How to Wake a Sleeping Lady

by Wolf, Bree

  Their visitor had promised to write to his friend, informing him of his discovery. Would her father—if indeed she was the daughter he sought—come to see her? Martha wondered for a bare second before she realized that she already knew the answer beyond the shadow of a doubt. After all, what father would search for his child for three years and then not respond to such a letter?

  Before long, he would come, and then…?

  Then Martha would receive her answer. Was she truly Agnes Bottombrook, Maynard Bottombrook’s daughter? Her nose crinkled involuntarily at the name! Or would she forever remain Martha, a woman without a past?

  “Martha!”

  Turning toward Sister Anne’s voice, Martha rose to her feet, brushing her dirt-stained hands on her apron. “Yes, is something the matter?” Belatedly, she took note of the rosy flush on the woman’s face who had become a dear friend to her. “Is something wrong? Are you ill?”

  A wide smile came to Sister Anne’s face. “He’s here,” she whispered reverently, grasping Martha’s hands. Her eyes shone with hope and joy as she looked at Martha, her hands squeezing hers lightly. “He’s here.”

  Martha swallowed. “My father?” Perhaps. “I mean Mr. Bottombrook.”

  “No, I do not believe it is him,” Sister Anne replied hastily, her own hands trembling as well. “He looked much too young to be your father. I’m sorry I cannot tell you more, but the abbess bade me fetch you with haste. Come, please.”

  Martha felt her knees grow weak, and she had to draw a lungful of air before her feet stumbled forward. Quickly, she washed her hands in a bucket filled with water from the well and untied her apron, folding it neatly before setting it down.

  “Are you afraid?” Sister Anne asked, watching her carefully.

  Inhaling a deep breath, Martha clasped her hands together. Would they never stop trembling? “I’m not certain. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what to hope for.”

  With a smile, Sister Anne stepped toward her. “I only caught a glimpse of him, but he looked like a kind and decent man. He seemed hesitant as though he didn’t dare believe. But there was a spark of hope in his eyes that he couldn’t quite smother. I do believe he cares for you deeply.”

  “If, indeed, I am the woman he is looking for,” Martha threw in as her head began to spin. “And if I am, then he is about to find out that I have no notion of who he is. And if I am not, then his hopes will once again be disappointed.”

  “As will yours.”

  Martha simply looked at her friend, still unable to say what it was she was hoping for. What if this man was to return her to a life she had run from?

  Every now and then, the thought had entered Martha’s mind that she had left her old life behind for a reason. That her mind did not remember because, deep down, a part of her knew that it was for the best. That she ought to start over and not look back.

  “Come,” Sister Anne urged, grasping Martha’s hand. “You will forever regret it if you do not meet him.”

  Martha nodded and followed Sister Anne back inside. They crossed a large hall and then followed a corridor down toward the abbess’ study. After knocking softly, Sister Anne opened the old oak door and pulled Martha into the room.

  A young man—likely younger than her—stood by the window, his back toward the door, his chocolate brown hair smoothed back into place after it had no doubt been ruffled in a nervous fit. Who was he? Martha wondered. Could he be her brother? Had their father sent him?

  The moment of truth was upon her, and she all but held her breath as he turned around upon her entry.

  As though not daring to look, the stranger turned slowly—agonizingly so—giving Martha the opportunity to glimpse the strain that hung on his handsome face, the tension that rested in his broad shoulders as well as the spark of hope that lingered in those moss-green eyes.

  The moment those eyes fell on her, they widened in utter shock and the man stumbled backwards until he collided with the cabinet holding the abbey’s ledgers.

  The abbess shot to her feet, concern etched deep in her gray eyes, while Sister Anne drew in a sharp breath before clasping her hand over her mouth, her own eyes as round as plates.

  All the while, Martha simply stood there, watching the stranger as his jaw dropped, as he blinked his lids rapidly trying to see clearly, as his mouth opened…and one word slipped out. One word full of disbelief, doubt, and yet, hope. “Nessa?”

  He drew in a shuddering breath before a large smile suddenly claimed his face. “Nessa,” he stammered, his voice hoarse and almost choked, “it…it is you.” His eyes remained fixed on her face as he started toward her as though he feared she would disappear if he dared look away.

  “Hello,” Martha mumbled, unable not to look at him. She was overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze. As much as she had hoped that her memory would return in a blinding flash, it was not so. The black void remained, and she knew not this stranger who rushed toward her with such devotion and longing in his eyes that it stole the breath from her lungs.

  Never before had anyone looked at her like this.

  “Nessa,” he whispered as he closed the distance between them, his moss-green eyes locked on to hers, and drew her into his arms.

  Martha felt as though she vanished in his embrace, his strong arms holding her to him as though he wished to never let her go. He felt warm and alive, his heart beating wildly in his chest as his hands brushed down her arms and over her back before they traveled upward and into her hair.

  Overwhelmed by this sudden contact, Martha knew not what to do or say, and so she stood in his arms and let him do as he wished.

  Then he pulled back, gently cupping her face, and looked down at her as his eyes found hers once more, searching, asking, savoring. His thumb brushed over her cheek, tenderly and with such care that Martha felt herself begin to tremble with unexpected longing. Why, oh why could she not remember this man?

  Still, in the next instant, panic seized her when his gaze dropped from hers and touched her lips. As though he could not bear the distance between them any longer, he pulled her closer and lowered his head to hers.

  Martha drew in a sharp breath and barely managed to lift her hands in defense before his lips brushed against hers. “Don’t!” she exclaimed, jerking her head back as her eyes widened and she stared up at him in shock. “Please, I don’t even know who you are!”

  Chapter Four

  The Measurements of a Life

  In one short moment—barely the blink of an eye—Grant’s world was turned upside down.

  After three awful years of mourning his wife, of reminding himself that she was lost to him for good, of forcing himself to move on, here she was, alive and well.

  And still, he feared he was hallucinating, dreaming, fantasizing. What if he allowed himself to believe only to have her snatched from his grasp?

  Gritting his teeth, Grant doubted he would survive suffering her loss a second time. No, before he could allow himself to truly believe that she had returned to him, he needed…he needed to…

  His hands tightened on her, feeling the familiar warmth of her body. Her hazel eyes were wide and watchful, dark with confusion. And yet, Grant saw an old spark lurking beneath the surface. A spark that spoke of a strong and daring mind as well as a brave and loving heart. Was this truly his wife? His Nessa?

  He skimmed a thumb over her cheek and felt her tremble in his arms as his heart beat wildly in his chest with fear and hope alike. He was not hallucinating, was he? This was not a dream.

  Joy claimed Grant’s heart, and the longing of three years came pouring out of him. His gaze dropped lower, and before he knew what he was doing, his head bent down to claim a kiss.

  To claim her.

  To convince himself that she was truly here.

  In his arms.

  Alive and well.

  “Don’t!”

  That one word cut through him like a knife, and Grant froze as she pulled back, fear etched in her eyes. “Please,
I don’t even know who you are!”

  Blinking, Grant stared at her. He saw her eyes widen. He saw the way she tried to lean back, to free herself from his embrace. He saw her confusion, her fear…but he couldn’t release her.

  He couldn’t. What if she vanished into thin air? He couldn’t. He had to hold on to her.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Grant saw someone move, and then the short, rather dainty frame of the abbess appeared beside him. “My lord, I understand that this is a difficult situation,” she said in a tone that held compassion, but also rang with authority, “but I must insist that you release her.” Gently, she placed a hand on his arm, urging him to do as she’d ordered. “She does not remember you, and what you’re doing frightens her. Release her, and we may talk.”

  Gritting his teeth, Grant willed his arms to comply. Slowly, his muscles relaxed, and he could see Nessa’s relief when she was finally able to flee his embrace. Her feet carried her backwards until her back collided with the door, and she reached for the young nun who had entered with her.

  Taking a deep breath, Grant ran his hands through his hair, reminding himself of what he already knew. As much as he wished it were not true, Grant knew that she did not remember him. He had known even before he had set foot in the abbey. After all, the letter Maynard had received had informed them thusly.

  Still, Grant had never truly expected to find her here. Not once had he contemplated what it would mean to see his wife in the woman who had lost her memory. The moment he had turned and found her standing only a few paces away, her chest rising and falling with each life-giving breath, everything had fallen from him.

  “I apologize,” he mumbled, willing himself to remain calm, to remember how overwhelming all this surely had to be for her. For Nessa.

  She was alive!

  “I understand,” the abbess said, her feet firmly planted on the floor between him and Nessa, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. “You said you received a letter, informing you that she was here. However, the man who came here spoke of a Mr. Bottombrook, suggesting that he could be Martha’s father.”

  Grant frowned. “Martha?”

  The abbess looked at his wife. “That is the name she’s been known by for the past three years.” A smirk came to her wrinkled face. “We had to call her something, didn’t we?”

  “Of course,” Grant agreed, trying his best to wrap his mind around everything he had learned in the past few minutes. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he told Nessa gently, meaning every word as he looked at her with all the sincerity he possessed. “I admit I never truly believed I would find you here, and then…” He drew in a long breath. “Seeing you came as quite a shock.”

  Still as white as a sheet, his wife looked at him, her eyes searching his face as though she, too, wished her memories would return and make everything simple. “I understand,” she whispered as she took a step forward, away from the safety of the young nun’s embrace and toward him. “I wish I could remember you, but…”

  “It’s all right,” Grant replied, delighting in the tentative smile that briefly flashed across her beautiful face. “What’s important is that you’re alive…and well.” He shook his head as another moment of disbelief claimed him. “You’re alive.”

  “I am,” she confirmed, the ghost of a smile reclaiming her lips. “But who am I? Am I not Mr. Bottombrook’s daughter? Agnes Bottombrook?” Her nose crinkled in dislike.

  Grant laughed. “You never liked your name.” He took a step toward her when he saw her smile deepen. “That’s why I called you Nessa.”

  “Nessa,” she whispered, nodding her head in appreciation. “It does sound better.” Her eyes remained on his, a question in them. “So, I have a father?”

  Grant nodded, explaining how he had insisted on traveling north instead of her father due to the man’s failing health. “He never believed you were gone,” Grant admitted, realizing that he had failed his wife after all. He should never have given up hope. He should never have stopped looking. “He kept searching, and he was right to do so.”

  Nessa exhaled slowly, her hands trembling as her mind absorbed all that he had said. “My father is unwell?” she asked, her hazel eyes searching his face as they had so many times before.

  Grant nodded. “These past few years have been…” He sighed, shaking his head as the memory of their loss engulfed him once more. “They’ve been hard on him, always drifting back and forth between hope and fear. It weakened him.”

  Tears misted her eyes. “Will he…?” She swallowed, and her jaw trembled ever so slightly. “How bad…?”

  Looking into her eyes, Grant smiled at his wife. “Do not worry,” he told her. “Your father is a stubborn, old man. He will not leave you now that he’s finally found you. One look at you will give him more strength than any remedy his doctor has urged him to take.”

  Blinking back the tears that lingered, Nessa exhaled the breath she’d been holding before the ghost of a smile danced across her lovely face.

  “He’ll be overjoyed to see you,” Grant told her, wanting her to know—even if she did not remember them—that she was loved. “As am I.”

  Nessa swallowed. “And you are?”

  Grant took a steadying breath. “I’m your husband.” She, too, drew in a shuddering breath. “My name is Grant Barrett, Earl of Wentford, and you’re my countess. You’re my Nessa.”

  “Countess?” she whispered, and her eyes widened as she held his gaze.

  Grant nodded. “We were married nearly seven years ago.” With each word he spoke, Grant could see her growing paler as her mind found no memory of the events he spoke. “We have a daughter,” he said carefully, not wishing to upset her, but believing with all his heart that he should not wait.

  Her face froze before her bottom lip began to tremble and large tears rolled down her cheeks. “A daughter?”

  “Milly,” Grant replied, wondering if his daughter would still recognize her own mother. “Lady Amelia Barrett. She is six years old now.”

  “Six years.” The words left Nessa’s lips on a gust of air and, for a moment, it seemed she would stagger backwards from the blow she’d just received. Her lids blinked rapidly as her eyes drifted around the room like pieces of driftwood tossed about on the open sea.

  Seeing his wife in such distress, Grant fought the urge to run to her and draw her into his arms for he knew that his attempt at comfort would only upset her more. And so he remained where he was, desperately trying to find the right words. “She has your eyes,” he finally said, a soft smile playing on his lips at the thought of his precious child. “They shine with warmth and kindness.” He chuckled. “And mischief.”

  Nessa blinked, and her eyes settled on his once more. She was still pale, but her lips moved as though she wished to ask for more.

  “She tries to act the proper little lady,” he offered when he saw the longing in Nessa’s eyes, “but she is a wild one at heart. She loves being outdoors, running around the gardens and ruining yet another dress.” Grant laughed, remembering how Nessa and Milly had always seemed like earth sprites, darting through the grove of trees that now harbored their daughter’s little fortress.

  In that moment, Grant prayed with every fiber of his being that the day would come that he would see them like that again.

  Free. Unrestrained. Happy.

  “I think she loves it as much as she does,” he told Nessa, “because somewhere deep down it reminds her of you.” Grant sighed, remembering the nights Milly had woken up crying, calling for her mother.

  Nessa’s jaw tensed, and Grant could see that her heart ached for the child she could not remember. Would she ever?

  Pushing that thought aside, Grant hastened on. “She has a very curious mind and hardly a day goes by that she doesn’t ask a thousand questions. Your father adores her, and I often see them side by side, noses in a book. A little while back, he gave her a telescope to look at the stars. Milly loves it, but lately she’s developed a habit of w
atching the world around her instead of the sky.” He chuckled, determined to fight through the sadness that lingered. “She’s like you in many ways, and I’m glad for it. She will be an incredible young woman.”

  Swallowing, Nessa clasped her hands together until her sinews stood out white. “She won’t remember me,” she whispered, her hazel eyes hidden behind a curtain of tears. “It’s been too long. She won’t remember me.”

  “Perhaps not at first,” Grant admitted, knowing that it was very likely that his wife was correct, “but perhaps over time she’ll regain some of her memories.” He swallowed. “Just like you.”

  “I’ve tried for years,” she whispered, shaking her head, “but there is nothing there. Even now, when I look at you, I…” She shrugged, hastily wiping away her tears. “I don’t remember.”

  Feeling his heart sink as it slowly filled with despair, Grant reminded himself that only the day before he had thought her lost to him forever. Now, she stood here before him, alive and well. Whatever the future would hold, at least she would be a part of it and he was beyond grateful for it.

  “I can see how frightening this is for you, but I assure you that we all love you and have missed you dearly these past three years.” Blinking back tears, he took a step toward her.

  Flinching, Nessa backed away. “I…I need some time,” she stammered, her hazel eyes clouded with sadness. “I can’t…I…”

  Grant nodded. “I understand. I…will leave you now.” He tried to breathe evenly as every fiber of his body rebelled against that thought. “I will return to Wentford Park to prepare our family for your return. It will give you some time to…” He shrugged, not knowing how to finish the sentence. “But I shall return shortly, and then I will take you home.” He held her gaze until she nodded, needing her confirmation that she would still be here upon his return.

  Then Grant stepped forward, toward the door, but stopped when he reached her side. Once again, he looked down at her face and felt the world right itself. “Goodbye, Nessa,” he whispered, “until we see each other again.”