“Probably Sir John’s,” she said, and instinctively reached for it. She laid it on her lap and smoothed the soft leather. Her cheeks warmed to see a man’s glove on her leg, even if that part of her was covered by bedclothes.Silly creature, she told herself. She held the glove instead and tried to remember if she’d ever held Sir John’s hand.
A memory flared in her mind. Sir John taking her hand, almost roughly. She blinked. That couldn’t be right. Oh, when would her brain cease its scattered state?
Mrs. Turrill searched in her pocket for another small object. “Do you recognize this?”
She held out a small piece of jewelry—a brooch. The pin bore a tiny painting of someone’s eye under glass and framed by gems.
Mrs. Turrill said, “It’s one of them lover’s eyes. Popular tokens, I understand. I thought it might be yours, seeing as it’s set in garnets—red for love and all that. Sir John’s eye, is it?”
Was it? She didn’t recall wearing it, yet she recalled so little. Shehadseen it before, she realized. The thickness of the eyebrow suggested a man’s eye, with a brown iris. She pressed her own eyes closed, trying to recall the color and shape of Sir John’s eyes. She’d thought they were a greyish blue. Washer memory still so faulty, or had the miniaturist got it wrong somehow? Or was this image not of Sir John’s eye at all, but rather a lover’s, as the name suggested?
Had she a lover? Was she that sort of woman? Heaven help her if her father found out.
“I ... don’t know,” she murmured, feeling frustrated and confused.
Mrs. Turrill patted her hand. “Don’t worry, my lady. It will all come back to you eventually.”
The housekeeper gathered up the dishes. “When I have time, I shall try to find a few more of your things. Might help you remember. And perhaps something of that poor girl’s to send to her family.”
“Yes ... poor girl,” she echoed sympathetically. The young woman’s smiling face shimmered in her mind a moment, then faded away. She was too embarrassed to admit that at the moment, she did not recall her name.
That evening, she was still sitting propped up in bed when Dr. Parrish returned to her room.
“How good to see you sitting up, my lady.” He smiled at her, then announced, “I have taken the liberty of borrowing a wheeled chair we might use. Edgar is waiting downstairs to help carry it up if you are willing to give it a go. I thought we might use it to convey you to Sir John’s room, as you are no doubt anxious to see him.”
“I...” She licked dry lips. “I should like to see him, yes.” She forced a smile for the kind man’s benefit, unsure why her stomach twisted at the thought.
A few minutes later, father and son returned to her door, a wicker-backed invalid chair between them. The doctor puffed at the exertion, while his strapping son looked unaffected.
She smiled at the young man. “Thank you, Edgar.”
“My lady.” He shyly tipped his hat and took his leave.
The doctor rolled the chair into the room and positioned it near the bed. Then he took her good arm and helped her rise. Again, the room swam and she leaned against him for support.
He looked at her in concern. “Still dizzy?”
She nodded, and settled with relief into the chair.
“Then we won’t stay long and tire you out.” He wheeled her through the door and across the paneled passageway. When they reached a door across the landing, Dr. Parrish stepped around the chair to open it, then eased her over the threshold.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn. An oil lamp burned on the side table.
Damp hands clasped in her lap, she looked toward the bed. Sir John lay there unnaturally still, fierce eyes closed, temple bruised, cheekbone swollen, mouth slack. So different than when she had last seen him, pugnaciously refusing to yield. He wore a simple nightshirt, open at the throat, instead of his usual elegantly tied cravat. His exposed neck lay bare, specked with new whiskers. How vulnerable he looked. How weak.
She whispered, “Will he live?”
The physician hesitated. “Only God knows. I have done all I can for him. Set and bandaged his broken ankle. Wrapped his cracked ribs. I pray there is no internal bleeding.” Dr. Parrish grimaced. “His head injury is what concerns me the most. I’ve sent for a surgeon from Barnstaple to give his opinion. He should be here tomorrow.”
She nodded her understanding. She felt pity for Sir John. Perhaps even grief. Beyond that, she wasn’t sure what she felt. Staring at the broken man before her, her emotions were a confusing jumble. Did she love him? He did not love her, she didn’t think. She pressed her eyes shut, willing herself to remember a wedding, or a wedding night. Nothing.
Then ... fragments of memory spotted her vision. Cool rain on her skin. Warm hands. A man sweeping her up intohis arms. But in the memory, the man had no face. Was it Sir John? She couldn’t be sure.
The memory faded. A wedding would have pleased her father. Though it would have disappointed the other man. For there had been someone else, had there not? Again she winced and tried to remember, but could not.
Instead, she saw another scene in passing, as though she walked through a theatre and out again mid-performance....
There she was, sitting awkwardly in the morning room of the Bristol house.
