Chapter 5
“And how are we feeling this morning, Your Grace?” a young maid, with anxious green eyes and the most beautiful red hair peeking out from beneath a lace cap, asked.
Thalia did not reply immediately, as she sat by the fireplace, warming her cold toes.
She had not returned to bed after Henry had departed in such a strange rush last night; rather, she had taken to pacing back and forth as if the steady rhythm might somehow knock some memories back into place.
And when she had grown too tired and frustrated to pace anymore, she had ransacked the room for information about herself.
But it was as if her ‘own’ bedchamber had been rinsed clean of who she was; there was not even a single letter in her writing desk drawers to ease the mystery.
“You must be feeling a little better, seeing as you’re up and about,” the maid continued regardless, setting down a tray on the low table before Thalia. “I brought your favorite for breakfast.”
With a hopeful smile, the maid lifted a silver cloche to reveal… porridge. Swirls of honey tinged it golden, while a small saucer of vivid red jam sat beside the bowl, tempting in its rich color.
Thalia looked up at the maid, frowning. “I eat this often?”
“When it’s colder.” The maid nodded. “You’ve always said it helps your fortitude, for when you take your long walks. In the summer, you like all the fresh things, Your Grace: fruits and boiled eggs and the fish that the gamekeeper brings right in from the stream.”
Remembering something that Henry had mentioned last night, Thalia squinted at the maid, searching the young woman’s face for some hint of familiarity. Perhaps, there was a twinge of recognition, or perhaps it was just the fact that the maid had such a lovely, friendly face.
“The duke told me that I employed all of the maids myself,” Thalia said, as she ignored the porridge and reached for the teapot to pour herself a cup.
She did not yet have an appetite for anything more.
“That’s right, Your Grace,” the maid replied. “Chose us all personally, and we’re ever-so grateful. I doubt any of us would ever want to work for anyone else, ever again.”
Holding the cup in her hands to warm her palms, Thalia blew off the steam. “And what is your name?”
“Rowena Hartley, Your Grace,” the maid replied, her voice strange, as if she could not quite believe that Thalia had no memory of her.
Rowena? Rowena? Rowena Hartley? Thalia repeated the name over and over in her mind in an attempt to spark something, but the impenetrable darkness of the last four years remained impervious, giving her nothing.
“Rowena, once I have finished my tea, I think I should like to see the rest of the manor,” she said. “Would you be so kind as to be my guide?”
She hoped that seeing more of the house might stir up some of the foggy past, though there was one place in particular that she was eager to visit: the North tower. The place where she had mysteriously fallen. The place that, according to Henry, she had had no reason to be near.
The maid brightened, and then her face fell. “Oh, well, it would be my honor, Your Grace, but Mrs. Fisher ought to do that, really.” She paused. “Not that I’m defying your request; if you want it to be me, I’ll gladly be your guide.”
“Mrs. Fisher?”
“Of course! I’m so very sorry.” The poor maid smacked her forehead. “I keep forgetting that you…”
“Also keep forgetting?” Thalia said with a wry smile.
Rowena allowed herself a nervous chuckle. “Yes, exactly. Mrs. Fisher is the housekeeper. She was here yesterday when you woke up.”
“The older lady?”
Rowena nodded. “Aye, Your Grace, that’s her.”
“Well, you can both show me around this manor,” Thalia insisted. “While I finish this cup of tea and maybe have a bite or two of that porridge, perhaps you could be so kind as to fetch her up here?”
After all, she was already dressed for the day, considering she had not taken off the clothes she had meant to escape in. And someone had clearly been tending to her well during the days she had been unconscious, for her hair had been painstakingly brushed and braided, so that it would not tangle.
That bright excitement, that bittersweet hope, returned to Rowena’s eyes. “At once, Your Grace!” She hurried to the door, only to pause and hurry back. “Can I get you anything else? I didn’t stop to think that you might prefer something different for your breakfast. Something you remember liking.”
The gesture thawed the frosty discomfort in Thalia’s chest just a little, touched by the maid’s thoughtfulness.
“No, thank you; that will not be necessary,” she replied. “I will try this porridge. Who knows, it might provoke a memory or two.”
Rowena dipped her head in a small bow. “Very good, Your Grace. I shan’t be long.”
The maid rushed out as if she had been asked to deliver a most urgent message, leaving Thalia to inspect the unusual breakfast. It was not something she would have chosen before, but the sweet scent of the honey and the warming aroma of the milky oats did prompt her stomach to rumble.
Her mind might not have remembered anything, but her stomach assuredly did.
Gingerly, she took up the spoon, scooped up a large dollop of jam, and began to mix it into the glistening porridge without thinking.
Like a habit she had performed a hundred times before.
And when she took her first taste of the porridge, that sweet, creamy flavor, combined with the somewhat tart jam and fragrant honey, tasted so much like… home.
“I truly decorated all of these rooms?” Thalia asked, casting a keen eye across the music room.
Fuzzy sunlight filtered in through tall French doors like a heavenly vapor, illuminating a beautiful pianoforte and an exquisitely crafted harp.
On oak shelves were countless leather binders that undoubtedly held sheet music, the room simply decorated with cream-colored walls and pale wooden wainscoting, presumably to avoid detracting from the instruments and whoever might be playing them.
“You did, Your Grace,” Mrs. Fisher said encouragingly.
Wandering to the pianoforte, Thalia touched the piece of music arranged on the stand. She did not know it, but then she had never been a great musician, preferring to listen to others and their talents.
“Am I any good?” she asked, glancing at the housekeeper and the maid.
The two women looked away from each other, and certainly did not dare to look at Thalia herself. In that moment, the ghost of a grin attempted to tug at Thalia’s mouth, the whisper of a chuckle bubbling up from her chest.
“So, that has not changed then?” she said, permitting herself to smile, so that the two other women would know that they could relax.
Mrs. Fisher cleared her throat. “You occasionally play something, but you prefer to have guests play. In the summertime, and when it is Christmastide, there are constant parties and gatherings here, and there is always someone ready to play and sing and whatnot.” She paused.
“But it is your sister’s talents that you favor above all. ”
“Dorothy plays so well,” Thalia murmured, gently stroking the keys. “Does she visit me often?”
How old must she be now? Seventeen? A faint flicker of relief moved through her, that she had not missed her sister’s debut.
“As often as she can,” Mrs. Fisher replied with a somewhat tight smile.
Thalia frowned. “Mrs. Fisher, you must be entirely honest with me. I cannot hope to start remembering anything if people withhold things from me. Please, be as blunt and direct as you can. Speak to me as if I am not a duchess, but someone you are gossiping about a duchess to.”
Rowena hid a smile behind her hand for a moment, while Mrs. Fisher seemed to briefly cease functioning, as if she had just been told to pick up a pistol and duel Thalia.
Blinking rapidly, the housekeeper finally gave a small bow of her head. “I will do my best, Your Grace. Although, you should know, we never gossip about you.”
“We have no reason to,” Rowena chimed in, nodding effusively.
Thalia drew away from the pianoforte and went to stand in front of the French doors, gazing out at a beautiful terrace. Beyond it, lawned gardens with a fountain in the center, and pretty limestone walls that suggested more gardens.
“So, does my sister visit often?” she repeated.
“Once every few months,” Mrs. Fisher replied, “when your father permits it. She stays for several weeks and is always very upset when she has to leave again. I think she’d prefer to stay here forever, and we would all be delighted by it, but that is none of my business.”
Thalia turned. “Why would my father not permit it?”
“I can’t say,” the housekeeper replied, adding in haste, “Not because I’m withholding anything, but because I don’t know; I’ve never understood it. He barely seems to tolerate the girl. Although, once again, that is none of my business.”
Sadness welled like a single great tear in the center of her chest, unable to bear the idea that she had agreed to leave Dorothy behind. Even if she had consented to a marriage of convenience with Henry, surely she would have requested her sister’s constant companionship?
“My father has never much cared for his daughters,” she admitted quietly, more to herself than to the housekeeper and the maid. “His son, on the other hand…”
“Mr. Carter?” Rowena blurted out.
When Thalia turned, she caught sight of a bashful pink spreading across the maid’s pretty face.
“So, my brother has visited here?” Thalia asked, surprised.
She would not have thought that Kenneth would have bothered to come and see her, for he was always too preoccupied with his own endeavors. Mostly, trying hard to be the strict example of an heir that their father had raised him to be.