Chapter 3
“Well?” Thalia muttered impatiently.
She had been prodded and poked and assessed and questioned for what felt like an eternity, and, though she liked to think of herself as a reasonable person, her patience had worn gossamer thin. Her head hurt too much for her to pretend otherwise.
“It would appear, Your Grace,” the physician, a Dr. Farnaby, replied cautiously, “that you have lost your memory of the last four years.”
A flicker of irritation sparked in her tongue. “I could have told myself that.”
“It is an uncommon thing,” the physician continued in a kindly tone. “I have seen it only once before, and there are many in my profession who would refute its very existence; it is so exceedingly rare.”
Thalia softened a little, taking some measure of hope from the physician’s experience. “What happened to the other individual? Did they recover their memories?”
“Some,” the physician replied. “But the circumstances were rather different to yours. They suffered an apoplectic seizure and lost decades. You do not appear to have suffered any sort of seizure, but you have suffered a severe injury to your head. There is a dent there that suggests it is not the first time and, as you have mentioned, you were involved in an accident four years ago. In my medical opinion, that is no coincidence.”
She gulped. “So, lightning struck twice in the same place and, when it did, it took my memories?”
“Something like that,” he replied with a small nod.
“Will I regain my memories?”
During her assessment, she had been fervently trying to force her mind to remember the years she had lost, straining as if it were a muscle that could be made to do as she wished, but there was nothing there.
It was not like trying to recall a word, feeling it dance just out of reach; it was a great void where no memory existed.
“I cannot make any promises to you, Your Grace,” the physician answered with a troubled sigh.
“Since it is such a rarity, and I have only seen it once, I do not know how this will resolve. All I can do is insist that you are very careful from now on, particularly when it comes to overexertion, strenuous activity, and anything that might further harm your head. Rest is of paramount importance.”
Clearing her dry throat, Thalia peered up at him. “And if I should make it worse? What might happen?”
She could not just lie there indefinitely, in a house she did not recognize, with a husband she did not know, in a place she did not belong. As such, she wanted to know how bad it could get if she did not follow his suggestions to the letter.
“If your situation worsens, and you lose more of your memories, or your temperament changes and veers toward aggression or violence, then we may be forced to send you to an asylum,” he answered gravely.
At that, the duke stood sharply from the windowsill where he had been perched since the physician arrived. “Watch how you speak to the duchess, Dr. Farnaby!” he barked, while the physician jumped in fright.
“I only meant that—” the man tried to say, but the duke cut him off again.
“You will keep such opinions to yourself! No Holdridge will be sent to any asylum.”
Thalia glared at her supposed husband who, she had discovered, bore the name of Henry Brooks.
She was under no illusion that he actually cared about her being sent to an asylum; he was just concerned about her bringing shame to his dynasty.
It was right there in the twin lines etched between his eyebrows, his distaste for all of this unexpected mess.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the physician mumbled.
He was just answering my question honestly, Thalia considered saying but ultimately held her tongue; she had already caused enough trouble for one day.
“This is a tonic,” the man proceeded, placing a small bottle on the bedside table.
“You should take a spoonful after each meal, and then one before you go to sleep. It ought to help you relax and its restorative properties may be of use to your memory. Again, I can make no promises, but you are young and in otherwise excellent health, so I am hopeful. Although… um…”
Henry folded his arms across his chest. “Spit it out, man.”
“Your wife should not seek to… um… bear any children anytime soon,” the physician replied, his face flushing a bright shade of pink. “The strain of pregnancy would be… too much for her condition.”
Thalia’s father barked a laugh that made her jump, as she, too, felt her face flood with warmth. The situation was embarrassing enough without such topics being discussed in front of her father.
“Is that all?” Henry replied bluntly, surprising Thalia a little.
If we have been married for four years, why do I not have any children?
Am I barren? She suddenly wished she might have a moment alone with her apparent husband, so she could ask as many indelicate questions as she liked without an audience.
Then again, perhaps it was better if she did not have any answers, allowing her mind to remember in its own time… or not at all.
The physician nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” He paused. “I will return in a week, to see if there is any progress. If that is agreeable to you, Your Grace?”
“Very well,” Henry replied stiffly.
With a nervous sort of bow, the physician vacated the room, though the same could not be said of Thalia’s father who lingered like a bad smell.
“You heard the doctor,” Henry said flatly. “You are to rest and recuperate. I think it would be preferable if you did not leave your chambers.”
I am sure you do. There did not seem to be any affection between Thalia and her husband, his concerns mostly a matter of pride and maintaining appearances, rather than anything else. At least, that was how it appeared to her, and he had said and done nothing to make her think otherwise.
He did not even look at her with the fondness of a companion or friend, suggesting there was not much of a relationship between them at all. Then again, she was no stranger to spouses not exactly doting on one another.
Mama tried to love Father, but one can only endure being fed scraps of attention for so long before they starve.
She shook off the thought and looked toward her father. “I should like to return home now. I daresay I have a better chance of recovering if I am in familiar surroundings. And I know that seeing Dorothy would vastly improve my spirits.”
Gibbs snorted. “This is your home.”
“But, to me, it is not,” Thalia tried to argue. “I do not know this place. I do not have my sister here. If I stay here, it will not help my condition at all.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Henry moving closer, until he was at her bedside. So astonishingly handsome that she could have imagined that he had wandered out of a dream if this was not such a complete nightmare.
“Please, I must go home,” she urged, her voice cracking.
“I am not a duchess, I am not a wife, I am not well! I need my own bedchamber, my own maids, my… own things, or I shall lose my sanity entirely. You are all telling me things as if they are facts, but they are impossible to my mind, and I cannot make sense of it!”
She attempted to throw back the coverlets and clamber out of the, admittedly very comfortable, bed.
A stilted gasp slipped from her mouth as she felt Henry’s hand resting gently on her shoulder, pushing her back into the tower of pillows that the older maid had stacked behind her.
In a low, commanding voice, he told her, “You will stay here, where I can keep a close eye on you. It is imperative.”
“But—”
“You should take your tonic and rest now,” he interrupted, his hand still holding her where she was.
He glanced back toward the two maids who had remained, standing with their heads bowed, as if awaiting instruction which they now received.
“Give Her Grace a spoonful of tonic and watch over her. She is not, under any circumstances, to leave this house.”
Gibbs nodded effusively. “Quite right. Goodness, what on earth would I do with an invalid?”
He laughed as if this were not the worst moment of his daughter’s life; that she could remember, at least. And as she stared at him, she hated him more than she had ever done, wondering what was wrong with him to make him such an unfeeling, wretched creature.
“Please…” Thalia whispered, but no one listened or heeded her, as Henry departed the room and Gibbs followed after him like an eager hound.
And when the two maids swept forward, preparing a spoonful of the tonic, she did not fight it as they fed her the medicine and tucked her back into that unfamiliar bed.
But when I have regained some strength, I shall not be so amenable… She made that promise to herself and clung to it; a tiny foothold of hope that she could not and would not relinquish, lest she lose herself entirely.
“What accident was she referring to?” Henry demanded to know, as he stormed into his study with Gibbs hurrying along behind.
Gibbs came to an abrupt halt, as if reconsidering his pursuit. “Oh, that? It was nothing. A trifling thing. Hardly an accident at all.”
“Do not lie to me, Gibbs!” Henry snapped.
They had long passed the point where the older man was worthy of respectful formalities. Years, in truth.
“She spoke of a terrible accident, and the physician seemed to confirm such a thing,” Henry added in a more even tone, for, though he did not like Gibbs much at all and was in a fractious temper due to this entire debacle with his wife, it was beneath him to show his aggravation.
The older man hesitated, fidgeting with the cuffs of his housecoat.
Yet another cause for Henry’s annoyance: it was one thing if he, the duke of the household, had run to his wife’s chambers in a state of undress due to the urgency of her awakening; it was quite another for Gibbs, who had not been needed imminently, to show up in such a slovenly state.
“Very well, there was an accident,” the man conceded stiffly. “Her carriage overturned.”