Anne Barbour Read online

  My God, she must have had some sort of seizure! She had gone completely mad! In a blind panic, she turned to rush from the church, only to be grasped roughly by the older man.

  “Now then, missy, we’ll have no more of your nonsense.”

  “Indeed, Amanda,” said the woman. “You must come home with us. We will—talk about it later.”

  “The devil we will,” snorted the older man. “You’ll be spending the next few weeks in your room. Or, assuming ...” His fleshy lips clamped shut as he shot a glance at “my lord.”

  “Come along then,” he concluded, wrenching her toward the exit doors.

  Amanda glanced wildly around the church. It was still empty except for herself and this collection of maniacs. “No!” she cried. “Please! I don’t understand ...”

  The younger man spoke for the first time. “Let her go, Bridge.” His voice was as harsh as his appearance, but his tone was cool and detached. “She is obviously distraught. I shall convey her home in my curricle. I suggest you save your questions until she has had a chance to recover herself.” Taking her hand, he led her along the aisle.

  Dazed, she followed him unresistingly until they reached the sidewalk outside the church. She stopped abruptly, her eyes nearly starting from her head. It was broad daylight, and the sun shone on a scene she knew could not possibly exist. Horse-drawn vehicles of every shape and size trundled along the street, and pedestrians, all dressed in costume, jostled about them. Up and down the avenue, vendors pushing carts hawked wares at the top of their lungs. And the buildings! Gone was the Mayfair Public Library. In its place stood a row of small houses. Behind the church, where before she had glimpsed a lovely park, lay a graveyard.

  She turned to stare in anguish at the man, who still held her hand in his. His returning gaze was unpromising.

  “Come along, Miss Bridge. You must face the wrath of your father sometime, you know. And I am due at Carlton House in less than an hour to meet with the Prince Regent.”

  Amanda simply gaped. “The—the Prince Regent?” she croaked, just before she fell into another swirling chasm of darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Amanda woke to find herself nestled in the softness of a comfortable tester bed, hung with a silky fabric of pale pink, matched by the draperies at the tall window that faced the bed. Further inspection of the room revealed a charming dressing table and a graceful wardrobe against one wall. A small desk occupied a nook near the window.

  She had no sooner absorbed all this, when the door to the bedroom flew open to admit a dark-haired young woman wearing a plain apron-covered dress.

  “Oh, miss!” cried this apparition. “You’re awake, then. Oh, I’m that sorry, miss. I couldn’t help it—I had t’tell them. Please forgive me, miss. Please!” She hastened across the room to stand before Amanda, her hands clasped before her and her blue eyes wide with apprehension.

  For a moment, Amanda could not speak, but as the girl showed signs of bursting into tears at any moment, she said quickly, “Okay, I forgive you. Now, tell me, where am I?”

  The young woman stared at her perplexedly. “Why, you’re in your own home, miss. In your own bed. Can I fetch you something? A nice cup of tea, mayhap?”

  A nice cup of tea! Amanda could have laughed aloud if her situation were not so bizarre. What had happened to her in that little church? She must have passed out from the pain of the headache—and, perhaps her fatigue. Had she hit her head on something? She was obviously hallucinating, but it was sure a damned odd illusion. How could she not know where she was—or who the people were she kept encountering? Particularly since they seemed to know her. This was her hallucination, for God’s sake. She should know these things.

  “His lordship” had spoken of the Prince Regent. An odd shiver passed through her at the memory of those flinty eyes poised so close to hers, staring straight through to her center. No. Never mind that. The Prince Regent. Could she have imagined herself back to Regency London? The clothing seemed right—but—why? She sank back into her pillows. Lord, what a mess. She glanced at the young woman standing before her. This person was not real—she was merely a fantasy created by a disordered mind. Amanda opened her mouth, but was brought up short by the odd certainty that she must not divulge the truth. Smiling tentatively, she turned to the aproned woman.

  “Who are you?”

  The woman’s eyes widened in fear. “Why, I’m Hutchings, miss, your maid. Don’t you know me?”

  Amanda widened the smile. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I don’t remember anything. I think I must have hit my head when I fell. Hutchings, I don’t even know my own name.”

  At this, the maid gasped. “Oh, dear heaven, miss! What a terrible thing.” She turned as though to run from the room. “I’d best fetch your mama.”

  “No!” cried Amanda. “No,” she repeated in a softer tone as Hutchings paused in her flight. “Just tell me a few things first. How did I happen to be in that church, and—and who was the man who scooped me up off the floor?”

  “Why, you slipped out of the house early this morning, miss, to meet Mr. Satterleigh, your own true love! You and him was to elope, miss! It was ever so romantical.” Her face crumpled suddenly. “And I ruined it for you. I’m that sorry for it,” she said again, tears beginning to stream from her eyes.

  “Yes,” said Amanda hastily. “Well, never mind about that now. Is that his name—the man in the church? Satterleigh?”

  Hutchings paused in the act of dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “My goodness, miss, you really must be dicked in the nob! No, that were Lord Ashindon, your betrothed.”

  Amanda brought both hands up to clutch her hair.

  “Are you having another one o’ your headaches, miss?” the maid asked sympathetically. “They’ve really been comin’ on strong, of late, haven’t they?”

  “Yes, they have, indeed,” replied Amanda hoarsely. “Tell me, er, Hutchings, what is the date today?”

  “Why, it’s April fourteenth, miss.”

  “And the year?”

  “Lor’, it’s eighteen hundred and fifteen. You don’t even remember that?”

  Amanda shook her head numbly. Eighteen-fifteen! Yes. Regency England. Dear Lord, what possible mental quirk could have thrown her back to the early nineteenth century?

  “All right,” she said slowly. “It’s eighteen-fifteen, and my name is Amanda Bridge, and I live in ...?” She raised her brows questioningly at the maid.

  “In London, o’course,” giggled the maid. “In Upper Brook Street,” she added, as though indulging a child in a new game. “You’re two-and-twenty and your mama and papa are Mr. and Mrs. Bridge—Serena and Jeremiah, their names are. Your mama has been by your bed since they brought you home. Limp as a wet dish clout, you was, when I undressed you. Your papa sent for the doctor and a few minutes ago your mama went to wait downstairs.”

  Amanda closed her eyes.

  “There!” exclaimed Hutchings. “I’ve tired you out altogether. I’d best fetch your mama now.”

  Amanda’s eyes flew open. “No! No, don’t do that. Tell her I’m still sleeping. Please, Hutchings.”

  The maid eyed her doubtfully. “All right, miss. I expect the doctor will be ‘ere soon.”

  “Very well, but until then, could you please leave me for a few minutes? To sort of get my head back together?”

  The maid’s expression did not lighten, but she bobbed a curtsy and whisked herself from the room.

  Alone, Amanda threw back her covers and slid to the floor, nearly falling on her face from the unexpected height of the bed. Righting herself, she moved immediately to the dressing table, reveling despite herself in her strong, sturdy legs. She peered in the mirror and drew in a sharp breath.

  Lord, she was a raving beauty! Golden hair tumbled in charming disarray over her shoulders, and from a piquant little face glowed eyes of a deep amethyst, fringed with a veritable forest of dark lashes. Her nose was short and straight, and her mouth, full and pink, curve
d charmingly. On second thought, Amanda mused wryly, she looked like a Barbie doll, complete with upthrust bosom and an incredibly tiny waist. Wow, she chuckled, did she know how to fantasize, or what?

  For some minutes, she stood very still, contemplating the reflected vision before her. She marveled at the exquisite workmanship of her nightgown, a demure concoction of lace-trimmed muslin, embroidered with tiny flowers at neckline and hem. All accomplished by hand, of course. Still staring, she noticed the slim golden chain that hung about her neck. Hastily drawing it up in her fingers, she gasped. It was her pendant! The one she had examined just last night in Grosvenor Chapel. Or, no—perhaps not last night, but... She sank into the little chair before the dressing table, studying the pendant in bewilderment. She had not brought anything else of her real life into her hallucination—her purse, or her own clothing—why was she still possessed of this unwanted relic?

  She turned the little piece of jewelry over in her hands, remembering the afternoon all those years ago when she and Derek had lingered in a little coffee shop in Sausalito. They had relaxed into a moment of reflective silence when Derek reached into his pocket to produce a shiny new penny. Tossing it on the table, he grinned. “Okay, what are you thinking?”

  “I love you,” she had blurted, and his beautiful green eyes had darkened. He said nothing in reply, but he took her hands in his and pressed them to his lips.

  He scooped the penny up in his long, thin fingers, and a week later he had returned it to her, embedded in a delicate lacy filigree of gold he had created himself. On the back, he had inscribed the words, “For Amanda, with my love, Derek,” and the date, July 25, 1989.

  Amanda smiled sadly. Derek had gone on to great things in the art world, but she had not gone with him. A few months later, their relationship was only a bitter memory of rejection and hurt.

  Absently, she allowed the pendant to slide back into its position between her breasts. Crossing to the window, she observed a steady procession of carriages trundling over the cobblestoned street outside. Some were open and rather rakish in appearance, others were closed and more sedate. There were riders on horseback, too, calling to acquaintances and all but strutting in their saddles. Ladies, obviously dressed in the height of fashion, paced with mincing steps, accompanied by soberly clad maidservants. Others, not so fortunate, made way for these goddesses.

  Amanda shook her head in amazement. She had certainly created a world of precise verisimilitude for her moment of temporary insanity. A sudden chill gripped her. How temporary was the moment to be? She supposed time was a subjective entity in this sort of thing, just as in dreams. In her perception of reality, she had been living in Regency England for two or three hours, but perhaps the actual time elapsed since her collapse in the church was only a few seconds. She was seized by a frantic urge to release herself from this bizarre illusion. Perhaps if she were to go back to bed and fall into a natural sleep, she would awake to find herself back in Grosvenor Chapel in her own time period. Or, better yet, in her own bed in her own hotel room.

  On the other hand ... She grinned, and moving back to the bed, flung one leg up to rest her foot on the counterpane. The grin widened. She’d never been able to do that before without almost falling over.

  Well. She’d created a world for herself in which she was whole and strong, and six years younger. To say nothing of beautiful and rich and pampered. She perched on the edge of the bed with her legs extended straight in front of her and wiggled her toes thoughtfully. With any luck, this lovely fantasy would continue until Amanda Bridge was ninety years old, still rich and pampered, hopefully, even if no longer young and beautiful. Amanda McGovern would then awake in twentieth century London with a mere few seconds gone from her life in the real world.

  Her smile faded. No, pleasant as it sounded, in that way lay madness. Her life and her responsibilities lay in the twentieth century. After her brief sojourn in London she would return to her position in the English department of a prestigious university. It had taken her a great deal of hard work to reach her present status. She was a good teacher, and her studies on women poets in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries had achieved a wide circulation in academic circles. She was sought after as a lecturer and had been invited to submit articles to several prestigious journals. It was whispered that in the not-too-distant future she might well become the youngest department head in the history of the university.

  She must determine how she had come to hallucinate in the first place, and then attempt to return herself to reality. She cast her thoughts back to Grosvenor Chapel and the strange little man with whom she had held such a strange little conversation. Had she already been on the verge of some sort of stroke, perhaps, when she had experienced her uncharacteristic urge to unburden herself to him?

  It must have had something to do with her headache. The episodes prior to last night had been painful, but nothing like—

  “Amanda, you have revived!”

  Amanda whirled, to be met with the sight of Serena Bridge bustling into the room. She hastened to her daughter and kissed her cheek.

  “I am so relieved you are feeling better, dearest.” The woman’s fingers were busy, patting and stroking as though to assure herself of Amanda’s continuing physical presence in the room. “But you must get into bed. The doctor is here.” She urged Amanda under the quilt, pulling the sheets up to her neck. “See? Here is Dr. Beddoes now.”

  Amanda twisted her neck to observe the entrance of an elegantly dressed cadaverously thin gentleman. Placing a small, black bag on the end of the bed, he removed one or two unidentifiable shiny instruments and laid them atop the quilt before bending to his patient.

  “Well, now, Miss Bridge, not feeling quite the thing today, are we?” The line of his mouth split in what was no doubt intended as a reassuring smile. To Amanda, it seemed more of a self-satisfied smirk. He seated himself on the edge of the bed.

  “Ah—no, we’re not,” replied Amanda faintly, eyeing the instruments with disfavor.

  “Mmm.” A bony hand descended on her forehead. “There seems to be no fever. Did you say she was unconscious when you found her in, er, Grosvenor Chapel, was it?”

  “Yes,” replied Serena Bridge with a quaver. “She had gone there with her maid to ... er... sketch the new altar hangings. It was ... um ... an assignment from her drawing master.”

  “Mmhm,” intoned the doctor noncommittally. “Did she hit her head as she fell?”

  “I don’t know,” Serena said. “I did not see her until after she had swooned.”

  Dr. Beddoes peered into her eyes. “I see no evidence of concussion,” he remarked after some minutes. “Tell me, is she still having those headaches?”

  At this, Amanda raised herself up on one elbow. “I am right here in the room, Doctor,” she said tartly. “And I’m perfectly able to speak for myself.”

  The doctor jerked as though she had bitten him.

  “And, yes,” continued Amanda coolly, “I have been having headaches. In fact, I was experiencing one that was excruciatingly severe just before I blacked out.”

  “Bl—? Oh,” said the doctor, eyeing her warily. “How is your head now?”

  “It’s fine, except that I seem to be suffering from amnesia.”

  “Amnesia!” The doctor rose abruptly and stared at her.

  “Oh dear,” she continued, “you are familiar with the word, I hope?”

  “Of course, I am, but I would not expect to hear it on the lips of a person not educated in medicine.”

  “But, what does it mean?” interposed Serena shrilly. “Doctor, what is wrong with the girl? When she opened her eyes—in the church—she did not appear to recognize any of us.”

  “Well, yes,” the doctor replied in a harassed tone of voice. “That’s what amnesia means—a loss of memory.”

  “What?” shrieked Serena. “Are you saying ...?” She swung to Amanda. “Do you not recognize me, my love, your own dear mama?”

  “I’m afra
id not.” Amanda spoke soothingly, as to a distraught child. “It is as though I never saw you before.”

  “And Papa?” Serena continued faintly.

  Amanda shook her head. “And I am only aware of my own name because the maid—Hutchings, is it?—filled me in.”

  “Filled you in?” Serena asked vacantly.

  “Yes—explained,” said Amanda. Lord, she was going to have to watch her speech. Although, that was an odd circumstance, now that she came to think of it. She had recognized a difference in the timbre of her voice, but her accent was impeccably upper-class British. Curiouser and curiouser! She forced her attention back to “Mama” and the doctor.

  “But this simply will not do!” Serena was saying. “Lord Ashindon will be here soon. Oh, dear Lord, Amanda, never say you do not know who he is, either!”

  Amanda shook her head again. “To my knowledge, I never saw the man before this morning.”

  Serena moaned, and began to wring her hands. “Oh, dear, what will Mr. Bridge—” She paused abruptly and stiffened. “Amanda,” she said ominously, “are you telling the truth? If you are trying to hoax us in an effort to escape punishment—”

  “No, truly, er, Mama. Everything is strange to me—this room, the street outside, everything is as though I had just been born.”

  “Arrump!” The doctor cleared his throat portentously. “Perhaps,” he said with a significant glance at Serena, “we should let our little patient rest for a while. Perhaps some sleep and some reflection will bring her to herself. I think I shall not bleed her just yet,” he concluded judiciously, returning the glittering little instruments to his bag. “In the meantime”—the doctor’s bushy eyebrows waggled meaningfully—”if I could see you outside, madam.”

  “What?” Serena said absently. “Oh, of course. Mr. Bridge is waiting downstairs to speak with you, as well.”

  The two left the room, and Amanda hunched into the quilt. Bleed her! No way, she resolved furiously. She took several deep, calming breaths and closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to sleep. Surely, if she were to fall into a natural slumber she would awake refreshed and rid of this baffling malady. It had been years since she had availed herself of the services of a shrink, but she vowed that making an appointment would be her first priority on arriving back home in the States.