| |
“Clara, hello!” Frederick said, as he came into the kitchen now.
“Hello, Frederick,” she said, still unsure of what to make of Lady Pemblebrooke. He sat beside her, inviting himself to some of the soup that she was eating. He ladled a bowlful of the thick broth punctuated by dollops of vegetables. Clara's own bowl lay half uneaten in front of her and she couldn't help, but feel the murkiness of the soup crowd in among her own thoughts.
“Some hidden message in your soup?” he asked, a smile on the verge of escaping from his lips but not quite breaking through.
“Hmm?” she said, looking up now.
“You were staring at your soup,” he explained.
“I was just trying to figure something out.”
“Well, maybe I can help,” he said, as he shoveled in mouthfuls of soup. Frederick seemed never able to have his fill, despite the amount he ate.
“Bit bland,” he said, when he had devoured the bowl in a span of a few moments.
“You don't like it?” she said. Despite eating hers at a fraction of the pace, she always found Emma's food to be remarkable. She didn't think it was solely because Emma's food was all she could remember.
“I like more spice, but I guess we must wait for that. Now what is it that's on your mind, Clara?” Her eyes moved from the soup to his expectant face now.
“I am confused about Lady Pemblebrooke,” she said.
He leaned in, resting his strong angular face against the palm of his hand as he balanced on the table with his elbow.
“What about her?”
“Her mourning.”
A look of surprise crossed his face.
“What is so confusing about her mourning her husband?”
“Her husband?” Clara said quickly, her eyes gone wide.
“Yes, who did you think she was mourning?”
“England.”
“England? But, England is not dead. We are here, are we not?”
“We are, but Emma said she was mourning for England.”
“Emma, no doubt, said that in deference to Lady Pemblebrooke's assertion that her husband embodied all that England is. She felt she was losing her country.”
“I see,” she said, though really she did not understand at all but Frederick spoke as if all of this were common knowledge. What he said next sent her frayed nerves into a disturbed state.
“You were here when it happened. Do you not remember?”
“When— it happened?” she stammered.
“Yes, when Lady Pemblebrooke received the telegram that he had died. No doubt, you remember the nightmares that set in—how she calls to him in the night?”
“So, it is not just the wind?” she said, quickly.
“Oh dear,” Frederick said, his eyes growing darker.
“What is it?” she said, her fingers tensing in her fear at discovering what next he would say.
“You don't remember, then?”
A new look spread across his features, replacing his surprise, but Clara's memory could find no label for it. She sat nearly at the edge of the chair.
“Tell me,” she said, in near desperation.
“We had this conversation before.”
“This very one?” she asked, her voice now trembling.
“We did.”
“When?” she asked, reaching out to grip his arm in earnest.
“Oh Clara,” he said, softly.
“What is it?” she said, now frantic.
“We've had this conversation so many times before, each day when you visit Lady Pemblebrooke.”
“Each day?” Dread clawed at her skin, sending a wave of panic over her. She struggled for the surface, to break free of its grip. As if someone had just thrown her a rope, she remembered something from their conversation earlier.
“Then, why did you ask me if I had met her before?”
“Because, each day I hope that today you will remember.”
The rope slipped from her grasp, burning her hands as it tore her skin raw. A wave, larger than the last, erupted over her and dragged her down in its current. She struggled to break free, fighting desperately to breathe. Perhaps, she was going about it wrong. Struggling against the oppressive weight was only burying her more deeply. If she gave in, instead of fighting, she could find out what had happened. She could vow that this time she would remember.
“Today I will remember,” she said, with all the courage she could muster and all the resolve of a general at war. A peculiar look played around the corner of his eyes.
“Tell me,” she urged.
“You have said that before.” A new wave threatened to tow her under, but she dug her feet firmly into the shore.
“Help me remember,” she said. He sat back against the chair, settling in to tell her what she perceived would be a long story.
“You are sure? It won't be too painful?”
“Please, I need to know.” He studied her carefully, weighing her fragility against her request. Having decided to do as she implored, he nodded his head slightly in affirmation. His eyes moved from side-to-side, recalling everything that had happened.
“I suppose I should start at the beginning.”
“Yes,” she said, hoping her shaking nerves that rattled her stomach ajar would not betray her and make themselves known to him.
“You were in an accident in Silvertown and the factory— ”
“That part I remember,” she interrupted. She did not wish to curtail his story, but she feared that in order to remain calm she would be unable to hear the terrible beginnings.
“Well then, Harold, Emma's brother, brought you here in hopes that you might recover your memory. Also, he knew it to be a hospitable place and that we would look after you. Well, I say we, but I was not yet here.”
“Oh?” she said, sitting forward.
“I thought—”
“Yes?”
“I thought that you had grown up here.” He said nothing, shifting his thoughts from one side to the other until they had arranged themselves properly at last.
“Then, you don't remember that part either?”
She had no idea what he was going to say and so shook her head no. Frederick sat back and shut his eyes briefly before reopening them. Their brown held the depths of what he was about to divulge to her. Frederick said nothing and she felt like a cat waiting for the string to be dangled before her nose, so that she might leap at it and having caught it bask in all the satisfaction it warranted.
“Go on, please,” she urged, feeling the anticipation growing steadily. Frederick's eyes narrowed in concentration and he looked at her so hard she felt he must be drilling a hole through her.
“Perhaps, it is too much,” he said.
“What is too much?”
“To tell you all of it now.”
“Is there a lot, then?”
“There is,” he said. He nodded, as Clara's heart beat swifter.
“You must tell me!” she said now. Her desperation having got the better of her, she was unable to contain this last plea for information. The back legs of the chair lifted from the floor now, propelling her forward and closing the gap between them.
“I am concerned for you, Clara.”
“Whatever for?” she asked, becoming aware that her anxiety had perhaps marked itself upon her face and aimed to betray her now. She steadied herself on the chair and made a conscious effort to place her shoulders back now, realizing that they had raced forward to hear the news. A burden of tension eased, as she moved them and she felt herself breathe more naturally. Surely, such acts would aid her cause and present a better portrayal of herself. Though her stomach churned tempestuously, her mind acted as arbiter and declared that Clara would be calm. She knew that she must be, if she were to regain any iota of her memory and her person in so doing.
She was content in her life at Rosebrim Manor with Emma and the others. She was content, but not happy. For happiness rests in identity, in security of self. How could she feel that serenity of joy, when memory failed her and she was unable to conjure the images of the faces of loved ones? And while it was exciting to discover anew the scents of flowers, the sound of the rain on the windowpane, and the taste of each dish, there was also a feeling of loss stemming from the inability to remember her favorite flavor of tart or her most cherished childhood dream. There was a perpetual process of reinvention of self at all times and, while there are certain nice components involved in such an experience, it was also more taxing. No matter the burden now, though, Clara had decided that she must have the truth.
“I fear there may be too much for you to hear and that you will be unprepared for it.”
“Have I done something horrible?” she asked suddenly, clutching the table. And then realizing that she was being counterproductive in her attempt to convince him of her hardiness, she forced herself to relax and relinquish her hold on the table. He shook his head no.
“I should say not. At least, not that I am aware of. And, I should know.”
“Oh?”
He looked at her again, judging how much to reveal.
“We were close?” she asked, when he had not yet answered. He nodded slowly.
“We were.”
“Then,” she cocked her head to one side, trying to remember what he had told her earlier in the conversation. A light flickered in Frederick's eyes at the observation that she was remembering something or forming a hypothesis from the pieces. He couldn't yet be sure which it was. Clara's eyes shifted from one side to the other, as she attempted to reconcile what she knew.
“You and I knew each other before you came here?”
Now, it was Frederick's turn to sit forward.
“Then, you do remember?”
Clara pressed her palms to her temples, attempting to dislodge any stray and useful information. When she said nothing after a few moments, he fell back in his chair, exhibiting all the despondency of one who has had his dreams dashed. Not wanting to disappoint her friend and feeling she had, she shut her eyes as she continued to search for answers.
“Perhaps, that should be all for tonight,” he said.
“Oh please, don't give up on me,” she pleaded in earnest. Frederick shifted in his chair.
“It's not that I wish to give up on you, only that I fear it is too strenuous.”
“Is it tiring you terribly?” she asked, feeling the heavy burden of disappointing another, especially one endeavoring to assist.
“It's not for myself I worry, but for you.”
“Oh really, I'm fine. I feel we are on the verge of discovering my memory. We can't stop now. It may be in a treasure box just below the surface and if we give in with only a few inches of topsoil covering the lid it would be such a pity, such a disastrous tragedy.” She had committed herself fully and spoke with all the conviction and passion that those true treasure hunters must have exercised in front of the royal courts in the times of the great explorers when the world was still divided into the hemispheres of “old” and “new”.
“All right,” he said at last, consenting to her determination, “but perhaps, a cup of tea will help.”
“Oh yes, of course,” she said, nearly bolting from the chair to prepare the tea. Time seemed an especially scarce commodity to Clara.
“Emma always says tea can help solve all problems,” she called over her shoulder to him. Then, excitedly, she turned to him and said,
“I guess my memory is improving. I've remembered what she says!” He smiled at her, pleased that she was progressing, though with that look of wariness around the eyes most frequently worn by skeptics.
“You think a lot of her, don't you?” he asked now, as she sat to join him with the tea.
“Who? Emma? Why certainly. Why shouldn't I?”
“No reason,” he said, but he would not meet her eyes as he answered.
“You take issue with her?” she asked, not realizing that any animosity existed between members of the staff.
“We have our differences,” he said simply, dismissing her statements and sweeping them away into oblivion. She sensed that he did not wish to speak further on the issue and so she turned the conversation back to where they were.
“Where did we know each other?”
“London.”
“We are both from there?”
He nodded.
“And, you said we were close. Did we know each other long?”
“We did.”
Clara's eyes lit up and she took hold of his arm abruptly.
“I know what it must be!”
“Yes?” he said, sitting forward and prompting her to continue.
“You are my brother!”
The happiness that descended over her nearly broke his heart.
“No, Clara, I'm not,” he said, gently.
“Oh— I had hoped you were.”
“You see me as such?”
“Oh yes,” she said, strengthening her grip on his arm.
“I see,” he said, sadly.
“What is it, Frederick? Tell me. How do we know each other?”
He took in a deep breath and looked into her eyes.
“Clara, we're engaged.”