Page 28 of His Forgotten Bride
Gabriel snorted. That was putting it mildly; he’dfallen outwith damn near everyone. “It is difficult,” he said, “to maintain relationships with people who arewhole, people who hold memories that you don’t. It is difficult, also, to maintain the fiction that there is nothing wrong with you when great parts of your life are just…gone. Vanished, as if into thin air.”
“And in that span of missing time,” Westwood said, “there might have been a wife.”
“Therewasa woman,” Gabriel said, “though whether she was my wife in truth is unknowable. She arrived at my father’s estate shortly after my accident, and she claimed to be my wife, but my father thought her an opportunist and turned her away.”
“Butyouthink she was your wife,” Westwood pressed.
Gabriel nodded. “There are…shreds of memory,” he allowed. “Impressions. Things I said while I was recovering. Things I see on rare occasions, in dreams. I never see her face, but I feel—” Well, what he felt was hardly Westwood’s concern. He cleared his throat. “I feel certain she was my wife, and I can’t even recall her face. I didn’t even know for sure that she was anything more than a fever dream until my father confessed what he had done.”
Westwood heaved a sigh, sinking back in his chair. “I don’t envy you,” he said. “Have you found her, this woman who might or might not be your wife?”
Gabriel felt a muscle tick in his jaw. “I would have thought my judicious use of the past tense ought to have been indication enough,” he said. “I sent a Runner to look for her, and it was no simple task, given that I hadn’t so much as a name or a description to give him. But he found her anyway. Her name was Catherine.” He passed his hand over his mouth, feeling the strain in his face. “She died,” he said. “In childbirth. Our child, had it lived, would have been the same age as Claire’s—Mrs. Hotchkiss’—son.”
Westwood winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t imagine—”
“No, you can’t—no one can.” Gabriel flung himself back into his chair. “I had—or nearly had—achild, with a woman whom I cannot recall, and they were both dead and gone years before I learned of it.” He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, sinking in his seat. “I may never recall her,” he said. “The mind is a fickle thing—amnesia, the doctors called it. And they all agree I might remember everything, or nothing at all. It’s been seven years since the accident, and I’ve recovered no more than a handful of what I’ve lost. And there’s no way to determine what might provoke a memory—it could be a smell, or a sound, or—”
“A piece of gingerbread,” Westwood interjected, his brows arching. “That’swhat caused your swooning spell.”
“It wasn’t a damned swoon,” Gabriel gritted out from between clenched teeth. “Migraines often accompany a recovered memory for me. They are swift and severe, and utterly debilitating.”
“And yet you were willing to risk another?” Westwood inquired.
“If you woke up tomorrow with no memory of your wife but having the certainty that sheexisted, what wouldn’tyoudo to find her again?” Gabriel asked sharply. “Would you be satisfied with a shadow lurking in the darkest parts of your mind, a shade whose face you can never see, whose voice is unclear and ephemeral? Would you be content to let her remain secreted away, unknown to the one person who, above all others,oughtto remember her?”
For just a moment, a flash of pity crossed Westwood’s face, and a flicker of empathy darkened his eyes. “I believe I take your meaning,” he said at last. “No; I don’t suppose I would allow myself to let it go, either.”
With a tight nod, Gabriel tunneled his fingers through his hair. “You asked me,why this child,” he said grimly. “Surely you can understand—becausethischild is one I can still save.”
Chapter Fifteen
Claire felt the tug of a small hand at her skirts, and turned away from the steaming loaves of gingerbread on the countertop to find her son standing beside her. Mr. Bradshaw hovered a few feet away, his expression vaguely apologetic.
“Matthew, what in the world are you doing here? You ought to be in bed,” she chided gently, ruffling his dark hair with her fingertips.
“Caught him wandering the lower floor,” Bradshaw said. “I suspect the lad got himself a bit lost.”
“Mama, can I help?” Matthew asked, rising onto his toes to peer over the edge of the counter, his gaze covetous as he spied the freshly-sliced loaves of gingerbread.
“This is for his lordship’s tea,” Claire explained. “But Alice will have some sweet buns ready for you shortly. They’re baking now, so you must have patience.”
With a faint pout, Matthew withdrew from the counter and released his tight hold on her skirts. “May I stay with you?” he asked. “There’s no one to play with upstairs. And it’s boring to stay in bed.”
Claire hesitated, casting a beseeching glance at Mr. Bradshaw, who shrugged wordlessly, at a loss. “Yes,” she said at last. “But you must stay at the table. The kitchen staff is preparing for dinner, and you mustn’t be in their way.” As Matthew slid obediently over toward the table and climbed into a chair, she redirected her attention to Mr. Bradshaw. “How is the nursery coming along?” she asked.
“Well enough,” he said. “I’m afraid his lordship might have gone a bit overboard with all of it. Parcels have been arriving all afternoon. I’m not certain how the nursery will even contain the sheer volume of books and toys—”
“Toys?” Matthew repeated, his interest in their conversation suddenly quite keen. His wide green eyes fixated on Mr. Bradshaw’s face as he bounced excitedly in his chair. “What sort of toys?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mr. Bradshaw said, tossing a rueful glance at Claire. “I suppose you will simply have to see for yourself, when the nursery is prepared for you.”
“Toys,” Matthew mused. “And they’re forme?”
“They must be. His lordship is far too grown to play with them, and the rest of us work in this house. I don’t know where we’d ever find the time to play with them ourselves,” Mr. Bradshaw said. “There’s no other little boys in this house, so, yes—they’re for you.”
“May I see them?” Matthew’s gaze flitted between Claire and Mr. Bradshaw, and his legs kicked back and forth in an excess of energy.
“Not just yet, darling,” Claire said, cognizant of the faint hammering sounds still echoing from the upper floor. “We must let the servants set the nursery to rights first.” She collected a few slices of gingerbread, arranging them neatly on a plate.
