The Second Lady Emily (7 page)

“Who are you?”

He fought renewed pain, reciting the litany with which he was all too familiar by now. “Lord Thurston. You fell during the ball and struck your head. You have been recuperating at Broadbanks Hall ever since. We feared that you would succumb to your fever, but it appears that it has finally broken. Your brother and mother are also here, but both are resting at the moment. I can fetch them if you like.”

“No!” She seemed to be making a mental struggle, but her question when it came was unexpected. “How long have I been ill?”

“Nearly three weeks.”

A shudder wracked her body. He tucked the coverlet closer. “It can’t be.” Her voice was pleading. “The moon is a waning crescent. It can only have been a week.”

“Relax, Emily. You are still disoriented by the fall.” He brushed the hair from her brow, feeling her puckered forehead, a sign that she was deep in thought.

“The date. What is the date?”

“July 4, 1812.” He had answered this question so often that he added the year almost automatically, though he had never considered it a vital part of the date.

“The Fourth of July,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll miss the fireworks.”

“Emily?”

She shook her head, then winced. “Nothing, my lord. You call me Emily?”

“I shouldn’t, of course.”

“Because it is not my name?”

“You still don’t remember, do you?” He sighed, his thumb idly stroking her palm. She didn’t seem to mind the impropriety. “You are Lady Emily Fairfield, sister of Charles Fairfield, seventh Earl of Clifford. I am his closest friend. But that does not give me the privilege of addressing you by your given name. Forgive me.”

“Of course. I am sorry to be such a bother.” She frowned. “Do I recall a doctor bleeding me?”

“Yes, but I put a stop to that at your request. The new doctor agrees that routine bleeding does more harm than good.”

“So I was not hallucinating.” She sounded disappointed. “And you are seeing that I get the food I need to recover.”

So harping on food had not been a product of delirium. “You needn’t fear for your recovery, Lady Emily. But if it is to continue, you must return to your bed.”

“No. Being bedridden for three weeks explains why I am so weak. I need exercise.”

“In the morning, if you remain free of fever. Now let me summon a maid to change the bed linen, and we will get you tucked back up.”

“What time is it?”

“About two.”

She glared. “You can’t awaken some poor girl in the middle of the night! Get me a couple of sheets and I’ll do it myself.”

“What?”

They argued for several minutes before he finally gave in and collected the sheets. Not that he would allow her to make up the bed. She would swoon the moment she stood up. He did it himself. Poorly, but after subjecting him to such stubborn insistence, she could sleep on wrinkles. She had to change her own nightgown, of course. But aside from grumbling over the style – at least he thought that was what she found wrong with the garment – she managed. The effort tired her so much that she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Succumbing to temptation, he placed a lingering kiss on her forehead before he left to track down the maid who was supposed to keep watch in her room.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cherlynn paced slowly from window to door and back. Each time she passed the mirror, her eyes searched the glass, hoping to see her familiar image restored. Who would have thought she could long to be short and fat, with frizzy brown hair, gray eyes, and a plain face? But she had never anticipated finding herself in this predicament.

Each pass brought new disappointment. Cherlynn Cardington never lurked in the mirror. Instead, long black hair rippled to her waist, and China-blue eyes stared hesitantly from a pale oval face, their depths reflecting shock, fear, and lingering disbelief. Hands repeatedly skimmed her figure, trembling at the change from chunky to slender.

Acceptance gradually subdued the shock. This was no dream. The flesh and blood her fingers touched matched the image in the mirror.

Lord Thurston had left her with much to ponder, not least of which was his parting kiss. Their argument had wearied her, so she’d taken the coward’s way out by pretending sleep, thus raising new questions. When his lips had pressed against her brow so gently, it had taken all her willpower to remain motionless. Before she spoke with anyone else, she needed to figure out what was going on.

His claims validated the scraps of memory from her illness. If they were all true, then she was no longer Cherlynn Cardington, failed wife, unsuccessful author, and unwilling marchioness.

Again her eyes locked onto the vision of beauty in the mirror. Lady Emily Fairfield. Lady Travis’s first letter had described the accident during Thurston’s betrothal ball. If this was the fourth of July, then the girl had died of her injuries sixteen days ago. Thus Cherlynn must now occupy Emily’s body. Her own fall on the same date in the same room must have wafted her into the past.

But why?

She moved to the open window. The maid had implied that Emily loved Lord Thurston. His concern and tenderness suggested that he returned her regard. He had been at her bedside nearly every time she’d surfaced from her delirium, feeding her, supplying the remedies she demanded, bathing her face with cool water – not typical Regency behavior. Even Emily’s brother had visited only rarely, and her mother even less.

Cherlynn returned to the mirror, forcing her thoughts past her renewed headache as she recalled everything she had read about Emily. There wasn’t much. The press had concentrated on the curse. Since Emily had had nothing to do with the Broadbanks’ fortunes, even the tabloids had ignored her. Her only knowledge had been gleaned from that single letter and the maid’s comments.

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.