known the longest are sometimes the ones we see the least clearly. And in this case, you hadn’t seen your cousin for years.”

  “Perhaps.” Not believing that, Antonia rose to her feet. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Dr. Kinlock. Words cannot begin to express how much I appreciate your staying here.”

  “I spent several sessions at the local hospital doing surgery on charity patients, so the time wasn’t wasted.’’ Kinlock reached inside his coat and brought out a piece of paper. “Here is the address of my family home in Scotland. I’ll be there for several weeks before going to London to take up an appointment at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I would appreciate your keeping me informed about Mr. Yorke’s progress. A most interesting case.”

  “Of course.’’ Antonia folded the piece of paper carefully, thinking that physicians had a morbid idea of what was interesting. “If you will be heading south again in a few weeks, perhaps you could stop and see Adam?”

  “Surely Derbyshire has other physicians,” he said with amusement.

  “I like you,” Antonia said as she offered her hand and honored him with one of her devastating smiles. “You’re the least pompous medical man I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Kinlock chuckled, bowing over her hand. “Very well, if you wish I will call on my journey back to London.” Outside, the sound of an arriving coach was heard. “Lady Antonia, Mrs. Winslow.”

  After the physician had left, Judith asked, “Do you wish to go back to Thornleigh today?”

  Antonia shook off the concerned expression induced by the doctor’s words. “Yes. I should think that Adam would recover more quickly in familiar surroundings.”

  Judith nodded agreement. She had her own personal reasons for wanting Adam to recover as soon as possible.

  * * * *

  At his hotel in London, Lord Launceston returned from a visit to the Royal Greenwich Observatory to find Judith Winslow’s letter waiting. Simon had been closer to Adam than to his own brother, and the thought that his friend might be dead already was unbearable.