“And his memory?” Adam asked. “He does not seem to recall everything.”
“It may come, or not,” the Moor said inscrutably.
“He does not remember me!” Rosamund said, desperation in her voice.
Master Achmet’s dark eyes were sympathetic as he spoke with her. “I cannot imagine forgetting a lady such as yourself, madame, but it is possible he will not remember. Still, he has just now awakened. Give him a little time.” Then he turned to Adam. “I believe, my lord, that I can confine my visits to this house now to once daily.” He bowed himself from the room as he said it.
When Tom returned from his visit to court with Philippa, the young girl was filled with excitement for what she had seen and whom she had met.
“The queen says I look like you when she first knew you, mama!” Philippa said.
Rosamund smiled wanly. “Indeed, my daughter,” she replied spiritlessly.
“Run along now, poppet, and tell Lucy of your adventures,” Tom said. He had seen at once his cousin’s malaise. When Philippa had skipped off, he said, “What has happened, dear girl? You look positively half-dead.”
“Patrick has awakened,” she told him.
“That is wonderful news!” he exclaimed.
“He does not remember me,” Rosamund said.
“That is not wonderful news,” Lord Cambridge said.
“What am I to do, Tom? I cannot marry a man who does not know me!” Rosamund was positively distraught.
“I saw the physician departing as we returned,” Lord Cambridge said. “What has he to say about the matter?”
“He says that Patrick may or may not regain all of his memories, Tom. God in heaven, I cannot bear it if he has forgotten me! I will die! I will die without him!”
Tom sighed. He remembered that both Rosamund and Patrick had said when they had first met that while their love would endure, they would eventually be separated. He had thought at the time that Rosamund was being rather dramatic, but now he considered that they both might have had a premonition. Still, their passion for each other had led them to believe they might remain together. And now this. It was eerie, and there was nothing he might do to comfort her. “The queen wants to see you,” he said.
“I cannot see her now!” Rosamund cried.
“You cannot leave Edinburgh without paying your respects. She has been patient with you because of Patrick’s illness, but the physician will tell the king that the earl is now awake. The queen will therefore decide you must come to her soon, and you must, cousin. Philippa charmed them both. She sat on the floor of the queen’s privy chamber and played with the little prince, who has begun to toddle. Today was his first birthday. Your daughter, when she was told it, immediately took off the little gold chain she was wearing and placed it about Prince James’ neck. It was a gracious gesture and much appreciated by both their majesties. Philippa has all the right instincts to please the high and the mighty. I think we may have to take her to Henry Tudor’s court in another few years. I do believe, dear girl, we may snag a noble husband for her.”
Rosamund looked at him bleakly. “He does not know me,” she said again.
“Be patient,” Tom counseled her gently. He could almost feel the pain she was experiencing. “Be brave. You have always been.”
“I know,” Rosamund answered him, “but I love him, Tom. I have never before really loved anyone like this. I do not expect to love again, if ever, like this. If he does not remember me, remember us, what am I to do?”
“We will cross that water when we come to it, cousin,” he replied. “It is all we can do in this situation.”
She nodded slowly.
At first Rosamund was unable to go back to nursing the earl. But then Tom and Adam convinced her that if Patrick’s memory was to be jogged, she must be with him as much as she could. It was difficult, however, for he treated her like a complete stranger. He was polite, but distant.
“You had us all quite frightened,” she told him one afternoon in late April. “I wonder what made you finally open your eyes, my lord. We had almost given up hope.”
“I smelled white heather,” he told her.
And Rosamund remembered that she had bathed and washed her hair that day with her scented oils and soaps, which were all perfumed with white heather. “Did you?”
“You wear it,” he noted.
“Aye, I do,” she said. Remembering how he had always loved the scent, even bathing in it when they were in San Lorenzo.
“But that afternoon it was particularly strong,” he replied.
