The Anonymous Miss Addams

“There’s no reason for you to recognize it. It was my mother’s,” Pierre told her. “She died several years ago.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Surprised that my mother is deceased?” Pierre questioned, looking at her oddly.

“Surprised that she lived so long, with you for a son,” she answered meanly, for even a fool could see that she was feeling very mean.

“Touché, madam. I believe that evens up our insults quite nicely.” Pierre rose from the bed and turned from her before he spoke again. “I’ll send a maid with some breakfast,” he said just as he reached the doorway to his own bedchamber. “That is, if I recover from the wounds your tongue has inflicted. Later, when you are more rested, my father will doubtless wish to interview you. Pray don’t repeat your latest attempt at nastiness to him, for he loved my mother very much.”

“I’m sorry,” she called after him. “Really, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just…it’s just that I’m really very upset. I mean, I don’t even know where I am, let alone who I am. Please—forgive me.”

Pierre turned to look at the young woman now sitting up in the bed, her violet eyes drenched with tears. “Neither of us has been very nice, have we?” he said. “It happens that way with some people, I’ve heard. We have already decided not to like each other, no matter how little Dame Reason is involved in the decision. Let us agree to forgive each other, madam, and have done with it.”

“Agreed!” she said smiling for the first time, the unexpected beauty of it making a direct hit on Pierre’s senses, so that he blinked twice, said nothing, and left the room, suddenly uncomfortable at being dressed in nothing more than his banyan.

A HOT BATH HELPED to ease the soreness she had felt over every inch of her body from the moment she had first awakened in the beautiful, sunlit bedchamber.

The young maid who had introduced herself as Susan had carefully washed her hair, massaging away some of her tension and banishing the headache that had been pounding against her temples.

The meal of poached eggs, country bacon, toast, and tea had erased the gnawing hunger that had made her believe her stomach must have been worrying that her throat had somehow been cut.

But nothing could ease the terrible, blood-chilling panic that shivered through her body each time she attempted to remember who she was, or where she lived, or how she had come to be lying unconscious in the middle of a roadway.

“I just don’t remember!” she said out loud as she sat at the dressing table in the nightgown and robe Susan had brought her after her bath, glaring at her unfamiliar reflection, her chin in her hands. “I don’t remember anything; nothing before waking up here this morning.”

“There are many who would not curse such a lapse, but rather rejoice in it. Good afternoon, Miss Penance. I’m André Standish, your host. Forgive me, but I did knock.”

“You—you look just like him,” she was stung into saying as she stared into the mirror, where André’s reflection smiled back at her. “If it weren’t for the color of your hair, I’d swear—”

“Ah, you’d swear,” André interrupted. “I see my son has not exaggerated. You are an enigma, aren’t you, Miss Penance? You have the look and accent of a lady, but your conversation is sprinkled with words most well-brought-up young females have been taught to shun. Of course, there was a time, more years ago than I care to recall, when all the best ladies were shockingly frank in their speech, but that time has since passed, more’s the pity. Perhaps you were raised solely by your father, or a doting uncle. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”

She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his voice more than his actual words. His tone was so gentle, so reassuring. “No,” she answered, suddenly sleepy, and wondering why she felt she could lean her head against his arm and doze, secure in the knowledge that he’d never hurt her. “No, I don’t think so. Men seem to frighten me—except you, that is. I was very afraid of your son this morning. I don’t think I’ve been around men very much.”

“Pierre can be most formidable, even in his banyan. Especially in his banyan, I imagine.” André laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re frightened, and with every right. Forgive me for trying to prod you into memory. There’s no rush, you know. We shall take this thing one day at a time. Now, come lie down on the bed for a while. You must be exhausted. I’ve already sent for the doctor, but he is busy with someone who is really ill and not merely confused by a bump on the head. He sent along a note assuring me that you’ll remember everything in time. He will be here tomorrow to answer any questions you might have.”

She allowed herself to be helped into bed. Looking up at André, she said, “You’re not at all like your son after all. You’re very nice.”

“Pierre’s a beast, I’m ashamed to say. Quite uncivilized,” André confessed with a smile and a slight shake of his silver head. “Were I you, I should stay as far removed from him as possible. Now, get some rest while I go downstairs and cudgel my brain into coming up with a female companion for you. It isn’t correct for you to be the lone young woman in a masculine household.”

She was very sleepy, but she didn’t miss the meaning of his words. “Then—then you think I’m a young lady?”

“Was there ever any doubt?” André replied, winking at her as he closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE YOUNG LADY Pierre had dubbed Miss Penance walked aimlessly along the twisting gravel paths of the substantial Standish Court ornamental gardens, idly swinging a yellow chip straw bonnet by its pink satin ribbons, her feet dragging only a little in the soft, too-large kid slippers that had once belonged to Eleanore Standish.

The gardens were glorious, a fairyland of flowers and evergreens and whimsical statuary, all bathed in the warmth of a sunny late summer’s afternoon. It was a perfect place to spend a few quiet moments, which was the reason André Standish had suggested it to her earlier, after she had risen from her nap.

So far, neither her nap, the walk, nor the peacefulness of her surroundings had jogged her memory. She had been without it for only a few hours, but she measured its loss minute by minute, and the gravity and scope of that loss were gnawing at her, causing the still tender bump on her head to throb most painfully.

She could be anybody—or nobody. It would be awful to be a Nobody. No one would send out an alarm for a Nobody. A Nobody could disappear from the face of the earth without a trace and no one would care, no one would feel the loss. A Somebody would be missed, and an immediate search would be instituted. Besides, she didn’t feel like a Nobody; she felt like a Somebody.

“That’s no great help,” she told herself out loud. “Everybody wants to be a Somebody. Now, how do you suppose I know that?”

Her seemingly selective memory was what really upset and confused her. How could she know so much and still not know who she was? She knew the name of that flower climbing the trellis over there—it was a morning glory, a purple one.

She knew she was in Sussex, for Susan had told her. She knew Sussex was in England, and that Susan had not told her. She knew where Austria was, and could name at least three principal crops of France. She knew the Italian word for head was capo, but did not know how she knew it.

She was sure she had always particularly favored chicken as it had been presented to her for luncheon in her room, and could name the ingredients used in its preparation. She had counted to three thousand as she had sat in her bath, and probably could have continued to count for the remainder of the day without problem.

So why couldn’t she remember her name?

She could be married, for pity’s sake! That thought stopped her short, and she bit her lip in trepidation. She could have a husband somewhere. Children. Crying for her, missing her. No, she didn’t feel married. Could a person feel married? How did being unmarried feel?

She could be a bad person. Why, she could be a thief, as she had suggested to Pierre Standish. Perhaps she had been discovered with her hand in some good wife’s silver drawer, and had been running from the constable when she had fallen, hitting her head on a stone.

She could be a murderess! She could have murdered a man—her husband, perhaps?—and been fleeing the scene of that dastardly crime in the dead man’s cloak when she had somehow come to grief in the middle of the roadway.

Pierre Standish had certainly been unflattering when he pointed out that her speech, although cultured in accent, contained a few expressions that were not normally considered to be ladylike. Ladies did not rob or murder.

The thought of Pierre Standish had her moving again, as if she could distance herself from thinking of the man. How dare he enter her bedchamber in such a state of indecent undress! And once he had realized what he had done, why hadn’t he excused himself and retired, as any reasonable man would have done, rather than plunk himself down on the bottom of her bed so familiarly and immediately commence insulting her? He hadn’t had an ounce of pity for her plight. As a matter of fact, he seemed to find the entire situation vaguely amusing. No wonder her language had not been the best.

No, she didn’t know much, but she knew she didn’t like Pierre Standish.

She did like André Standish, however. The older Standish was kindness itself, fatherly, and certainly sympathetic to her plight. After all, hadn’t he told her not to worry, that his hospitality was hers until she rediscovered her identity, and even beyond, if that discovery proved to present new problems for her? Hadn’t he assigned Susan as her personal maid, and even promised to provide a female chaperone as soon as may be? Hadn’t he even gifted her with the use of his late wife’s entire wardrobe?

The gown she was wearing now was six years out of fashion and marred by the helpful but vaguely inept alterations Susan had performed on the bodice, waist and hem as her new mistress napped, but it was still a most beautiful creation of sprigged muslin and cotton lace.

She smoothed the skirt of the gown with her hands, grateful once again for being able to wear it, and then purposely made her mind go blank, concentrating on nothing as she continued to walk, not knowing that her appearance was more than passably pleasing, it was beautiful.

Her hair, that unbelievably thick and lengthy mane of softly waving ebony, was tucked into a huge topknot, with several errant curling tendrils clinging to her forehead, cheeks and nape.

Her face was flawless, except for a lingering paleness and a vaguely cloudy look to her unusual violet eyes. Her mouth, generous and wide, drooped imperceptibly at the corners as she stopped in front of a rose bush, picked a large red bloom, and began methodically stripping away its petals, tossing them over the bush.

She looked young, innocent, vulnerable, and just a little sad.

“’Ey! Gets yourself somewheres else, fer criminy’s sake! Yer wants ter blow m’lay?”

She turned her head this way and that, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.

“Oi says, take yerself off, yer ninny. Find yerself yer own ’idey-’ole.”

“Hidey-hole?” she repeated, leaning forward a little, as she was sure that voice had come from behind the rose bush. “Who or what are you hiding from?”

“The froggie, o’course. Who else do yer think? Now, take yerself off!”

She wasn’t afraid, for the voice sounded very young and more than a little frightened. Her smooth brow furrowed in confusion at his words, though, and she asked, “Hiding from a frog, are you? Well, if that isn’t above everything silly! I would imagine you’d be more likely to come upon a frog in the gardens, wouldn’t you? If you don’t wish to come face-to-face with one, don’t you think it would be preferable to hide where frogs don’t go?”