Page 2 of Lady Maybe

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...

“Halloo! Can you hear me?”

A man’s voice. Must get out from under 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 once more. 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 awake,” said a woman’s voice, one she did not recognize.

She tried to turn her head toward the woman, but pain flared, 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. Yet 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 in a bad way 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. Yet her mind remained a muddle.

She must have uttered some agitated sound, for a woman’s kind 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, yet 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. 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 dark, warm blanket lay over her mind’s eye, blocking her memory, hindering clear thought.

One thing she knew with panicked 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. I often forget names myself. I’m Mrs. Turrill, the housekeeper.”

The 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 the wardrobe and extracted a fresh nightdress. “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.” She shook out a serviceable muslin and squinted at its fastenings. “It’s missing a button. I’m not terribly skilled with a needle, but I can manage that.”

The day dress, 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 then 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 Lynmouth, in Devonshire.”

Devonshire? Had she known they’d meant to go so far? The name “Clifton” meant nothing to her. She asked, “Is this your house?”

“Good heavens, no. It’s yours. Been in your husband’s family for ages, though he’s never lived here before. My son has been taking care of the place since the former tenants left last year.”

“I ... see,” she murmured, although 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.”

“I understand. But he doesn’t look too bad. Bruises and cuts on his face, head, and hands, but most of his injuries are internal.”

Was she only reluctant to see his injuries, or was it something more? Sir John had never hurt her, had he? Then why was she afraid?

The doctor took her good arm and helped her rise. The room swam and tilted, and she leaned against him for support.

“Dizzy?”

“Yes,” she panted.

Mrs. Turrill came in with her sewing basket and drew up short. “Tut-tut, George. She is not ready to be up and about yet.”

“So I see. I was only going to take her across the corridor to see Sir John. But I think we shall wait a day or two.”

“I should say so. Besides, I’ll want to brush her hair and dress her proper before she visits him.”

“I’m afraid he shan’t notice at the moment.”

“Perhaps not,” the housekeeper said. “Even so, a woman likes to feel pretty when she sees the man she loves.”

Together they helped her back into bed.

She knew they referred to Sir John, but another face shimmered before her mind’s eye. Settling under the bedclothes, she pushed away thoughts of Sir John and tried to focus on the faint image of sparkling blue eyes and an affectionate smile. But other images kept pushing his face aside—a red cloak floating on the tide, a hand slipping from hers.... Had she only dreamt it, or was she remembering something that had actually happened?