by Diane Gaston
Did she have any influence with Lucien? She was more a burden than anything else. And a coquettish fool.
‘I will try,’ she said.
* * *
She did not see Lucien until the next morning when Holyhead was in sight. Since Ella took charge of repacking her portmanteau, Claire went up on deck. Lucien stood at the rail.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She loved his erect, alert bearing, the easy way he wore his coat and buff-coloured pantaloons when other men looked stiff and uncomfortable in the same garments. His dark hair curled out from beneath his beaver hat, uncut since their rescue. He was a man secure in what he wanted, sure of his future and fully aware of his past.
So unlike her, with no past she could remember, a future filled with just as many unknowns and the feeling that she more belonged on a fishing boat than in such beautiful dresses and hats.
She took in a breath for courage and walked to his side, placing her hands on the rail.
He turned his head towards her. ‘We’ll dock within an hour, I expect.’
She nodded, unable to make herself speak.
Was he also thinking of the kiss? Her head ached from the wine of the night before and she wished she could remember more clearly.
She mentally shook her head. He would not have kissed her. Every other intimacy had been initiated by her. This must have been, as well.
‘What then?’ she finally managed to ask.
He did not answer right away. ‘We can either engage a carriage and begin the journey to London today or rest a night in Holyhead.’
Surely he did not expect her to make that choice. ‘You must decide, Lucien.’
‘I do not wish to ask too much of you,’ he said.
He spoke to her as if the previous night had not happened, as if she’d never thrown herself at him and admitted she’d wanted to bed him. It made her angry.
She lifted her chin. ‘Surely after three weeks on a fishing boat, you know I am not delicate. You offered me your escort. I do not assume that means I command you. On the contrary, I am in your debt.’
* * *
Lucien spoke sharply. ‘My offer of being your escort did not mean you would have no say in how and when we travelled.’ He regretted his tone, just the opposite of how he’d vowed to behave.
He’d vowed to act the gentleman, to make up for his decidedly ungentlemanly behaviour of the previous night.
Now, though, merely seeing her unsettled him anew. The sun shining on her face, her hazel eyes reflecting the green colour of her hat, her moist pink lips.
Was it not gentlemanly of him to give her the choice, though? And what did she do? Acted as if she were not an aristocrat, as if she were the woman who’d wished she could remain on the fishing boat. What aristocratic lady wished to live on a fishing boat?
‘It is your choice, Lucien,’ she insisted.
So now he must guess which was better for her. To stay the night in Holyhead or to start their journey to London, a journey he had to admit he’d like to delay?
He took time to decide, but instead of thinking of carriages and inns, he savoured the faint scent of lavender that enveloped her.
Finally he forced a decision. Of sorts. ‘If we can procure a carriage under such short notice, we leave today. If not, tomorrow.’
She did not respond right away. It seemed like minutes went by before she said, ‘Very well.’
‘But you must tell me if you become fatigued or ill,’ he insisted.
‘I rarely become ill,’ she shot back. Her eyes widened. ‘How do I know that?’
He forgot about the night before and all his other nonsense. ‘Another memory?’
She glanced away and back. ‘So very strange. I cannot remember ever being ill or not being ill, but I simply know I have a strong constitution.’ Her eyes widened again. ‘I can almost hear myself saying those words.’ She looked even more pensive. ‘On a ship.’
She was getting closer and closer to retrieving her past. How long would it take, he wondered, before her memory returned in full?
He smiled, hiding his unhappiness. ‘See? I’ll wager this will happen more. Especially when you are in familiar surroundings.’
Perhaps being in London would do it. If she had ever been in London before.
‘Close your eyes and see if more comes.’
She did as he suggested, but opened them again and shook her head. ‘Nothing. Emptiness.’ She waved her hand. ‘But, never mind. I will simply enjoy this lovely day and the excitement of docking at Holyhead and of seeing all the sights there.’
She turned back to the railing and gazed out at the land on the horizon.
The grey and green hills of the Anglesey coast soon gave way to the wooden docks of the harbour and white-stucco buildings of Holyhead and, as they came even closer, they could see the activity on the dock awaiting their arrival.
Lucien marked it all. The harbour was much like countless other harbours he’d sailed into. This time, though, he was a mere passenger with absolutely no role to play in reaching the dock safely. Soon he hoped to have another ship under his command. With luck he could gather most of his old crew. He’d be at home again.
As the ship eased its way to the dock, Lady Rebecca spoke. ‘This was what was supposed to happen on the other ship.’
Where instead many died.
* * *
When it came time to disembark, Cullen and the maid appeared, Cullen carrying both his and Lady Rebecca’s luggage.
‘We are ready, sir,’ Cullen said. ‘I will collect the trunks as soon as they are unloaded.’
‘Any memories of this?’ Lucien asked Lady Rebecca as they stepped on to the dock.
‘None. It is like I’ve never seen it before.’ She sounded resigned.
His impulse was to ease her pain. ‘It is possible you’ve never been here before.’
‘I suppose,’ she responded. ‘But I must have travelled to England before this. Perhaps I even had a London Season. I must have met Lord Stonecroft somewhere. There must have been some sort of courtship.’
He ought to have asked that reprobate of a brother of hers more about the matter. It certainly would have helped her if he had.
He took her to a nearby inn to wait until Cullen and the maid collected the trunks. While there he enquired about hiring a carriage and managed to make the arrangements. It would take them at least four hours by carriage to travel over Four Mile Bridge on to Anglesey Island and across the island and on to the ferry to the mainland. They had enough daylight to do that.
* * *
The carriage was large enough for their trunks and other luggage and to seat all four of them inside. Ella and Cullen took the rear-facing seats and Lucien was very aware of Lady Rebecca beside him. Lucien was distracted from his jumbled emotions by the unrestrained excitement of the maid who could hardly remain in her seat at the sights that passed by the windows.
They passed by stucco houses with slate roofs gleaming white in the midday sun.
Ella exclaimed, ‘Look!’ as they passed a huge stone church.
* * *
Within an hour they had crossed the Four Mile Bridge connecting Holy Island to Anglesey and Ella actually moved so she could lean out of the window.
‘I’ve never seen the like, I haven’t!’ she cried.
Lucien turned to Lady Rebecca with a silent question—did she have a memory of this?
She shook her head.
* * *
After several changes of horses they arrived at the Menai Strait where they waited for the ferry that would transport them to Caernarfon on the Welsh mainland. The crossing was not without its hazards, Lucien knew. The strait near Caernarfon was known for its shifting sandbars. He kept his eyes open and his mouth shut as the four of them stood on the deck of the ferry, the wind blowing cool as t
he sun lowered in the sky.
‘Look! Look, m’lady!’ Ella jumped up and down and tugged on Cullen’s arm. ‘A castle! A real castle!’ She turned to Lucien. ‘Do you know what castle it is?’
It loomed high above the town around it. Old stone with crenellated towers. The town itself looked as if it were behind the castle walls.
‘Caernarfon Castle,’ Lucien said. ‘Built by King Edward about five hundred years ago, I think.’
‘It is grand.’ Ella’s voice was full of awe. ‘Grander than any I’ve seen in Ireland.’
‘But you’ve seen hardly a castle in Ireland, wouldn’t you say?’ Cullen smiled.
She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Cullen.’
While the two servants bickered good-naturedly, Lucien stepped over to Lady Rebecca.
‘No,’ she answered his silent enquiry. ‘I know it is a castle. I can name the parts of it, but I do not remember seeing it.’
The ferry landed without mishap and they disembarked, the carriage taking them into the town to a posting inn. Their carriage and trunks were secured and the four of them entered the inn. At Lucien’s behest, Cullen arranged for four rooms, the servants’ rooms near the other two, and for a private dining room.
When the servants were about to leave them at the private room, Lady Rebecca stopped them. ‘We could eat together, could we not?’
Lucien was startled at this new example of common, non-aristocratic behaviour from her.
All three sets of eyes turned to him.
‘Certainly, if that is what you wish,’ he responded.
* * *
During the meal Cullen kept his distance, but Ella chattered her way through each dish, detailing all the remarkable sights she’d seen that day and asking questions of what was to come.
Lucien was amused by the young maid. ‘Ella, surely it is not typical of a lady’s maid to be such a chatterbox. How is it you are so?’
Ella laughed. ‘My pa said I was born this way. He could never do a thing with me. Believe me, he and Ma tried.’ She gave Cullen a worshipful glance. ‘My friendship with Cullen made me bold, I think. It always felt right to be with him, no matter what Pa and Ma said.’
When their plates were empty and some port was served, Ella stood up. ‘Cullen and I will remove the dishes and prepare your rooms for sleeping.’ She seemed to be trying to suppress a smile. ‘Name a time we should attend you.’
She was not only outspoken; she was taking command.
‘Ten o’clock?’ Lucien looked to Lady Rebecca.
‘That suits me,’ she replied.
When they left, Lady Rebecca said, ‘I believe they wanted some time together.’
Which also left Lucien alone with her.
He poured each of them some port. ‘She is a somewhat unusual maid.’
She smiled. ‘I agree. I am not certain how I know that, but I do agree.’
He lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Any more memories?’
She scoffed. ‘I don’t know if I would call them memories, but, no. Nothing further.’
He leaned forward. ‘I have an idea.’
Her brows rose as she took a sip of port.
He went on. ‘An idea of how you might recover some memories.’
She hesitated, then fingered the stem of her glass. ‘I know I should answer you eagerly, but I am a little afraid. I should remember, but I am not certain I want to.’
Perhaps that was the impediment—not wanting to remember.
She took another sip of her port. ‘Shoulders back, right, Lucien? I must face this. Do tell me what your idea is.’
The idea was forming as they spoke. ‘I will ask you to talk about something and we will see if any memories come.’
* * *
Claire straightened in her chair and lifted her chin. ‘Very well.’
She considered downing her glass of port and asking for more to settle her nerves, but too much wine the night before had led her into trouble. Drink too much wine. Throw herself at Lucien.
‘What will you ask?’
He paused, as if thinking, then leaned towards her again. ‘Tell me about school.’
‘School? I do not remember school.’ He knew this.
‘Not your school,’ he said. ‘Tell me about any school. What kind is it?’
‘Do you mean a girls’ boarding school?’ she asked.
‘That will do.’ He gestured for her to go on. ‘Tell me anything about what a girls’ boarding school would be like.’
This seemed ridiculous. ‘Well, there would be girls there.’
He accepted her answer with equanimity. ‘And what would they study?’
She hesitated only a few seconds. ‘Music, dancing, Italian, French, literature, mathematics, needlework.’ She looked up at him. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘What would the school look like?’
‘How can I know that?’ she shot back.
‘Make it up,’ he said.
She closed her eyes. ‘Red brick, at least four floors, green park surrounding, dormitory rooms with beds, one after the other, classrooms with slate boards and wooden desks and chairs.’ She opened her eyes again.
‘Tell me about the teachers.’ He anticipated her protest. ‘Make it up.’
‘Very well.’ She took a breath. ‘Some of them are bitter and unhappy, because they have nowhere else to go, but others seem to care about the girls and want to try to help them.’
A glimpse of a smiling woman flashed through her mind.
She looked directly at Lucien. ‘A woman...’
His eyes kindled with interest. ‘What does she look like?’
She shook her head. ‘It was too brief.’
He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Now answer this without thinking. Where is this school?’
‘Bristol.’ She blinked in surprise.
He squeezed her hand. ‘I believe you remember a real school, one you attended. A real teacher.’
‘But it doesn’t feel like a memory,’ she protested. ‘Not like remembering the fishing boat or Dublin.’
‘It is there, though,’ he insisted. ‘You’ll have more.’ He released her hand, glancing at his own as if surprised. ‘Do you want to go on?’
She pressed her fingers to her temple. ‘No. My head aches. Perhaps later.’
Had she remembered a real school? A real teacher?
She felt as if she were a water-filled ewer with a tiny crack growing larger and larger, but she did not want to split open. She did not want the water to spill out.
There was a knock on the door and the innkeeper entered.
‘Pardon me, sir, m’lady,’ the man said nervously. ‘Have a problem, I do. His lordship, Lord Provey, demands a private dining room and this is the only one.’
Claire immediately rose. ‘We have no further need of it, do we, Lucien?’
He frowned. ‘Perhaps not.’
The innkeeper looked wretched. ‘So grateful, I’d be.’
Lucien stood as well and escorted her out.
Passing them was an expensively dressed gentleman, wafting strong scent, and his three equally well-dressed cohorts.
‘It is about time,’ the gentleman snarled at the innkeeper. ‘I expect brandy and glasses forthwith, a clean deck of playing cards and a set of markers. Hurry, man.’
The innkeeper dashed away and the men disappeared behind the room’s door.
‘I detest men like that,’ Lucien mumbled.
Claire was not certain she was to have heard that, but she responded. ‘What sort of men? Rude, pushy ones?’
‘Aristocrats.’ He nearly spat out the word.
The venom in his tone struck her like a physical blow.
They walked to the hall.
Claire glanced through the window. She did not
wish to say goodnight, not until she understood why he’d reacted so vehemently to aristocrats.
‘It is still a little light outside. Might we take some air?’ she asked.
‘A turn around the yard may be safe enough.’
They walked outside. The yard which had been all abustle had quieted, although there were still hostlers moving horses into the stables. The setting sun turned the sky golden, making the brown stone of the inn glow as if lit from within. A light breeze freed the air of the scent of horses.
Claire took Lucien’s arm as they walked the perimeter of the yard.
‘Why did you say you detest aristocrats?’ she asked at last, well aware she was one.
He frowned. ‘Because they believe they are entitled to whatever it is they want.’
That sentiment rang true inside her. Was it true of herself, as well?
She countered, ‘Surely not all of them.’
‘Too many of them in my experience,’ he stated. ‘Your brother for one.’
She readily agreed with that. ‘He was detestable, was he not? And that lord, the one near your village, the one your mother—’
‘Viscount Waverland.’ His voice tensed.
‘He was detestable, too?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Not only in how he treated my mother, expecting her to run to him whenever he fancied her, but he expected the whole village to jump to his demands.’ He made a derisive sound. ‘Of course, my mother was always eager to comply. Whatever he wanted.’
They walked on, covering a quarter of the distance, before she spoke again. ‘And the ladies? Aristocratic ladies, are they cut from the same cloth?’
Was she? She wanted to know.
He missed a step. ‘Often the same.’
Did he believe she would become demanding and entitled when she recovered her memory?
