Anne Barbour Page 6

  “Oxford Street. But it isn’t all that easy, miss. You’ll have to eat breakfast first—downstairs. You’ll have to call for the carriage, and you’ll need t’send a footman on ahead to roust out the verger.”

  “Fine. You take care of all that and meet me in the downstairs hall in an hour.”

  Hutchings had more objections to the plan, but by the time she had assisted her mistress into a gown of pale blue lutestring, embellished with rows of lace ruching at neckline and sleeves, Amanda had managed to stem the flow.

  Obtaining, at last, a grudging agreement to her plan, Amanda descended the long, curving staircase to the dining room, which, to her vast relief, was empty. A footman stood at the ready near a sideboard laden with steaming breakfast delicacies, and after she had loaded her plate, the young man poured coffee from a silver um and placed it reverently by her side at the table.

  She ate in thoughtful silence, and at the prescribed hour hastened into the hall to be met by Hutchings with pelisse, bonnet, gloves, and reticule. Hurriedly donning these articles, she moved to the door, and had almost made good her exit when a shrill voice from above caused her to falter.

  “Amanda! What are you doing? Where do you think you’re going?”

  Amanda swung about, a bright smile pinned to her lips.

  “Why, good morning, Mama. It’s so lovely today, I have decided on some early shopping today.”

  “Shopping!” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Now, see here, Amanda, we will have no more of your tricks. You will march right back up to your room, this instant. I want you well rested before we start receiving calls.”

  “Calls?”

  “Well, of course.” Serena sighed in exasperation. “The servants will probably have been talking already, and news of your—indisposition will have spread all over Mayfair. We shall no doubt have a steady stream of visitors, and you must be ready to receive them.”

  “How am I to do that when I don’t know any of them?”

  “I’m sure you will recall their faces when you see them—and I shall be here to give you countenance. You can’t hide away forever, after all.”

  Amanda placed little reliance on the benefits of Serena’s support, but the woman was right. There was no telling how long this hallucination thing was going to last, and she might as well face up to whatever—or whoever—it would bring. “Very well, Mama, I shall return shortly, and present myself at—what time can we expect the onslaught?”

  “Not until after luncheon, but—”

  “Well, then, I have plenty of time, haven’t I?” She waved a cheery hand and turned to depart.

  “Amanda, I insist that you return to your room!”

  But she spoke to the empty air, for Amanda had pushed Hutchings outside and, exiting herself, shut the door firmly behind her. As the waiting carriage pulled away, Amanda turned her head and waved cheerily to Serena, who stood on the steps, frustrated affront apparent in every line of her plump body.

  Some minutes later she stood before the Grosvenor Chapel. It was rather unimpressive, as London churches went, being foursquare and built of brick, with a tall, spare, New Englandish steeple. Inside, the chapel was not dark at all, the walls being painted white and spaced with a profusion of windows. It reminded her a little of the interior of Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg. As before, she was alone in the church, except for Hutchings and the footman who had accompanied them. Instructing these persons to wait outside, she moved to the pew in which she had been seated at the moment of her remarkable—episode. That’s what they called it in medical terminology, didn’t they? She sat down gingerly and, leaning her head against the smooth, dark wood of the pew, she closed her eyes.

  All right, now. Relax. Make your mind go blank. Think only of returning to your proper place in time and space. You are a cloud. You are—

  She opened her eyes with a jerk as a door slammed behind her, followed by the sound of a long stride up the side aisle.

  “Now, what the devil are you up to?”

  She swung about, her mouth dropping open.

  “Lord Ashindon!”

  “You must know it will do you no good to play the innocent with me.” The earl glanced around the church. “Been stood up again, have you?” he inquired nastily.

  Amanda had been about to favor him with an amiable greeting and the explanation she had earlier ladled out to Hutchings, but at his words she shot to her feet. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way, you overbearing oaf! You have nothing to say about where I go or why. Now, why don’t you buzz off?”

  If she had dashed a cup of coffee in his face, his expression could not have been more startled. It took him only a moment, however, to recover.

  “I have every right to talk to you like that. We are betrothed, and—”

  “The fact that we are betrothed does not give you the right to rag at me like a disapproving parent. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  He smiled unpleasantly. “Why, I was carrying out my obligations as a devoted fiancé, presenting myself for an early morning call. Imagine my surprise when I observed my betrothed leaving her house at an exceedingly fast clip. Imagine my further surprise to find her apparently embarked on another assignation.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Amanda coldly. “I am not here to meet anyone. I merely wished to medi—that is, to find a little peace and quiet in which to heal my, er, disordered mind.”

  Lord Ashindon’s dark brows slanted upward in disbelief.

  “Ah-huh. One would, of course, choose for such a purpose the inconvenience of a distant church over the solitude of one’s bedchamber, or even an early morning stroll in the park.”

  “Yes, one would,” snapped Amanda, “Particularly if one were trying to create the same set of circumstances that led to one’s brain disorder in the first place. Now, if you’ll go away and let one alone, one would very much appreciate it.”

  To her surprise, the earl loosed a bark of laughter. “Oh, no, I don’t think I can do that. Judging from your mama’s display of indignation on the front steps of your house as I passed, you will be in for a severe hair-combing when you get back. Much better if you arrive at the old homestead in my company.” Without waiting for a response, he slid a hand under Amanda’s elbow and lifted her, without effort, to her feet. “By the by,” he continued, his tone all bland innocence, “was the treatment efficacious?”

  “Effica—Oh. No, of course it wasn’t. As you must know, I had barely sat down when you barged in. And, thank you, I do not wish to return home just yet. Oh, very well,” she conceded, noting the unpromising set of his jaw. “I can see that I shall get no peace here. I shall leave, but not with you, thank you. I—I want to do some shopping.”

  “Excellent. I shall accompany you.”

  Without giving her a chance to utter the protest that boiled visibly on her lips, Ash steered her out of the church and into his waiting curricle. Instructing Hutchings and the footman to return to the Bridge residence and to inform Mrs. Bridge that her daughter was in the unexceptionable hands of her betrothed, the earl set his horses in motion.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” responded Amanda with some asperity. “You know, of all the high-handed jerks I’ve ever known—and I’ve known quite a few—you really top the list, my lord.”

  “Jerks?” repeated Ash. “The term is unfamiliar to me, but I think I would be deluding myself to consider it in any way complimentary.”

  “You would,” said Amanda shortly.

  Having swung from North Audley Street into Oxford Street, Ash brought the curricle to a halt. “Since you have nothing specific in mind, I propose that we stroll for a bit. We shall peer in the windows like bumpkins just up from the country, and if you see anything that strikes your fancy, we can then consider a purchase or two.”

  “Fine.” responded Amanda dispiritedly. “Only, I have no money.”

  Ash eyed her languidly. “How can this be? The daughter of the
Brass Bridge without funds?” He stopped abruptly in the act of assisting her from the curricle, so that her hands remained imprisoned in his. “Please forgive me,” he said, his voice harsh. “That was inexcusable. I do not know how I came to be so maladroit.”

  Ash realized that it was his own self-loathing that had given voice, but that did not make his words any less hurtful. To his surprise, she displayed no discomfiture, merely shrugging her shoulders as she attempted to disengage her hands from his tightly clenched fingers. With an exclamation, he released her.

  “Is that what they call him?” she asked, her voice a cool shower on his seething emotions. He nodded reluctantly.

  “How very apt,” was all she said, and Ash stared at her. The Amanda he knew would have been swooning at his feet by now in outraged indignation at this vulgar insult to her parent.

  He drew her toward a building that proclaimed itself to be Pickett’s Gold and Silversmith. “Not precisely a genteel establishment,” he said, “but perhaps you might see something to please you. At the risk,” he added, driven by a scarcely acknowledged desire to throw her off stride, “of further descending into gaucherie, I do have money with me—my own. I have so far not availed myself of your papa’s largesse.”

  Her eyes lifted to his, startled, before she relaxed into a warm chuckle in which he joined her a moment later. He noted with some bemusement that this was the first time he had been able to look at his predicament with even the faintest touch of humor.

  Inside Pickett’s establishment, after a judicious perusal of the wares, Amanda selected a necklet of beaten gold inlaid with pearls. They continued their stroll, and it was not until she found herself in additional possession of a charming porcelain shepherdess, an airy zephyr scarf, and a box of comfits that they made their way to the curricle, which had trailed behind them in the capable hands of Ash’s tiger.

  As Ash put out a hand to assist Amanda into the vehicle, a small personage bustled up to them.

  “Vi’lets, guv’nor? Vi’lets for yer lydey?”

  Ash gestured impatiently, but the flower woman was not to be put off.

  “Come now, guv. Ye mustn’t take yer lydey home wivout a token o’your affection.” She thrust her bouquet under Ash’s nose. Amanda, watching the proceedings with some amusement, started suddenly. She was sure she had seen the old lady somewhere before. She looked at her intently, noting the drifts of gray hair that escaped her shabby head covering, the cracked spectacles, the cheeks, round and red and hard as little apples. My God, she was the spitting image of the old man in the chapel!

  Chapter Six

  “Please—” Amanda choked, clutching the old woman’s sleeve.

  Ash glanced at her, his brows lifted in surprise. “Would you like some violets? Truly?” He fished in his waistcoat pocket for a coin, and, plucking the flowers from the woman’s veined hand, proffered them to Amanda with a flourish. She grasped them absently without looking at them. Her whole being was focused on the flower woman, who cocked her head with an impudent smile. Her eyes, clear and youthful and black as coal chips, twinkled mischievously.

  “How yer gettin’ on, then, dearie?” she asked in a voice like a creaky hinge. “Don’t yer look loverly, though, in yer new togs.”

  My God, thought Amanda, excitement surging through her. She knows! She knows who I am, and that I’m .. .

  “Please,” she said again. “Tell me—”

  But the flower woman shook her head, and with another insouciant smile turned to hobble away.

  “No!” cried Amanda. “Don’t go.”

  “Hang in there, dearie,” the old lady called over her shoulder. “It’ll get better.” With a wave of her hand, she disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians thronging Oxford Street.

  Amanda felt as though her legs would no longer hold her up and she swayed against the earl’s tall form.

  “What is it, my dear?” he asked, catching her in his arms. “Are you unwell?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I feel sick. Could you please take me home now?”

  Without another word, he lifted her into the curricle and in a few moments they sped along Oxford Street in a westerly direction. Amanda’s thoughts whirled in chaos. Who was that old woman? And what was the significance of her appearance? Was she the physical manifestation of some deep-seated unpleasantness in her brain? She had to be connected somehow with the hallucination, Yet—she had not yet entered her hallucination when she met the old man in Grosvenor Chapel, and, surely, his resemblance to the woman she had just seen could not be coincidental.

  She looked up to find Ash watching her with some concern, and she essayed a not entirely successful laugh. “You must think me a complete ninny.”

  “Of course not.” He smiled crookedly, and her heart gave an unexpected lurch. “Although, I have never before observed such a startling aversion to violets.”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “It was the flower woman. She—” Amanda clamped her lips shut. Lord, how she wished she could confide in him. She very badly needed some input into her predicament beyond her own demented reflections, but he would think her completely bonkers. “She reminded me of someone,” she finished lamely.

  “I see.” His expression gave away nothing of his feelings, and to her relief he changed the subject. “We spoke yesterday of the Marchford ball. Do you still wish to go? I had the idea that your mother was forcing your hand. If you still have no memory by that time, perhaps you will experience some difficulty with such a social occasion.”

  Amanda’s heart sank. When the ball had been discussed yesterday, she was sure she would be herself by now and returned to her own time. Lord, she couldn’t possibly go to a party. Not only would she make a complete fool of herself with young Amanda’s acquaintances, but she didn’t know how to dance the minuet, or whatever was in vogue right now. Was the waltz in yet? She could probably manage that, but anything that involved changing partners and dosey-doe-ing, or whatever, would be far beyond her.

  On the other hand, she had already decided to receive visitors this afternoon, so by the time the day of the ball arrived, she would either have been accepted as the young Amanda, or she would be considered a candidate for the looney bin. She’d better get herself back to the Bridge ménage for some serious coaching. She thought for a moment before straightening her shoulders.

  “Of course. I plan to go to the rout. Mama would be seriously disappointed if I did not. I’ll just have to manage, somehow.”

  * * * *

  Sometime later, Amanda stood in her room facing Hutchings, whom she had just summoned to her presence.

  “Hutchings.” she began, “it is time to rally round your poor demented mistress. I am scheduled to make a personal appearance this afternoon in the drawing room. Where, so Mama informs me, I shall be receiving visitors. I need your help.” She continued hastily in response to Hutchings’ unpromising stare. “My memory is still among the missing, and if I am not to make a complete fool of myself, to say nothing of Mama and Lord Ashindon, I need some serious coaching.”

  “I see,” said Hutchings slowly. “You want me to tell you the names of your friends?”

  “Yes. I am going to limp along with my tale of a bump on the head and my subsequent loss of memory, which, I devoutly hope, will help explain most of my lapses, and I figured that if you could provide me with descriptions, personal habits, and that sort of thing, I might be able to muddle through.”

  “I’ll try, miss,” said Hutchings dubiously. “First, there is Charlotte Twining.”

  Amanda frowned. “That name sounds familiar. Oh—is she the one I’m feuding with?”

  “Yes. Two weeks ago, the Viscount Glendenning danced twice with you at Lady Beveridge’s ball and only once with her. She is your age, a little taller than you. She is a blonde, too, but her hair is lighter—and frizzier, and she is not nearly so pretty as you.

  “Your next best friend is Cordelia Fordham. She is plump and has a long pink-tipped nose that makes he
r look a little bit like a nice white rat. She thinks you are quite wonderful, and in her eyes you can do no wrong. You and she shared a drawing master last year and Miss Cordelia fancied herself in love with him. Her mama and papa, of course ...”

  The lesson went on at length, until Hutchings, glancing at Amanda’s bedside clock, declared it was time for her mistress to dress for luncheon.

  Amanda had decided by now that if she truly had the designing of her own fantasy, she would have eliminated the necessity of being dressed by another person. She found the whole process distasteful in the extreme, even given the fact that the gowns she wore were apparently fashioned so that one could not possibly climb into them alone. Each had a number of fastenings, mostly in the back and mostly inaccessible.

  Hutchings helped to choose a gown of pomona green French cambric. It had short puffed sleeves, as did most of her garments, and was lavishly embroidered in a floral motif. When she was dressed, Hutchings, perhaps feeling that her mistress needed additional fortifying, devised yet another hairstyle, this time parting Amanda’s hair smoothly in the middle and allowing a cascade of curls to fall on either side of her ears.

  “There, miss, if you don’t look a treat,” breathed Hutchings worshipfully. Amanda thought the hairstyle made her look like a simpering Victorian, but forbore to mention this, particularly since the phrase would mean nothing to Hutchings. Aside from that, she was forced to admit once more that this new Amanda was an absolute knockout. The color of the gown brought out the satiny cream color of her skin, and her curves were artfully delineated by its slim design.

  “Tell me,” Amanda said thoughtfully, “if my daddy’s rich, and I’m so good-lookin’, why am I not married at the ripe old age of twenty-two?”

  “Well, you could have been married any number of times, miss. There was Henry Tuttle, when you were eighteen. He wrote poems about you.”

  “And, did I return Henry’s affection?”

  “Oh, yes. You would have married him in a minute, for he was ever so handsome, but your papa wouldn’t have it.”