Lena grasped the armchair for support. “You’re mad. You’re all mad.” Her entire body trembled.
“If I may say so, I do not believe she is an impostor, Your Grace,” Mr Mortimer interjected, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “She appears to be quite—authentic. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen her with my own eyes, though she clearly does not seem to remember any of us.”
“I told you so!” Lady Evangeline exclaimed triumphantly. “Didn’t I, Julius? I told them I saw you in that street, but Julius wouldn’t listen. You can’t imagine the schemes I concocted to find you and bring you two together, and now look, it’s happened entirely by chance. It is fate lending a hand. You appeared suddenly at the Metternich soiree, playing like an angel, and Julius finally saw you. He dropped his champagne glass and almost fainted. Then you disappeared again. You must stop doing that, it is a most vexatious habit. With Mortimer’s help, we were able to track you here.” She clapped her gloved hands together, beaming.
Lena shook her head with determination. “Oh, no. You are mistaken. My name is Helena Arenheim, as Ihave repeatedly tried to tell you. Who is this Catherine you insist I am?”
The Duke dropped his hands to his sides. “My wife,” he replied, his tone dull.
ChapterSeven
Some momentsin life were so absurd that laughter was the only natural response. She tried to stifle it at first, so as to not to disturb the gravity of the situation, for the room had fallen as silent as a deserted chapel. It escaped anyhow, an undignified and most unladylike snort. Right into the Duke’s face, too.
Lena couldn’t help herself. She laughed until tears streamed down her face and her sides began to cramp. She collapsed into the armchair, clutching her ribs. It wasn’t amusement, but a hysterical, nervous release. Soon enough, her laughter turned into something that sounded more like sobs.
Lady Evangeline stared at her in surprise, at first, then laughed with her.
“I fail to see what is so amusing,” the Duke growled, clearly put out.
“Me, your wife?” Lena spluttered between gasps, her voice trembling. “Me, a duchess? That's impossible! I have no memory of you or of any marriage between us.”
The truth was, she didn’t remember anything at all.
“You truly do not remember?” His face turned to stone.
“We are here to discuss the possibility that you are the Duchess, yes,” Mr Mortimer interjected, his tone businesslike. “We must investigate, since we’re uncertain. Although if you were to ask me, things are fairly clear.”
Lena struggled to regain her composure. “I beg your pardon,” she said, wiping her eyes with the corner of an apron, “but surely you must agree that it’s unusual for a husband to embark on an investigation of his wife’s identity.”
“Not at all,” he bit out. “Given the circumstances, it is a perfectly reasonable thing to do.”
Mr Mortimer cleared his throat. “Her Grace having, ah, departed from this world eight years since.”
Lena tilted her head to one side, her mouth dropping open. “Departed?” When the impact of the meaning hit her, her eyes grew as round as saucers. She looked at the Duke, horrified. “I am terribly sorry. My sincerest condolences, but I did not comprehend. You mean to say your wife is dead?”
The Duke looked out of his depth. “That was our assumption until you suddenly appeared.”
“Oh.” Lena sobered. Then she sat up as straight as an arrow as understanding dawned. “Oh! Forgive me for being a tad slow. Do you truly believe I am your dead wife?” She pointed her finger at her stomach.
“At first it was only me, but now there are three of us who recognise you,” Lady Evangeline chimed in with satisfaction. “This can no longer be a coincidence.”
Lena shook her head. “You are making a mistake. I am deeply sorry about your wife, truly, but I am not her.” It was a phrase she would continue to repeat the next half hour, as if she were speaking to a brick wall. The three of them continued discussing her as if she were not even in the room.
“It is entirely incomprehensible to me, but she is the spitting image of the Duchess.” Mr Mortimer stated. “But this of course begs the question—if she is the Duchess, who is buried at Aldingbourne Hall?”
All eyes turned towards her. Lena squirmed uncomfortably.
“A twin separated at birth?” Aldingbourne said after a heavy silence.
Lena rolled her eyes.
“I concur with Lady Evangeline that this must be Her Grace, the Duchess of Aldingbourne, Catherine Stafford-Hill.” Mr Mortimer asserted. “The hair colour. The eye colour. The complexion and the height. Everything is identical.”
“Yet her character and demeanour seem different,” the Duke observed.
“True,” Lady Evangeline put in, “but that is the only aspect that seems different. She has the same talent at the pianoforte, if not more. Her talent has developed, and she plays quite masterfully. And there are certain gestures. Look! How she holds her head as she does now, slightly tilted.”
“And she has the same birthmark on her cheek.” Three pairs of eyes were fixedon her face.
