offended you,” he said quietly.
“Not in the least.” Kate forced her gaze to soften. “But you look tired. And I wish to go into the office and study my maps.”
“Your maps?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Tomorrow, if it is agreeable to you, I mean to send one of my grooms off on your black horse,” she said, “to poke about.”
“To poke about?”
“You’re not from here,” she said again. “Of that I’m certain. And it makes no sense to think you rode here from London, or even from Bristol. You certainly haven’t a carriage. So you must have come by train.”
He seemed to consider it. “Perhaps I was visiting somewhere,” he proposed, “and simply went out for a ride?”
She set her head to one side. “I think not,” she said. “You were carrying a greatcoat and a valise full of fresh linen.”
He grinned. “Poked through my smallclothes, eh?”
“I did,” she said. “I was looking for something, you see, that might identify you, for I was afraid—”
His face softened. “Afraid I mightn’t wake up again,” he said. “I’m sorry to have frightened you.”
“You certainly didn’t mean to,” she said a little stridently.
“No.” Fleetingly, he looked hopeful. “But you found nothing?”
She shook her head. “I fear not,” she replied. “But you do wear spectacles, and have a rather refined taste in reading. Tomorrow, when you’re looking more the thing, we’ll see if anything in it jogs your memory.”
“Yes.” He looked disheartened. “Yes, a good plan.”
“In the meantime,” she added, “my groom will visit the livery stables and country houses hereabouts, in greater and greater circles, until someone recognizes either the horse, or our description of a large, recalcitrant man who does not care to sleep when he’s told to do so.”
Thus chided, he drew the covers up to his chin again. “Killjoy,” he grumbled.
She lit the lamp, and turned it very low. “I will check on you again after dinner,” she said, “at which time I expect to find you insensate with sleep.”
He responded with a loud snorkk! with his eyes already closed.
Kate laughed, then returned to the door, pausing halfway out. “Good night, Edward.”
But he said no more; not until the door was shut.
Then, “Good night, Kate,” he said very quietly.
CHAPTER 4
Becoming Edward
E dward woke to the sounds of a house coming to life. For an instant, he wallowed deeper into the softness of his bed and attempted to push away reality. It didn’t work; he sat up on a shaft of uncertainty to find that in the faint light of morning, nothing looked familiar. Confused, he threw back the bedcovers and looked down at a nightshirt he didn’t recognize.
Indeed, he didn’t even own a nightshirt.
There it was again. Another obscure fact.
He did not own a nightshirt.
Reality began to trickle back—the preceding few hours of it, at least. On a sigh, Edward fell back into the bed again, drawing with him the lofty eiderdown and wool counterpane, both of which smelled of clean country air.
There was an odd sort of pleasure in coming awake in such a homey place, he realized. Though he felt a degree of uncertainty weighing him down, he also felt an odd sense of comfort and rightness about him, and the buoyant realization of having nowhere to be, and no obligations.
He likely oughtn’t get used to it. He surely must have obligations.
In fact, he knew he did. And one of them was rather pressing.
But what was it? Something flickered just on the edge of his conscious mind, like a pennant snapping in the wind. He could not reach it. Left with no alternative, he heeded the doctor’s advice and let the memory go, then stretched himself luxuriantly, like a cat stirring.
He could feel a good deal of soreness in his shoulder and ankle—bruises, perhaps—but nothing intolerable. And though his vision seemed not quite right, his head no longer hurt.
For a time, he lay simply listening to the house; to
“Not in the least.” Kate forced her gaze to soften. “But you look tired. And I wish to go into the office and study my maps.”
“Your maps?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Tomorrow, if it is agreeable to you, I mean to send one of my grooms off on your black horse,” she said, “to poke about.”
“To poke about?”
“You’re not from here,” she said again. “Of that I’m certain. And it makes no sense to think you rode here from London, or even from Bristol. You certainly haven’t a carriage. So you must have come by train.”
He seemed to consider it. “Perhaps I was visiting somewhere,” he proposed, “and simply went out for a ride?”
She set her head to one side. “I think not,” she said. “You were carrying a greatcoat and a valise full of fresh linen.”
He grinned. “Poked through my smallclothes, eh?”
“I did,” she said. “I was looking for something, you see, that might identify you, for I was afraid—”
His face softened. “Afraid I mightn’t wake up again,” he said. “I’m sorry to have frightened you.”
“You certainly didn’t mean to,” she said a little stridently.
“No.” Fleetingly, he looked hopeful. “But you found nothing?”
She shook her head. “I fear not,” she replied. “But you do wear spectacles, and have a rather refined taste in reading. Tomorrow, when you’re looking more the thing, we’ll see if anything in it jogs your memory.”
“Yes.” He looked disheartened. “Yes, a good plan.”
“In the meantime,” she added, “my groom will visit the livery stables and country houses hereabouts, in greater and greater circles, until someone recognizes either the horse, or our description of a large, recalcitrant man who does not care to sleep when he’s told to do so.”
Thus chided, he drew the covers up to his chin again. “Killjoy,” he grumbled.
She lit the lamp, and turned it very low. “I will check on you again after dinner,” she said, “at which time I expect to find you insensate with sleep.”
He responded with a loud snorkk! with his eyes already closed.
Kate laughed, then returned to the door, pausing halfway out. “Good night, Edward.”
But he said no more; not until the door was shut.
Then, “Good night, Kate,” he said very quietly.
CHAPTER 4
Becoming Edward
E dward woke to the sounds of a house coming to life. For an instant, he wallowed deeper into the softness of his bed and attempted to push away reality. It didn’t work; he sat up on a shaft of uncertainty to find that in the faint light of morning, nothing looked familiar. Confused, he threw back the bedcovers and looked down at a nightshirt he didn’t recognize.
Indeed, he didn’t even own a nightshirt.
There it was again. Another obscure fact.
He did not own a nightshirt.
Reality began to trickle back—the preceding few hours of it, at least. On a sigh, Edward fell back into the bed again, drawing with him the lofty eiderdown and wool counterpane, both of which smelled of clean country air.
There was an odd sort of pleasure in coming awake in such a homey place, he realized. Though he felt a degree of uncertainty weighing him down, he also felt an odd sense of comfort and rightness about him, and the buoyant realization of having nowhere to be, and no obligations.
He likely oughtn’t get used to it. He surely must have obligations.
In fact, he knew he did. And one of them was rather pressing.
But what was it? Something flickered just on the edge of his conscious mind, like a pennant snapping in the wind. He could not reach it. Left with no alternative, he heeded the doctor’s advice and let the memory go, then stretched himself luxuriantly, like a cat stirring.
He could feel a good deal of soreness in his shoulder and ankle—bruises, perhaps—but nothing intolerable. And though his vision seemed not quite right, his head no longer hurt.
For a time, he lay simply listening to the house; to
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