One night, long after everyone was in bed and asleep, Miss Horatia was roused once again by the girl’s pitiful sobs and cries, and she pulled on her dressing gown to investigate.
As she opened the door, she heard her call out, “Charles, I need you. Charles, where are you?” and, steeling her heart, she went up to the bed to take her in her arms. “There, my dear, there,” she said in her gruff voice.
Emily woke up startled before she lay her head on Miss Horatia’s bosom.
“I am so sorry, Miss Rutherford,” she whispered. “Did I wake you again?”
“That is no matter, child. But come, you were calling for someone in your sleep, someone named Charles. Do you know who he might be?”
Emily was astounded to hear a masculine name escape Miss Horatia’s thin lips. “I ... I have no idea. I know no one by that name,” she said.
Miss Horatia patted her briskly on the shoulder and rose. “Go back to sleep, then. No doubt it is someone from your past, but you must not let it trouble you.”
But the very next morning there was something else to concern the older lady that drove the girl’s nightmares right from her mind. Agnes, who had taken their guest to her heart and insisted on serving as her maid, came to Miss Horatia and reported her suspicions. The girl had been with them for over a month now, and none of the cloths that Agnes had provided for her period had been used. Of course, she told her mistress, it might be due to the shock of the accident, but somehow she did not believe it. There was a glow to the girl, a new softness, and although she was sorry to have to mention it to Miss Rutherford, she herself had had four children and could read the signs as well as anyone. Miss Horatia bid her keep her suspicions to herself for the time being and went to seek the counsel of her younger sister, her eyes sharp with her anger and distress.
“I knew all her troubles were directly related to one of them, Hortense,” she said after she disclosed her fears that the young lady was pregnant. “Hmmph! They amuse themselves, but the woman always pays.”
“Oh, dearie me,” Miss Hortense said, looking nervously at her sister. How would dear Horatia react to their young friend now that there was proof of such a direct relationship with the enemy? Might her dislike extend to her as well?
“So, she is Mrs. Wiggins, after all, how sad,” she managed to say at last. “But, Sister, we must find her hus—the baby’s, er, I mean...”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Miss Horatia snapped. “There is no need to pussyfoot about, Hortense. In this instance I shall relax my standards. I am well aware that the young lady did not arrive in her present predicament all by herself. Oh, no, it was all one of their doing! I hope she may be Mrs. Wiggins indeed, but I do not count on it. She has probably been abandoned by him, unmarried and bereft, and is all alone in the world. That is probably the reason she cries in her sleep.”
“Oh, Sister,” Miss Hortense exclaimed, clapping her hands in glee, “she is not alone; she has us. How lovely to have a baby in the hall. Do say that we may offer her a home with us, and the child as well.”
“That depends, Sister, and we shall have to wait and see,” Miss Horatia was quick to remind her. “But that is in the future, and we have more immediate concerns. Since she still cannot remember her real name, this forces us to make inquiries, for even though I do not think it at all probable, knowing what they are like, there may be a Mr. Wiggins in her past.”
“How do we do that, Sister?” Miss Hortense asked, putting aside her dreams of cradles, booties, and little bonnets.
“We shall advertise, of course, in the papers. Then, too, perhaps we should concentrate our efforts in Brighton, since that is where we found her. I shall write up the notices at once, and one of the maids can post them for us this afternoon. You go and find the girl and tell her what we propose to do. I shall leave it up to you whether or not you tell her that we know of her condition. I am almost positive that she is unaware of it herself as yet.”
Miss Hortense bustled away and found Emily sitting under the giant elm, a pile of mending at her feet.
“Dearie, Horatia has just told me,” she said as she took a seat and beamed at the girl. “And soon you will have many more interesting things to sew besides my old petticoats. My, yes, and they will be so much tinier too.”
She giggled and blushed, and Emily put down her sewing in confusion. “Whatever can you mean, ma’am?” she asked.
Miss Rutherford not only hemmed and hawed, she started a sentence only to abandon it and bury her face in her handkerchief, peeping around it to wink at Emily before she disappeared behind it once more, and so it was several minutes before Emily learned what the suspicions of the elderly ladies were. At once she felt a great rush of joy, although she did not know why. It seemed strange to be so happy about a child who had no name, whose father was unknown and might not even be her husband, but none of that mattered as she sat clutching Miss Hortense’s second-best petticoat to her breast while she smiled a little, her eyes dreamy and far away.
She was recalled to the present when Miss Hortense came and put her arms around her to give her a kiss. “And you are happy, are you not, my dearie? Yes, yes, I can see that you are. Now listen to me carefully, for what I am about to say is very important. Very important indeed.”
She knelt down in the grass next to Emily’s chair and took both her hands in hers. “We must always, from this moment on, my dearie, think pink! Do you understand? The baby must be a girl, it must, for I am not entirely sure that Horatia’s aversion to men might not even extend to even the newest, wee boy. Now, what do you think of Rachel Rose for a name? Rachel Rose Rutherford—such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Emily had to laugh at her eagerness, but even as Miss Hortense had been speaking, the little voice in her head was saying, “Oh, no, it must be a boy, for his sake!” For a moment, the dark eyes gleamed in her mind’s eye before they faded away. “Charles,” she murmured.
“You mean you prefer Charlotte, dearie? Well, that is a pleasant name, too,” Miss Hortense said firmly, and Emily shook herself out of her revery as she began to tell her that Horatia was even now writing up some notices that were to be posted around Brighton and preparing a written account for the newspapers.
“But you are not to worry if Mr. Wiggins does not come forward. We are only too happy to have you stay with us, and the baby girl, too,” Miss Hortense assured her. “In fact, I shall be very sad if the gentleman does come to claim you, for you have brought such life and spirit to us all.”
She got up to shake out her crushed skirts and say as she took her leave, “Remember, dearie, pink, only pink, and dear little Rachel Rose.”
While Emily dreamed away the rest of the morning under the elm tree, the Duke of Wrotherham was making the acquaintance of Mrs. Huddlewick of Brighton’s finest employment agency, who remembered Mrs. Wiggins very well.
“So refined, such a lady herself,” she enthused. “Unfortunately I had nothing to offer her, your Grace, and she has never returned, although I am sure she said she would do so.” The duke found himself holding his breath as Mrs. Huddlewick searched her records for the name of the inn where Mrs. Wiggins had said she was staying.
Not quite half an hour later, he strode into The Blue Boar, and began to question the innkeeper. The man remembered Mrs. Wiggins only vaguely, but his buxom young wife was much more forthcoming.
“Yes, the lady was a handsome brunette,” she said with an arch smile and a toss of her own black curls. “She ’as been gone over a month now, and ’oo would ’ave thought the likes of ’er would be acquainted with those strange old ladies out at Rutherford ’All?”
“Strange old ladies?” the duke asked, quirking one black eyebrow and trying not to show his sudden excitement.
“Why, yes, your Grace. They sent one of their servants in to fetch the leddy’s baggage, so I guess she was going to stay there. Queer do, that was, too. The silly old thing couldn’t remember if it was Mrs. Wiggins or some other leddy whose
portmanteaus she was to pick up.”
“Perhaps the other name was Miss Margaret Nelson?”
“The very one! But when she learned it was Mrs. Regina Wiggins wot we ’ad ’ere in the inn, she paid ’er shot and took ’er things away to the ’all.”
The duke was quick to learn the direction of Rutherford Hall and, on mentioning that he intended to ride out there immediately to call, was surprised when both the innkeeper and his wife dissolved in helpless laughter.
“I couldn’t advise it, your Grace, not if you intends to return to town with a whole skin,” Mr. Rathbone said, wiping his eyes. “Apt to shoot you more likely than not, that Miss Rutherford would. No, no, safer to send a message, and be sure to hire a maid, not a groom, to deliver it. No male ever gets through the gates.”
“Lawks, no,” his wife agreed. “Miss Rutherford do ’ave such an ’atred for men. Don’t know what she’s missing, that she don’t,” she added with another sideways glance at the tall, handsome figure of the duke.
The innkeeper, suddenly aware of his wife’s flirting, banished her to the taproom. As he was accepting the money the duke insisted on giving him for the information, he saw an elderly woman nailing up a poster in the street.
“See there, your Grace, there’s one o’ the wenches from Rutherford ’All now. Best you speak to ’er.”
It was unfortunate that Gertrude had been sent into Brighton with the notices, for she was none too bright, and after several years of living with Miss Horatia she had taken her mistress’s attitude to males as her own personal aversion, so when the duke spoke to her, she gave a startled scream and ran way, leaving the duke to gather what information he could by reading the notice for himself.
If anyone is interested in learning the whereabouts of a Mrs. Regina Wiggins or a Miss Margaret Nelson, they should call at Doctor Jos. E. Spears Surgery at 17 Monk Street between the hours of two and four p.m.
There was no signature to the handwritten notice. The duke decided that a call on the doctor was not only handier, but also a good deal safer, and that he would, on the whole, prefer to give these strange old ladies who hated men a wide berth, unless he was forced to storm their citadel to rescue Emily from their grasp.
Accordingly, he was at Number Seventeen Monk Street shortly after two that afternoon. As he prepared to raise the brass knocker, an old lady opened the door to leave, but when she saw the duke’s bow and polite smile, she bustled away with a frown on her round red face.
Doctor Spears was only too happy to welcome the duke and listen to an abbreviated version of his story. “You say the lady is neither Mrs. Wiggins nor Miss Nelson? That her real name is Emily Wyndham?” he asked, moving some papers around on his desk.
“That is correct. Tell me, Doctor Spears, is she indeed at Rutherford Hall?”
“She is there,” the doctor said solemnly, and was startled by the duke’s sudden, blinding white grin.
“At last! I have searched for her for so long and it is so important that I see her as soon as possible,” he said in exultant tones.
“More important than you imagine, your Grace,” the doctor remarked dryly. “I have some news of, er, Miss Wyndham for you that perhaps will be upsetting.”
“There has been an accident? She is not well?” the duke asked, leaping to his feet and leaning over the desk.
“Sit down, sir, and I will tell you everything. Yes, there was an accident about a month ago. Miss Wyndham was walking on the street here in Brighton and was run down by the Rutherfords’ horse. She sustained a blow to the head. No, no, she has completely recovered her health,” he added as he caught sight of the duke’s strained, anxious face, “but although her body has recovered, her mind has not. I believe she is a victim of what Thomas Sydenham in the middle of the seventeenth century first defined as classical hysteria, for she cannot remember anything about her life before the accident. The Rutherford ladies took her in and nursed her, but there was no way to trace her family. You are a relative, are you not, your Grace?”
“Not at the moment,” Charles said, his face taut with the shock of what he had just learned. “I intend to marry Miss Wyndham as soon as it can be arranged. I have carried a special license to that effect ever since we became separated.”
“I think you are very wise to do so in this instance. The lady who was leaving when you came in was Miss Hortense Rutherford and she came to report a new development in the case. The young lady, er, excuse me, Miss Wyndham is pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” the duke whispered.
“Is there any doubt in your mind, sir, that you are the father of the child?” the doctor asked, bending his pale-gray eyes sternly on the man before him.
The duke got up to pace the office. “None at all, I know I am the father.”
“And you are prepared to marry the lady, even if she cannot remember you? I must warn you, this hysteria has gone on for so long that there is every possibility she may never regain any knowledge of her former life.”
“How much easier it would be if that should be so,” the duke muttered, causing Doctor Spears to raise his brows. “I see I shall have to explain it all to you, Doctor. It is not a tale that speaks well for our sex, or of me in particular—perhaps the Misses Rutherford are correct in their misanthropy, for Miss Wyndham has had nothing but trouble in her dealings with men throughout her life.”
The story was soon told, for the doctor did not interrupt him. “I understand now,” he said when Charles had finished. “I have been reading up on classical hysteria, and although disorders of the brain are in many ways a mystery to the medical profession, Doctor William Cullen of Edinburgh has I written a most learned discourse about what he has named neuroses. This condition most often occurs in life situations involving stress, and it is obvious that Miss Wyndham has been struggling under a great load of troubles. Her loss of memory, her nightmares, could all result from such a neurosis rather than from the blow to her head. And since she is pregnant, of course, she probably is even more affected by this hysteria. That word is from the Greek hystera meaning uterus, your Grace. You see the connection? Just so. But she is not insane, sir. I have been watching her closely, and she accepts her condition calmly. You can see how valuable this memory loss can be, protecting her mind from any knowledge of her former stressful life.”
The doctor seemed to recall himself and shrugged. “But enough of that,” he said. “It is an interesting case and all doctors tend to ride their particular hobbyhorses too long for laymen’s tastes. The poor young lady! May I say I honor you for your persistent search and for your determination to wed her? And if she does not remember you when she first sees you, I suggest you tell her that you were engaged before she lost her memory. You say she loves you, and in this case her scruples must be disregarded, for her pregnancy makes an immediate ceremony imperative. She cannot be more than six weeks along, if the dates you gave me are correct, and many a first baby is not consistent in his term.”
The duke waved an impatient hand, for he was thinking hard. If Emily was not shocked into remembering him, she would be unaware of her determination not to marry him. She would not know of her mother’s reputation or that her tenure as a lady’s maid made their union so unequal, and she would come to him without those clouds over her to mar their happiness. He smiled. He would treat her as if her background more than tallied with his, and then she would take her place as his duchess calmly, with no hesitation or remorse. He felt a little ache that he must trick her this way, but his love for her, and the child, made it necessary.
He wanted to ride out to Rutherford Hall immediately, but Doctor Spears convinced him that it would be better if he made preliminary arrangements.
“I do not know if Miss Horatia will even allow you there,” he said. “She may insist on bringing Miss Wyndham here. Give me your direction, your Grace, and I will get word to you as soon as I can. We are both dependent on the lady’s favor now.”
With this the duke had to be content. In spite o
f an excellent dinner, accompanied by a bottle of good burgundy, his impatience grew. To think that only six miles away his Lorelei was sleeping. To think that possibly as early as tomorrow she would be in his arms again. He spent a restless night, never dreaming that Emily was sobbing and crying his name at the same time.
Early the next morning, the duke received a note from the doctor saying that they were both expected at Rutherford Hall at eleven in the morning. “Not that we will gain admittance to the hall itself,” the doctor told him when the duke drove up to his office in a hired carriage shortly thereafter. “No, that would be too much to expect. Miss Rutherford has decreed that we advance no closer than the elm tree on the front lawn, where she promises to have Miss Wyndham awaiting us.”
He beguiled the drive by telling the duke everything he knew about the Rutherford ladies.
“I do not care how peculiar they are,” the duke declared, his eyes always searching the road ahead. “Their kindness to Miss Wyndham has earned my undying gratitude.”
At last the doctor motioned him to turn his team between a pair of rusty gates, and they were forced to proceed much too slowly up the weedy drive for the duke’s liking. In the distance he could see the giant elm, and there in a lawn chair was Emily, sitting with the old lady he had seen the day before. There was no sign of the elder Miss Rutherford, but the doctor noticed a large screen behind the pair on the lawn and suspected she had hidden herself there to make sure that the duke was genuine and that no harm would come to her young guest.
The Emerald Duchess Page 19
