Page 49 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“Thought he’d lost his memory.”
“Not all of it. He remembers little pockets of information. How long before he’ll recall everything?”
Placing an elbow on the arm of the chair, Graves rubbed his chin in thought. “Difficult to say. I have to admit that I’ve not had much experience dealing with catastrophic loss of memory. Some patients are a bit disoriented after a head injury but usually everything comes back to them shortly. I’ve had a few patients who never regained the memories they lost.”
“There’s no cure?”
“Not to my knowledge. Although I did hear about a fellow who fell from a roof and couldn’t remember how he’d come to be there. Nor could he recall that he had a family. But when he was taken home the familiarity helped him to remember. I assume this man you know is already home.”
“He can’t remember where his home is.”
“That’s unfortunate. I wish I could be of more help. The mind is terribly complicated. It can forget what it doesn’t wish to remember. Sometimes memory can be triggered by something odd: the aroma of a particular fowl cooking, an experience, a person. But I have no magical elixir.”
“But being back in a familiar setting might be all that is needed?”
“Might be. No guarantees. A French physician is doing some amazing studies in neurology but I’ve not heard of any specific conclusions regarding amnesia. I could pen him a letter, attempt to gather some more information. Meanwhile, see if you can talk this gent into coming to see me. It sounds as though he might be a fascinating study.”
Fascinating indeed.
Because the most comfortable piece of furniture in the entire residence was Drake’s bed, Phee was curled up on it, a mound of pillows behind her back, while she readPride and Prejudice. She knew that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy belonged together. She knew scandal was involved, although she couldn’t recall the details. It was an odd thing. As she read each page, it was as though it caused her to remember reading the page at another time—curled in a little nook or sitting beneath the boughs of an elm. Why had embracing her duties today not caused the same thing to happen?
She wondered if it was truly important to know the past, especially as she felt somewhat lightened by not knowing it. What had it entailed?
Setting aside the novel, she reached for the book on household management that she had placed on the bedside table earlier. It was dry reading, but necessary. She wanted to please her employer. No, that wasn’t quite true. She wanted to please Darling.
For all his gruffness, he possessed a tenderness that took her by surprise at the oddest moments. Sometimes she thought she recalled him from before, but the images that flickered through her mind were not those of the man she was coming to know. His were small kindnesses, but they touched her deeply. While he often seemed impatient with her, he also appeared to care for her well-being. Wrapping her hands, excusing her from carrying out her duties. Had she a servant, she didn’t know if she would be as thoughtful.
Sitting up straighter, she concentrated. Had she had a servant? It seemed she had, but that made no sense. Had she once been well off but fallen on hard times?
Settling back down, she opened the book. She considered skipping over the chapter that addressed the duties of the mistress of the house, but as he had no wife, she decided those responsibilities belonged to her as well. As she read the pages, she was surprised by how familiar the tasks of the mistress were, as though she’d once carried them out. Had she been mistress of a household? Was she a widow? Had she come into service because her husband died and left her with nothing?
Scrambling out of bed, she hurried into the bathing chamber and studied her face more closely in the reflection in the mirror on the wall. No lines, no sagging skin, no jowls. How old was she? Not old enough to be a widow surely.
Had she overseen her father’s house? Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she concentrated on bringing forth images, but nothing was there. In frustration, she smacked her hand against the wall. The past didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter.
She wouldn’t let it.
She returned to the bed and curled up with Mrs. Beeton rather than Jane Austen. She would embrace her duties, perform them to the utmost of her abilities. Darling would be grateful she managed his household. His residence could be so much more than it was. She would see to it, even as the section on housekeeping began to overwhelm her. So much to oversee, so many tasks that needed to be tended to. She wondered that she had a moment to breathe, much less find herself in the river. It appeared the evening was the only time she would have a few minutes to herself.
She was quite surprised when she read the portion that explained how she was responsible for a household budget, for purchases. Shouldn’t she have remembered such a significant detail? She was supposed to have a book where she recorded expenses. Where would she keep that? According to Mrs. Beeton, she should have a housekeeper’s room from which she oversaw the household. Darling hadn’t indicated a room for her purpose. Perhaps they shared his office. Based on the size of his desk and the fact that he was sadly lacking in servants, that made sense to her.
She wondered about the extent of the monies that she might oversee, on what she was expected to spend the funds. If she were extremely frugal, could she purchase a comfortable chair, hire a cook, secure a housemaid? Those thoughts excited her with possibilities. She needed to find her book.
Sliding off the bed, she reached for her shoes, then decided that she didn’t need them. She was the only one about. Who would be offended by her stockinged feet? She wandered out the door and down the stairs. It was so incredibly quiet, yet she didn’t feel lonely. Rather she relished the silence. Every little thing she noticed was a new discovery about herself. It was such an odd thing not to know everything that she liked and enjoyed. It was as though she’d only just met herself and was slowly unveiling the mystery of who she was, developing a friendship with herself. Did she have friends? Would they be missing her, wondering why they didn’t hear from her? Would they come to visit?
If she only knew who they were, she could go to them. As it was, she would have to wait for them to come to her—then perhaps they would answer all the questions that Darling didn’t. She did hope they wouldn’t be too long in paying a call. If they had been here before, perhaps they would visit soon.
Reaching the library, she turned on the gaslights and took a moment to appreciate the three books that presently sat upon a shelf. She would add the other two when she was finished with them. She imagined the satisfaction she would feel with books on every shelf. Perhaps she would delay the purchase of a chair in order to gain more books. She imagined the musty fragrance they would give the room, a scent of knowledge, power, journeys that knew no bounds. She could see herself spending a good deal of time in here, sitting in a stuffed chair before the fire, reading. Darling, doing the same, sitting opposite her.
She blinked. No, a servant and an employer would not sit together in companionable silence. If he were here in the evenings, she would be relegated to her room while he enjoyed the fire, the books, the calm setting she worked to create. Not fair, not fair at all.
Going to the desk, she sat in the comfortable leather chair, allowing it to ease the aches in her body. Her hands were still wrapped, protected. Perhaps an employer who took such care with her hurts would welcome her sitting with him in the evenings. Surely with only the two of them here, they weren’t as formal as they would be otherwise.
She turned her attention back to her task at hand: finding her book of accounts. She opened one drawer after another, finding most of them empty of belongings. Truly this man lived a most spartan existence. She couldn’t imagine doing the same. She paused. Based on her meager belongings, she did exactly the same. Not by choice. She was not one to do without. So why was she?
Again, no choice. The reasons behind her lack of choice were the mystery.
She went back to work, opening the last drawer. Inside was a finely crafted wooden box. Taking it out, she set it on the desk so she could see more clearly into the depths of the drawer. But again, nothing that would serve as a ledger of accounts.
