“Will you marry me?”
The question hung in the air for an instant like a wisp of smoke, no less surprising to the asker than to the recipient. A soft chuckle above his ear was his only answer, but her hands paused for an instant before resuming their task of smoothing the bedcovers up around his shoulders, and one was placed on his forehead for a moment before she straightened away from him.
“I am not delirious,” he said.
“No,” she agreed with unshaken composure, “merely funning.” A little smile echoed the twinkle in her eyes as she replaced the glass on the tray before going to pick up a lamp from a table against the wall containing a door.
“You have not answered my question,” Jack said, casting prudence to the winds a second time in as many minutes when he perceived her intention of exiting the room.
Again that throaty little chuckle. “Ask me again when we are better acquainted. I am going to leave you to rest now, Mr. Johnson. I hope you will sleep well and that you will feel more the thing in the morning.”
His protest that he was not Mr. Johnson was made to a closed door in a darkened room. Awake or sleeping, he seemed to have entered a strange new realm where nothing was as usual. Had he really asked a complete stranger to marry him? Did the girl even exist outside of his dreams?
There was sufficient light from the embers in the fireplace to distinguish the door through which she had vanished and the table on which a lamp had stood. Was this proof that she and the lamp existed? Or was her presence in his dreams proof that she did not exist? Jack frowned in concentration, and the pain in his head redoubled, convincing him that he at least was real. The girl had held him within the curve of her arm and helped him drink; he had smelled her scent. Could one smell anything in a dream? He pondered this profound question but drifted off to sleep without resolving the burning issue.
Jack awoke to the relief and promise of daylight, any and all dream fragments dissipating rapidly as he surveyed his surroundings. The bedchamber was of a generous size and comfortably furnished with sturdy pieces from another age, mostly oak or walnut like the big four-poster bed that he occupied in splendid isolation at the moment. Lightweight curtains were drawn back under heavy bed draperies that might have been a deep rich blue in their day. Similar draperies at the window had been opened, allowing sunlight to stream across a worn Turkey carpet on to a corner of the bed. He could see a few darns in the sheets, which were made of a good quality linen, but they were snowy white with a hint of lavender still clinging to them. All in all, he had fallen softly.
His head still ached abominably and his right shoulder was stiff, but he must count himself fortunate to have got off so lightly. The busy little fire in the fireplace and the uncovered window were proof that someone had been in this room while he slept. He had no idea of the time, but his grumbling stomach told him it was many hours since his last meal. His ministering angel had offered only water during the night. Lord, he devoutly hoped the doctor who had pronounced him concussed did not subscribe to any theories that advocated fasting until the patient recovered.
A welcome tap on the door sounded before this awful possibility had taken full possession of Jack’s mind. The stab of disappointment when his visitor turned out to be a middle-aged male servant instead of a lovely young woman was alleviated in part by the sight of the large tray bearing several covered dishes that was clutched in the man’s hands. Relieved that fasting was not included in the recuperative regimen, Jack greeted the servant cheerfully and assured him that he would be able to feed himself in bed if he were propped up against the pillows. While Burns, as the man had introduced himself, went to locate some extra pillows, Jack, disregarding the pain, sat up, positioning himself so he could peek under the pewter covers on the tray. The first dish contained some sort of porridge, but his nose had not deceived him. Thick slices of ham reposed on a large plate, accompanied by three fried eggs. Under another cover were several slices of toast.
Jack was on the point of extracting a slice of toast from its nest when Burns returned, carrying a coffee pot in one hand and several pillows under his arms. Thanks to the butler’s artful disposition of the pillows, Jack managed to feed himself, doing full justice to the cook’s offerings, awkward though the exercise was. By the time Burns had shaved him, however, the initial spurt of vitality had spent itself, and he found to his disgust that he was completely exhausted despite his automatic denials. The butler had not been forthcoming about his employers, and all Jack’s energy had been expended in taking nourishment. He was asleep before he could martial the wit to request that a message be taken to his mother at Belfort.
When Jack next awoke it was with a sense of urgency, immediately assuaged when his eyes lighted on the woman seated in one of the fireside chairs busily plying her needle. Today her bright hair was nearly covered by a dainty lace cap, but the serene profile was as charming as he remembered. Thesmall hands that had held him so firmly and yet touched his forehead with delicacy were beautiful as well as capable: smooth and white, with slender fingers.
As if sensing his regard, she turned her head toward the bed and smiled. “Good afternoon. I hope you have had a good sleep?”
“Yes, thank you, very good.”
Jack’s reply to the polite inquiry was mere mechanical civility as he tried to master his confusion. The woman setting aside her stitching and rising from her chair was as beautiful as he remembered her, but she had looked younger last night in the lamplight. As she crossed over to sit beside the bed he saw with a sense of dismay that she was in all likelihood his senior by some few years.
“Is your headache at all improved now, Mr. Johnson?”
“My name isn’t Johnson.”
“Isn’t it? I beg your pardon. I … I thought —”
“Yes, you called me that last night too.”
“I…?” The woman’s eyes widened, then she smiled. “I fear we are both labouring under misapprehensions, sir. This is the first time we have met — at least, you were unconscious when they brought you in last night,” she amended.
Jack put up a hand and kneaded his brow. “Then it was all a dream? You did not come in here last night and help me drink some water, or put your hand on my forehead?”
“Idid not, but my daughter may well have done so. It was she who sat with you last night.”
Sudden exultation made Jack lightheaded. He laughed and asked, “And is your daughter enough like you to be taken for your twin, ma’am?”
Responsive laughter sprang into her face, but she said with assumed severity, “Only by the most unprincipled of flatterers, sir.”
“Ah, no, ma’am; you wound me to the heart,” he declared, placing a hand over that organ in a dramatic gesture of protest. “To question the veracity of a guest in your home, even an uninvited guest, is monstrous cruel, I vow.”
“But not so cruel, surely, as to assign susceptibility and gullibility to women of a certain age,” she replied with arched brows.
“I should be quite desolated to ever suspect that one of us has not a clear conscience on these points.”
“I too, sir,” she agreed smilingly, putting a stop to this elegant dalliance by adding, “I still do not know whom I have the honour of addressing, if you are not Mr. Johnson.”
“Jack Hastings — Lord Hastings, very much at your service, ma’am. And you are…?”
