Anne Barbour (4 page)

“Apparently,” murmured the patient. “At least, I do not seem to know who I am.”

As he spoke, the doctor’s brows lifted momentarily. “Extraordinary,” said Dr. Beech, the skepticism on his face unmistakable. “Well, perhaps we can determine in just what areas your memory has failed you. Do you know where you are?”

The patient smiled briefly. “In England, I assume, though I have no idea where.”

“Can you tell me the name of the reigning monarch?”

“George, the third, but his son is Regent.”

“What year is it?”

The man frowned. “Eighteen twelve—but I’m not sure of the precise date.”

The doctor grunted. “It’s August fourteenth. Where is your home?”

“I have been trying to remember, but that knowledge, too, is gone; nor can I remember the names of any family that I might have.”

“I see. Are you aware that England is at war?”

“Oh, yes. With France, under the leadership of Napoleon.” The man chuckled. “Or, rather, the Corsican Monster, as I believe he is called.”

The catechism went on at some length, until at last, the doctor leaned back in chair, apparently satisfied.

“As far as I can tell,” he said somewhat portentously, “your amnesia seems to fit the parameters of the affliction, at least in as far as I am familiar with it.”

“Can you tell me how long it will be before I regain my memory?” The question was asked with an almost painful intensity, but the reply—as the man had expected—was not encouraging.

“Nn-no, I’m afraid not. Little is known about the condition, neither what causes it—for it can come on with mental trauma as well as from a blow to the head—or what causes it to go away—for, there is no real cure. We must rely on Mother Nature to heal your unfortunate condition, as I’m sure she will sooner or later.”

“Let us hope it is the former rather than the latter,” said his patient dryly.

There was a moment’s hesitation before Dr. Beech continued. “I noticed a horse in the stable, a stallion. Apparently, he is yours.”

There was another long pause as the patient once more searched within his mind. A horse? A stallion? A great black shadow flickered in his mind, and the sound of a soft whinny and huge teeth pulling at his pockets for sugar. Desperately, he fastened on the fragmentary image, but in the next instant it was gone. Damn! The little piece of his memory had been so close, it was as though he could have grasped it with his fingers. Now, his mind was just a bottomless blank again. Damn!

“I suppose he might be,” he murmured cautiously. “I don’t know.”

“It seems strange,” said the doctor meditatively, “that you carried no identification on you. No cards, no letters addressed to you, nothing of that sort.”

“Unfortunate,” said the man.

“Well, then.” Adam Beech rose and picked up his bag. “Let us hope that a few days’ rest will heal your mind as well as that foot.” He moved to the door, only to find Catherine waiting in the corridor. With her were Lady Jane and Mariah.

“Good God,” said Adam. “I was not expecting a reception committee.”

Catherine smiled with a hint of apology. “Grandmama is anxious to meet our guest.”

She ushered the old lady into the chamber, and allowed Mariah to precede her, but when she would have followed, Adam laid a hand on her arm.

“It is not necessary for you to wait on him any further,” he pronounced. “Mariah can do all that is necessary for him.”

“Do you not trust me in the same room with an unattached male?” she asked, her irritation warring with amusement.

“Trust has nothing to do with it,” Adam relied stiffly. “Except that in this case it is the male I do not quite trust. He seems a pleasant fellow, but I find that he speaks with the accents of a gentleman, while his clothing seems to place him several ranks lower. There are so many rogues about that I would not wish to see you exposed to trickery.”

“Now, see here, Adam,” said Catherine, “the man is a guest in my house, and I shall decide how much attention he needs and from whom.”

Adam was still protesting when she pushed past him into the room.

From his bed, the injured man listened to the altercation taking place at the doorway. With some interest, he sat up and, patting himself into a semblance of respectability and drawing the comforter about him, awaited events.

As he had surmised, the doctor proved no match against his determined hostess. In a few moments, Miss Meade hove into view behind the other women, Mariah Something?—and a very old woman, small and spare and leaning heavily on a cane. Dr. Beech brought up the rear, disapproval writ large on his face.

At that moment, the man caught Miss Meade’s eyes on him. For an instant his gaze locked with hers. His breath caught in his throat, for it seemed to him that he was being drawn into an emerald whirlpool. The moment was gone so quickly, however, that he thought he must have imagined that silent little eternity of communion.

Miss Meade smiled, and the man was surprised at the vivacity thus lent to her countenance. Her remarkable eyes glinted like jewels in the afternoon sunlight that slanted through the windows.

“We meet again, mister, er.” She stopped, an expression of perplexity spreading across her well-shaped features. “We must think of a name for you,” she said awkwardly. “We cannot keep addressing you as, ‘Um.’ “

“Completely unacceptable,” he replied promptly and with great earnestness.

“What do you think of Smith?”

The man grinned. “Somewhat pedestrian, but suitably generic.” He put out his hand and smiled invitingly. “Do call me John.”

Pointedly ignoring this pleasantry, she assisted the old woman to a chair.

“Grandmama, allow me to present Mr. John Smith. Mr. Smith, my grandmother. Lady Jane Winter.”

Were there no men in this household? wondered the newly christened John Smith. If not, his situation had just improved noticeably. If he couldn’t charm three lone women, his name wasn’t—he grinned sourly—John Smith.

“Forgive me for receiving you in such a ramshackle fashion, my lady,” he said, lifting his hand with a flourish. “You find me temporarily discommoded.”

Lady Jane did not return the disarming smile he bent on her, but he was encouraged by the twinkle he discerned behind her wire-rimmed spectacles.

“You find your situation amusing, Mr. Smith?” The old lady’s voice was cool.

“Hardly, my lady. I am merely pleased to have been—apparently—of some service to Miss Meade, even if it resulted in my, ah, present difficulty.”

He ignored the faint snort from the doctor’s direction and settled back into his pillows. There, he thought with some satisfaction. Nothing like creating a sense of obligation in one’s benefactors. He shot a glance at Miss Meade from under his lashes, and was surprised to see her quirk an eyebrow in amusement. No fool, then, this green-eyed beauty. It behooved him to proceed with care. It also behooved him to discover precisely who was in charge of the household. Mariah, he discounted. Barring the existence of a male lurking somewhere in the woodwork, it was either the old lady or the young beauty who ran things.

“Yes,” Lady Jane was saying, “I heard about your rescue of our resident damsel in distress.” Her chuckle was unexpectedly rich and robust in such a fragile body.

“I am happy I was able to be of assistance,” said John with aplomb. “I appreciate your taking me into your home, my lady.”

“This is my granddaughter’s house,” replied the old lady, her tone noncommittal and discouraging further questions.

John knew a stirring of surprise. If this room were any indication, the house was an elegant residence. It would be very strange if it were owned by an unmarried female. The probability loomed larger of a man on the premises. On the other hand, the good doctor behaved as though Miss Meade was his private property, to be
guarded assiduously against dangerous marauders. Perhaps she truly was unmarried.

He supposed it didn’t make a great deal of difference. Whether or not he regained his memory in the near future, he must make it his first priority to leave this place without delay. Why he had this sense of urgency to be away from here, to find a hiding place into which he could plunge, he did not know, but he felt it would be unwise in the extreme to ignore his instinct.

Meanwhile, he would enjoy the company of the lady with the emerald eyes, and take advantage of the hospitality of these nice people. He waited for some sense of shame to creep into his reflections, but he was possessed instead with the feeling that he had done worse things than take advantage of people who trusted him. He shrugged. Apparently, he was conditioned to the philosophy that one did what one must. He searched within himself, but all he felt was a certain sense of soiled resignation. He closed his eyes briefly.

Watching him, Catherine felt a stirring of pity. It must be frightening to lose one’s memory. She allowed her gaze to rest on him for a moment, absorbing that sense of coiled tension she had noticed before. Even beneath the comforter, it was apparent that he was accustomed to athletic pursuits. The forearms exposed beneath a shirt of inexpensive cotton were muscular, ending in strong, well-shaped hands.

Her gaze drifted back to his face, and she recalled the moment, a few minutes earlier, when she’d inadvertently caught his gaze. What a strange sensation it had been, as though part of her had been locked into his being with an almost audible click.

She drew in a quick breath. “Mr. Smith, can you think of no one whom we could contact? Your family will be worried when you do not arrive home. Your—your wife will be most concerned.”

His wife? John Smith stiffened and stared at her in consternation.

Chapter Three

His wife! Good God, he hadn’t thought about that. Did he have a woman waiting for him somewhere? Somehow, the idea filled him with a certain panic. A vision loomed over him of a trim little female, busying herself with her embroidery, humming to herself as she breathlessly awaited his arrival.

It felt all wrong. He could not picture himself as married, although he could not have said why. The whole idea seemed ludicrous. Marriage meant commitment—responsibility—and tedious explanations as to one’s whereabouts and activities.

He frowned. What was there, he wondered uneasily, about his whereabouts and activities that would not bear explaining. He lifted his eyes once more to Miss Meade.

“I’m sorry, but I can think of no one. If I am married, I have forgotten that, too.”

“Of course, Catherine,” grumbled Dr. Beech. “If he truly has amnesia, he can’t remember anything at all about himself or anyone close to him.”

John did not care for the note of skepticism in the good doctor’s tone. Was he suspected of prevarication? Something told him it would not be for the first time.

Dr. Beech stepped forward. “And now, I think it would be a good idea to let the patient rest. Perhaps after he has slept, his mind will be in better working order.”

So saying, he began to shepherd the ladies from the room. Shooting a keen glance at John, he promised to look in on him the next morning.

Catherine turned to John as she moved toward the door. “I shall send some dinner up to you in a little while, and if there is anything else we can do, please don’t hesitate to ask. Oh, yes.” She halted, and smiled suddenly. He wished she wouldn’t do that; it had the most peculiar effect on him. “We must do something about your clothes. I’m afraid your efforts on my behalf have rather ruined them. I shall try to procure a nightshirt for you from Timkins, our butler, so that we may do something toward refurbishing them. Or no.” She surveyed him briefly. “It would never fit. One of the footmen perhaps.”

John nodded bemusedly, and the little party passed from the chamber.

As soon as the door closed again, he tossed aside the bedcovers and cautiously rose from the bed. He still could not put any weight on his foot, but by using the back of a straight chair as a crutch and pushing it across the floor, he was able to move to the window. It overlooked a fairly vast park area, and in the distance, a sheet of ornamental water glittered in the sun. The requisite number of trees and neatly trimmed shrubs dotted the landscape, and some sort of yew alley slanted off to the left.

Well, well. It looked as though he had fallen into a honey pot. The perfect place to regain his strength and his memory. If only it didn’t take too long. Again, he was swept by a nagging sense of urgency.

Slowly, he sat down on the chair and gave himself up to thought. He still had no idea where he was, except, of course, that he was in the country. In the south of England, by the looks of it, but he could be mistaken. Cursorily, he examined his clothing, hanging on the back of the chair. Even the pockets of his coat proved unproductive. He had money, but not much. Except, no—what was this? A rustling sound drew him to the coat collar, which, when turned over revealed a narrow, hidden pocket. It contained—my God, over five hundred pounds! Where had he got that kind of gelt?

But there was nothing else. Not a scrap of paper with a name on it. Not a bill, not a letter, not even a handkerchief with an initial. Lord, what kind of man sets out from home with nothing in his possession except enough money to choke a mule?

A man who is heading off for parts unknown and wants to keep his identity a secret, that’s who. Well, he’d done a damn good job, hadn’t he? Thoughtfully, he tucked the roll of soft back into its hiding place, and returned the coat to its place on the back of the chair. His efforts had tired him, and he hobbled back to bed, where he explored the blank void that was his mind. Search as he might, however, no clue glimmered in the fog. At the end of a half hour’s fruitless concentration, he still had no idea what kind of man it was who had inhabited his body for what he guessed was some thirty years.

But he
had
to remember. Somehow, he knew that his very survival depended on his return to sanity.

He jerked his head at a tap on the door, which opened immediately to admit a housemaid bearing a nightshirt. He affixed an engaging smile to his lips.

“Well, now,” he said, “here’s a sight to bring a man back to good health.”