Page 53 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
He spoke with what seemed to be authority, even as Sebastian was certain he knew nothing of such things. He had absented himself at the moment of Sebastian’s grandfather’s descent into madness, or so Sebastian’s father had told him.
He had done nothing to help his brother in his hour of need. But now he had appeared at Southbourne House as a familiar, and it seemed he was intent on remaining, even as Sebastian had no need of him.
“I don’t see what a few herbs in a tea can do to help me remember the things I might forget,” Sebastian replied, sitting down and helping himself to toast and jam.
“Oh, Sebastian, please, you’ve got to give it a chance. The doctor knows what he’s talking about, I’m sure,” Lady Southbourne said, looking at Sebastian imploringly.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t try it. But I doubt it’ll help. If I’m going to go mad, won’t I do so? Besides, I feel better this morning. I know I didn’t alter the painting, and I know I didn’t mislay the cigar case,” Sebastian replied.
He spoke with a certainty greater than he felt, but he was not about to give his uncle the satisfaction of declaring him mad or being proved right. His stepmother shook her head sadly.
“Well, if you say so, Sebastian. We’ll go along with it. Perhaps someone altered it. One of the servants, or an outsider. We can’t be too careful,” she replied.
Sebastian shook his head. He knew he was right. He was certain he was right. There was so much he could remember, and to draw a blank at these apparent differences was simply not possible. He was either mad or not.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. But I won’t be treated like an invalid. I don’t need to be confined to bed o sent away to a sanitorium,” he said, fearing his stepmother and uncle might already have planned to do just that.
He had heard of the late Francis Willis. He was the clergyman turned doctor whose sanitorium treated the king, and he had no intention of being subject to a man like him. Other doctors had suggested similar treatments, but it seemed the doctor his stepmother had called the previous evening was of the opinion something definite now had to be done.
“No one’s talking about that, Sebastian. We just want what’s best for you. No, the meeting this morning with Mr. Gerard, do you feel well enough for it?” Victoria asked.
Sebastian was confused. Reginald Gerard was the land agent for the estate and managed the day-to-day affairs of the earldom on Sebastian’s behalf. They had met the previous month, and there had been no pressing business to attend to. Sebastian did not remember a meeting being arranged, even as he feared another bout of memory loss.
“Reginald? We met last month. There’s no need for a meeting,” Sebastian replied, supposing it was his stepmother who had become confused.
Victoria and Sebastian’s uncle exchanged glances.
“It’s in your diary, Sebastian. We spoke about it last week. He’s coming to discuss the Norfolk holdings. Your father left the matter in such disarray, though we can hardly blame him for that. We need to make a decision on what’s best for the tenants. I’m still in favor of selling, but it’s up to you. I’m sure Mr. Gerard will give us his opinion,” Victoria said.
Sebastian was at a loss, even as he knew the matter of the Norfolk holdings was pressing. The dowry of a distant ancestor had provided a small number of tenements and cottages on the Norfolk coast, and it had been the intention of Sebastian’s father to sell them before the madness seized him.
Sebastian had agreed, but nothing had been done, and when last he had met with the land agent, Mr. Gerard had suggested waiting for more favorable market conditions.
“Property never really loses value, my Lord. It’s better to hold on to it when the need arises,” the land agent had advised, and Sebastian had considered the matter settled.
“But I don’t remember arranging such a meeting,” Sebastian said.
“He’s coming this morning at eleven O’clock. It was in my diary. I’m sure it’s in yours, too, Sebastian,” she said.
Sebastian rose from the table, not wanting to show his fear at having forgotten something so important, even as he felt certain he had not done so.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, retreating from the dining room and hurrying towards his study.
He was convinced his stepmother was wrong. There was no meeting he had forgotten, no task lying ahead to remember. The diary lay on his desk, opened at that day. Sebastian resented its presence. It was a constant reminder there were things he could not remember. Now, tentatively, he looked down at the open page.
“Eleven o’clock, Reginald Gerard. Norfolk,” he read, gasping as he did so.
There were the words. Proof of his having previously known something of what they reminded him of. But try as he might, Sebastian could not remember writing them, even as he knew them to be his own. The script was a little shaky, but the exaggeration of the “g” was his own, as was the length and flick on the bottom of the “f.”
“I wrote it, but I can’t remember,” he exclaimed, and as he stared down at the page, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Chapter 22
“Concentrate, Rosalind. It’s far easier to make a stitch than undo one,” Rosalind’s mother said, noticing as Rosalind pulled through a thread on her embroidery ring, missing the intended line of the pattern.
The duchess had adopted a new strategy in her attempts to bring Rosalind back into what she considered a respectable occupation of her time. There was to be no more “lurking” as her mother put it, and Rosalind was now forbidden from shutting herself away in her bedroom during the day. A strict routine had been devised, and Rosalind was to spend most of her day in her mother’s company, observed and criticized over every movement.
“I’m trying, mother,” she replied, for Rosalind had never possessed of a natural talent for needlework.
