They rode through the night in uneasy silence, stopping to change horses at coaching inns along the way. Cramped and sleepy, Marianna sat as far away from Sir John as possible on the bench seat they shared. She leaned against the carriage wall and looked out the side window, avoiding his gaze.
The brass candle lamps glowed steadily beyond the windowpane. Eventually, night waned and dawn began to redden the sky, following their westward course along the Bristol Channel.
Miss Rogers, perched on the pull-down seat nearby, seemed to grow more restless with each passing mile. Brow furrowed, she bit her lip and twisted her long fingers again and again in her lap. Outside, a light drizzle began to fall, and if Marianna was not mistaken, her companion’s eyes were damp as well.
As they entered yet another unknown hamlet and rumbled past its village green, the three of them stared out the window at a sobering sight: a pair of low-lying wooden stocks. Two women sat on the ground behind them, bound at the ankles. One woman scowled and swore at the jeering passersby. The other stared off into the distance with as much quiet dignity as the mortifying position allowed. Marianna wondered what each woman had been found guilty of. She was struck by how differently each faced the consequences of her actions, whatever they were. A chill passed up Marianna’s neck. Would she face consequences for her own actions? She shrugged off the uncomfortable thought. Nothing would happen to her. It had not been her fault—or her idea. And after all, they had gotten away with everything for more than two years now.
Sometime later, they stopped at another coaching inn. To that point, they had traveled with a team of four, driven by a succession of mounted postilions. But this inn had only two horses available, and how mismatched they were. The weary postilion departed, replaced by a fresh young man of nineteen or twenty. He converted the chariot’s front box into a coachman’s seat and from there, lifted the reins.
“It won’t be long now,” Sir John said, continuing to survey the road behind them with wary eyes. “We’re beginning the final short stretch of the journey.”
As they left the inn yard, the drizzle swelled into a driving rain. The winds increased with each mile, howling and rocking the carriage.
They all lurched as the young driver pulled the horses to the side of the road and halted. He turned on his seat to face them through the front carriage window. Sir John opened the speaking flap to listen to what the young man had to say. Wind and rain garbled his words.
“The roads are awful bad, sir. And the storm is picking up. I don’t think it wise to go on.”
“Come lad, it cannot be much farther.”
“Three miles, give or take.”
“And no inn before?”
“No, sir. But a farmer might let us shelter in his barn.”
“A barn—with these ladies? No. We must press on. I have a particular reason.”
“But, sir . . .”
“I shall make it worth your while.” Through the flap, Sir John handed the young man a small bulging purse. “And that much again when you deliver us there safely.”
The young man’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” He wiped the rain from his face and turned forward, allowing the flap to fall.
Marianna protested, “John, the boy is right. It is foolish to press on and get us all killed.”
Suddenly, Hannah sat up straighter. “Allow me down, if you please. I should not have come. It was a mistake.”
Astonished, Marianna stared at her. As did Sir John.
“I need to go back,” Hannah insisted, her voice nearly desperate.
Mouth grimly set, Sir John shook his head. “We are not going back.”
“I know—I shall find my own way. Just let me out.”
She rose and lunged toward the door, but he blocked her way with a strong, outstretched arm.
“I cannot in good conscience let you down here,” he said. “Not on this lonely stretch of road during a storm.”
“Hannah,” Marianna pleaded. “You agreed to come with me. I need you.”
“But I need—”
The coachman cracked his whip, the horses strained, and the carriage jerked into motion. To Marianna’s relief, her companion had lost her opportunity to abruptly abandon them a second time.
Tears filled Hannah’s eyes and rolled down her thin cheeks.
“See what you’ve done, John?” Marianna scowled at her husband. “You’ve upset her. My only friend in the world and you’ve upset her.” She added sullenly, “It won’t work you know. He shall find me anyway.”
Sir John set his jaw and stared straight ahead, though there was little to see through the front window save the coachman’s flapping greatcoat. Marianna glanced again at Hannah, noticing she kept her face averted to hide her tears.
Marianna wondered what had so upset the young woman, who had always seemed so stoic and self-contained in the past. But at the moment, Marianna had her own problems to think about. Turning toward the window, she stared at the lashing rain, the weedy verge between road and steep coastline, and the occasional glimpse of the grey Bristol Channel beyond. He will find me, she reassured herself again. He did before.
But Sir John had taken many new precautions this time, clearly more determined than ever. Well, she was more determined as well. Things had changed—she had their child to think of now. And she would love that child far more than her father had ever loved her. Her chest tightened at the thought. If only she had figured out some way to get word to Anthony. But it was too late.
Suddenly the carriage wheels slipped as though on ice, losing their traction on the muddy road. The vehicle lurched. The horses screamed. So did Marianna.
Hannah cried out, “God almighty, help us. Protect him!”
The carriage fell to one side. A great snap and whinny and the vehicle was flying, weightless. A second later, it fell. Over the edge, toward the channel. The side of the cliff rushed toward them. A huge crash scattered her mind and shook her bones. A wheel sailed past the window. The next moment they were airborne again, before the top of the carriage hit rock, the vehicle rolling, rolling until she lost all sense of up and down. The world shifted violently and ended in a blinding collision.
And she knew no more.
CHAPTER 2
Pain. Cold. Weight pressing. Struggling to breathe . . .
Peering through narrow slits, she saw slivers of shimmering color, like light through prism glass. Yellow-white sun. Blue water. Water? A flash of red. Then blue again. A glint of purple and gold. Confusion. A hand in hers, slipping away. Metal, biting into her fingers.
Why can I not awaken from this dream?
So cold. So heavy. Darkness descending . . .
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
A man’s voice. Must get out from under from this pressing weight. She sucked in desperate, shallow breaths.
“Lady Mayfield? Can you hear me?”
Her eyes fluttered open and glimpsed faces floating above. More confusion. Why was the side window above her?
“It’s all right. We’re here to help you. I’m a doctor. Dr. Parrish.” The man nodded to the younger face hovering beside his. “My son, Edgar. We’re going to get you and your husband out of there.”
Your husband . . . She looked down and found Sir John lying limp across her body. Alive or dead? His hat bobbed lazily in the water filling the lower half of the carriage. His legs were sprawled, one bent at an unnatural angle.
There were only two of them in what was left of the carriage. Where was she? Turning her head, pain shot through her skull. She couldn’t turn far, pinned as she was. Through the gaping hole where the roof had once been, she looked out into the choppy water of the channel.
The younger man above her looked in the same direction. He pointed. “Pa. Look. Is someone out there?”
The older man squinted. “Can’t tell. Too far out.”
But she could tell. A red cloak floated on the tide, drawing the form it shrouded farther from shore.
The older man looked down at her again. “Was there someone else with you?”
She nodded, pain searing her. She felt as though needles pricked her scalp.
The man reverently removed his hat. “Too far to go after. Even if we could swim.”
A roaring in her ears. It couldn’t be.
“A servant?” he asked.
A companion was higher than a servant, she thought. A gentlewoman. She opened her mouth to explain, but no sound came. Her brain and tongue seemed disconnected. She pressed a hand to her aching chest and nodded again.
“There’s nothing we can do for her. I’m so sorry. But let’s get you out of there.”
Darkness tunneled her vision once more, and she sank into it.
—
The next time she opened her eyes, the same face hovered above her, nearer now. The older face, looking not into her eyes, but at some lower part of her. Who was he? He’d said his name, but she’d forgotten it. She couldn’t see much of the room without moving her head, but the bedchamber was not familiar. Where was she? How long had she been there? Her brain felt sluggish, addled, only partially aware of the rest of her.
“She’s opened her eyes,” said a woman’s voice, one she did not recognize.
She tried to turn her head toward the woman, but pain flared before her eyes, momentarily blinding her.
The man’s voice tensed. “My lady? How do you feel?”
“She’s in pain, George,” the woman snapped. “Even I can see that.”
She parted her lips, tried to speak. “He . . . lay . . .”
He took her hand, eyes round in concern. “Sir John is badly injured, my lady. But he lives, so there is hope. You leave him to me, all right? Do not fret. You’ve sustained several injuries yourself, but you will recover.”
“The . . . the . . . ?”
He grimaced as though he’d understood her. “I am afraid the coachman is dead. The harnesses snapped when the carriage fell and the horses ran free. The young man was not as fortunate.”
She pressed her eyes closed. Poor man, she thought. Though she didn’t really remember him.
“It’s not your fault, my lady. You mustn’t upset yourself.” He shook his head. “We saw the horses running wild, harnesses flapping, and that’s how we knew to look for the carriage in the first place. The crest confirmed who you were, though of course we were expecting you.” He patted her hand. “Now. You just rest, and Mrs. Parrish and I shall take care of you and your husband.”
Husband . . . She closed her eyes and pushed the uncomfortable thought away.
—
She lay, floating in and out of foggy wakefulness. The kind doctor had given her laudanum for the pain. A broken arm, he’d said. And a head wound—a gash and concussion. Now and again, someone gently lifted her head and pressed sips of water or broth to her lips, but she had little sense of time passing.
The woman’s voice said, “Sir John is bad off indeed, and if he lasts the week I shall be very much surprised.”
A second woman hushed the first. “Shh. She’ll hear you.”
In spite of the distance between them, she would never have wished such harm to befall him. Poor Sir John, she thought.
Lying there with her eyes closed, she tried to recall his face. Her thoughts slowly wheeled back until scattered images flickered through her mind. . . .
Sir John picking up a fire iron and poking at a log in frustration.
Sir John, looking at her, jaw clenched. “What I want is a wife who will be faithful to me. Is that too much to ask?”
Another flicker. Another image. His usually stern face softened and stilled in her mind like a portrait, captured in oils and cobwebbed recollection. A handsome face, she thought, if her memory could be trusted. Grey-blue eyes and strong, masculine features framed by light brown hair . . .
She had admired him once, she realized. What had changed between them? Had they ever been happy?
She tried to recall their lives before—where they had come from. Bath, she thought. And before that Bristol. Vaguely, she remembered when Sir John announced they were moving to Bath. She remembered feeling torn. Should she obey his wishes? Should she go?
He hadn’t wanted to, but in the end he had taken them both. His wife and her companion. Just as he’d brought them both on this trip. Yes, she remembered Bath, the lovely house in Camden Place. And an ugly house in dreary Trim Street. Trim Street? What on earth would have taken her there . . . ? She grimaced, trying to think. But her mind remained a muddle.
She must have uttered some agitated sound, for a kind woman’s voice crooned, “There, there. It’s all right. You’re safe.” A gentle hand lifted her head. “Drink some of this now. . . .”
A cup rim touched her lips and she sipped.
“That’s it,” the woman said. “Very good, my dear.”
The warm broth soothed her aching throat. The warm words soothed her troubled soul.
—
She knew it was a dream, but couldn’t awaken. She dreamt she’d left a helpless baby in a basket on the shore of the Bristol Channel. She’d meant to return for the child directly, but instead she lay there as though paralyzed, unable to force her frozen body to move. The tide was coming in. Closer and closer, licking at the sides of the basket. A hand reached toward it—a woman’s hand. But the woman was in the water, the tide pulling her, dragging her away, her waterlogged gown and cloak weighing her down.
She grasped the woman’s hand, trying to save her, but the wet fingers slipped through hers. Remembering the child, she turned, but it was too late. The basket was already floating away across the channel. . . .
With a start, she sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. She blinked at her surroundings. The half-tester bed was not hers. The lace-trimmed dressing table was unfamiliar.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think. Where was she? What had happened? The carriage crash, that was it. They were not in Bath any longer. Nor in Bristol. Somewhere in the West Country, she believed, but had no idea where. Oh, what was wrong with her? Why could she not remember? It felt like a warm dark blanket lay over her mind’s eye, blocking her memory, hindering clear thought.
One thing she knew with panicky certainty. She was forgetting something. Something important.
The door opened and the kind woman entered with a basin of water and folded cloths. “Good morning, my lady,” she greeted warmly. She set the basin on a side table, then stepped to the washstand for soap.
“Good morning, Mrs. . . . I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
“That’s all right, my lady. I often forget names myself. I’m Mrs. Turrill.”
The kind woman was perhaps in her early sixties, evidenced by the many lines creasing her long, pleasant face. Her hair was still brown, though its center part was considerably wider than a younger woman’s would be.
Mrs. Turrill helped her wash her face and hands and clean her teeth. Then she opened a drawer of the wardrobe and extracted a fresh nightdress and wrapper.
“What a blessing all your gowns were not spoilt in the accident, my lady. Your trunk must have been thrown clear.”
Another flash of memory. Trunks and valises strapped in the rear seat. “Yes . . .” she murmured.
“It won’t be long. In a few days you’ll be up and about and wearing your pretty things.” The housekeeper lifted the bodice of a gown of blue satin. “Oh, I like this one. Looks brand new.”
Was it? It must be, for she could not remember seeing it before.
“And here is a lovely day dress.” The housekeeper shook out a serviceable muslin and squinted at its neckline. “It’s missing a button. I’m not terribly skilled with a needle, but I can manage that.”
The day d
ress, in a pale wash of rose pink, did look familiar. She recognized it with relief. She hadn’t completely lost her memory.
Lifting a hand to push a stray hair from her face, she stilled, captured by the sight of a ring on her finger. She stared at the hand aloft above her, as though it were a separate entity—someone else’s hand. On it shone a gold band, with amethyst and purple sapphires. She recognized the ring at once and sighed gratefully. Things were starting to come back to her.
But again that heavy shadow fell over her. That nagging fear. Things might be coming back, but she was still forgetting something. Something far more important than a dress or ring.
The cheerful doctor stopped in that morning and found her still staring at the ring.
“Almost lost that,” he said. “Found it clasped in your hand and slid it back on your finger myself.”
She hesitated. “Oh. I . . . Th—thank you.”
He studied her face. “How are you feeling?”
“Confused.”
“And no wonder, my lady. What a shock you’ve had. The concussion you suffered could very well muddle your mind for some days to come.”
Perhaps that explained her jumbled thoughts and elusive memories. His calm assurance eased her fear. She looked around the sunny room and asked, “Where am I?”
“Clifton House, between Countisbury and Lynton, in Devonshire.”
Devonshire? Had she known he’d meant to go so far? The name “Clifton” meant nothing to her. She asked, “Is this your house?”
“Good heavens, no. It’s your house. Been in your husband’s family for ages, though he’s never lived here before. My son has been caretaking the place since the former tenants left last year.”
“I . . . see,” she murmured, though she didn’t see, really.
“Don’t worry, my lady. It will all come back in time.” He rubbed his hands together and beamed at her. “Well. I imagine you want to see your husband.”
The smile of reply that lifted her mouth faltered, then fell. No, she did not want to see him. In fact, the thought filled her with misgiving. She hedged, “I . . . don’t know.”