How to Wake a Sleeping Lady

by Wolf, Bree

  “Well, then what is your answer?”

  “My answer? I…” Shaking her head, Agnes took a step back. “You cannot be serious, my lord, and I refuse to be made a fool of.”

  Not allowing her to step away, Lord Wentford followed in her wake. “Call me Grant and, yes, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  His gaze lit up with mischief. “Care to make a wager?”

  Chapter One

  The Wrong Wife

  Wentford Park, 1812

  Seven Years Later

  Sinking into his customary seat at the head of the table, Grant Barrett, Earl of Wentford, glanced at his young wife.

  About a year ago, Grant had met Lady Eugenie at a societal ball. She was the daughter of an impoverished earl, who had just lost her brother to the war in France. Her father had died within three months of losing his son, leaving his young daughter utterly alone in the world. And so, with a guardian seeking to rid himself of her as soon as possible, she had entered society in need of a husband.

  In truth, they’d been the perfect match as Grant had found himself in need of a wife—at least as far as his mother was concerned. Still, as much as his heart still mourned the loss of his darling wife, Grant could not deny that his mother had had a point.

  Milly needed a mother.

  Milly deserved a mother.

  At only three years of age, his daughter Amelia had suffered the most awful tragedy that could befall a child. She had lost her mother to a horrible accident.

  For weeks, Milly had cried herself to sleep, calling for Nessa in-between heartbreaking sobs and wails. Only exhaustion had managed to close her eyes in those early days after the accident. Grant’s heart had been in agony to see her thus, and never in his life had he felt more helpless than in those moments.

  Almost three years had passed since then, and Milly had learned to laugh again as her memories of her mother had slowly dimmed.

  The thought that Milly was slowly, day by day, forgetting the woman who had brought her into this world, the woman who had held her and nursed her and loved her with every fiber of her being, brought renewed pain to Grant’s heart. But he did not wish Milly to remain sad.

  And so he had finally agreed to marry again.

  Not to love again.

  But to move on.

  “Why does the sun set so late in summer?” Milly asked as she tried her best to butter her toast, her little hand clenched around the knife. “I never see the stars anymore. Grandpa, why can I not see the stars in summer?”

  Smiling at his granddaughter, Maynard Bottombrook set down his teacup. “Well, that has to do with the earth’s axis, my dear. You see…” And he launched into a scientific explanation that brought a deep frown to Milly’s young forehead.

  Grant smiled at them.

  From the first, Grant had been fond of Nessa’s father, a man who cared for nothing in life besides his darling daughter and his love for science. As her mother had died in childbirth, Nessa had insisted that her father come live with them after she had finally agreed to his seventeenth marriage proposal. Or had it been his eighteenth? No, it had been his seventeenth proposal.

  Grant rubbed his temple, wondering if one day he would lose all those beloved memories of Nessa as well.

  “She hungers for knowledge, does she not?” Eugenie remarked as she glanced at him from under her long lashes, a shy smile playing on her lips. “Her curiosity knows no bounds.”

  Grant nodded. “Just like her mother,” he replied, delighting in each and every little resemblance between mother and daughter. In a small way, it was as though Nessa were still here.

  “It is never good when girls are too knowledgeable,” Grant’s mother cut in, a dark frown on her face as she regarded her granddaughter with a hint of apprehension. “There are other, more appropriate pastimes she ought to concern herself with.”

  Grant knew well that his mother had never warmed to Nessa, and she openly portrayed her disregard for the influence Nessa’s father had on her granddaughter. “I see nothing wrong in indulging her curiosity,” Grant replied as he met his mother’s narrowed gaze. “It brings her joy, and I do not believe there is any reason good enough to keep it from her.”

  After an angry pause, his mother turned her disapproving glare to Brighton, Wentford Park’s butler, who had just appeared beside her, a letter upon a silver tray resting upon his hand. “For you, my lady.”

  Sighing, Grant looked at his young wife. “Please, do not be discouraged by my mother’s words,” he told her, seeing a hint of nervousness in her pale gray eyes. “I am aware of your dedicated care for my daughter and your encouragement that she follow her passions, and I wholeheartedly agree.” He glanced at his mother, her lips thinning as she read the letter in her hand. “My mother’s opinions can be a bit harsh at times, but I do believe she means well.” He smiled at Eugenie. “We simply happen to disagree.”

  “Yes, my lord,” his wife replied, a gentle smile on her face as she nodded. “I very much enjoy Mr. Bottombrook’s teachings myself. His knowledge is comprehensive.” A soft chuckle left her lips. “Hardly a day goes by that I do not learn something new.”

  Grant nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “That foul-mouthed woman!” Grant’s mother exclaimed, daggers flying from her eyes as her hands clenched around the parchment. “Always bragging about her grandsons.”

  As his mother’s moods were nothing unusual, only Eugenie flinched at the dowager countess’ outburst while Maynard and Milly continued to converse animatedly. “Is it Aunt Theodora?” Grant asked, annoyed with the competitive notions between his mother and his aunt, the wife of his father’s younger brother. “Why do you even open her letters if they upset you so?”

  Lifting her gaze, his mother glared at him. “I would still know what she wrote as she knows only one topic.”

  Grant sighed, wondering why his mother was so obsessed with the idea of an heir. Deep down, Grant had always suspected that his mother’s urgings for him to marry again had not solely stemmed from her concern for Milly. For years now, Aunt Theodora had been parading her three grandsons in front of her sister-in-law, hinting that once Grant passed on, the title would fall to her own son and would then be passed on through his line to her eldest grandson.

  Of course, Grant’s mother was outraged. It was a constant source of animosity between the two women.

  “Before long, I’ll have a grandson of my own,” she spat as her eyes slid over Eugenie, something dark lurking in their depths, “and then I’ll be the one to triumph over her.”

  Blushing slightly, Eugenie shifted in her seat before she determinedly focused her gaze on her stepdaughter across the table. A safe haven compared to the raging storm that rested in the dowager’s eyes.

  Grant heaved a low sigh, knowing that nothing he said on the matter would make the slightest bit of difference. Still, a small, spiteful part of him could not help but hope that should Eugenie ever find herself with child, she would have a daughter and not a son.

  It certainly would serve his mother right!

  Sighing, Grant sat back in his chair, glancing at the small circle of family around him. Indeed, he had good reason to consider himself a fortunate man. And yet, there was a part of him that would always and forever hold on to the thought of Nessa, wondering what life would be like if they had never lost her.

  Chapter Two

  False Hope

  Sitting in his study, head bent over a particularly exhausting ledger, Grant looked up when a knock came on the door. Expecting his daughter, he set aside the quill. “Please, come in.”

  To his surprise, it was not Milly, but Maynard who entered.

  The old man’s face looked a bit flushed, and his otherwise pale eyes shone in a deep blue that day. His gray hair stood on end as though he had tried to pull it out by the roots, and he held a piece of parchment clutched in his trembling hands.

  Jumping to his feet, Gra
nt rounded the large desk. “Maynard, are you all right? Is something wrong?” Taking his father-in-law by the elbow, Grant urged him to sit in one of the armchairs facing his desk before offering a glass of water. “Did you receive bad news?” Grant inquired, wondering about the letter in the old man’s hand.

  Gulping down the offered water like a man dying of thirst, Maynard shook his head before a mean coughing fit turned his face dark red. “No, not bad, my boy,” he wheezed, trying his best to draw a calm breath. “Not bad at all.”

  Although his mother disapproved, Grant had always loved the affectionate familiarity that had so easily come to him and Nessa as well as her father. To them, family meant more than reputation and standing. To them, family meant love and affection.

  “Then what has you so upset?” Grant demanded, knowing that the loss of his father-in-law would hit him hard. “I do believe you need to rest.”

  Maynard shook his head vehemently, and to Grant’s surprise, a deep smile began to form on the old man’s face. Not since Nessa had been alive had Grant seen such utter joy on Maynard’s face. “It is good news, I tell you. And I came to you the moment my legs would allow me.” An amused chuckled flew from his lips. “I admit I had to sit down upon reading this as my knees shook so hard I felt I surely would fall.”

  Grant frowned, a dark suspicion forming in his mind. “What is it?”

  Maynard’s eyes glowed. “I found her,” he whispered almost reverently. “I found her.”

  Grant could barely keep the groan from slipping from his lips as his traitorous heart leapt with hope. He ought to know better than that. Seating himself on the side of his desk, he looked down at his father-in-law. “Maynard, please, we’ve talked about this. You cannot truly believe that—”

  “But I do!” the old man insisted as his hand tightened around the parchment. “It is her! I know it!”

  Grant sighed.

  In the past three years, Maynard had come to him more than once with a letter—no doubt similar to this one—stating that a strange, young woman had one day walked into a village, keeping to herself and not mingling with the locals. No one knew her. No one knew where she had come from.

  Each and every time, Maynard had felt certain that it was Nessa.

  Three years ago, Nessa had been on her way to call on her cousin after receiving a distressing letter, begging her to visit. As far as Grant had been able to find out, the horses had shied at a strange noise and bolted as they’d crossed over a narrow bridge. The coachman had been thrown off the riding block and lost consciousness upon hitting the ground. Later, they’d found the carriage far downstream near the Thames estuary, but with no sign of Nessa.

  For months, they’d combed the countryside on both sides of the stream, spoken to fishermen in the area and searched far and wide for her. But nothing had ever turned up. Nothing but false hope.

  Due to his scientific interest, Maynard had always had a wide circle of friends in all parts of England with whom he conversed regularly about any new developments in the areas of astronomy, geology and meteorology. Upon Nessa’s disappearance—as he insisted on calling it—he had written hundreds of letters to anyone he’d ever met, inquiring after his daughter and asking them to inform him should anyone ever stumble upon her.

  In consequence, many letters had found their way to Wentford Park. Letters that had led nowhere. Letters that spoke of women who were not Nessa.

  Grant had hoped that Maynard had finally come to accept that his daughter was gone as it had been over a year now since he had last approached Grant with a letter. Maynard’s health was not the best, and Grant feared for his father-in-law. Grant’s own heart had barely survived these moments of false hope, and he could not bear to see Nessa’s father crumble to the ground yet again once he would inevitably learn that it was not his daughter after all.

  “This letter,” Maynard stated, lifting the fist that clutched the crumpled parchment, “is from a friend who recently traveled north. He writes that he heard of a woman in an abbey, who’s lost her memory.” Maynard swallowed. “According to his description, it could be Nessa.”

  Fighting his own desire to believe his father-in-law’s words, Grant placed a comforting hand on Maynard’s shoulder. “I know you want it to be her. I do as well. But we cannot go on, hoping that she will one day walk back into our lives. It is not good for any of us.” Grant swallowed, knowing how close he had come to losing his mind and succumbing to his grief. Only because of Milly had he found a way to say goodbye to his past life and look to the future.

  Sad eyes looked back into Grant’s. “I understand that you cannot hope as I do,” Maynard whispered, understanding ringing in his voice. “Believe me, I do. I lost my wife as well, and it nearly killed me.” Tears came to the old man’s eyes. “But this is my child,” he said, his voice nearly choked. “I cannot stop. I cannot give up. Not ever.” Gritting his teeth, he staggered to his feet, fighting for composure. “I understand your position. Please, also understand mine.”

  Hanging his head, Grant nodded. Deep down, he had always known that no power on this earth but death alone would ever be able to stop his father-in-law. “Of course, I do. I don’t want you to think that I—”

  Maynard’s wrinkled hand grasped Grant’s arm. “Not for a moment did I doubt your love for her,” he assured him. “Not for a moment.”

  Grant nodded, gritting his teeth against the tears that lingered…even after three years.

  Maynard sighed heavily as he patted Grant’s arm. “I’ll be leaving in the morning. Would you—?”

  “No,” Grant replied, rising to his feet. “I’ll go.”

  “But—”

  “You’re in no shape to undertake such a journey,” Grant insisted, urging his father-in-law back into the vacated armchair. “Nessa would not want you to put yourself at risk. I’ll go.”

  Sinking back down, Maynard nodded. “If you insist.”

  “I do.” Rounding his desk, Grant rang the bell and waited for Brighton to appear. “I’ll be traveling up north tomorrow morning. Please have a bag packed and instruct Darby to ready the coach.”

  Bowing, Brighton left the room to do as he was asked.

  Turning to his father-in-law, Grant smiled when he saw the old man’s breath come a little easier. Still, he could not stop himself from thinking about what would await him upon his return. How would Maynard react to having his hopes disappointed yet again? Would his heart survive? Or would Grant lose him as well? And what would the loss of her grandfather do to Milly?

  Gritting his teeth, Grant vowed to instruct Brighton upon his return to intercept all letters arriving for Maynard. He would do whatever he had to in order to protect his father-in-law from himself.

  Chapter Three

  The Moment of Truth

  The sun shone warm on her back, and the cool, fresh ground under her fingers provided a soothing contrast, grounding Martha to the here and now. Kneeling in the vegetable patch, she pulled out small weeds and thus ensured that the green world around her would flourish, bearing fruit to sustain the abbey and its inhabitants. It was something to do. Something Martha knew how to do.

  At least something.

  Martha. Was that her name?

  Ever since she’d come to Granville Abbey, it had been. Sister Anne had chosen it for her not two days after she had first woken at the monastery. Fishermen had pulled her from the sea, near drowned, and brought her to the nearby abbey.

  That had been three years ago.

  Three years since her life had begun. Before that, only a black void filled Martha’s heart and mind. No matter how hard she tried, she could not recall her life before. Not even her own name.

  In the beginning, she’d still had hope that with time her memory would return. Today, Martha no longer harbored such hopes, and with each passing day, she wondered what she ought to do. What would become of her? Ought she to remain in the abbey forever? If not, what other choice did she have?

  After all, she knew n
ot a single person outside the abbey. Certainly, there were a few acquaintances from her trips into the village, but nothing more. People tended to hold back when one did not—or could not—share one’s own story. Not intentionally as Martha had met many kind people. Still, it always remained an imbalance. Her life simply weighed less, and she did not know how to change that.

  In the past three years, no one had come forth to claim her as his wife, daughter or mother. No one knew her, and Martha had long since given up hope that anyone would ever come to find her.

  Until an elderly gentleman had traveled through the village a fortnight ago.

  Martha drew in a deep breath as she remembered the night he had come to the abbey, inquiring after her. He had not looked familiar, and neither had she to him as he himself had never met her. However, he had spoken of a friend who was looking for his daughter, a daughter who had been washed away in a river three years ago. Could that woman be her?

  Martha had been utterly overwhelmed by the thought that there might be someone out there looking for her after all. She had barely heard a word after the man’s initial explanation of why he had sought her out. All her thoughts had focused on the man who might be her father, the man who had been looking for her for three years. Warmth had filled her heart at the thought that, after believing herself alone in the world, there was someone who cared enough to not give up.

  Even after three years.

  Tears had come to her eyes, and she had not known what to make of them. If her father had walked across the abbey’s threshold with his friend, would she have recognized him? Or would he have been a stranger to her? What would it do to him to find his daughter after three years only to be faced with the fact that she had no memory of who he was?

  Sitting back on her heels, Martha tried to calm herself. But her hands continued to tremble. Not even the otherwise calming routine of tending to the vegetable patch managed to chase away the uncertainty that had claimed her anew. What would happen now?