Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“He is not here?” Octavia rasped. “What do you mean, he is not here?”
When an hour had passed, and her husband had not returned to find them, she had assumed that he might have taken to his rooms to rest. She was no stranger to a headache herself, and she had not recently struck her head rather hard; of course, he would need some rest, for he had probably overexerted himself again.
However, when she had put Simon to bed and wandered downstairs to dine alone, Mr. Lincoln had news for her. Unwelcome, rather worrying news.
“I thought you knew,” the butler spluttered, eyes wide in horror. “I would not have asked you when he might be returning if I didn’t think you knew he had ridden off.”
She scraped back her chair, her heart lurching into her throat. “Well, when did he leave?”
“Not long after you had finished playing bowls,” the butler replied, his voice shaking.
Octavia gasped, and her hand gripped the back of the dining room chair. “We… had not finished playing. He left because of a headache. He was… He was supposed to go and find Doctor Stanforth, to ask for some medicine.”
He has been gone for hours! For a moment, she found that she could not draw a full breath, her chest too tight. She massaged the spot with the heel of her palm, but it offered no respite.
“Ah, well, perhaps that is it, Your Grace,” the butler said, with a great sigh of relief. “You see, Doctor Stanforth went to London this morning. Maybe His Grace went after him, if he is in possession of His Grace’s medicine.”
In truth, Octavia was not even sure that her husband was taking medicine. She had assumed that he must be, but what sort of tonic existed in the world for lost memories? The doctor himself had explained that the only cure was time, and even that was not a guarantee.
“Does my husband have a residence in London?” Octavia managed to say, imagining a thousand dreadful scenarios.
What if he has pursued the doctor, but has lost his way on the roads? He does not have the memories of how to get to London from here. Oh… what if he stopped to ask for directions, and has been set upon by brigands? What if he has fallen again and is in great pain?
She sucked in a sharp, agonizing breath as a worse possibility crept into her skull: What if he has remembered everything… and ridden back to Scotland? What if the most I can expect now is a letter to say that our time together is over?
Her hand gripped the back of the chair until her knuckles whitened. What would she tell Simon? How would she explain that to her beloved boy? How could she possibly put his heart back together if his father crushed it?
“Not anymore,” the butler replied. “The townhouse he once had was sold a few months after he became the Duke of Highcastle. Everyone assumed he would sell Huntfield first, but he never did.”
“Does he… know anyone in London? Would there be somewhere he might stay?” she asked, her tone almost pleading.
Although, she could not tell if she was more desperate to know if he had somewhere safe to go to, or if she was more determined to find out where he might be, so she could go and confront him herself.
You will not leave us without a word. You will not abandon us without having the courtesy to say goodbye.
“He has a friend,” Mr. Lincoln replied. “The Duke of Knotgill. He might go there, although I can’t say for sure if the duke is in the city or at his estate.”
Octavia furrowed her brow, staring at the butler as if he had been keeping a terrible secret from her. “He is friends with the Duke of Knotgill? How did I not know about this?”
She knew of the man vaguely and did not care for the little she knew.
Anthony Drew had a reputation for being something of a scoundrel, who reveled in chasing ladies, hunting game, gambling wildly, and draining public houses and gentlemen’s clubs of their liquor.
Not at all the sort of person she would have thought might have any association with her husband.
Indeed, she reviled that sort of beast, who masqueraded as a gentleman.
“Fetch my carriage,” she said crisply, for if she was to have any rest tonight, she needed to speak to Malcolm.
She needed to see for herself if he had changed, or if this really was a simple matter of him trying to get some medicinal relief from the doctor.
After all, Malcolm was a warrior, hardened and forged in the fires of battle: he might not tell her if he was in unbearable agony, for a soldier like him would never wish to appear weakened.
Mr. Lincoln hesitated, his hands coming up in a gesture of defense.
“Your Grace, it is getting late.” He pointed a finger toward the clock.
“It would be ten o’clock at least by the time you arrived, and if he is not at the Duke of Knotgill’s residence, then…
I wouldn’t want you roaming around London alone, Your Grace.
Wait until the morning. See if he doesn’t return by himself, most likely with the doctor in tow. ”
Were it not for Simon, sleeping peacefully upstairs, Octavia might have insisted on leaving at once. But she did not want her son waking up to discover that neither of his parents were at home where they ought to be.
“Very well,” she muttered, her nerves in tatters. “I will wait until morning, but if he is not back by then, I shall be going to London.”
The butler exhaled slowly. “And I shall offer to accompany you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” Octavia gave a small nod of appreciation to Mr. Lincoln. “Might I have some tea? Something calming?”
The butler nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He departed with a bow, leaving her quite alone in the drawing room, entirely at a loss with what to do with herself. It would be one of the longest nights of her life; she was certain of that.
“Do you remember the boy’s name?” Doctor Stanforth asked, his eyes a little bleary, his demeanor more disheveled than Malcolm had grown accustomed to.
Although that was probably to be expected, considering Malcolm and Anthony had located the good doctor at a public house a short distance from the Royal College of Surgeons before bringing him back to Anthony’s townhouse.
The man had been with fellow physicians, no doubt regaling them with the mad tale of a duke with amnesia.
Malcolm nodded. “Quinn Hunter. His father worked for me until I had to dismiss him for theft and inebriation. His brothers are Trevor and Robert.”
“You remember inheriting Highcastle?”
“I do.”
“Being at war?”
“All of it,” Malcolm replied coldly.
“You remember your wedding?” A curious look sharpened the doctor’s gaze.
How could I forget it?
Octavia had looked extraordinarily beautiful, even then, but like a statue: so cold and detached.
She had not been afraid of him, not then, but had walked toward him in that church with staunch determination.
He had held her hand for just a second before letting it go, the ceremony passing with all the joy and excitement of a funeral.
It was only when they returned to Highcastle and their delayed wedding night approached that she had shown her nerves for the first time.
But he had calmed her, soothed her, and they had done their duty.
Yet, it had been more than that, more than just a perfunctory act that needed to be gotten out of the way.
By the end, she had almost welcomed him into her bedchamber, and when he had kissed her, held her, she had not felt like a stranger.
If he thought about it now, he could still remember the tender, searching graze of her mouth on his, and how quickly she had learned, how much she had seemed to enjoy it.
How close they became on those honeymoon nights, entangled as if they had no intention of parting and living separate lives.
That is why I left after a week…
He had forgotten that, too.
He had not wanted her to get too attached, nor himself.
“As I said, I remember all of it,” he said, his tone short.
“I have to ask,” the doctor said apologetically. “I have to be sure that you are recovered… although, considering the nature of this, nothing is truly certain.”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that anything could yet happen,” the doctor replied, cautiously. “It is why I came to London; to seek the advice of my peers and minds that are far superior to my own.”
Anthony, who had been observing the entire conversation with intense curiosity, snorted from his position by the mantelpiece. “Really? It seemed to me like you were trying to seek advice in the bottom of a port glass.”
“Yes, well, there was much intelligent work done before then,” the doctor said defensively. “My associates wished to celebrate what is sure to be a momentous study into the complexities of the human brain. After all, Your Grace, you wouldn’t deny me the opportunity to write about this, would you?”
Malcolm’s lip curled in displeasure. Was he to be a curio? An unnatural thing to be studied by physicians and medical students? Had his temporary amnesia not already stripped him of enough?
“I would, of course, leave your identity out of my work,” the doctor added hastily.
Malcolm considered for a moment. “If I see a single mention of my name, I’ll make sure ye never write again.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, aye, do as ye will.”
The doctor visibly shuddered. “I wouldn’t dream of disrespecting your wishes, Your Grace.” He paused. “But, tell me… Do you feel like yourself now?”
It was an odd question, and one that Malcolm was not immediately sure how to answer. He had never given much thought to how it felt to be him.
He was not cheerful anymore, and there was weight where there had been a lightness of spirit before.
There was the deep and indelible ache of loss that his amnesia had soothed…
at least until he had been reminded that his mother and brother were dead.
But hearing the vague details was vastly different to having lived through the actuality of it; those particular scars were still raw, even ten years later.
“Aye, I think so,” he replied.
“Well, allow me to return to Huntfield with you tomorrow,” the doctor said.
“I can observe you for a couple of weeks, and if I’m satisfied that all is well and the return of your memories is permanent, then that will be that.
I might ask if I can visit after a year or so, to continue my duty of care, but I won’t trouble you much more than that. ”
Malcolm looked hard at the doctor. “If ye want to observe me, ye’ll have to be ready to travel back to yer usual post.”
“Pardon?”
“After I’ve spoken with my wife, I mean to go back to Scotland,” Malcolm said, determined. “It’s probably due time that ye went back too, so I suppose this is apt for ye.”
The doctor blinked in surprise. “But… I was under the impression that you would be staying at Huntfield? You seemed to be… um… comfortable there.”
“I will be returning to Highcastle,” Malcolm growled, shooting a look at Anthony in case he tried to dissuade him too. “Observe me there, Doctor, or don’t bother.”
He walked to the drawing room door, his grief and his losses tugging at the back of his thoughts, weighing him down.
He did not bother to glance back at the doctor and his friend as he added, “I’ll retire for the night.
I plan to leave before dawn. If ye’re nae at Huntfield by the day after tomorrow, Doctor, I’ll assume that yer study of me is over. ”
With that, he left, trudging up the stairs to the guest room that Anthony had prepared for him. Although he knew he would get no sleep. How could he, with thoughts of his family—the one he had lost and the one he could not allow himself to have—racing through his head?
Perhaps, he would not even attempt to try and sleep. Perhaps, it would be better if he went back to Huntfield without delay.
Better to get it out of the way… for both of our sakes.