Puritan Bride

The lady looked into Elizabeth’s calm grey eyes, clinging to sanity as she clung to her hand. ‘But what am I doing here? Please tell me what happened last night.’

The Viscount had come to stand before the fireplace, leaning his arm along the heavily carved mantel, pushing the smouldering logs with his booted foot until sparks showered onto the hearth.

‘I am afraid that I can tell you very little. You were riding from the south, but from where exactly, I know not. You arrived at the crossroads on Winteringham Common at the time when my coach had stopped because of an incident. We waited to warn you of possible danger on the icy road. You were travelling fast.’ He frowned, watching her closely to see if there was any hint of recognition of the subsequent events. There was none. ‘When you came abreast of us, your horse shied badly on a stretch of ice and you fell, hitting your head on the road. I brought you here. And that is all I know.’

She nodded in thoughtful acceptance, head bent as she contemplated his answer and the blank spaces in her memory, which his explanation did nothing to restore.

‘Do I know you?’ The lady raised her eyes to the Viscount’s face, but without hope.

‘No, my dear.’ Elizabeth sighed in answer and shook her head sadly. ‘We can be of no help to you in that quarter. I do not think you live in the vicinity, although we have only just returned to the area ourselves after some years’ absence. We can make enquiries, do you not think, Marcus?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did I have any possessions with me? Nothing to tell who I am?’

‘No.’ The Viscount had moved silently to a side table to pour a glass of wine. He handed it to the lady, who took it and sipped absently. ‘Your horse may have had saddle-bags, but it bolted out of sight. I have sent out word to recover it if it is found on the estate or in the village. I expect it will—horses rarely stray far, even when frightened.’

‘I … I understand from Mistress Neale that I was dressed as a boy.’ She lowered her eyes in some confusion as a faint flush stained her pale cheeks. ‘And I have cut my hair.’ She lifted her hand to touch in shock and disbelief the shorn strands that lay against her neck. ‘I think I had long hair. I do not understand any of it!’

‘Indeed.’ Elizabeth squeezed the cold hands. There was little she could say to comfort her. ‘You must have had a good reason for doing so.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

The door to the library opened to admit Felicity, who had completed her task and returned carrying the shawl. Her pursed lips and the closed expression on her narrow face indicated that she had, in her absence, made it her business to become well informed of events by Mistress Neale and did not approve.

‘Here is Mistress Felicity, my cousin.’ Elizabeth made the introduction, her heart sinking as she read the condemnation in her companion’s stiff shoulders and tightlipped mouth. Uncomfortable at the best of times, Felicity could be a damning influence when her sense of morality was outraged. ‘This is …?’ She looked at the lady beside her in sudden consternation.

The fear had deepened in the lady’s eyes as her lack of identity had immediately presented its own problems.

‘We must decide what to call you, my dear child, until your memory returns.’ Elizabeth smiled and tried to keep her tone light.

‘Why, I … I don’t know.’

‘I do.’ The Viscount had been watching intently and now surveyed the delicate features and deep blue eyes with a light curve of his lips. ‘You are Viola, for sure. Master Shakespeare had the right of it in naming his masquerading heroine. We will borrow it for you, if it pleases you, if only for the short term.’ The smile that accompanied his words held great warmth and charm, guaranteed to put the lady at her ease. He reached down for her hand and bowed elegantly over it. ‘Welcome to Winteringham Priory, Mistress Viola.’

She tried for a smile, but it was a poor attempt, and pulled her hand away as if his touch embarrassed her even more. A shiver ran through her slight frame in spite of the burning logs. Seeing it, Marcus took the shawl from the fussing Felicity and placed it round her shoulders.

‘Thank you. I cannot express how grateful I am for your kindness.’

‘Well, of course …’ he grinned ‘… we had planned to throw you out into the cold and wet to find your own salvation. We always treat our guests with such lack of consideration! Particularly when they are in distress.’

‘Enough, Marcus.’ Lady Elizabeth frowned at his levity. ‘Take no heed of him, my dear. Be assured you are welcome to stay here until we know what is best for you.’

The girl smiled at last with genuine warmth but Marcus had seen the flash of real fear and tried to remedy the effect of his light jest.

‘Indeed, Mistress Viola, there is no cause for concern. I have known cases such as yours before—in the war. A severe blow to the head can bring temporary loss of memory. It returns, sometimes gradually in increasing flashes of realisation, sometimes in one blinding revelation.’ And occasionally leaves the sufferer in devastating limbo for ever! ‘You need to rest. You will stay here as long as you need. Meanwhile, as my mother suggested, we will put out the word.’

‘I cannot express my thanks.’ She placed the almost untouched glass carefully on the table at her elbow. ‘I have a headache a little. Perhaps, if you will excuse me, I will go and rest.’

‘Of course.’ Elizabeth saw the distress and weariness in the young face and understood the need for privacy. ‘Mistress Neale will provide everything you need. Perhaps, Felicity, you will show Mistress Viola to her bedchamber, until she becomes more accustomed to the house.’

Felicity moved to comply with bad grace and a sharp inclination of her head, leading the way from the room, leaving Elizabeth alone with her son.

‘Well, Marcus? She is so young and defenceless to be put in such a position.’

He shrugged as he returned from the door to pour out two more glasses of wine, handing one to his mother before stretching his limbs again with casual grace in the chair opposite her.

‘It is as I said. Her memory will probably return in its own good time. But what can have frightened her to such an extent that she would cut her hair, dress as a man and ride through the night with no companion or protection?’ He frowned down into the blood-red liquid as he swirled it in the glass, the light catching in the faceted stem. ‘Perhaps her fears are more deep rooted than from mere loss of memory. We must be circumspect in our enquiries. It may be that she does not wish to be found.’

‘I agree.’ Felicity stalked back into the room in time to hear the final comment. ‘A girl who is prepared to dress in such an unseemly manner and take such precipitate action might have all manner of things to hide. I believe that you are too trusting, my dear Elizabeth. We do not know what she might be guilty of.’

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and caught the fierce challenge in her son’s eyes as he prepared to deliver a stinging rebuke. Felicity would only sulk and that would make everyone uncomfortable. She took up the challenge before he could speak.

‘Your lack of charity in the circumstances is unfortunate and does you no favours, Felicity,’ she chided in a mild tone, but leaving her cousin in no doubt of her sentiments. ‘I expect you to treat Mistress Viola with all consideration and compassion until we know for sure who or what she is! I would not like to hear that she has been open to insult in my home.’

Felicity pressed her lips into an even firmer line, if that were possible, and sniffed.

Chapter Five

Viola awoke next morning to the same complete absence of knowledge of her previous existence as when she had taken to her bed. She struggled to quell the all-embracing fear as she became aware of a maid who bustled about the room and drew back her curtains. You must be calm. You have to accept. You will remember as your head heals. At least the headache had gone. She smiled uncertainly at the maid, a young smiling person with quick, deft hands, and felt an immediate lift in her spirits as the pale spring sunshine flooded the room. Of course things would soon be back to normal and she would be able to complete her journey—wherever that was. Was someone, somewhere, concerned for her safety? She shook her head as the maid approached the bed.

‘Her ladyship has sent you this, mistress. To replace Elspeth’s bodice and skirt which you wore yesterday. She thinks it will be a little large, but the length should be good—if we lace it tightly it should do well enough. Her ladyship no longer wears it. And it is too pretty to be packed away for the moths.’

‘How kind everyone is. It is beautiful.’

She scrambled from the bed to don shift and petticoats and the gown that the maid held and laced for her.

‘There, now.’ Bessie tied and twitched with experienced fingers and she was dressed. The deep-blue damask bodice, boned and laced, fit, if not as if made for her, at least adequately, emphasising her small waist and the swell of her breasts. The full overskirt was of the same deep colour, looped up to show a delicate cream underskirt, embroidered with flowers and leaves around the hem. The low neckline, which might have made Viola blush, was made more suitable for day wear by a fine linen-and-lace collar that matched the lace falling from elbow-length sleeves. Viola sighed at the sheer delight of it against her skin.

She stood before the looking glass, letting her fingers smooth down the figured brocade of the skirts. The reflected image shocked her. The dress looked well—indeed, she had the faintest suspicion, hovering on the edge of memory, that she had never worn anything as fine in her life—but she had no recognition of the lady wearing it. It was as if she were looking at a stranger. Then she gasped as she took in the short hair, roughly cropped—hacked, rather!—and unflattering in the extreme to her critical eyes. It seemed to her that in the past she had had hair that curled in ringlets to her shoulders, not this stark crop which threw her face into cruel relief. For there was the matter of the large purpling bruise that disfigured her temple—and would for many days yet.

Her eyes met those of the maid and she flinched inwardly at the depth of pity she saw there. ‘I look terrible,’ Viola whispered.

‘That you don’t, mistress. You look so much better than yesterday—what with the colour in your cheeks an’ all. Your hair will soon grow. It is very pretty and, now that you have taken off your bandage, you look well.’

‘I suppose I do. At least it takes little time to run a comb through it.’ She grimaced as she did so, mindful of the tender wound on her skull. What terrible need had made her cut it so drastically? There was no point in idle speculation. She must be practical. Viola squared her shoulders and looked again at the maid.

‘Would you do something for me …?’

‘I am Bessie. Her ladyship says for me to take care of you. What would you wish for me to do for you, mistress?’

‘Thank you, Bessie. Would you trim my hair—to cut away the worst of the stray bits?’

‘My pleasure, miss. I will fetch the shears from Mistress Neale!’

* * *

Half an hour later Viola risked a second look in the mirror. Her hair now lay neatly against her neck and curled on to her cheeks and forehead in feathery wisps. She sighed. It was the best she could hope for. ‘Thank you, Bessie. I suppose it is some improvement!’ She smiled wryly as she swept herself a regal curtsy. ‘Do you suppose it will ever look passably attractive?’