Chapter 13
Alumpy bed, moist air. Achiness in every muscle, and the sun warming a doorway just beyond.
Not a doorway, an opening to a cave. Yesterday’s traveling suit is flapping in the breeze on a rock. I sit up and blink. This can’t be. What I’ve seen…it can’t be real.
But the panic doesn’t subside. I’m shaking. Panting. And I cannot stop seeing that face.
I scramble for a glimpse of my still-sleeping husband, to assure myself he’s still here. We still belong to one another and we’re together. His arms are bent back behind his head, his face peaceful.
Kneeling quietly on the other side of the cavern, praying I don’t wake the man, I soak a rag in a puddle and scrub away the dream.
I shake sand out of my fawn-colored skirt and dress in the shadows of an adjoining section of the cave.
The ensemble is quite plain, which suits me nicely. I crave anonymity on my errand.
My head aches with tiredness, but I pin a hat onto my hastily twisted-up hair and exit into the orange sunrise and glance into a still pool of water.
My tired mind senses a presence behind me, but there’s no one in the reflection.
No brown-suited stranger with a gentle gaze, waiting for me to join him and exchange vows.
He’s not here. Likely not even real. I’d remember marrying someone.
But I can see him. So clearly, like an image burned into the backs of my eyes. The outline of his head, the softness of his liquid-brown gaze.
AJ is still snoring with delightful gusto, so I tug the coat spread over him up to his chest, tucking it securely before slipping out.
On the rim of the lowest hill are a grocer and a post office, the latter of which I enter. It’s nearing eight, and the town is beginning to stir. I paste a smile over the jittery nerves that might just consume me.
What foolishness. In a few moments, my head will clear and I’ll see this for what it truly is. I haven’t married anyone but AJ. My husband, if one existed, would have come searching for me. Given me a wedding band, a token—something. What a lark, these dreams of mine.
But then…there was the necklace. I finger it beneath my gown.
My teeth chatter, though I’m not cold. A young clerk smiles up at me as I push through the door. “Good day, m’lady. What can I do for ’ee?”
“Good day.” I smile. “I need to send a wire, please.”
“That’ll be sixpence. Ten words or less, miss.”
“Oh.” I blinked. “Of course.” I’ve never paid for a wire before. Which suddenly reminds me—I cannot pay for a wire. I run my hands down my skirt. “I…haven’t money just now. I had some, of course. I’m not due for the workhouse. Only…”
She stiffens, her welcome shuttering. “Sorry, but I can’t be sending the wire without the charge, ’tis how it be.”
“Please. It’s important.” The nerves I thought would pass have only gotten harder to ignore. “Please.” My voice is barely a whisper. Then my gaze lands upon a blessed brown box screwed to the back wall. “You have a telephone—here?”
Her lips make a straight line. “We ain’t so far behind the times. We’ve come a long way, we ’ave. Get a fair few holiday folk, we do. Like yerself.” She shifts her weight. “Need the coin and the exchange to place a call, though.”
“Exchange. Yes.” I slip Mr. Gould’s card from the reticule dangling from my arm. Rather worthless, I thought. “I have a calling card. With money on it.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “Number?”
I turn it over. “Stanford 941, please.”
She writes something on the card as she’s placing the call. A few words to the other operator, then she hands me the receiver. “Be quick or I’ll ’ave to charge ’ee extra.”
I nod and hunch over the worn counter. Mr. Gould’s voice crackles over the connection. I nearly cry with relief. “Mr. Gould, it’s Merryn Forsy—Winthrop. Merryn Winthrop.”
“What’s happened? Ansel. Has he—”
“AJ’s well. Listen, there isn’t time for all that.” I start with the easy question. “Tell me, if you please, what you know about Isabella de Montfort.”
A pause. “My wife coerced me into seeing her at the theater once. Is this truly worth a call on the telephone?”
“It is if she’s my mother.”
“Well done, you. Are you remembering?”
“Nothing new yet. Mr. Gould, how’s Cecil?”
“See…who?”
“Cecil. Lady St. Laurent’s grandson.”
“Oh. The boy.” He’s forgotten Cecil. Everyone does. “Well enough, I suppose. Morose little chap.”
Because he’s staying with Sabine, likely about to be shipped off to boarding school.
“And the case. How’s the case progressing?”
A sigh. “It isn’t good, Mrs. Winthrop. Miss St. Laurent is petitioning the judge to hear the case without you present. She claimed erratic behavior.”
“How utterly ridiculous!”
“You vanished. Left the boy behind. You married a man you’ve known little more than a fortnight.”
I sigh. “What’s next?”
“You must reclaim your memories. I’m afraid you don’t stand a chance without them.”
“And my wit? My cleverness—”
“Is no match for Sabine St. Laurent. The judge trying probate is a former suitor with whom she’s renewed her acquaintance.”
“But that’s—”
“Not worth discussing. There’s precious little we can do to stop her. Now do what you can to find your past. Before the final hearing.”
“One other question. Mr. Gould, what happens if a woman marries, then realizes she’s married before but…she’s forgotten it?”
A groan comes across the wire. “Oh, Merryn. What have you gotten yourself into?”
I blink at the use of my Christian name. This must be quite serious. “Just tell me, Mr. Gould. Which marriage would be valid? The first or the second?”
A pause. “Well, the first.”
“Even if she cannot recall it? And if she’s desperately in love with the second man?”
“Do you know, I’ve practiced law for thirty-six years and I’ve never encountered anyone requiring such advice. But yes, the first marriage would stand, regardless of a person’s memory. Now bear in mind, this person would also be facing charges of bigamy.”
I swallow hard. “What sort of punishment might that receive?”
He takes a heavy breath and exhales. “Find those memories and get yourself home, my dear. We have even more to sort out than I thought.”
“I’ll do what I can. Good day, Mr. Gould.”
“Mrs. Winthrop, listen carefully. You cannot trust anyone right now. You haven’t full use of your faculties yet and anyone may claim to know you, be related to you.
This probate case is becoming quite public, on account of Lady St. Laurent choosing her servant to care for her heir and estate.
And to receive a decent allowance, to boot. ”
If I can find footing for my life. If I turn up sane.
“It’s in all the papers. You’re the darling of the working class, and everyone will wish for a piece of the St. Laurent fortune. Ask questions of everyone. Be direct. And watch for people who evade answering.”
I cling to the cord, feeling myself slip.
My soul needs to put down roots, to latch on somewhere.
And Gould is trying to sever any connection before it’s even taken hold.
“Very well.” I chew my lip. “I’ll be in touch.
” I drop the receiver and look into the clerk’s shocked face.
I spin to leave, but then it occurs to me that I might have asked Mr. Gould to wire money.
But I haven’t any idea where he can send it, or when it will be repaid.
Mind racing, I roam the town, poking about for the whittler. For anyone else who knew my mother. Before long, I realize my stomach is growling and I’ve been gone for hours. I create all sorts of apologies and explanations for AJ on my way back, but then I reach the cave.
It’s empty.