The Second Lady Emily

by Allison Lane

  Mabel’s voice echoed in her ears, prattling about ghosts. Cherlynn replayed her tour of the great hall from her sight of the sixth marquess’s portrait to the weight of hands on her shoulders. Throwing open the clothespress, she gasped. A silk ball gown hung inside, dyed a very familiar shade of blue.

  Emily had not died until four days after the ball, yet Cherlynn had seen the great hall full of people dressed in Regency gowns. Thus Emily must have voluntarily vacated her body early so that Cherlynn could save her life. Once that was accomplished, the girl would return, sending Cherlynn back to a time when transfusions and life support were undoubtedly keeping her own body alive.

  Nerves again set her pacing. Nerves and her determination to build some stamina into Emily’s flaccid muscles. No wonder Regency ladies seemed delicate and never did anything. Even this mild exercise made her gasp for breath.

  Forget Regency ladies. Think about your own problems.

  Emily’s body was well on the road to recovery. Thurston knew the regimen well enough to assure that it stayed that way. He would dismiss any words uttered during her delirium, but now that she was rational, talking risked exposing her identity, something Emily wouldn’t want. Yet the girl hadn’t reclaimed her rightful place.

  It didn’t require a rocket scientist to figure out why. The man Emily loved was betrothed to another in an era when betrothals were nearly as binding as marriage. And that wasn’t all. The sixth Lady Broadbanks would call down the curse that would destroy his family and prompt his suicide in only three years. Emily must expect Cherlynn to break his betrothal. Only when that was accomplished, would she return to her own life, allowing Emily and Thurston to live happily ever after.

  Worded like that, it sounded like she must selflessly serve a stranger. But Emily wasn’t the only one who had a stake in ending Thurston’s engagement. The outcome would affect every Broadbanks in the future, including her. She had visited the family seat to learn more about the curse. Now she had a unique opportunity to prevent it. Instead of railing at Emily for putting her through this agony, her time would be better spent figuring out how to proceed.

  Or if she should proceed.

  Cherlynn took another turn about the room.

  Time travel had fascinated her ever since she’d seen Back to the Future in her youth. Her library contained many books with time-travel plots. A theme common to many of them was the havoc that could result from even tiny changes in history.

  Again she stared at Emily’s face. The girl was not asking for a small change. Removing the curse would allow hundreds of people to live full, productive lives and would result in hundreds more being born. The fifth marquess was a powerful man. His relatives held positions of influence in government, the military, and society. What would happen if all those men and women continued their lives unfettered? How could she, an insignificant American, come to be in the right place to be wafted back if there was no curse? At first glance, Emily’s actions could create a really nasty paradox.

  On the other hand, she doubted that Emily could have acted alone. If that were possible, millions of people would have changed their lives – innocent victims of random violence, repentant sinners, persons disabled by accidents, and so many more. Thus there must be a higher authority who processed requests for intervention. If that were the case, then she could trust that power to maintain the balance of the universe by preventing such a paradox. Whatever steps she took now would not destroy the integrity of time or prevent her from touring Broadbanks on June 15, 1998.

  It was a comforting thought, and she could only pray it was true. Her track record for clear thinking wasn’t very impressive.

  Again she contrasted the laughing, fourteen-year-old Thurston with the grim sixth Marquess of Broadbanks – and with the haunted man who had lingered at her bedside. Andrew Villiers, Earl of Thurston. Charles called him Drew. Emily would also have done so, at least in private. Drew. She liked the name. He deserved better than death by suicide at age twenty-nine. She would save him from Fay, and save herself as well.

  The first step must be investigation. She couldn’t free Drew unless she understood why he and Fay were betrothed. His personal feelings were obvious. Spending hours at Emily’s bedside – often with no one else in the room – bespoke his love. Unless her understanding of Regency propriety was completely off, his behavior was scandalously compromising and could ruin Emily’s reputation if word of it leaked out. He had also wrested control of Emily’s convalescence from her own brother. Both actions must stem from his fear of losing her. So why was he betrothed to Fay?

  His father might have arranged it, of course – Lady Travis had hinted that was so when she mentioned the long friendship between Lords Broadbanks and Raeburn – but why would a marquess force an alliance with a baron’s daughter when an earl’s sister was available? No matter what criteria one judged by – breeding, wealth, character, personal preference – Emily was clearly the better match.

  So she would start by learning how the betrothal arose. Halting before the mirror, she met Emily’s unexpectedly blue eyes. “I’ll try to help you,” she whispered. “But I can’t guarantee success. I’ve bungled every task in my life. There’s little hope this will be any different.”

  Half an hour of pacing had expended her scant energy. She climbed back into the high bed, arranging the mountain of pillows behind her so that she was half sitting. Her eyes noted the bell pull, but she resisted the urge to summon her maid. Before she spoke to anyone else, she must decide what to say.

  As she drifted in semi-slumber, she recalled the tour guide’s words. Drew’s will had ordered that his portrait hang in the great hall as long as the house stood. And now she knew why. Emily was the ghost in blue who had haunted the site. He had wanted to spend eternity gazing at her. Had he felt guilty for loving her when he was bound to another? Had he been responsible for her fall? Cherlynn would have to work out the answers for herself. They were scarcely questions she could ask him.

  And they weren’t the only puzzles. Why had Emily chosen her? She was hardly the sort one turned to in an emergency.

  Yet perhaps she really was suited to this particular task. Her two years of working for the committee had taught her to gather and assimilate data, piecing facts together to make a picture. If she was to solve a mystery, such a skill would be useful. She had no family or close friends who would miss her if anything went wrong. Plus, she knew much about the Regency era – knowledge essential to anyone who wrote about the period. Then there was the information on herbal medicine she had learned from Willard. How ironic that he had actually saved her life.

  But Emily could have found a helper long ago if those were the only requirements. Many people fit that description. Cherlynn Cardington was so ordinary, she was negligible. Thus it must be the title. In buying the Broadbanks title, she had purchased everything that went with it, including the curse. So she had a personal stake in the outcome. Or the title may have been the conduit that allowed Emily to bring her back. She might be the first available marchioness who knew how to survive the injury that had originally killed the girl. No family member had visited the house since it had been turned over to the National Trust during World War I. Ghosts were usually tied to a specific location. If the title was the conduit, then Emily would have had no opportunities in over eighty years – which didn’t do much for Cherlynn’s confidence. Had the girl grabbed her because she was the only choice instead of the best?

  “Enough.”

  Rehashing how she got here accomplished nothing. She needed to consider the stakes instead of wallowing in her own inadequacies. Seventy-one dead marquesses, including Drew, who had blown his brains out on September 15, 1815.

  His kiss again tickled her forehead. She could no longer see him as a historical entity, or even as the grim-visaged portrait of a man long dead. He had fought hard to save her life, willing to try anything, no matter how odd, if she claimed it would help her survive.

  “He does not deserve
to die.”

  Her expression firmed. If she was to carry this out, she must start thinking of herself as Emily and must try to act like Emily. She could help no one if they locked her away for insanity.

  * * * *

  “You rang, my lady?” Dawn had broken more an hour earlier, allowing sunlight to stream into the room. The maid’s face suddenly changed to horror. “The window is open again! You’ll catch your death, and no mistake.”

  “Stop!” Cherlynn’s voice halted the maid in her tracks. “Leave it. Fresh air will speed my recovery.”

  “Still delirious,” muttered the maid.

  Cherlynn bit her lip. She had no idea what Emily had been like, but suspected the girl had been a wimp – biddable and conformable, as she would have said in one of her books. Though she would try to emulate that in public, there was no hope of fooling the maid. Everything she recalled from her illness confirmed that Emily had confided freely in this servant. Amnesia wouldn’t account for all her differences, so she needed an explanation for the change.

  “I am not delirious,” she said gently, “though this illness has left me weak. I need your help – and your silence.”

  The maid’s eyes blazed with suspicion.

  “My head has healed and my fever is gone, yet my memory has not returned,” she announced slowly. “You must teach me about myself and the people I should know. Announcing my condition to the world will harm my family, but I cannot wait patiently for the affliction to right itself. I must live as though it is permanent.”

  “Very wise, my lady.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Grace.”

  “Very pretty. It fits you.” Grace was about thirty, with a willowy figure and ease of movement that did not match the literary description of the servant class. “Have you served me long?”

  “Since your birth. I started as a nursery maid, but was assigned and trained as your lady’s maid at your request.”

  “I trust I have good judgment. Let’s start with my family. I have spoken with Charles and my mother, but I know little about them.”

  She listened for nearly an hour as Grace described Charles, Lady Clifford, and a younger sister, Mary, who had remained at Clifford Abbey. The more she learned, the more daunting her assigned role seemed. Emily was a typical Regency miss, barely educated and dependent on others for everything. She never raised her voice, never put herself forward, never disputed a gentleman. All in all, she sounded like a boring doormat. Impersonating her would be impossible. But that explained why the girl had dumped the job of preventing the curse onto someone else’s shoulders. The real Emily wouldn’t have known where to start.

  And the task was potentially more dangerous than she had first suspected. If she acted like Emily, she would have little chance of learning enough to break Drew’s betrothal. But asking the necessary questions meant that Emily must undergo a character transplant. Damn! How was she to keep the damage to a minimum so that Emily’s return wouldn’t cause worse trouble? There was a limit to how much she could blame on amnesia.

  She snapped her attention back to Grace’s words, which had moved on while she was lost in thought.

  “If only that man hadn’t intruded,” Grace was saying stoutly. But her face suddenly flushed.

  “What man?”

  “Nothing, my lady. I’ve tired you with all this talk.”

  “What man, Grace? Lord Thurston?” At the maid’s flinch, she continued. “I already know that he and I had an understanding that has since been abandoned. What was it?”

  “Not now, my lady,” begged Grace. “If you don’t remember, it’s all for the good.”

  “Hardly. I need to know how to behave. Since I remember nothing, learning the facts can hardly bother me. It would merely be a story about strangers.”

  “Very well,” agreed Grace, though she was obviously uncertain what she should do. “You have known each other most of your life. He has occupied the next estate for four years and is Lord Clifford’s closest friend, so he was often in the house. Some years ago you formed a tendre for him that blossomed into love. Last fall he began courting you.”

  “Why has Charles not mentioned it?”

  “His lordship didn’t know,” admitted Grace. “Lord Thurston wished to gain his father’s approval before openly pursuing a connection. When he left for Broadbanks in March, you believed that he would announce his intention to wed you and would return within a fortnight. But he did not. You clung to your certainty long after everyone else had learned the truth. His betrothal to Miss Raeburn was announced at the ball three weeks ago, but the arrangement had been made when he was a child.”

  “So it was contracted by the families,” she murmured, frowning. Either Emily had been a complete widgeon – a distinct possibility, though not one she could broach to the loyal maid – or Thurston was no gentleman. He had not behaved as a dishonorable cad during her illness, but that meant nothing. She’d been in no shape for dalliance. And her impressions of him might all be wrong. She had a long history of poor judgment. Perhaps his hovering had had a more prosaic purpose – making sure that delirium did not reveal their relationship.

  He must have had dishonorable motives for pursuing Emily. No gentleman during the Regency could get away with terminating a betrothal. Never mind that his bride was unworthy. Yet if Drew had pursued Emily solely for seduction, why had the girl brought Cherlynn back through time? Emily had been certain of his love. Had he gone home to terminate the understanding, but found himself outmaneuvered? It was a comforting theory, but she didn’t know him well enough to judge.

  “My lady?”

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else. Help me dress now. I need to sit up if I am to regain my strength.”

  “It’s far too soon,” protested the maid.

  “Nonsense. Remaining in bed weakens you more than illness does.”

  “You don’t sound at all like yourself,” admonished the maid.

  Of course she didn’t, but she must convince Grace that all would be well. She would need the woman as an ally if she was to succeed. “I am not myself,” she said slowly. “Perhaps if I tell you why, you will understand. But the tale is to go no further.” She stared at the maid until the woman nodded, then dropped her voice into the cadence of storytelling. “My earliest memory is of falling. I awoke in a brightly lit meadow full of wondrously strange flowers in colors for which we have no name and shapes that cannot be described. One moment I was alone; the next a man stood at my side. He radiated peace and harmony, but his words denied them to me. ‘It is not your time,’ he began quietly. ‘You must complete a great task before the garden will be open to you.’ I protested, for I wished to stay, but he insisted. Before he sent me back, he laid a hand on my head and promised me success. I can only guess that he bestowed gifts to aid me, but I do not wish the world to view me as odd. Thus you can speak of this to no one. And you must teach me all that I have forgotten so that others do not guess the truth.”

  “You saw God . . .” The awe on her face was too much.

  “He did not introduce himself, but I do not believe so. At most, I met a messenger. And he did not define my task. All I can do is live my life as best I can – with your help.”

  Grace nodded.

  “But I now have urges I cannot deny, even if they counter convention. Compulsions this powerful can only have come from him. One of these is to revel in fresh air, even at night, though I will ask for an additional comforter to keep me warm. Another is to rise from this bed and regain my strength. I will expect you to accede to my wishes, but we will not speak of this again.”

  * * * *

  “Are you finally recovering?” asked Charles as he approached her couch that afternoon.

  “Physically, though I still remember nothing before my fall,” she replied calmly. “But I wish to minimize that fact in public. Have you any idea why I tripped so clumsily? People are bound to ask.”

  Charles sighed. “I did not actuall
y see you fall, so I can only guess. You were quite blue-deviled that evening.”

  “Because Lord Thurston was to wed another?” she asked bluntly.

  His eyes widened, but her matter-of-fact tone calmed him. “No. Because he had spoken not a single word to you since our arrival two days earlier. Despite our many discussions of your air dreams, I doubt you accepted his betrothal until the ball itself. A group of ladies were discussing it just before you fell. Confirmation may have shocked you into staggering back and tripping on the hearth.”

  “Gauche of me.” Her mind was working furiously. “So we never had an understanding.”

  His face registered shock, but he apparently recalled her condition, for he reined in his fury and sighed. “We’ve had this discussion too many times, Em. You were obsessed with the man, but Drew would never behave so dishonorably. He paid no more attention to you than to Mary, knowing that his father expected him to wed Miss Raeburn. You knew that, but you were ever one to ignore facts. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

  “Perhaps this illness has steadied me.”

  “I am glad to hear it. We will remain here until Drew’s wedding – which should be plenty of time to assure your recovery – then spend the autumn in London. I let you talk me out of a Season last year, but it is time to seriously look for a husband. Autumn entertainments will be a good place to hone your social skills.”

  She made no protest, allowing him to direct their conversation into impersonal channels while her mind tried to make sense of these new facts. Grace claimed that Thurston was serious but secretive. Charles didn’t think he had singled her out. So whose head was in the clouds? If Drew had courted Emily secretly, it didn’t speak well for either his intentions or his honor. But perhaps Emily had magnified simple courtesy to fit her own fantasies. Grace had only Emily’s word for Drew’s behavior.

  Cherlynn had no way of knowing. And despite the fanciful tale she had spun, she had received no special powers to solve this mystery.