Sabine and her solicitor and barrister confer. The barrister speaks. “We did not find it relevant, my lord. We rather expected it to be annulled. She wed a man she happened upon in the park some two weeks before.”
I grip the rail. “Three weeks.”
The crowds buzz.
He works his jaw. “I don’t wish to confine you to the asylums, Mrs. Winthrop, but your feckless actions, disappearing andreappearing at will, marrying in haste, have shown a concerning disregard for order and obligation. I cannot ignore that.”
“If you please, my lord, Sabine—Miss St. Laurent—attempted to have me forcibly committed. I had no choice but to disappear. As for my marriage, I was attempting to create stability for my new ward. Until probate is settled, I have no position or home.”
He considers this with a frown, working his jaw again. Which seems to mean…he sees merit in my “feckless” behavior and the decision is no longer an easy one. Hopefully.
That, or he agrees I’m mad.
“Personal matters aside, Mrs. Winthrop, your mental condition is still under scrutiny here. Is it true you sustained an injury to the head and suffered a complete loss of memory?”
“That’s correct.”
“So in three years, and with the substantial help of a professional and the generous support of your employer, you still were unable to make a full recovery—or even a partial one. Have you, in that time, recovered any of your memory? Any at all?”
I twist my handkerchief between my fingers. He doesn’t wish to commit me. He’s waiting for me to give him a reason not to. “Partially, my lord. Mostly in dreams and…and images.”
His eyes widen. “You havevisions?”
“Not…not…pricely…price…Precise. Ly.” What’s the word? Drat! I can see it upon the paper in my jar. “Precisely. Not precisely. Memories return to me in brief flashes. Mostly my mother, my childhood—”
“Can you substantiate any of these…dreams and visions as actual memories?”
“My mother. She’s Isabella de Montfort.”
Muffled giggling echoes in the courtroom.
“I’ve seen her face…in my mind…” I sound mad. “Please, sir.” I whisper, shaking. “Please. Just grant me Cecil. She can keepthe rest.” I look into the eyes of a man who I dearly hope is a father, and plead with him to see the truth. “Please. He needs me.”
“Your lordship,” says the opposing barrister, stifling a grin of amusement, “you might consider that the injury has left an otherwise sane individual with a severe nervous disorder including hallucinations. It is our recommendation that she be contained in an asylum and the estate granted to my client.”
Sabine. My vision blurs with a powerful headache coming on. Sweat cools my skin. The onlookers gasp and murmur, exclaiming over me. Do I look a sight?
No…notexclaiming over me.
But over someone who’s come through the rear door.
It’s a woman in a large red hat and matching gloves, but not just any woman.
She is a force of beauty and poise.
Long, dark hair.
Lovely, slanted eyes.
A birthmark—beautymark, as she always called it—placed just so beside her lip and a deep, deep twinkle of humor in her violet eyes.
My hand drops from the railing. “Mama.”
She is lovely. Polished and draped in lace and jewelry, she resembles a lost princess.
Now I’ve truly lost my sanity and have dreamed her up during the day. I’m hallucinating. But when I blink, she’s still here. Not vanishing on the edge of a dream, waving goodbye, slipping out the door, blowing kisses and promises that never fully land. Instead she’s rooted, gloved hands covering her mouth, eyes silently begging me to forgive and welcome her near. With the fractured, unknown past still between us she is cautious…but she ishere.
I grip the rail and sing in a faint whisper,
