Chelsea slept very little during the night. She tossed and turned while she fought to block out the disturbing image of Blake making love to Elizabeth, as he must have done on their first night back together, reunited as husband and wife.
He must have gone to her bed and bestowed great pleasures upon her. He probably held her in his arms and promised never to leave her again, and assured her they would start fresh and settle back into the life he had promised her on their wedding day. Soon, he would become the man he had been before the loss of his memory and identity. He would convert back into the real Blake and leave behind the man she knew in Jersey, which in reality was nothing more than a fantasy. It was time for her to accept that.
The crowning glory of her sleepless night, however, came at dawn, when she was gifted with the unexpected arrival of her courses. She woke up with heavy cramps in her belly and discovered she was not going to be a mother. She was not carrying Blake’s child. She had never conceived.
It was a wonderful thing, she told herself miserably as she rose from bed, then washed, dressed, and went downstairs for an early breakfast. Blake would certainly be relieved. There would be no need for any further contact between them. He would never have to tell his wife about his infidelity and break her heart in the process.
In turn, Chelsea would be free to leave the palace straightaway, and he would be able to forget they ever knew each other. He would move on with his life, as if his ordeal on the Jersey coast had never occurred. He would simply remember it like a strange dream, as would she. She hoped.
She ate alone in the breakfast room, and decided she would speak to Blake about her condition that very morning. But since it was too early for any such conversations and no one seemed to be up yet, she returned to her room to fetch her notebook, and made her way outdoors to write for a short while.
She exited the palace and walked to the Italian Gardens, which she imagined would be restored one day. She stepped carefully around a number of holes and piles of dirt, looking down at the muddy puddles and dead flowers lying on the ground with their roots torn violently from the soil.
It was a metaphor of her life, she supposed—torn apart and devastated. The color was all gone, replaced by bleakness and chaos. Only the statue of Venus remained in the center of the fountain, lonely and forlorn, as she looked out over this lifeless terrain.
She stopped and hugged her notebook to her chest while looking up at the goddess’s melancholy expression, and remembered the colorful days in Jersey, when she and Blake went walking and riding on the beach. There had been so much passion and excitement. So much joy, laughter, and discovery.
She looked down at the desolated ground. One day all of this would come alive and grow again, and one day she would get over the shame of her actions, and these terrible feelings of loss. She would forget about Blake. She must forget him. There was no other choice.
Turning to find a quiet place in which to set her mind to prose, she ventured around the tall cedar hedge and arrived at a bench under a large oak tree. She sat down, opened her notebook, and withdrew a pencil from her pocket. She read over the last thing she had written.
“I thought I saw you come out here.”
Chelsea jumped at the unexpected appearance of another person so early in the morning, when she’d thought the family was still sleeping. It was Lord John, strolling toward her with his hands in the pockets of his fine, tailored overcoat. His blond hair seemed particularly light in the sunshine.
“Good morning,” she politely said. Although in her mind she grumbled about his arrival, for she only wanted to write, and she would not be able to do that with him sitting here, trying to engage her in light conversation.
He sat down beside her. She closed her notebook.
“I’m quite glad I found you, actually,” he said. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“I’ll do my best to answer them,” she replied.
He seemed intent on trying to decipher what she was thinking, and she found it somewhat intrusive, like a spider climbing up her arm.
“Do you believe it’s true,” he asked, “that my brother-in-law remembers nothing about his life? I find it difficult to comprehend.” There was suspicion and a hint of irritation in his tone.
“It is most remarkable,” she said. “There is no question of that. But from what I understand, it is a true medical condition. It’s called amnesia.”
“What causes it?”
“No one really knows for sure, and I believe every case is different. From what I have learned over the past few weeks, some experts say it can occur from a blow to the head, which is what our physician concluded when he took into account the physical trauma Blake suffered in the storm. But I understand it can also occur due to shock or emotional trauma.”
John squinted in the other direction. “Do the memories ever come back to a person who has lost them?”
“I believe so, in some cases,” she said. “In other cases, no. The person simply begins a new life without ever remembering the old. That is what Lord Blake has been doing all this time—starting a new life. Even though he has returned to his home and family, he doesn’t remember any of it. It is all new to him. He might never remember.”
John looked down at his shoes as he spoke. “Is there anything that can be done to cause a person to remember? Another blow to the head, for instance?”
She thought about what she had learned from the doctor. “I don’t think so. I certainly wouldn’t want to try it.”
He laughed. “No, we might end up killing the poor bloke.”
She did not find the notion amusing, however, especially when he spoke of it so lightly.
For a few minutes more they sat on the bench, listening to the birds chirping in the treetops. John glanced at her sideways once or twice, and she felt some discomfort in the way he studied her eyes. She wished he would leave. She wanted to write.
“Enlighten me if you will,” he said, turning his body more fully toward her. “What really happened between you and my brother-in-law in Jersey? Something tells me you did more than just save his life.”
The presumption in his eyes unnerved her, but she did her best to hide the fact. “I don’t know what you are referring to, Lord John.”
He leaned back. “Come now, Chelsea. I didn’t mention anything to my sister, but I do recall your tainted history. You’re no innocent. You’re quite a spitfire, if I remember the stories correctly. And Blake brought you back here without a chaperone. It’s hardly what one would call proper. You were lovers, weren’t you?”
She stood up and spoke with an aggression she could not suppress. “I don’t wish to continue this conversation. Good day, sir.” She walked away.
To her frustration, he followed. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Stay and talk to me. I’ll be your friend.”
“I don’t need a friend.”
“No? I think you do. Your lover is with his wife now, and you’re on your own. Why don’t you and I have a little fun? There’s nothing standing in our way.”
“Except my refusal of your offer.” She reached the tall hedge and stopped. “And what you heard about me happened a long time ago. I am no longer that foolish young girl. I am not interested in any kind of ‘fun’ with you or anyone else, so if you will excuse me…”
She turned to go, but he grabbed hold of her arms and pushed her into the thick green branches. Her notebook fell to the ground.
“Don’t be like that, you cheap little tart. Come here now. Stop that!”
She fought him with all the rage and fury that was bottled up inside her. After all that had occurred this week, she was overcome by it. She slapped at him and shoved him, and held nothing back as she screamed and kicked and pushed. “Let go of me, you animal! Don’t touch me!”
Chelsea slapped him across the face, which only incensed him further and caused him to push her deeper into the hedge. A sharp branch scraped her cheek. Bits of green cedar broke off and rained down on her head while she struggled and fought and spit in his face. Then at last she pushed him hard enough to send him flying backward out of the hedge and onto the grass.
“You bitch,” he growled.
“And you are a disgusting maggot,” she replied, bending down to pick up her notebook. “Don’t ever come near me again. Do you understand? If you do, I swear I will drive my pencil through your heart.”
She turned and walked quickly around the hedge, found her way back to the Italian Gardens, and was soon running up the palace steps to safety.
Back at the hedge, John rose to his feet. He tasted blood on his lip and wiped it with the back of his hand, then reached into his breast pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.
He had thought she would be easier than that. If he had known she would be such a fighter, he wouldn’t have made the attempt.
Then again, she had certainly aroused him with her grit. He liked spirit in a woman. Perhaps he would try again.
Feeling somewhat depleted from the struggle, he decided to return to the bench, where he could sit for a few minutes and wait for his lip to stop bleeding, but before he reached the spot, he noticed a dark figure peer out from behind the oak tree, then retreat out of sight.
Had someone witnessed what just happened? A servant perhaps? A member of the family who liked to rise early? That was just what he did not need.
Deftly, he made his way closer, then swung himself around the tree trunk to confront the unwelcome spectator. He had already made his mind up to persuade whoever it was to keep his or her mouth shut, no matter what the cost.
But it was no servant or member of the family, which helped him to breathe easier.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” he asked. “I suppose you saw what just happened.”
“I did,” his sister replied, looking none too pleased. “You are a monster, John. You always were. I should tell my husband what you tried to do to Lady Chelsea. You had no right.”
He moved to the bench, sat down and dabbed his lip with the handkerchief. “Yes, you should tell him. If you were a proper wife, you would, but you won’t, because if you did such a ludicrous thing, I would tell him all about your sordid circumstances, not to mention the root of our family’s illustrious fortune—in particular Father’s interest in wicked little plants. You wouldn’t want that to happen, now would you?”
Her lips pulled together in a tight line. “Maybe I would. Maybe I would like to see you dig your own grave, John. Then at least you would get what you deserve.”
She walked off then, striding past him in a huff and making her way back to the palace.