by Cindy Anstey
Beth touched Daisy’s arm to regain her attention. “Can we get it? Right away?”
Daisy blinked, surprised by the change in Beth’s expression; she looked excited. She sat straight up in bed, wide-eyed, and her teacup teetered, dangerously close to toppling.
Daisy recalled her last comment. “Oh, the trunk—the one from the coach.”
“Yes! My trunk! It will have papers and records, perhaps a book with my name in it or, better still, letters! Daisy, I have been so worried that I would never learn my name, or of my family, where I’m from … my entire past.”
“Calm yourself down, Beth dear. We can get yer trunk out when yer feelin’ better. After you’ve rested a spell.”
“There is no need of rest.” Beth sat up as if to prove the point. “I’m feeling much better. Entirely better.” She slapped her hand on the bed to prevent spilling forward.
“Entirely?” Daisy snorted a laugh. “I think not. Look at ya. You can hardly sit straight, let alone stand. You’re tiltin’.” She reached over, grabbing Beth by the shoulders, and maneuvered her into a balanced position. “There. That’s better. Now, don’t ya think I am goin’ to have your trunk hauled up here anytime soon. You’re not ready. Perhaps in a day or two.”
“No, no. A day or two is a day or two too long.” Beth shook her head adamantly, almost knocking herself over again. “The trunk will give me back my life. My memories are inside. My family … There might even be pictures. Oh, Daisy, please, if you won’t bring it to me … bring me to it.”
Daisy looked askance. “Bring you to the storeroom? In your weak and confused state? Most certainly not. If Dr. Brant didna give me a good dressing-down, Miss Caroline or Lord Ellerby certainly would. There would be a brouhaha—a loud … terrible brouhaha.” She looked at Beth and bobbed her head as she agreed with herself. “Indeed. A terrible ruckus. So, let’s hear no more about it. I am not bringin’ up your trunk and that is that.”
“Please, Daisy. No one has to be disturbed. I’ll just—”
Beth put her foot down on the cold hard floor. Taking several short breaths, she exhaled and then slid her other foot off the bed. But before it touched the floor, Daisy grabbed her leg and pushed it back under the covers.
“No, no, no. You’re not ready. You’re goin’ to have to wait.”
CHAPTER THREE
A Proclivity for Melodrama
Beth knew that Daisy was right but, even as her belly roiled and her head felt cleaved in half, she couldn’t stop resisting. She needed her trunk, needed her identity. “Please, Daisy. Just imagine how you would feel in the same situation.”
Daisy stared at Beth’s anxious face. “True enough…,” she said slowly.
“Whatever is the matter?” a voice asked.
Daisy turned to the doorway, still holding Beth in place. “Thank the heavens you are here, Lord Ellerby. She wants ’er trunk, sir. The one in storage. Can hardly blame ’er. Shall I see to it?”
Discouraged, Beth watched James Ellerby frown. Then he lifted his eyes and met her gaze. As their eyes locked, he smiled. It was a calm sort of display, not grandiose or frivolous. Then he nodded, and Beth thought her battle won, but his words proved otherwise.
“I will speak to Dr. Brant and if he agrees, perhaps this afternoon we will bring it to you.” Lord Ellerby shifted to allow another figure to enter the room. “Until then, I have brought you a visitor.”
Beth looked at the young man standing in the doorway. Was she supposed to know him? He was highly overdressed for a sick room, perhaps even for a country manor. Tall and broad shouldered, he had green eyes and dark wavy hair much like James Ellerby.
It could be none other than Walter Ellerby. Here was the author of Beth’s misfortunes.
Beth held her tongue as James ushered his brother into the room, passed him a tray, and then departed. Wordlessly and awkwardly, Walter handed her the bowl of broth and a spoon. He grabbed a book from the reed chair placed beside the bed and slumped into it. She ate her soup in silence; he began reading in a bored, hard done-by tone. Eventually, Walter emerged from his self-involvement long enough to realize that she was not pleased by his company.
“It was an accident,” he said, as if that were an apology.
“And therefore…” Beth paused, giving him ample opportunity to express his regrets. The silence lengthened until Beth harrumphed in disgust and passed him her empty bowl.
Leaning against the stacked pillows at her back, Beth’s thoughts returned to the trunk in the storeroom. She did not want to ask Walter, of all people, for a favor, but she needed that trunk. It represented her identity, her past.
“Do you think your brother mentioned my trunk to Dr. Brant?” Beth asked.
He snapped the book shut. “How would I know?” Walter asked and then chuntered when she continued to glare at him. “I will check.” With shoulders bowed and an expression of being overly burdened, he quit the room.
Time passed slowly—or so it seemed. Finally Beth heard movement on the steps, and she sat up in eagerness. However, it was not Walter’s somber face that peeked into the room but the physician’s.
“Do you really think you are strong enough?” Dr. Brant asked.
“I am exhausted,” she admitted. “My head aches abominably and my belly does not want to stay still. But I need to know who I am.”
Dr. Brant’s eyes trailed from her clenched fists to her stiff back and then up to her tight lips. “You do, indeed. Walter is bringing your trunk up.”
Within moments, a thump and thud rolled down the narrow corridor and burst into the room. It was followed by a loud bang, a few choice words, a sharp reprimand, and lastly, a scraping sound. James preceded the trunk into the room. The trunk preceded Walter. Or at least it would have but the room was now full. Walter found himself in the undignified position of watching the drama unfold from the hallway.
Beth glanced at James, meeting his gaze and sharing a look … of what she knew not, but it offered reassurance. Then they turned to stare at the trunk. There were no initials or labels, and it had certainly seen better days. For several moments no one moved, and then there was a scurry of activity as they all did. Dr. Brant pulled the trunk closer to the bed, James struggled with the buckles as the trunk moved, and Walter squeezed into the room and tried to turn the trunk so that the opening was toward Beth.
When they were done, Beth found herself reluctant to touch the lid. She bit her bottom lip and took a quick glance at the faces around her. Dr. Brant and Walter stared at the trunk. James watched her.
Beth braced herself and slowly lifted the lid.
At first she couldn’t determine what it was that she was seeing. The swath of brown cloth turned out to be a cloak. Beth placed it on the foot of the bed. Underneath she found a lilac waistcoat, several shirts with winged collars, soft leather boots, a walking cane, ankle length trousers and toiletries … a man’s toiletries.
“This is not my trunk.”
Beth lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. She raised her arms slowly and wrapped them around her bandaged head, hiding her face. The sound of scraping told her that the offending object had been dragged from the room. Whispers filled the air, and then footsteps announced the departure of the doctor and Lord Ellerby.
Beth knew that Walter remained in the hall. His muttered words echoed into the small attic room. He complained heartily as he threw the articles of clothing back into the trunk’s cavern. The lid snapped closed, and the buckle jingled.
Another scrape indicated the trunk’s relocation to the wall.
“This makes a very uncomfortable sitting stool. But do not worry about me. You just let me know if there is anything that you might wish. Oh yes, I will be right here. Waiting for your beck and call. Think not at all about my comfort. Oh no, I shall wait right here, just as I was ordered.”
An unintelligible sound ricocheted through the hall. It sounded like a groan of frustration. It was followed by a mantra. “Boring, boring, boring.”
Beth had a mantra of her own. Go away. Go away. “Go away!”
But Walter was too involved with his own misery to hear her.
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Sam retrieved the trunk. He had been instructed to leave it at the post inn in Exeter, and inquire about any unclaimed luggage that might have turned up—however unlikely the possibility. So Walter, now deprived of his seat, had no choice but to reenter the sick room and try to keep company with the poor, broken lump that hardly talked.
Cook, in her infinite wisdom, had sent up a meal worthy of a feast—certainly plenty for a cautiously nibbling young woman and a ravenous, growing fourteen-year-old boy. Walter found himself once again perched on the reed chair, trying to distract Beth from her worrisome thoughts while he patted his satiated belly.
“I know what it is like to suffer as a result of a carriage accident,” Walter commiserated. “My father was killed in one a year ago.”
Beth lay passive on her pillows, staring in the direction of the window.
He shrugged to no one in particular and returned to his memories. “Both Caroline and James simply carried on. Can you imagine? My whole life had been turned on its end and yet they still expected me to go back to Eton. Well, that was what James wanted … expected. I persuaded Mother to let me sit in on Henry’s lessons. Mother took to visiting relatives, not wanting to be here. Caroline was Friday-faced for months. And James, well, he stopped riding and shooting. He used to be one for a great lark … but no more.” He sighed deeply. “It was very hard on me.”
Beth shook her head at Walter’s self-involvement. Concerns about family and fathers surged through her mind but without form … leaving her with more questions.
She chewed at her lip, trying to focus on the wisps of memory. “I believe I have lost someone as well.”
Walter started. “Really? Who? Can you remember anything? Anything at all?”
Beth sighed. “Just what has happened in this room.”
“Not even your favorite color?”
“Blue,” Beth answered quickly.
“Your favorite sweet?”
Beth smiled. “Plum pudding.”
Walter quizzed Beth on everything from pets to poets, countries to composers. Whenever she hesitated, Walter simply volleyed another question at her until she had an answer. It became a race as much as a discovery, and led to great mirth and merriment. When Caroline came in to release him, Walter was somewhat reluctant to go—although not entirely.
* * *
AS THE DAYS PASSED, Beth slowly regained her strength. Her bruises healed and her appetite improved. Eventually only the deep cut on her jaw remained as a testament to her ordeal. However, her memories continued to elude her, and not a single night passed without a gut-wrenching nightmare.
It was always the same. A room full of shadows, a flutter of movement just beyond her sight, and a crushing fear pressing into her soul until she could no longer endure it.
* * *
THE FORCE OF the thrust almost threw her past the large box that she had been directed to sit on. The sharp wood corner pushed into her corset and took her breath away. Fighting for air, she heaved herself up, slivers from the rough wood embedding themselves into her soft palms. The door slammed before she could right herself, and she was plunged into darkness.
She sat in the dank silence. The room reeked of filth and decay. She felt the gentle touch of a feather across her cheek and the hum of rapid wings; bile rose in her throat.
Unaware that she had moved, she found herself on the floor jammed into the corner, hands flailing. But now there was no soft menacing touch, no hum—just her own ragged breath. She dropped her arms, lifeless, into the sawdust at her side and she prayed for oblivion.
But her prayers were not answered. Instead sensibility returned and her eyes adjusted. She became aware of a dull glow; it came from a small slit in the wall high above her head. Beyond the lifeless beam it cast, were shadows, boxes and barrels stacked high and precariously.
After a time there was a flash of blinding light as the door opened and then closed behind three silhouettes. Nothing was said, but their presence was ominous. Shapes in motion, blurred from constant change. She was pulled back to the box and forced to sit. Her gaze directed toward a shape just beyond the glow of the beam.
There were no sounds in this small room overcrowded with malevolence. It was eerily quiet, as if she were suddenly and inexplicably deaf. But she was not blind, and what little there was to see was terrifying. A hand reached forward, toward her. It brought forth a shiny and honed form—a hummingbird whose sharp beak dripped with blood. In this room full of dark, the hummingbird stood out. It had found the light.
* * *
IT WAS OFTEN a long, wailing scream that dragged Beth out of the depths of horror—her own scream. She would find herself sitting up in bed, her heart pounding. She was breathless and shaking, fearful of closing her eyes and even more of seeing a hummingbird—the tiny, iridescent bird that instilled terror in her.
The first night, her screams brought Lord Ellerby bursting through the door. He glanced around the room as if he expected monsters to be hiding in the shadows. But there were no monsters, just dreams, terrifying dreams.
“Are you all right?” he asked, out of breath, looking frazzled. “I was just going to my room when I heard you … You were screaming. What’s wrong?” Again he glanced around, but there were still no monsters.
Mortified, Beth sat in bed, covers pulled up to her chin, a deep flush coloring her cheeks. “It was a dream, nothing more.”
Taking a deep breath, James lifted his lips in a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “That must have been quite the dream.”
“It was not pleasant. The stuff of nightmares.” She laughed, realizing what she had said, and then shook her head. “I—”
“Beth, Beth,” Mrs. Fogel called from the doorway. She had her hand to her chest and gasped as she dragged in a ragged breath. Her dressing gown was askew and hair fell about her face. “I heard you— Oh, Lord Ellerby? What are you…?”
“Is Beth all right?” another voice called from the hallway. It sounded like Daisy.
Mrs. Fogel shooed her back to bed and then turned to Lord Ellerby. “Perhaps it’s best if I take care of Beth, m’lord.”
James slipped out of the room without another word, though he did glance back. He watched as Beth stared with haunted eyes at the empty space above the foot of her bed. She seemed unaware of Mrs. Fogel’s arrival or his departure.
By the third night of nightmares, only Daisy arrived to sleepily inquire after her, and by the fourth, no one came at all.
* * *
SITTING UP IN BED, anxious to be out and about, Beth rubbed her forehead and huffed a sigh. No matter how much she concentrated, the facts of her previous life eluded her. It was all well and good to remember favorite foods or color, but what about family, friends, where she lived? Did she have any siblings? Was she married? How old was she?
Dr. Brant had told her, many times, that her memories would return when she least expected them, when she was thinking about something else. But it was hard not to think of the past … or at least wonder about the past, as it was still a blank. A pristine slate, Lord Ellerby had said. She could fill it as she wished.
Still, Beth was almost certain that her past was painful—the circumstances of her arrival shouted of danger, disaster, and ruin. Her nightmares reinforced that foreboding. Yes, something had happened. Were her injuries all a result of the carriage accident or something else?
Something. The word kept coming up. It was so undefined, so nebulous. It was not in the least helpful. Something. She had to find out what … And she had to figure out why.
* * *
JAMES STRODE ACROSS the tiled floor of the white main hall as Caroline and Brant descended. Stopping at the bottom of the staircase, James’ eyes were glued to a letter in his hand.
“I’m going to be called into London for a vo
te this summer,” he said, swallowing with discomfort. “The House wants to stop the licensing of privateers. The vote is going to be tight and Lord Hanton has withdrawn.” James frowned and snapped his tongue, demonstrating his disapproval. It was all bluster, of course. He wanted to exude confidence despite his trepidation. He had hoped his duties in the House of Lords would wait, that he could secure the advice of others first and make his way into the fold slowly.
“Perhaps Mama can suggest someone,” Caroline said. “Such as Lord Levry or Lord Wolcher. Someone who can lead you through the proceedings. I know you are uncomfortable taking Papa’s place in Parliament this soon.”
James shook his head, still staring at the paper in his hand—his sister knew him well. “Let’s not concern Mama. I will write Lord Levry directly and see what comes of it.” James made a great act of folding the letter into quarters. “So, how is our patient?”
“Much better,” Caroline and Brant answered together as they made their way into the drawing room.
“Other than the occasional headache, I believe she has recovered complete health,” Brant continued. “I wish I could say as much for her memories.” He dropped clumsily onto a chair.
“It would seem that her memories are not going to come back without some sort of prod,” James said with a deep sigh. “And since no one has arrived to identify her, we must find her people. We must find the prod. Until we do, Mrs. Fogel will have to secure a place for her in the manor.”
“James, we should bring her into the family wing until we know her background. I am convinced that she is a gentleman’s daughter.” Caroline smiled in that irritating manner she adopted when she was trying to get her way. “Talk to her; you will see what I mean.”
“I have talked to her. Many a time.” James didn’t want to admit that he knew exactly what his sister meant. Beth had the demeanor, language, and attitude of a well-educated young lady. It complicated the matter tremendously; she had been traveling alone in a public conveyance wearing a filthy and torn gown. It was all very mysterious and confusing.
