Chapter 6
“Why did you not tell me I had a wife, Mr. Wilkins?” Alaric arched an eyebrow at his butler.
They were standing in his antechamber, waiting for his valet, Mr. Greg, to return with the shaving equipment. Alaric had waited for the man to leave before asking Mr. Wilkins the question; he had no wish to bring anyone else into this.
Alaric watched the muscles in Mr. Wilkins’s throat tense and relax, saw his shoulders stiffen. The man was nervous, which was understandable. Since the accident, Alaric had come to depend on him to help fill in the gaps in his memory. He trusted him, and he felt disappointed.
“I had not realized that your marriage was among the memories you had lost, Your Grace,” Mr. Wilkins said.
“You were not surprised that I never asked after her?” Alaric frowned.
Mr. Wilkins shook his head. “It seemed in keeping with your arrangement, Your Grace. I assumed you had other, more pressing worries.”
“While I understand your reasoning, I do not appreciate the situation it has led to.” Alaric sighed.
“Though I suppose it cannot be helped now. It is impossible to expect you to know what I remember and what I do not when I myself have no idea. I take it that is why Mrs. Danvers is in the London house?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I did not want to arouse suspicion by requesting she join us, and I did not feel that it would be wise to bring another member of staff into the house until you were better recovered.”
“A prudent decision. Though if the Duchess is to remain here for some time, we should have Mrs. Danvers join us. Having a housekeeper would be useful, and you are right. Hiring new staff seems like a risk not worth taking.” Alaric ran a hand through his hair.
“Though do not close the London house. Leave some staff there.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Having some of the Duchess’s clothes sent here will give you a perfect excuse to summon Mrs. Danvers.” Alaric glanced toward the door and leaned toward Mr. Wilkins. “What was Catherine talking about when she said that she had to change for dinner?”
“It is customary for lords and ladies such as yourselves to dress in evening wear for dinner,” Mr. Wilkins explained.
Alaric arched an eyebrow at him. “And yet this is another thing you did not see fit to remind me of?”
His butler swallowed. “I had assumed that you had decided to eschew that particular part of propriety, Your Grace, given your health. And it did not seem like my place to question your decision.”
I suppose that is the difference between a servant and a friend.
Alaric bit back a sigh. “Well, whilst it makes no sense to me, it is clear my wife expects such things. And at some point, I will no doubt have to rejoin society, and they will expect the same thing. So I will change for dinner once Mr. Greg has returned.”
The door opened, and Mr. Greg appeared with a basin, a brush, and a razor. Alaric sat on the stool, and Mr. Greg placed a cloth around his neck and began to lather and dab the suds against his stubble.
“His Grace will require his evening attire for dinner, Mr. Greg. I trust they are ready.” Mr. Wilkins inclined his head toward Alaric’s dressing room.
“Yes, Mr. Wilkins.” Alaric thought he heard a hint of reproach in his valet’s voice. “And there will be plenty of time to have you read before dinner, Your Grace.”
“Excellent,” Alaric murmured, trying to move as little as possible with the sharp blade pressed against his neck.
“If you have no more need of me, Your Grace, I will take my leave of you.” Mr. Wilkins gestured toward the door.
Alaric made a gesture of dismissal with his hand and watched his butler disappear. The smell of the shaving foam was overpowering and made his head ache, but that was nothing new. Since the accident, smells had been particularly irksome for him.
It was a relief when Mr. Greg washed it all off and set about dressing him for dinner. Alaric chose a sky blue cravat that reminded him of Catherine’s eyes. It seemed like the sort of thing a woman like her might appreciate.
“Thank you, Mr. Greg. That will be all.” He dismissed the man, waited until he was sure he had left, and turned to look at himself in the looking glass.
It was the first time in months that he looked at his reflection and felt a sense of recognition. He ran a hand over his freshly shaved face and smiled. The movement felt odd, but he thought it looked normal enough.
He tried again, practicing and stopping every so often to look at his pocket watch. After all, he did not want to be late to his own dinner.
“I have no wish to add fuel to my wife’s anger,” he murmured to his reflection.
Once he was satisfied that he remembered the way his most normal-seeming smile felt, he decided to make his way to the dining room.
As he walked down a corridor, he heard whispers and smelled lavender. He stopped, trying to identify where the sounds were coming from. There was a door slightly open ahead of him. The scent of lavender grew stronger as he moved closer, and he heard Catherine’s voice.
“But what if he wakes?” Catherine was asking, though she spoke so quietly that Alaric could not hear the rest of what she said.
He risked a glance into the room. It was the antechamber leading to the Duchess’s bedroom. Catherine was sitting on a small bed which had been made up, and he saw a tuft of dark hair that must have been Oliver’s.
He squinted and realized that Catherine was holding the boy’s hand. Something stirred in Alaric’s heart, and it was with a start that he realized he had taken a step toward the two of them. He put his foot back down, not wanting to intrude.
He does look very much like me. Alaric heard a noise like a stomach gurgling and saw Catherine clap a hand to her abdomen. He did not hear what her maid said to her, but suspected the woman was encouraging her mistress to eat.
He watched as Catherine hesitated by the door.
He is not even her son, and yet it is clear she cares for him.
Alaric stepped away from the door, not wanting to be caught watching her. He slipped into a nearby room and waited until he heard her footsteps fade out of earshot.
“He cannot really be my son, can he?” Alaric murmured. “It does not make any sense.”
He was certain he was not the sort of man who had affairs. Surely he would know if he was a rake? That had to be the kind of thing one remembered.
Rake. The word echoed around his head. He could smell stale whiskey and cigars. He felt an anger rise in him that took him by surprise. It faded as quickly as it came, leaving him more confused than ever.
“He looks like me. He does, but… but I do not think he is mine. I have to believe I would remember that.” He dug his nails into his palms. “I am not that sort of man. I am not.”
Are you sure? The voice whispered inside his head, sending a cold sheen of sweat down his spine. “I suppose that might explain why she is so furious with me. Though if that were the case, she would surely have called me such. Catherine does not mince her words. Or at least, she has not so far.”
That was a reassuring thought. He was sure that someone would tell him a wife should respect a husband, but that was not what he needed. He needed someone who would not be afraid to tell him the truth. It meant he could trust her.
“And yet she seemed so surprised by that.” Alaric frowned. “Why? She is my wife. Of course, I should trust her. And why are we living apart?”
He opened the door and made his way toward the dining room. “I have to assume it is at her request. That is the only rational reason. No man would leave a woman like that.”
He wondered what had led her to want separate lives.
“You changed.” Catherine’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts and back into the present.
Catherine was standing at the table, her traveler’s coat removed, wearing a simple navy dress. Yet, even then, she was beautiful.
“Pardon?” Alaric wished his head did not feel like it was full of molasses.
Catherine gestured to him. “You are wearing evening wear.”
“Yes.”
“You told me it did not matter if I did not change.”
“It does not.” Alaric’s brow furrowed.
“Then why did you?”
“Because I have something to change into. One is supposed to change for dinner, or so I am told. But I can hardly expect you to do so when you have nothing to change into.” He moved toward the seat at the head of the table and beckoned Catherine to sit at the place on his right-hand side.
She did, and a moment later, servants placed food upon the table. The smell made his mouth water, and he breathed in deeply. He pulled a plate of roast beef toward him and began to carve it into thick slices.
The clink of the knife against the plate only added to the thick silence that had spread from him to Catherine. He tried to think of something to say as he carefully placed the slices onto her plate. That much Mr. Wilkins had been sure to remind him of.
A gentleman must always serve a lady.
“That is enough. Thank you.”
He began piling meat onto his plate. “You said the boy was left with you a few days ago.”
“Yes, it was a little after lunch when Mrs. Caversham dropped him off.” She took a delicate bite of her own meal. “I was having some friends round for tea.”
“I thought perhaps it had been longer.” Alaric gestured for the servants to refill his wine glass.
“It has not.” Catherine looked down at her plate.
The sound of forks clinking against China broke the thick silence between them. Alaric wondered if dinners had always been so awkward or if this was something new.
He decided to make another attempt at conversation. “Is he well-behaved?”
“From what I have seen of him, he seems well-mannered. Though I suppose only time will tell.” Catherine sipped from her glass, and Alaric noticed a bead of wine on her lip.
His breath caught as he watched her dab it away, and he tore his gaze from her and back to his own plate. “He is quiet.”
“He stopped speaking several years ago. Apparently, it is rather common for the poor souls who find themselves abandoned in orphanages.” She met his gaze, and he could see a righteous anger in her eyes and a challenge.
He frowned. It felt as though she was waiting for him to say something, no, for him to deny something.
Understanding hit Alaric with the force of a bullet. “You expect me to think less of the boy simply because he does not speak?”
Catherine nodded. “Plenty of men would. Especially if the boy in question was their son.”
“Then they do not deserve to be fathers.” The strength of his anger surprised Alaric, and the smell of stale whiskey swam to the front of his mind. Stop. “I will not hold the boy’s lack of speech against him.”
“Good.” Catherine’s gaze softened, but did not warm.
“But I still do not think he is my son,” Alaric added, and to his surprise, she let out an exasperated sigh.
“Why are you so convinced that he is not?” She gestured to him as she sipped on her wine.
“I just know it. I do not have affairs.” He shrugged. “That is not who I am.”
“How can you be sure of that? When I walked in here today, you had no idea who I was. Can you really be certain that you are not his father? How much of your life do you even remember?” Catherine leaned toward him.
“You would not be the first man to indulge in such things, nor would you be the last.”
Alaric opened his mouth, then closed it.
He understood her point was valid; what she said made sense.
Still, whenever he tried to picture himself having an affair, every fiber of his being rebelled against the concept.
Anger overwhelmed him at the mere thought; he felt disgust so intense that he yearned to cleanse himself.
I suppose I might not have always felt that way. It seemed unlikely, but until he recovered more of his memories, he would not be able to say anything for certain.
He looked at Catherine, who was watching him expectantly, her blue eyes so light they were nearly gray. “I suppose we will just have to discover the truth.”
He put his knife on the left-hand side of his plate, or rather, he tried to. Catherine reached toward him. Her fingers brushed his knuckles and then clasped around his hand, guiding it to the right-hand side of his plate.
“That is the correct place for a knife. When you are done, you place your knife and fork together on your plate. Like this.” She demonstrated, placing her knife and fork together in the middle of her plate.
To his surprise, she even gave him a small smile. He felt his own smile quirk in return. “You seem well practiced; did I always forget my table etiquette, or is this the result of the accident?”
“I would not know.” The smile fell from her face. “We never shared a meal.”
“Never?” Alaric arched an eyebrow at her, feeling the motion tug against his scar. “I find that rather difficult to believe.”
“It is true.” Catherine sipped from her goblet.
“We did not have a wedding breakfast?”
No wonder she did not want to live with me.
If that was the kind of man he had been before the accident, did he really want his memories back?
“I suppose I did not count it.” Catherine’s cheeks colored slightly. “I was not really paying much attention to your etiquette.”
Relief washed over Alaric, and he leaned back in his chair. His heart calmed, and he nodded. “I imagine there were other, more important things on your mind.”
He intended it to sound teasing, maybe even joking, but his words clearly missed the mark. Every trace of warmth vanished from Catherine’s face. Her blue eyes looked more like sapphires—beautiful but cold. Her lips thinned, and she set her knife and fork down. “Yes.”
Alaric watched as she put the knife and fork together and stood up. “If you do not mind, I would like to take my leave of you. It has been a long day, and I need to rest.”
“Of course.” Alaric kept the confusion from his voice.
“I will bring some food up for Oliver. I do not think he will be awake, but you never know with children.” Catherine began piling food onto the plate.
Alaric hurriedly carved more of the beef. The silence was so thick he could have cut it with a knife. It felt like a vice around his chest, and he wanted to break it.
But he could not figure out how.
“Good night, Catherine.” Alaric bowed to her as he stood.
She paused at the door and then turned to him. “Good night, Alaric.”
The sound of his name in her voice sent a rush through his body. Every hair on his body stood on end. The force of it made him take his seat again. By the time it had passed, Catherine was already gone.
Alaric let out a sigh. “I suppose that could have gone worse.”
Silence was the only response he got.