Rachel Lindsay - Forgotten Marriage

by Rachel Lindsay

  Rachel Lindsay - Forgotten Marriage

  After the plane crash, Sharon couldn't remember who she was. Nor why she'd come to England. Why should this man who claimed to be her brother-in-law regard her with such bitter contempt?

  "Don't stare at me with wounded eyes," he said savagely. "You've wheedled your way into my mother's affections, but that won't stop me from exposing you!"

  It was almost as if he doubted her loss of memory, as if he thought it simply a blind to cover… what?

  CHAPTER ONE

  The girl opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. A hammer seemed to be beating in her head and she found it impossible to focus. But curiosity forced her to keep her eyes open and, as the grey mist thinned, she saw a large metallic machine at the side of the bed and, beyond it, a blur of white. She tried to remember where she was but found it difficult to concentrate, and with a sigh, allowed her lids to droop and consciousness to recede.

  When she awoke the second time her head was clearer and her vision normal. She looked around the room: austerely furnished, it was obviously in a hospital or nursing home.

  She tried to sit up but her body would not obey the command of her brain. Panic-stricken, she wondered if she was paralysed, but as she thought it, she realised she was clenching and unclenching her hands. Some of her panic ebbed and carefully she turned her head.

  It moved from side to side and the relief was so enormous it made her feel weak. She had been in some sort of accident—that much was clear—and was now recovering.

  She paused in her thoughts, waiting for memory to fill her mind with people and places; a particular person and a special place. But nothing came. No names or faces; no house or apartment.

  It was then that panic returned and would not be stilled. What had happened to her? Who was she? Where did she belong? She was gripped by a wave of fear so strong that it brought her into a sitting position.

  "Who am I?" she said aloud. "What do I look like?" Hearing her voice increased her feeling of unreality and heightened her panic.

  "Who am I?" she wailed again and started to cry. As her sobs filled the room, the door opened and a nurse hurried across to her.

  "Now, now, we can't have this," a lilting Welsh voice soothed. "What's the matter?"

  "Who am I?" the girl begged. "What's happened to me?"

  "You're in Fairview Hospital. You were brought here after the crash."

  "What crash?"

  "The plane crash. You were coming from South Africa. Don't you remember?"

  "No! I don't remember anything. My head… everything's going round…"

  She struggled to sit up straighter but the nurse restrained her. "There's no call to get upset. So you have a head injury and it must have affected your memory. It often happens. But you'll soon start remembering. The main thing is not to worry."

  The girl put her hand to her head and felt the thick bandage. "What's my name? I don't even remember that!"

  "You will," the nurse soothed. "Just don't get excited or you'll make yourself worse."

  The girl swallowed and made an effort at control. "Could you at least tell me my name?"

  "It's Sharon Peters… Mrs. Sharon Peters."

  "Sharon Peters… Sharon…" The girl repeated the name slowly. "It means nothing to me. It could belong to anyone."

  "Well, it belongs to you! There's no doubt about that."

  "Did you say Mrs. Peters? Then I must have a husband! Was he in the plane crash with me?''

  "Not as far as I know. But the house doctor has all the facts about you. I'm only a temporary—standing in for Nurse Marks, who's on holiday."

  "I see." Sharon stared at the band of gold on her left hand. It was a slim, narrow hand with tapering fingers and soft skin, and she studied it as though it would yield some clue to her identity. But it remained the hand of a stranger and she looked up again.

  The nurse smiled. "Feeling better?"

  "Not much. It's peculiar not knowing who you are." She laughed shakily. "I don't even know what I look like!"

  "Then you're in for a pleasant surprise! You're as pretty as a picture."

  "Do you have a mirror?" "I'll try to find a hand one. But take my word for it—you're very beautiful."

  Reassured, Sharon's thoughts went to the accident. "Was it a bad crash?"

  "I'm afraid so. You're lucky to be alive."

  "Were many people killed?"

  "Quite a few," the nurse said evasively.

  "But wasn't there anyone on the plane who knew me? If I could talk to someone who was there—who travelled with me…"

  "You were travelling alone—that's what the airline said. And there's no one to whom you can talk, I'm afraid. It was a terrible crash and you should thank God you're alive."

  Unspoken horror was implicit in the words and Sharon began to tremble. The nurse felt it and immediately became professional.

  "You've nothing to worry about, Mrs. Peters. You weren't badly injured, and once you've recovered from your concussion you'll be as right as rain."

  "But my memory…"

  "Will come back as soon as you're over the shock, I promise you."

  But the promise was to no avail. Two days passed and Sharon was still unable to recollect any details of her life.

  On the morning of the third day the nurse placed a mirror in her hand but she lacked the courage to look at it. Would the shock of seeing her face bring back her memory or would she merely be staring at the face of a stranger?

  "Come on now," the nurse chided. "You'll like what you see, providing you make allowance for the bandage."

  With a trembling hand Sharon lifted the mirror and looked into it. Large, dark blue eyes set wide apart in a heart-shaped face, looked back at her. A small, full mouth was startlingly red against the pallor of her skin while her hair, or the little she could see of it beneath the disfiguring bandage, was so fair as to be almost silver.

  She let the mirror drop to the counterpane. She knew her name, and she knew what she looked like; yet still no chord of memory echoed in her brain. She was like a doll that had just been manufactured. A product of the hospital, she thought fancifully, and one that had no buyer. Perhaps they would let her stay here forever, allow her to live and die in antiseptic limbo.

  "Didn't I tell you how pretty you were?" the nurse smiled, taking back the mirror.

  "Pretty lonely," Sharon retorted and was surprised by the edge of sharpness in her response. At least it meant she wasn't a dullard. Her past was lost, but if she had some intelligence she might be able to work out the future for herself. As she thought of the empty years ahead, a familiar sensation of panic rose in her. The nurse recognised the signs.

  "Don't start having hysterics on me," she said cheerfully, "or I'll get a rocket from staff nurse for giving you a mirror."

  "It has nothing to do with what I look like," Sharon said impatiently. "It's just this feeling so alone. Like a newborn child who's born an orphan."

  "You're no orphan. Your family have been enquiring about you ever since the crash."

  "My family?" Sharon gaped at her. "Why didn't you tell me I have a family? Why did no one mention their names? If I'd seen them I might have remembered again. You had no right to keep them away from me."

  "You'll have to take that up with Dr. Farley. He's the one who issued the order.''

  "Then ask him to come here at once. I've never heard of such—"

  "Before or after your visitor?" the nurse cut in.

  Sharon gasped. "What visitor? Why didn't you tell me someone's waiting to see me?"

  "I'm telling you now."

  "Who is it?"

  "A man. He'll tell you himself who he is. He's
called every day since you were brought here. I'll tell him to come in."

  "No!"

  The word burst from Sharon's lips almost of its own volition, the result of a deep-seated fear even greater than her fear of remaining ignorant of her past. Who was this man who had constantly enquired about her? Was he a friend or a lover? Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead and with a shaking hand she rubbed them away.

  "Tell him to come back later. I want to talk to Dr. Farley first."

  "And leave your visitor kicking his heels in the corridor for hours? That isn't a very friendly thing to do."

  "Then tell him to go away. I can't see anyone."

  "You'll want to see him" the nurse laughed. "He's what you might call a real dreamboat!" With a knowing wink she whisked out and Sharon stared at the door, her heart beating wildly. Almost immediately it opened again and a tall, broad-shouldered man strode in.

  "Hello, Sharon. How are you feeling?''

  Sharon swallowed hard. She had no sense of recognition and was overwhelmed by despair.

  "I've brought you some flowers," he went on, setting a bouquet on the dressing table.

  "Who are you?'' Her voice was a whisper.

  "Adam Peters."

  "You're not…" She put a hand to her mouth. "But I don't know you; I can't remember your face. You're not my husband?"

  "No," he said flatly. "I'm not. And you needn't be upset because you don't remember me. This is the first time we've met."

  "Oh!" She smiled uncertainly, but there was no answering smile on his face and she looked down. "You have the same surname as mine; does that mean you're a relative?"

  "You were my brother's wife."

  Her head jerked up. "Your brother! Where is he? Why hasn't… ?" Her voice began to shake. "Was he killed in the crash? Is that what you're afraid to tell me?"

  "No. Rufus died in a car accident in South Africa six months ago. You were on your way to visit us. I'm afraid all your luggage has been lost, but this letter was found in the pocket of your suit. You might like to read it."

  With trembling fingers Sharon took the letter. The edges of it were stained with blood, but the writing was unmarked and the gist of it was clear. It was signed Adele Peters and welcomed Sharon to Green Spinney Lodge.

  She raised her head. "This is from Rufus's mother, isn't it?"

  He nodded and moved to the window. His profile, outlined against the light, was angular and forbidding. He had an abundance of black hair, well groomed and shiny, which was as much an indication of his personality as his beautifully tailored suit and highly polished shoes: a man of means who liked the best… and got it. He turned to face her and she noticed his eyes. They were grey as an iceberg and equally as cold.

  "There's no point in our discussing the present situation," he said, "until you remember the past. But one thing I will say: you won't get a penny out of me if you let my mother down."

  "Let your mother down?" She stared at him uncomprehendingly."Why should I do that?"

  "Because it's a habit of yours to let people down. But of course you don't remember!" A grim smile twisted his face. "I've spoken to Dr. Farley and he says there's no reason why you can't leave here. The only treatment you need is rest. I'll make arrangements to pick you up tomorrow afternoon. Would you like a nurse to accompany you on the journey?"

  "Is it far?"

  "A couple of hours by car."

  "I'm sure I'll be able to manage on my own." She gave him a nervous smile. "I won't be on my own anyway. You'll be with me."

  "Yes." It was a terse agreement. "Until tomorrow then."

  The door closed behind him and she gazed at it as if his image was imprinted on the woodwork. What a strange man! He had spoken to her as if he hated her. Yet how could he hate her when he had met her for the first time today? But everything he said had been redolent of hostility and disbelief. It was almost as if he doubted her loss of memory. That he thought it simply a blind to cover… what?

  She closed her eyes. It was useless to try and solve a mystery where perhaps none existed. She was Sharon Peters, widow of a man she did not remember, in a country she did not know, about to stay with a woman she had never met. It was a poor collection of facts but the only one she had.

  In the early afternoon of the next day a nurse brought her a parcel. Inside were some clothes and a note from her mother-in-law.

  "I'm afraid these may not be your style and they probably won't fit, but I hope they'll do until you're strong enough to shop for some proper ones."

  Sharon held up a blue dress: it was a fine silk material and of good cut but far too large.

  "What a gorgeous colour," the nurse commented from the door. "It'll match your eyes."

  "I'd rather it fitted my figure!"

  Shakily she started to put on the clothes. The effort was tiring and she was still not completely dressed when the nurse returned to say Mr. Peters wanted to know how much longer she would be.

  "Another five minutes."

  "You can't go without doing your hair," the nurse exclaimed. "I've been dying to get my fingers on it ever since we took off the bandages." She sat Sharon on a chair and began to brush the long, silvery strands. "I've never seen such a colour," she admired. "And it will look even better when you're not so pale. There, I've given you a centre parting and let it fall naturally. You have real waves, Mrs. Peters, not permed ones!"

  "My hair's always been easy to manage," Sharon said, then stopped. "Now what made me say that?"

  "A sort of reflex action in the brain, I should think. Don't look so startled; it's a sign your memory's returning." The nurse proffered her arm. "Come along, I'll see you down to the car."

  Slowly Sharon went along the corridor to the elevator. As it descended to the lobby her heart began to thump and she chided herself for being foolish. Although she was going to stay with strangers, they were still her husband's family. She must remember that. Even though she could not remember her husband!

  At the entrance, Adam Peters was standing beside a grey Bentley. He waited while Sharon said goodbye to the nurse and helped her into the front seat before taking his place behind the wheel. He did not speak until they had left the hospital some miles behind them.

  "How does it feel to be out and about?"

  "Strange but wonderful." She looked through the window and in the pane saw her reflection with the blue silk dress hanging on her in folds.

  "Why are you smiling?" he asked abruptly.

  "At the sight I look! It was thoughtful of your mother to send me a dress but I'm afraid it's rather big."

  "Don't worry. She'll buy you some clothes as soon as you're fit enough to travel to London."

  "I wasn't hinting!"

  "I'm glad to hear it," he said coldly.

  Deflated by his tone, she did not answer. Once more they drove in silence, leaving London behind and entering a greener world, where it was easy to see it was spring. The hedges were covered with small white flowers and the trees were heavily laden with blossom.

  She was startled when his voice interrupted her thoughts. "Different scenery from South Africa, isn't it?"

  "I suppose so. I can't remember."

  "Do you mean your mind's a complete blank?"

  "Yes. If you'd told me you were my husband, I'd have believed you."

  "I'm sure your instinct would have told you I wasn't. If Rufus attracted you, I certainly wouldn't."

  "Were you so different?"

  "Yes."

  "In what way?"

  He gave an almost inaudible sigh of exasperation, and she said quickly, "I'm not asking out of idle curiosity, Mr. Peters. But I'd like to know what my husband looked like,particularly as I'm going to stay with your mother."

  His hands tightened on the wheel. "Of course. You're quite right."

  "I know it must hurt you to talk about him but—"

  "Forget it," he said abruptly. "I'll show you some photographs of him when we get home. Then you can judge for yourself how differen
t we were. Rufus was twenty-six when you married him and twenty-eight when he was killed in a road accident in Cape Town. That's where you first met."

  "Did he work there?"

  "No. He was working for an uncle on a fruit farm and met you when he was holidaying at the Cape. It was a whirlwind romance, I believe."

  His tone made it clear he wished she'd been whirled away in another direction, but she ignored it.

  "What happened after I married him? Did we live on the farm?"

  The man laughed harshly. "You wouldn't even give it a try, according to Rufus. You had a flat in the city and led a rather active social life."

  "And?" she said when he stopped speaking and gave no indication of continuing. "Please tell me anything else you know. I'd like to know as much about myself as possible."

  "I don't know much more. Let's hope your memory will return and you'll be able to tell me a few things." He reached into his breast pocket, took out a narrow crocodile case and extracted a slim cigar. "I'm afraid I can't offer you a cigarette."

  She smiled. "I don't feel as if I want one."

  For the first time his face relaxed its grim lines. "Then don't encourage yourself! Your vices will come home to roost soon enough."

  "I wonder if I have many?"

  He glanced at her sideways but made no comment, and she closed her eyes.

  The smooth rhythm of the car lulled her to sleep and she didn't awake until the Bentley swung through large, wrought-iron gates and purred along a curving drive. She saw a spinney whose trees thinned out to disclose a lake, and behind it, on the far bank, stood a large and imposing Georgian house. Lights gleamed through the long, graceful windows and the mahogany door at the top of the shallow steps was flanked by slender white columns that reminded her of stories she had read about the American Deep South.

  But nothing was more English than the panelled hall she entered, with its graceful sweep of staircase and Chippendale furniture.

  "We'd better go into the drawing room," her brother-in-law said and led the way toward a door off the hall.

  Suddenly the floor wavered in front of her and she clutched at his arm. For an instant he stiffened, then he held her other arm and steadied her.