The parlor had swirled. Her vision had dimmed. And just as she’d been about to slip into unconsciousness, Mrs. Grimsby–who back then was simply Lucy–had come rushing in. She’d immediately called for a doctor, and then helped Brynne sit up.
“Breathe,” she had said urgently. “You must breathe, Lady Brynne. In and out, in an out. Slower. Slower.”
“I–Ican’t,” Brynne had gasped, but Lucy–stalwart and dependable, even then–had refused to accept such an answer.
“You can and you must,” she’d insisted. “Think of…think of waves on the beach. Rushing up to the shore, then falling back into the ocean. Up and back. Up and back. There. There you are.”
The doctor had arrived within the hour and he’d examined Brynne quite thoroughly before reaching a diagnosis.
“I’ve only seen this once before, when I first began my practice,” he’d said as he returned his stethoscope–a curious wooden instrument in the shape of a stick with a circle at each end–into his black medical bag and snapped it closed. “In a woman with a newborn baby who had just received news of her husband dying on the battlefield. Horrific business, war. How fortunate we are that Queen Victoria has proven herself to be such an excellent diplomat and has kept us from conflict.”
“Did the woman have a disease of some sort?” Although shaky and pale, Brynne had managed to stay upright in bed through sheer force of will…and the mountain of pillows Lucy had placed behind her.
“A disease? No, no, nothing like that. There is not a name for it, I am afraid. Too rare. As I said, you’re just the second case I’ve ever seen.” He’d stroked his salt and pepper moustache. “But the symptoms–dotted vision, heart palpitations, cold sweat–are almost exactly the same. Too similar to be a coincidence, at any rate. You, my dear child, have suffered from what I shall refer to as an attack of anxious mannerisms in my research paper.”
“An attack of anxious mannerisms,” she’d repeated. “What–what is that? How do I treat it? Is there medicine? Or a tonic?” Her nose had wrinkled. “My brother had to take a tonic once when he was ill with a cough. I tried a spoonful. It was very bitter.”
“No medicine,” said the doctor as he’d put on his coat and gone to the door. “No tonic. This is a simple case of mind over matter. If you start to feel this way again, tell yourself not to.”
“Tell myself not to?” Puzzled, she had shaken her head. “But–”
“I’ve another patient waiting in the village. Drink plenty of broth and get lots of rest,” he’d advised. “You should feel better in the morning. If there’s been no improvement within twenty-four hours, ring for me again and perhaps we’ll try a tonic.”
That was the last time Brynne had called for the doctor.
Over the course of the next few months, she had two more attacks of anxious mannerisms. Or Episodes, as she and Lucy began to call them. Once, when she received a letter from Weston that he would not be returning home for Christmas. And again, when she’d missed an entire sequence of notes during practice for her piano recital and her instructor labeled her as “completely hopeless”.
With time, she came to realize that the Episodes were tied directly to her emotions. When she became too mentally overwhelmed, whether it was due to the prospect of facing a holiday alone, or failing to reach the high bar her tutors had set, her mind was unable to process the additional pressure. Almost like a tea kettle that began to whistle and blow steam after being left too long on the stove.
Not surprisingly, the doctor’s suggestion–that she merely tell herselfnotto have an Episode–had little effect. But with practice, and Lucy’s unique breathing techniques, she was able to keep her symptoms to a minimum. As she grew older, and learned how to exert more control over herself and her emotions, they occurred with less and less frequency.
Finally, much to her relief, the day came that the “attack of anxious mannerisms” stopped altogether. She’d truly believed they were behind her. A relic of a miserable adolescence that she’d done her best to forget…along with her horrible mistake of a marriage. But while she had successfully managed to sweep her lonely, unpleasant childhood under the proverbial rug, it seemed large, arrogant Scots were too big to fit beneath carpets…or inside trunks.
In hindsight, it was foolish–if not downright naïve–to believe that she’d seen the last of Lachlan Campbell. Like a bad penny, it was inevitable her husband would show up again. The husband she despised. The husband who had betrayed her. The husband she was still madly…irrevocably…completely in love with.
Chapter Two
Eleven Years Ago
Hawkridge Manor
When Brynne heardthe wheels turning on the stone drive, her young heart pattered with excitement. Weston was home! Four weeks prematurely, as it so happened, but with no other visitors scheduled and their father in the wind, who else could it possibly be but her brother, returned early from Eton?
How she’d missed him. With the exception of a brief–and intimidating–visit from her grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell, she had spent the last month in relative isolation. Which wasn’t anything new, in and of itself. Brynne and Weston were often alone. But they were alonetogether. A distinction that became notable only after she found herself roaming the whitewashed walls of Hawkridge without her twin by her side.
She had the servants, of course. Lucy, in particular, was a comfort, especially since Brynne’s newest governess, Miss Hardgrave, possessed all the warmth of an iceberg.
But it wasn’t the same.
That didn’t matter anymore, however.
Because Weston had returned.
Except when she burst out the front door (ignoring the sharp call of her governess that ladies didnotrun) and took the steps two at a time to meet the shiny black coach before the prancing pair of chestnut geldings had even come to a full halt, it wasn’t her brother’s face peering out the square window, but an unfamiliar boy with a spill of red hair and an arrogant smirk.
“Who areyou?” Brynne demanded when he hopped out of the carriage without bothering to wait for the footman to bring the mounting step around.
Taller than her by several inches, with a broad frame that needed to fill out in places and a face that was all jutted angles and peaks, the boy stuck out his hand and grinned at her. “Lachlan. Ye must be West’s sister, Lady Brynne. Please tae meet ye.”
