Come Love a Stranger

Chapter Two

SHE became conscious of herself as one slowly stirring to life from a total void, knowing of no previous existence beyond the present indeterminate moment. Reason and memory played no part in the timeless vacuum. She was an embryo floating in darkness, living and breathing but somehow set apart from the world by a distant hazy film that existed beyond the sphere of her being. There, an aura of light glowed, tempting her to draw near. With a natural buoyancy her mind rose slowly upward to the surface of awareness, but as she neared the indistinct border where the first weak rays of reality penetrated, twin talons of pain began to pierce her temples. She recoiled from the harrowing torment and hovered just below the elusive level, not willing to break her bonds to an uncaring, painless oblivion and accept in its stead the sharp pangs of full consciousness.

A voice drifted to her as if through a long tunnel, reaching her with words that were blurred and muted, entreating her to make an effort to respond. “Can you hear me?” The murmured inquiry increased in volume as it was repeated. “Madam, can you hear me?”

Her distress mounted as she was drawn upward against her will into the realm of acute discomfort, and she moaned softly in feeble protest. A rack of torture might have produced a comparable agony, for her whole body ached as if it had been cruelly pummeled and abused. A great weariness weighed down her limbs, and when she tried to move, she had to fight against an almost unsurmountable rigidity. She opened her eyes, but quickly cried out and shaded them with a hand as she turned away from the windows where the rays of the dawning sun streamed in.

“Someone close the drapes.” The request came from the man who sat at her bedside. “The light hurts her eyes.”

The painful shards of brightness were shut off, and the room was comfortably shaded. Sinking back into the pillows, she dragged a shaking hand across her brow, but winced as her fingers touched a tender spot on her forehead. The bruise was perplexing, for she could not remember what had caused it. She blinked her eyes until the indistinct shadow that hovered near gradually resolved into the form of an older man with a grizzled beard. The winged whiskers were heavily frosted with white and his face was wrinkled with age. The passage of years, however, had not dulled the lively sparkle in his gray eyes. They twinkled at her through wire-rimmed spectacles.

“I was beginning to think you disliked our company, young lady. If you have any misgivings about me, I’m Dr. Page. I was summoned here to attend you.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but a hoarse croak was all that issued forth. She ran a dry tongue over parched lips, and the doctor, recognizing her need, reached behind him to receive a glass of water from the black woman. He slipped an arm beneath his patient’s shoulders and, lifting her up, pressed the rim of the glass to her lips. When her thirst had been quenched, he lowered her to the pillow again and placed a cool, wet cloth across her brow. The pulsing waves of pain ebbed slightly, and she managed to hold her eyes open without squinting.

“How do you feel?” he asked kindly.

A frown served as a reply before her gaze moved searchingly about the room. She lay in a large tester bed with a wealth of pillows at her back. Above her head a pleated sunburst of pale pink silk radiated from an oval tapestry of stitched roses, filling the dimensions of the canopy frame. The walls of the room were covered in a fresh floral pattern that combined the colors of pink, pale yellow, and fresh green with light wisps of brown. The overdrapes were of pale pink silk, trimmed with tassels and braided cords of pink and green. Several chairs had been placed about the huge room and were covered in complementary shades of the various colors.

It was a fresh and beautifully furnished room, but a growing sense of disorientation began to undermine her brief comfort as she found herself in a totally foreign world. Nothing she saw was familiar to her. No piece of furniture. No tiniest bit of glassware. No frame or painting. Not even the warm flannel nightgown that she wore or the people who stood watching her from different parts of the room. Two elderly women had moved to a place in front of the richly draped windows, while a large black woman in starched white apron and neatly tied head kerchief waited just behind the doctor’s chair. Beyond them, another man stood facing the fireplace. Unless she chanced a movement that might strain her painfully stiff muscles, he remained recognizable only by the back of his dark head, the white silk shirt, and muted-gray-striped trousers that he wore. A mild curiosity grew in her about this one who, in the face of the others’ curiosity, kept his back to her, as if he wished to hold himself detached from her and her audience.

A young black girl entered the room carrying a tray laden with a cup of broth and a china tea service. Receiving the soup, Dr. Page offered it to his patient. “Drink this if you can,” he cajoled. “It will give you strength.”

The pillows were fluffed around her until they braced her in a half sitting position, and as she sipped the hot brew, her gaze lifted above the edge of the cup to peruse the room again. “Why am I here?”

“There was an accident with the carriage,” Dr. Page replied, “and you were brought here after you were knocked from your horse.”

“My horse?”

Again the doctor supplied the information, but taking care as he watched her face: “I’m sorry, madam. He had to be destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” She searched her mind for some recollection of the event, but the probing inquiry only abetted the throbbing in her head until it became impossible to think. She pressed trembling fingers to her aching temples. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“You had a nasty fall, young lady. Just relax and rest. It will come to you.”

Her gaze flew about the room again in a desperate pursuit of something familiar. “Where am I?”

“This is Belle Chêne….” Dr. Page studied her closely as he continued. “Ashton Wingate’s plantation home.”

“Ashton Wingate?” She stared at him, her eyes wide and searching. She sensed the alert attention given her by those in the room, as if they were awaiting her reaction.

The man in the gray trousers slid the fireplace poker into the stand, gaining her full attention. Inexplicably, a sharp pang of anxiety ran through her even before she saw his face. Disconcerted, she pressed back against the pillows and eyed him warily as he crossed the room. Though she probed her memory, she could not fathom the cause of this sudden dismay. The crisp, handsome profile should have stirred feelings of warmth and admiration in her woman’s breast. Yet there was something about the moment that made her heart lurch and grow cold within her chest. When he halted at the foot of the bed, the strength of his gaze held hers immobile, and staring into those smoky eyes, she put aside the broth as one dazed.

A strange smile played upon his lips. “I don’t quite understand the miracle that has brought you back to me, my love, but I am extremely grateful.”

She stared at him in a panic, wondering which one of them was mad. She rejected the idea of placing the blame on strong drink, for he seemed sober enough and his appearance was not that of a slovenly sot. Indeed, he carried himself with a proud, erect bearing that hinted of a man well in control of his faculties. So why was he speaking to her as if he knew her?

If the tiniest doubt had nibbled at the edges of Ashton’s mind, the uncertainty dissipated abruptly when he looked into the dark green eyes. He knew those eyes, and they belonged to his wife. “I suffered quite a shock when I saw you last night. I thought you were dead, and now, after three long years, you have suddenly appeared, and I find to my joy that I’m not a widower after all.”

It was she who was mad! It had to be! Why would the others tolerate his ravings if he were voicing only insanities? A sudden quickening of trepidation seized her, and she withdrew into her own mind to seek some secure haven wherein she could find succor from her distress. Disquieted by the fear that some insanity had seized her, she began to shake uncontrollably. The pressure at her temples increased until the pain became excruciating, and she writhed on the bed, holding her head and keeping her eyes tightly shut to bar the alien world from her sight.

“Lierin!” The name echoed hollowly through the haze, and the tone was somewhere between plea and command. Still, it struck no chord of recall and only confused her more. She could find no anchor for her thoughts, no grappling hook that would snare her from the bleak, murky blackness of the unknown and bring her to a firm footing with memory intact. There was only this moment and the few brief ones since she had awakened. What she had seen and heard only set her at odds with herself. The room whirled about her in a dizzying gyre, and she braced her arms widespread against the bed to steady her careening world, but her effort was useless as she was hurtled through a dark and bottomless eddy.

“Quickly!” Dr. Page gestured to Willabelle. “Fetch the smelling salts from my case.” He thrust up a hand to halt Ashton as he tried to step near. “She’s suffered a shock, Ashton. Give her time.”

The younger man drew back and frowned in concern as he helplessly witnessed her ordeal. The doctor slipped a hand behind her head while his other brought a vial of powders beneath her nose. The sudden shock of searing fumes drove away the clinging cobwebs. Her eyes shot open, and she saw the room again with bright, clear, achingly intense vision. Each detail was etched in bold relief, and she saw her tormentor gripping the bedpost with white-knuckled strength, as if he were the one troubled and vexed.

Weak and exhausted, she fell back upon the bed, unmindful of the fact that she had swept off the satin quilt and lace-edged sheet. Her skin was moist with perspiration, and she welcomed the stabling touch of coolness that seeped through her cotton gown, but beneath the man’s closely attentive gaze, she realized her gown provided no modesty beyond the thickness of the cloth. It clung to her clammy skin, boldly revealing the womanly curves of her body. Her cheeks flamed. Not only would this knave harass her, but it seemed that he would molest her with his eyes as well. Seeking the protection of the quilt, she rolled her head on the pillow and asked in a rasping whisper, “Could I have some more water, please?”

“Indeed, child,” Dr. Page replied and reached for a glass.

Politely rejecting his help, she took the goblet into her shaky grasp and sipped from it slowly as her eyes flicked back to the figure at the end of the bed. He was quite a tall man with wide shoulders and a lean waist. A finely tailored silk shirt showed the expanse of a hard, tapering chest, while the slim trousers displayed the narrowness of his hips and the long, muscular length of his thighs. He was neither thin nor massive, but appeared to be in superb physical form. Obviously he had much to be conceited about.

She gave the glass back to the doctor, and feeling a need to set matters straight in her own mind, she inquired rather timidly, “Am I supposed to know anyone here?”

Dr. Page’s jaw sagged in astonishment, and when he looked up at Ashton, he found his surprise shared by the one who had claimed her as his wife. Ashton was totally confused. He had been so sure that this was Lierin, the one whom he had loved and wed. Indeed, he would have staked his life on it. “Are you not Lierin?”

Her brows came together in a slight frown. Disconcerted and yet reluctant to make an appeal for his sympathies, she responded with a confused shrug. “I…I…really don’t know who I am.”

Tormented by uncertainty, she awaited his reaction, afraid he would judge her mad by her confession. She saw the first wave of shock register on his face as he stared at her. His companions seemed no less startled.

Aunt Jennifer approached the bed and took the girl’s slender hand to pat it comfortingly. “There, there, dear. I’m sure it will come to you in a moment.”

“Jenny, no one forgets her name,” Amanda chided. “The girl just needs some rest.”

“Perhaps it’s something more than that, Amanda,” Dr. Page commented thoughtfully. “There’ve actually been several cases of memory loss recorded. Amnesia, I believe. From what I’ve read of it, it can either deal with a partial memory loss, where the patients forget a short phase of their lives or some event. Other times it’s more extended, and those affected forget their names, where they live, the entire history of their lives, only retaining their abilities to read and write and so on. A few have experienced a total loss, and these have no recollection of having even existed before the moment they awake.” The doctor spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I must confess I’m at a loss. I’ve never known one who suffered from it.”

“If you’re at a loss, Franklin, think of this poor child,” Amanda declared, somewhat beside herself. She had thought the matter of identity would be quickly solved when the young woman woke and could only worry how this would affect Ashton.

“Now, Amanda, you can hardly expect me to know everything,” the elderly man replied.

“Don’t make excuses, Franklin,” Amanda admonished, patting his shoulder in the manner of one reproving an irresponsible student. “Just find out what the girl’s problem is and cure it.”

“I fear it will not be as simple as that, Amanda,” he acknowledged. “There are several things that cause it. Shock. Illness. In this case I would venture to say it was brought about by the accident, but to my knowledge there are no determinate cures.”

“But surely it will pass,” Ashton pressed.

Dr. Page shrugged. “I’m sorry, Ashton. I really can’t say what will happen. Perhaps after a few days when she’s had a chance to rest, her memory will come back to her. Then again, it might take a while…or it may never return. Only time will tell. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The patient stared at the bearded doctor. It all seemed like some terrible nightmare from which she could not escape. “Do you mean I could really be Lierin and not be aware of it?”

“Ashton insists that you are Lierin Wingate,” Dr. Page informed her gently. “None of the rest of us can say because we never met her.”

She cast an uncertain glance toward the younger man as she directed her question to the elder. “Is he supposed to be Ashton?”

“He is Ashton,” Amanda stated. “Of that I’m sure.”

The young woman turned to Ashton, and her consternation was evident as she asked, “But are you sure about who I am?”

The hazel eyes were soft as he made his reply. “Can a man forget his own wife?”

“Wife!” The word came out in a startled rush. She experienced a rising panic as she realized precisely the predicament that position placed her in. If what he said was true, she was married to a total stranger. She raised a shaking hand to cover her face and, accepting the darkness behind her lowered lashes, banished him from sight. “But I don’t even know you!”

“Madam, may I introduce myself?” His warm reply won her attention. A long moment passed as his gaze probed the dark, translucent depths; then abruptly he grinned and gave her a brief bow. “Ashton Wingate, at your service, my lady, and this is”-he swept a hand to the two women-“my grandmother, Amanda Wingate, her sister, Jennifer Tate. And this is the housekeeper”-he indicated the black woman-“Willabelle.” He assumed a more serious mien as he continued: “I believe Aunt Jenny and Willabelle will vouch for my identity as my grandmother as already done. They can also tell you that three years ago they were informed of my marriage to Lierin Somerton.”

Her bewilderment deepened. What he related seemed inconsistent, and she gave voice to her doubt: “But if we’ve been married for three years and your relatives live here in the same house with you…then why can’t they identify me?”

“’Tis simple really. They never had the opportunity to meet you.”

She raised a delicate brow, then reconsidered as the action intensified her discomfort. As she waited for him to continue, she wondered what kind of game he played with her. After all, he was the only one who said he could identify her.

Ashton recognized her skepticism and tried to soothe whatever fears she had. He did not fully understand her condition, but he was confident she was the same woman he had cherished enough to wed. “We were traveling up here when the steamboat was attacked by pirates. During the fight you were swept overboard, and I was shot. My men didn’t realize you were gone until I regained consciousness. They searched the river and along the banks for more than a week, but you were not to be found. We presumed you had drowned.”

“For three years you say you were under that assumption?” she queried.

“It was only last night that I realized otherwise.”

She had no wish to be blindly obstinate, but there were other views to consider. “Perhaps your wife did die, sir, and I am someone else who bears a likeness to her. Three years is a long time to remember exactly how a person looks.”

“Ashton, dear, show her the portrait of Lierin,” Aunt Jennifer suggested. “Perhaps it will help convince her.”

He complied, taking the painting from the table and holding it for the young woman’s perusal. He was not greatly heartened by her look of perplexity.

“Is that what I look like?” she asked, raising a bemused expression to his.

“Dear child!” Amanda’s amazement was complete. “Do you mean you have no idea what you look like?” She took a small hand mirror from the dressing table and gave it to the girl. “Here you are, my dear,” she said, smiling with pleasure. “As you will no doubt see, you’re somewhat bruised from the accident, but quite lovely nevertheless.”

The younger woman stared into the silvered glass, seeing there the countenance of a stranger. Though the bruises that marked the brow and cheek were familiar to her, at least by feel, the visage was not recognizable. Critically she perused the pale, oval face with its high delicate cheekbones and fine features. The light auburn hair, highlighted with gold, tumbled over her shoulders in wildly tossed disarray. The darkly translucent eyes were wide with curious wonder as they turned to consider the portrait. The painting offered substantial evidence that she was among people who had known her before the accident, for she saw a definite likeness in the thickly lashed green eyes, the slender nose, and the gently curving mouth. The resemblance was there, and although not perfected, it presented her with bold, irrefutable evidence of the man’s claim.

“This is going too quickly,” she complained in a frail whisper. A deep fatigue seized her, and she leaned back into the feathery softness of the pillows, heaving a trembling sigh.

“Rest yourself, my dear,” Dr. Page bade. “You are safe here and will be well cared for.”

A cool, moist cloth was laid again upon her brow, half covering her hot and aching eyes, then the doctor pushed himself to his feet.

“And now, Amanda, I believe you offered me some breakfast.” The three women followed as he made his way to the door. There he paused to look back at Ashton and, seeing the worry in the younger man’s face, had no heart to bid him leave. “Don’t be too long, Ashton.”

The door closed behind them, and in the ensuing silence the two who remained stared at each other. There was more than a shade of uncertainty in the woman’s wary gaze. As he drew near, Ashton looked into the face that had haunted his dreams for so long and was struck by a strong desire to take her in his arms and crush her close against him. With remarkable restraint he lowered his weight to the edge of the bed and only took her hand.

“My darling Lierin, I will await your recovery with a most eager heart. I know you are the one I have loved, and God willing, you will soon know it too.”

Slowly, as if fearful of disturbing him, she withdrew her hand from his and pulled the bedcovers up close beneath her chin. “You call me Lierin, but the name stirs no memory. I do not recall beyond a few moments ago when I heard a voice calling to me. I must think on this….” Her finely arched brows came together. “But I have nothing to think about. I’m tired…my head hurts. The doctor said I should rest…and so I shall.” She could not interpret his fleeting frown and lightly touched the back of his hand with her fingertips. “I don’t know you, Ashton.” An unsteady smile wavered on her lips. “Perhaps this is my home”-her voice rose slightly to make the sentence a question as she glanced about-“…and what you say may be the truth. In my present state I cannot protest overmuch. If it would satisfy you, I will accept the name Lierin…until such a moment when I might realize it is not my own.” Deliberately she lowered her eyelids until the detail faded to a muted, indistinct background against which only his face could be seen. “I shall rest now, Ashton.”

His hungering gaze fed upon her beauty and eased the yearnings of the past years when he had thought he would never look upon her again. Bending low, he brushed the lightest of kisses across her lips, then took himself across the room. He did not see the emerald eyes slip open and follow his departing back. When the chamber door was safely closed behind him, he braced an elbow high upon the passage wall and, pressing his brow against his forearm, struggled to subdue the trip-hammer beating of his heart. After a long moment he could breathe evenly again, and with slow and thoughtful tread he went to join the others in the dining room below.

His grandmother glanced up as he entered the room, but waited until he had settled at the head of the table before broaching the subject that plagued her: “I’ve seen the portrait for myself and agree that you have good reason to believe the girl is Lierin, but do you have any misgivings whatsoever about her? Is there the slightest doubt in your mind that she is not Lierin?”

“I cannot imagine how she can be another,” he sighed. “When I look at her, I see Lierin.”

“Dear, what do you know about Lierin’s sister?” Aunt Jennifer asked.

Ashton paused as Willis presented a silver platter filled with ham and selected a slice. “Lenore is probably living on a plantation in the Caribbean by now. She was making plans for her wedding when I met Lierin, but I really can’t say what happened to her after they went back to England. I never heard of them again.”

Amanda took a sip of coffee from her porcelain cup. “You must recognize that your haste to marry Lierin caused us all some distress, Ashton. I’m sure that it was a terrible shock for Robert Somerton to receive news of his daughter’s marriage and death in the very same moment.”

“Proper amends were intended, Grand-mere,” Ashton replied, “but as you know disaster struck before they could be carried through.”

“That leads me to a puzzling matter, Ashton: Lierin’s death. Why has it taken you so long to learn that she is alive? Why didn’t she try to find you? Where has she been all this time?”

“Marelda has asked me those same questions.”

“Well, you must admit they should be cleared up,” his grandmother replied. “Is this amnesia a recurring illness? Is that why she made no attempt to find you?” She turned to Dr. Page for an answer. “What do you say, Franklin?”

“It seems doubtful.” The aging man dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee, then cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by what he was about to say. “All of you know that the madhouse burned, but are you aware that the authorities have yet to find some of the inmates?”

Ashton lifted his gaze to the older man. “Latham mentioned that last night. What has that to do with Lierin?”

The doctor leaned his arms on the edge of the table and pressed his hands together almost in a prayerful pose. He knew how deeply Ashton had mourned the loss of his young wife and hoped he could express himself without causing resentment. “When you consider the facts surrounding the accident, such as where it happened, the proximity to the madhouse, and Lierin’s state of undress, have you given thought to the possibility that she might have been fleeing from the asylum?”

Ashton’s manner turned crisp. “Are you suggesting that my wife is mad?”

Franklin felt helpless as he met the stony gaze of his host. “Who knows what happened three years ago, Ashton? Lierin might have suffered severely from shock.” Dr. Page saw the tensing muscles in Ashton’s jaw and knew he trod on treacherous ground. He rushed on, hoping to allay the storm. “Ashton, listen to me. Sometimes people are condemned to a madhouse for the simplest cause or even when they shouldn’t be. It’s very much like being buried alive. They can rot in that hellish place without relatives knowing they’re even there.”

The click of heels sounded in the hall, and Ashton waved a hand, cautioning the doctor to silence. “It’s Marelda. I don’t want her to hear of this.”

“You needn’t worry, Ashton,” Dr. Page assured him. “I brought that girl into the world, and I know her well enough to be cautious of what weapons I lay in her hands.”

“Then we understand each other,” Ashton responded.

The dark-haired woman swept into the room with a rustle of silk and paused in the doorway to allow the others to admire the results of her careful toilette. When all eyes came to rest upon her, she went around the table and placed a light kiss on the cheeks of the older women, then greeted her host with a smile as she slid into a chair close on his right.

“How are you this morning, Ashton?” She rushed on, giving him no time to answer: “I assume, since Dr. Page is here, that you’ve been with your guest upstairs.” She bestowed her consideration on the doctor. “How is your patient anyway, Dr. Page? Has she come to her senses yet?”

Franklin was slow to reply. “She is still suffering some trauma.”

“Not anything too serious, I’d wager,” Marelda remarked with as much sarcasm as she dared.

“Only time will tell.”

Marelda was not appeased by the physician’s taciturn reply and glanced about the table at her companions, playing her longest stares on the women.

Aunt Jennifer grew uncomfortable with the silence and attempted to explain. “What Franklin means is that Lierin is having some trouble remembering right now, and it might be a while before she regains her memory.”

Marelda’s eyes grew cold and hard. “Lierin?” She managed a hint of a smile, but it held no more warmth than the frozen jet orbs. “I suppose she remembers just enough to identify herself as Ashton’s wife, but has conveniently forgotten everything else.”

Ashton lifted his cup to the waiting servant and pointedly ignored Marelda until Willis had filled it with the steaming black brew; then he reluctantly lent his attention to the woman. “Lierin couldn’t even remember that much,” he stated. “I had to tell her what her name was.”

The green monster of jealousy stabbed Marelda to the quick, and it was difficult for her to feign any kind of caring reply. “You mean she can’t even remember her name? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Amanda’s thin lips curved into a smile. “Don’t feel bad, Marelda. Franklin never had a patient with those particular symptoms before today.”

“They’re so farfetched I can understand why. The idea of forgetting one’s own name. Why, the very thought is ridiculous.”

“Not as farfetched as you might think, Marelda,” Dr. Page said. “At least we have a name for it in the medical field. Amnesia may not be very common, but we do know that the condition exists.”

“How can you be sure she has this…this…amnesia?” Marelda argued. “I mean, she could just be pretending.”

The elderly man responded with a slow shrug. “I guess I can’t really be certain of anything, but I see no reason as yet for the pretense.”

“And you may never see a cause if she’s clever.” Marelda noticed the tensing of Ashton’s features and had to yield herself to a more subtle approach to ease his irritation. “But then, the woman’s plight could be very real.”

“No need to doubt the girl at this point,” Dr. Page said and, placing his hands flat on the table, gave a nod to Ashton and to the two older women. “I must beg to be excused. After such fine fare, I am reminded of my lack of sleep last night. I’ll be nodding off in the buggy before I reach home.” He got to his feet. “I’ll come back later to check on Lierin. See that she gets plenty of sleep and as much nourishment as she can take. That is the best advice I can give at the moment.”

Ashton rose from his chair. “I’ll think about that matter we were discussing. I have to go into Natchez anyway, and I might as well make some inquiries, although I see no point in it.”

“I hope it comes out well, Ashton,” the doctor said sincerely.

Marelda was piqued that Ashton had not seen fit to inform her of his intentions and could not resist a snide inquiry: “Are you going to leave your precious little flower all alone?”

Ashton half turned and gave her a lightly mocking smile. “My dear Marelda, I was sure you’d be adequately entertained here at Belle Chêne while I’m away, but if you insist…”

The thrust of his mockery did not miss its mark, and feeling its light sting, Marelda corrected him haughtily: “I was referring to the one upstairs, Ashton dahling.”

“My apologies, Marelda.” He gave her an abbreviated bow, then left the room with Dr. Page.

In their absence Marelda petulantly picked at her food and sighed. “I do wish Ashton would listen to reason.”

“Listen to reason?” Aunt Jennifer was clearly bemused. “How so, my dear?”

Marelda waved her hand toward the upper floor. “Ashton brings that strange little tramp into his house.” She ignored the startled gasps of the women as she forged ahead with her diatribe. “He puts her in a fine bed, treats her like an honored guest.” Her distress was apparent as her voice raised in pitch and fervor: “And then actually claims that she is his long lost wife.”

Aunt Jennifer rose quickly to her nephew’s defense: “My dear, you know Ashton would never insist that she’s his wife unless he’s totally convinced that it’s true.”

“I say the girl is an opportunist who looks like his wife,” Marelda charged.

“Whatever she is,” Amanda replied, “she has been badly hurt and deserves at least a few days’ rest.”

Dramatically Marelda lifted her hands and face to the ceiling and made her plea to some mystical force. “Oh, wicked fate, how oft must I be pierced by your cruel barbs? Is it not enough that I’ve been cast aside once? Must you punish me twice, or even thrice? How much am I to bear?” Her voice quivered with a barely restrained sob, and closing her eyes, she leaned her brow against her knuckles, missing the dismayed look Jennifer directed toward her sister, who responded by raising her hands to mime a soundless round of applause.

“Marelda dear, have you considered going on the stage?” Amanda asked. “You have such a flair for expressing yourself.”

Somewhat deflated, Marelda sank back into her chair and pouted. “I can clearly see that I’m the only one who hasn’t been taken in by that little tramp.”

A brittle light flickered in Amanda’s eyes as she raised her gaze to the woman, and her hand shook with suppressed anger as she dabbed a napkin to her lips. “Please refrain from applying such names to the girl. From all indications I would say that you are quite possibly defaming the character of my grandson’s wife, and you should know by now that my loyalty to this family overrides everything else, even our friendship, Marelda.”

Even in her zeal to set aright an injustice only she could see, Marelda recognized that she was in danger of losing a valuable ally. She was not so unwise as that. She put a hand to her brow and began to weep. “I am beside myself with the thought of losing Ashton again, and I have let my fears goad me into foolishness.”

Amanda silently agreed, but considered that it was best to change the subject, lest they have another display of dramatics.

The woman who had taken on the name Lierin held up her hands in front of her face and stared at the thin fingers. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a thin, golden band, giving proof of her status as a married woman. It gave her no peace of mind, and she wondered how she could ever accept the man’s declaration when she did not feel at all like a wife.

The drapes were still drawn over the windows, preventing the intrusion of the morning light and making the room seem cold and gloomy. She had a sudden desire to feel the warm sunshine on her skin, to bask in its light and let her anxieties be washed in its soothing rays. Ever so carefully she edged her way to the side of the bed. The pain of moving did much to convince her that she was being torn asunder, but she tightened her jaw in stubborn resolve and pressed on. She struggled to a sitting position, then rested a moment, pressing shaking fingers against her temples until the pounding in her head ebbed to a dull ache. Cautiously she eased her weight to her legs and leaned against the bed as her reeling senses threatened to overwhelm her. When the room stopped its insane writhing, she moved toward the end of the bed. Her progress was an unsteady shuffle as she walked her hands along the mattress to abet the hesitant gait of her feet. Once there, she wrapped both arms tightly around the heavy post while she rubbed her aching brow against the cool, smooth carving and waited for her strength to return. When it did, she plucked up her courage and boldly slid her foot outward and away from the four-poster. Her knees were inclined to wobble, and it took a true test of will to keep them firmly beneath her. Refusing to be daunted, she set progressively distant goals to encourage a cautious advance across the room.

Once at her goal she pushed the double layer of drapes aside and shielded her eyes against the glare as light poured through the crystal panes. The sun touched her like a warm, caring friend, and she felt its heat within her breast, momentarily putting her fears to flight. She rested her head against the shaded sill and let her gaze wander outward to the vast, neat lawn. High above the grounds, lofty branches formed huge airy canopies through which the warming sun penetrated. Though winter had stripped the limbs bare and sapped the verdant color from the lawn, it was immediately evident that great care went into maintaining the grounds. Neatly manicured brick walks meandered through a maze of trimmed shrubs and trailed around ivy-covered beds that had been formed around massive tree trunks. Only the upper part of an ornately roofed gazebo was visible behind carefully shaped evergreen foliage. Well protected from prying eyes, it was a place suited for lovers.

Carefully Lierin turned and braced a hand on the back of a nearby chair as she moved toward the bed. As she stepped free of the furnishing, a movement to her left caught her eye. Somewhat startled, she turned her head quickly, forgetting the sharp harrows that were ready to rake her brain. The piercing barbs of pain stabbed into her skull, making her pay dearly for her reckless movement. She grabbed for the chair with one hand and clasped the other tightly over her eyes until the tormenting spikes retreated and coherent thought was once more a possibility. When she could open her eyes again, she found herself staring at her own image reflected in a tall, standing mirror. Curiosity drew her toward the cheval glass, but the effort of further activity demanded more than she could cede. She relented to her growing fatigue and paused some distance away to consider her image, hoping she might glean some knowledge about herself that would encourage a return of her memory. She was not greatly impressed by what she saw. Indeed, she came to the conclusion that she looked as bad as she felt. What color there was in her cheeks was only on one side and that a light purplish blue. Her brow bore the same discoloration, only heavier, contrasting sharply with her fair skin. With her hair wildly tossed and her deep green eyes wide with worry, she looked very much like a bewildered waif. Although her mind gave her no hint of age, the body beneath the clinging flannel nightgown bore the curving shape and the upthrusting fullness of attained womanhood, while it also boasted of a slender firmness that bespoke of an active life.

Several languages came quickly to her tongue, and numbers flowed with ease through her thoughts, but the origins of both seemed almost mystical. She knew the proper setting of a table, the correct utensil to use, the form of a graceful curtsey, and the intricate steps of several dances, but it was beyond the capacity of her battered brain to identify the source from which she had received this knowledge.

“Lierin Wingate?” she breathed. “Are you truly the one I see?”

Her mind gave her no answer, but her dilemma ended when she became distracted by footsteps in the hall. When a light rap came upon the door, Lierin searched about for the nearest haven, having no wish to receive guests in her nightwear. Her throat was too constricted to issue more than a weak and raspy croak, making her attempt to call out ineffective. It was not enough to forestall intrusion, for the portal swung open without further ado. She came around with a gasp of surprise, but her sudden movement played havoc with her tenuous stability. The room dipped and through a hazy, swirling motion she saw Ashton halt in the doorway, no doubt surprised to see her up and about. She closed her eyes against the sickening erosion of balance, feeling as if she were teetering on the edge of a dark, bottomless crater that was drawing her down into its gaping maw. She stumbled, and the room swooped into a new, confusing orbit; then she became overpoweringly aware of strong arms closing about her and drawing her against a broad chest. They were alone in the room, and she realized her weakened condition made her extremely vulnerable to his whims. She tried to twist free, acutely conscious of the brush of his hardened thighs against her own and the manly feel of his body branding her through the light layer of her clothing, but he held her in a unrelenting vise of steel-thewed arms. His gentle but tenacious grasp put roots to her fear. She no longer questioned her sanity, but his! He was surely mad to accost her beneath the noses of his kin!

She pushed at his chest with one hand and, straining away, feebly pummeled him with a fist. “No! Please! You cannot!”

Her puny resistance was as naught against his strength. Her feet swung free as she was lifted clear of the floor. The bed swam before her heavily lidded eyes, and she envisioned the struggles that would soon take place there and surely result in her rape. Roweling fear assailed her as she was lowered to the mattress. She clenched her eyes tightly and, catching her hands in the edge of the blanket, clutched them beneath her chin in desperation.

“If you take me, it will only be by dent of strength,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “I shall not yield myself to you, monster.”

She heard a distant chuckle and felt a cool hand brush the hair from her brow. Her eyes flew open, and she found herself gazing up into laughing hazel eyes. He smiled down at her and sat beside her on the bed.

“My dearest Lierin, ’tis my fondest fantasy that we might once more share the cup of passion. When it happens, it will not be a matter of taking. Until then, madam, I urge you to take better care of yourself. Your strength has not yet returned, and should you persist in this activity, you will at the very least delay your recovery.”

Sensing she had nothing to fear, she breathed a trembling sigh of relief. Ashton considered the pale features, noting the dark shadows around her eyes and the slight frown that hinted of a persistent ache. He dampened a cloth in the washbasin, waved it through the air to cool it, and placed it across her forehead. She sighed pleasurably as the pain abated, and for a long moment she enjoyed the comfort; then a thought came to her, and she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her with an expression so intensely loving and caring that she felt a softening in her heart toward him.

“When you spoke, you said, when it happens,” she murmured in wary questing. “Don’t you mean if?”

He raised the cloth and flipped a wet curl from her brow, then pointedly delayed his answer as his finger lazily traced her cheek and moved along her chin. He braced an arm on the other side of her and leaned slightly forward. Though his tone was light, she could see no humor in his face as he drawled a belated reply: “My dear madam, I am not given to a loose tongue, and I usually manage to say what I mean.”

Of a sudden her pallor became a crimson blush, and with an effort she took her eyes away from his steady gaze and made a valiant attempt to change the subject. “You were the one who brought me here?”

He nodded. “And laid you here as I did this moment past.”

She struggled to avoid making contact with that unrelenting regard. “What was I wearing when you brought me here?” Lamely she waved a hand about the room. “I see no other clothes.”

“Your gown was badly torn and muddy, so I bade them wash and fold it away, should you later want or have a need of it.”

She raised her brow prettily, then winced at the effort it cost her. “Gown?”

He reached his hand out and plucked at the sleeve of the flannel nightgown she wore, drawing her surprised attention.

“A nightgown?” she gasped in amazement. She pressed a hand over the simple yoke as she asked, “Like this one?”

His head moved from side to side, and a slow smile curved the corners of his mouth upward. “More…ah…shall we say, wifely…or rather…bridely…such as on the first night.”

Her consternation grew until it plowed a small furrow between her brows. “Bridely?”

With obvious relish, he went on to describe the garment in detail. “Much thinner. No sleeves and cut low here…and here….”

Her face darkened perceptively as her gaze followed the stroke of his finger. Though he did not touch her, the single digit came close enough to halt her breath.

“…With just a bit of lace here…and down on the sides here.”

She started to speak, but was forced to clear her throat before she was able to. “You…ah…bathed me?”

He stepped away from the bed and stood staring dreamily into the distance a moment before he answered with tongue in cheek. “No, sadly enough Willabelle came in and bade me leave before she performed the task.”

Lierin let out a long, slow breath to keep from sighing in loud relief. At least, she had kept some shred of dignity before this intrusive stranger.

He spoke over his shoulder as he crossed to the fireplace. “I’ll be away for several hours, but Willabelle will be here to see to things while I’m gone.” He took up the poker iron and began turning the logs in the fireplace. “If you need anything, just tell her.”

Lierin’s world turned suddenly sour. A bitter bile of fear rose in her throat as something dark and slender ripped through the back of her memory. Her mind was suddenly filled with chaotic visions, and rising to the fore of these was a face twisted by terror and forever frozen by a soundless scream. She mewled and cringed away, wanting to escape the nightmare that pressed down upon her.

Hearing the whimpering sounds, Ashton glanced around in wonder and found his wife braced against the headboard with fear-glazed eyes.

“Lierin?” He took a step toward her, but she shook her head frantically, unable to extract herself from the apparition.

“Go away!” she cried. “Please!”

“Lierin…what is it?” Completely confused, he advanced several more steps, but halted when he saw her scramble across the bed.

“Go away! Leave me alone!” she sobbed pleadingly. “Please go away….”

“It’s all right, Lierin.” Ashton retreated. “I’m leaving now.” He replaced the poker iron in its stand and, as she collapsed in exhausted relief upon the bed, made his way to the door. He was completely undone by her abrupt change of mood, for he could find no plausible explanation for it. Stepping into the hall, he closed the door behind him softly and let his breath out in a long, wavering sigh. Only then did he become aware of his wildly thumping heart and the feeling of cold dread in the pit of his stomach.

The house took on a midafternoon tranquillity as the ladies retired to their respective rooms for a nap. It was an excuse Marelda used to be alone so she could think through her dilemma. Her mind was left to its own devices for the seeking of a solution, for the small, leather-bound volume of poems that lay open on the bedside commode had given her no special insight. Indeed, at the moment her thoughts pawed through the lyric love notes like a raging bull through a flower bed. Gathering the shawl tightly about her shoulders, she paced the length of the thick, soft rug that accommodated the generous dimensions of the room and pivoted with mounting vexation at the limit of each circuit. Pausing by the bedside stand, she snatched up the book and riffled through the pages, reading a phrase or two here and there. Her ire peaked, and with gnashing teeth, she hurled the offending tome from her, flinging it to the far side of the room.

“A hoarded trump to cast upon thy queen of hearts,” she ground out through snarling lips. “What foolishness do poets thus impart!” She made another circuit of the room again as she fretted. “I placed too much store in the simperings of love-lost swains. Now I am forced to see reality for the cold and bitter vetch it is.” Her face became a harsh mask of hatred. “That little trollop has played her helpless scene so well she’s beguiled my Ashton into believing that she is his wife! If only I could design a scheme that brilliantly so he would see me as his one and only love.”

She paused and glared into the hissing fire that licked lazily at the remains of the oaken logs. The dwindling flames seemed to portray her hopes, once bright and burning strong, now failing and unnourished.

“Damn!” She resumed her agitated pacing. “That tart will have it all her way…unless…unless I can make them see the fallacy of her claim. How could the little snippet befuddle Ashton’s senses so quickly and so cleverly? Did she know Lierin and plan this from the moment of her death?”

Chewing her lip, she stared thoughtfully at the door of her room. It was just down the hall from the guest room where the other woman rested.

“Perhaps if I confronted her outright…” Her dark eyes harbored a gleam as the idea took deeper root. “It certainly can do no harm. I have nothing to lose, and it may be my only chance.”

Marelda eased the door open and listened for a moment. The house was quiet except for the distant sounds coming from the kitchen. She slipped from her room and hurried down the hall toward the far door. It stood slightly ajar, and when she pushed it open, Luella May rose from a chair near the window.

“What are you doing here?” Marelda demanded.

The girl was confused by the woman’s angry tone, and blinked several times before she found her voice. “Ah…Massa Ashton told me jes’ ’fore he left to come stay wid Miz Lierin whilst he was gone…jes’ in case she got scared or somepin.”

“I’ll watch for a while.” Marelda jerked her head sharply toward the door. “Go get something to drink. I’ll ring the bell if I need you.” The young servant nodded warily and crossed the room as the woman further bade her, “And close the door behind you.”

Marelda made herself comfortable in a chair across from the one Luella May had vacated and, propping her chin upon her knuckles, considered her adversary. Snidely she wondered if the other wove her schemes in her sleep, for the girl looked quite innocent amid the lace-edged pillows and satin quilt. A distant thought pushed to the fore of Marelda’s mind, and before she brushed it off as entirely insane she savored the idea of taking one of those fine pillows and smothering the life from the little fraud. No one would know, and even if it was really Lierin slumbering there, Marelda enjoyed the idea of being free of her forevermore.

“Forevermore…” she breathed in delicious revelry.

The soft chimes of the mantel clock intruded into Lierin’s dreams and reminded her that she had not yet found her niche in life. She raised a hand to her aching head and gingerly explored the sore and swollen lump on her brow, wondering if another cooling compress would ease the pain. The pitcher had been left on the bedside table, and struggling up against the pillows, she reached for the cloth that lay beside it.

“Well, it’s about time you roused.” Marelda’s voice cut through the silence, startling a gasp from the other. “It’s obvious you’re not used to any kind of regulated life.”

Lierin raised up on an elbow, but had to close her eyes as the room lurched, and a crushing pressure came against her temples. After a moment the throbbing diminished slightly, and she cautiously lifted her eyelids to look at the woman. “You have me at a loss, madam.”

Marelda sneered derisively. “I doubt that.”

Lierin was bemused by the other’s sarcasm. She had no recollection of ever having known her and certainly could not remember a cause for her animosity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Who are you, and what do you want of me?”

“I am Marelda Rousse, and I want you to tell everyone who you are and why you really came here.”

Lierin pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as she attempted to absorb the other’s words. “Madam, I fear I don’t know what my name should be, and even if it meant my life, I could not tell you why I’m here.”

Marelda laughed coldly and when she spoke, her tone was honed to a knife-edge sharpness. “My dear…whatever your name is…your little act has already convinced an anguished man that you are his wife…when in actuality Lierin Wingate has been dead and gone these past three years.”

“My act?” The emerald eyes opened wide in confused wonder, then slowly closed as Lierin sank back into the pillows. “Oh, madam,” she sighed, “were this an act, I pray it be the last and the play be done. Then I would be free of this mummery. I am so addled by my plight, sleep is my sole escape.”

“And of course no one in the family would dream of interrupting your slumber to ask any pertinent questions,” Marelda replied with rancor.

The green eyes opened again, this time a darker hue beneath a sharper frown, and fixed the other with a questioning stare. “Do you honestly think I purchased these bruises, and then, as they said, foolishly charged my mount into a running team?”

“I’ve known many,” Marelda snapped, “who would do as much for what you stand to gain.” She contemplated her long, carefully tended nails. “Though you whine of your injured wits, they seem sharp enough when your lies are confronted.”

Lierin rolled her head listlessly on the pillows, and her frown deepened as she sought to find the key to this illusive puzzle. “I don’t know why you come upon me with so much hatred. Though I cannot swear to it, I would say I never saw you before this moment, and I certainly mean you no ill.”

Marelda could no longer bear the sight of the other’s bruised but classic beauty, and rose to stare out the windows. “No ill, you say?” Her voice bore an unmistakable sneer. “If you are indeed the one you say…”

Lierin was growing tired and protested weakly. “’Twas not I, but the Ashton man who put the name to me. I cannot say for sure if it’s that or anoth-”

Marelda turned angrily, slashing her hands sideways with a gesture that cut off Lierin’s words. “If you are in truth his wife…then you have already stabbed me once, twice, thrice. It was I, his intended bride, who was betrayed those years ago when he journeyed south to New Orleans and found one he fancied so much that he wed her and left me weeping on my lonely pillow. Then he returned the widower, and months passed before my hopes could rise again.” Marelda paced back and forth beyond the foot of the bed. “He was so bereaved and anguished that he could see nothing outside his memories. Though I sought to comfort him and was ever at his side, he saw me not. I was less to him than the simplest kitchen charmaid. Finally he began to be a man again, and once more my hopes took flight. Last night we gathered to welcome his return, and I yearned for his sturdy arms to hold me in fondest welcome. He came…with you where I should have been. So in your innocence…if you are truly Lierin and I say not…I have still been wronged.”

“I’m sorry,” Lierin murmured quietly.

“You’re sorry!” Marelda railed, then calmed slightly and, with curling lips, sneered, “How sweetly you mewl your apologies, but I’m not one you can cajole with your simpering innocence. Have your moment of delight, dear girl, but I will see the truth come out, and I will turn every stone to see it done. When your lies fly back into your face, I will laugh with delight. Good afternoon, my dear. Rest well…if you can.”

She swept around in a swirl of skirts and, snatching open the door, departed, leaving the room still and quiet, much like a spring day after a passing thunderstorm.

Lierin was left shaken by the woman’s venomous hatred. She had no way of discerning the truth of the matter, whether the judgment against her was fair or false, but at the present moment it was difficult to imagine herself being the cause of such furor.