Chapter Sixteen
William punched his pillow not once but twice, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
How could he not remember who he was or his family?
Or his child? What kind of father looked upon his daughter and felt…
nothing? He couldn’t even remember the woman he had proposed to.
The very woman he had chosen to marry. Nor could he remember his parents, his family, or his first wife. What if he never remembered anything?
His heart rate quickened, heat flushed his body and he threw off the bedcovers, trying to catch his breath. He sat up, closed his eyes and splayed his palms by his sides, clutching the bed beneath to gain his bearings, commanding himself to breathe. He refused to give in to panic.
Not yet anyway.
His breathing deepened and finally after another minute his pulse slowed, his heart beating at a far more regular rhythm than before.
He opened his eyes and stared around his ornate and sprawling chamber.
Had he picked such lavish furnishings? He supposed it didn’t matter.
In all accounts, he was a stranger in his home.
A guest in his life. If it hadn’t been so damned tragic, he would have laughed aloud at the irony of it all.
But he wouldn’t wallow. Something told him he wasn’t the sort.
So he lifted his chin, rose from bed, stretched until he could almost reach the large canopy top of his bed and completed his ablutions.
It was ungodly early based on the darkness of the room, moonlight gleaming in from the expanse of windows, and a single torch flickered along the wall in his chamber.
He appreciated the kindness of the servant who’d left it lit for him each night to make him comfortable in the very home he did not recognise.
Especially since he had no idea where he was.
Even after a handful of days, he couldn’t fathom this huge manor was his.
That he was a duke. Although he might not be for much longer.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair. How could one be a duke and care for an entire manor, estate, and the people within it if he couldn’t remember one whit of his past or how to navigate his life?
The entire situation was ridiculous. He dressed, grabbed his waistcoat rather than shrugging it on, left his cravat undone hanging about his neck and closed his chamber doors.
It was time to do something other than berate himself.
He travelled down to the study, which he found after only two attempts, which was an improvement from yesterday when it had taken him three.
He applauded himself for the small victory.
Once inside, he lit two more wall sconces, settled in at the large desk and acclimated himself with the books, ledgers and items he’d kept close at hand when he remembered his life.
Surely they meant something to him. He lifted the worn leather-bound estate ledger and opened it.
His gaze settled on the last page with entries.
His finger landed upon the bottom of the first column of numbers and his mouth gaped open.
He stilled and leaned forward in his chair.
Good lord. Did he truly have that much in income and expenses?
His throat dried and he sat back. Evidently, he was quite a wealthy man and a duke after all.
How else did he have such fictional numbers in his accounting ledger?
He shook his head and chuckled. Too bad such wealth couldn’t bring his memory back.
He also had quite lavish taste or at least his betrothed did.
The cost of the ball where he had lost his memory had been high.
The total amount startled him and it looked as if a few outstanding bills remained.
He clamped the ledger shut. Enough for expenses.
He opened the top right-hand drawer. It was stuffed with post, perhaps old letters from people he once knew.
He shifted through them. He gathered up the first and opened it.
Most were recent notes of condolence for the loss of his father or celebratory letters on his ascension to the Duke of Wimberley.
Some letters even held tribute to both. He set them aside and frowned.
There were no expected love letters between him and his betrothed, which seemed odd for one recently engaged, but perhaps he kept those letters elsewhere.
So much for gleaning information about his past from his correspondence to awaken his memory of his betrothed or his life.
Evidently, he wasn’t a romantic or one prone to record the events of his life with any regularity.
He frowned. Except for his expenses. Perhaps he had faced financial ruin before?
Although the Manor looked to be in pristine condition, as did his finances, perhaps that was not always the case.
He stared upon the portrait of his late wife.
Nothing stirred within him. Not one wink of recognition at the sight of the mother of his child.
Not that it mattered really, since she had passed.
But Lady Penelope, his cousin Lady Buchanan and his daughter did.
Today he would try to spend time with them.
Something had to trigger his memories. And if not, he needed to start anew.
He couldn’t continue as a stranger in his own life. It was lonely…and exhausting.
Hattie brushed back her hair and tucked a small decorative floral comb in the tidy chignon at the nape of her neck, a style she’d learned from her young maid, Emma.
It was easy and becoming as it showed the soft slope of her neck and collarbone in the stylish new gowns William had made for her.
She blinked back at herself in the large vanity mirror in her bedchamber.
Continuing as ‘Lady Penelope’ was shockingly simple, so much so that Hattie feared she might very well forget who she truly was.
She replied to invitations with ease with a standard, kind refusal, explaining His Grace’s recovery was her focus at this difficult time, but a thank you for the thought of being included.
She also sent thank-you letters to those who had sent gifts, flowers and tempting treats to His Grace and the household or small tokens of kindness to Millie, her favourite of which was a teddy bear as soft as rabbit’s fur with a small pink ribbon around its neck.
She clung to it fiercely as the days clicked by and her father still did not regain his memory. It was hard to determine how much it affected Millie, but Hattie knew it was most likely far more than they could see.
Worry plagued them all as the days of William’s amnesia turned into over a week.
What had begun as a temporary ruse until he remembered was turning into something far worse: their lives.
The familiar guilt over her deception slithered along Hattie’s consciousness.
She was not built for such lies, but what could she do?
She didn’t dare tell him the truth now. Did she?
No, she told herself. They had to continue as a united front.
She squared her shoulders, gathered up her courage and exited her chamber as the early dawn was breaking over the canopy of trees that shaded the long drive leading up to the Manor.
Wall scones flickered in the shadows, since they had yet to be extinguished.
This was still her favourite time of day and she continued to rise early even though there was no need to.
Millie usually slept until eight and her nurse cared for her until they ventured on their morning walks around the lake after breaking their fast. The late spring weather continued to co-operate in the mornings, allowing them daily adventures with the ducks, rabbits and whatever other creatures ventured out at that time.
And although Millie still had not spoken, the other morning as Hattie sang a little song her mother had taught her, she could have sworn she heard a soft low hum as if Millie was wishing to join her.
Hattie longed to hear the voice of her young charge as much as she wished her father would remember who he was.
She sent up her daily morning prayer for just that as she descended the steps to the main level of the Manor and followed the sounds of Mrs Chisholm and the other servants bustling about with their early morning duties.
‘Good morning, my lady,’ Mr Simmons said, nodding to Hattie as she turned down a hallway towards the library to pick out a new book.
‘And to you, too, Mr Simmons,’ Hattie replied with a smile.
His Grace’s butler had softened even more towards her since the accident and he had been kind and encouraging in her expanded role as pretend betrothed.
He had been the one to nestle a silver salver just for her correspondence in the parlour next to William’s.
While the gesture was small, it had great meaning, and Hattie appreciated his acceptance of her.
‘His Grace is up this morning, if you would like to take tea with him in his study,’ he offered.
Hattie’s steps faltered and she stopped. ‘Is he unwell?’ Her pulse increased. He had not risen so early since before his accident and she was not certain if it suggested improvement or ailment.
Mr Simmons smiled. ‘He seems quite eager to join you and Lady Millie on your walk this morning.’
Hattie’s heart soared in her chest. ‘That is a glorious sign indeed. Some tea would be wonderful and I will join him in his study. Thank you.’ She walked with purpose down the remaining hallway until she reached the study.