Chapter Eight

When she awoke, the first thing Virginia was aware of was pain. Her head hurt as though it had been struck by a hammer. Her limbs and back were heavy and sore. The light had gone, and she lay in the dark.

It wasn’t a dream. I am here in England.

A woman nodded in sleep by her bed. Virginia didn’t recognize her.

I have truly lost my memory. How long ago was the fire?

Terribly thirsty, Virginia was glad to see a glass of water on the nightstand. As she moved painfully to reach it, the woman in the chair woke with a start.

“Oh! You are awake! Lord Strangeways will be so relieved. I will send for him immediately.” She pulled the bell rope beside the bed. “I am Mrs. Welling, the housekeeper,” she said. “Mr. Tisdale has gone to London to fetch your aunt.”

“My aunt?” she said. “Who is Mr. Tisdale?”

“I am not precisely certain, but I believe he is your cousin. You share an aunt, Lady Ogletree.” She straightened the bedclothes and went on, “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry that this happened. I cannot even imagine what it would be like to lose your memory. The viscount says you are very brave.”

A footman answered the summons, and the housekeeper bade him to go for his lordship. In what seemed like mere moments, the man who had identified himself as Viscount Strangeways appeared. She noticed now that he was a handsome man—very tall with a tanned face, a one-sided smile, and kind brown eyes that were at odds with his rather severe countenance.

“You had a good sleep?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she answered. “Everything is inside out and upside down. Can you tell me what I am doing in England?”

Lord Strangeways looked so uncomfortable, she regretted her question.

“You have never told me what you are doing here, I’m afraid. It makes sense that your aunt and uncle are your guardians. Mr. Tisdale has gone to London for your aunt. I expect them to arrive soon.”

Virginia bit her lip. “What did the doctor say about my memory?”

“He can’t be certain, but he believes it will return soon.”

She tried to summon memories, but all that came were of what she knew now to be her past in Virginia. But now she was seeing that past as though it were through a veil. It no longer seemed immediate. Nevertheless, those memories hit her like a blow.

“These Ogletrees must be my guardians.” Her voice was small. With difficulty, she blinked back her tears. Her chest ached with a pain that had nothing to do with the accident. Virginia wished she could go back to sleep and the forgetfulness it would bring. However, she needed to determine what was going on in her life now. Crying wasn’t helping the situation.

Her self-talk was useless. Though she couldn’t remember anything since the fire, earlier memories visited her—Papa’s handsome face, creased with good humor; her mother’s gentleness and magnolia-cream skin; the stately halls of her plantation home; fields of cotton ready for harvest. And Mammy. What had happened to Mammy?

She became aware that the bandages covering her cheeks were sodden with tears. Lord Strangeways pressed a handkerchief into her hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “There was a terrible fire on our plantation. It burned our house and killed my parents.”

Slowly she pulled herself together. As she stopped weeping, the viscount took her hand in his. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I lost my father a year ago, and sometimes the grief is still fresh. I cannot imagine losing both of your parents, your home, and your country all at once.” He squeezed her hand, and she looked up into his face, knowing she must look absolutely hideous. “For what it’s worth,” he continued, “you have been putting on a brave front and seemed to be adapting well. I did not know of your loss but suspected it. I could not understand why else you would have fetched up here in the middle of a war between our countries.”

The war. Had the British burned her home? She recalled her anger. How ironic that she was in England! She dragged her thoughts into her present situation.

This man has told me that I am no one special to him, so why do I feel so drawn to him? Why is he holding my hand and taking such great care of me?

Virginia looked into his eyes. They were soft but searching. What was he looking for? Their gazes locked. Becoming very aware of the hand that held hers, she knew that, despite how she must look, the attraction she felt was not one-sided. Her grief lifted by the slightest amount.

“I must thank you for taking such very good care of me. I had no business going up in a balloon, but I am a bit of a daredevil, as we say in America.”

He smiled. “I had guessed that about you. What sorts of intrepid things did you do at home?”

“I rode steeple chases. That is very daring for a young lady in my country. I also hunt, and when I was younger, my parents couldn’t keep me from climbing trees.”

“It sounds like you had a happy childhood.”

“Very happy,” she reflected. Before she could start weeping again, she asked, “And what was your childhood like?”

“British boys of my sort go away to school when they are eight. But I had a lot of good friends. One of them is Sir Bertie, who is staying here now. He was up in the balloon with you.”

“You went away from home at eight? That sounds really hard.”

He shrugged, and she guessed that he wouldn’t share confidences easily with someone he didn’t know. Or maybe even with those he did know. He was an Englishman, after all.

“Do you have siblings?” she asked.

“My brother, Howie. He is younger than me by about ten years. He just came down from Oxford. He was in my balloon yesterday and is here also. Do you . . . did you have siblings?”

“No. It was a great disappointment to my parents.” She summoned a small smile. “I think they spoiled me rotten—particularly my father.” There was a little silence between them. “You say we rescued a dog together?” she said. “That sounds like a splendid adventure. Will you tell me about it?”

His eyes twinkled, and he smiled. “It was an adventure. There was a street urchin involved. He was beating this unprepossessing mutt, and you were beating him with your umbrella.”

“How did you come to be in the picture?”

“I came upon the scene as you were being roundly abused by the urchin.” He chuckled. “Between us we separated him from the poor creature and sent the fellow on his way.”

“And what became of this ‘poor creature’?” she asked. “Surely I didn’t take a dog up in the balloon!”

“Do you remember the little lady who gave you tea yesterday?”

“Yes. Though I don’t really recall her name.”

“Miss Braithwaite. She’s is a great eccentric. She has a giant tortoise named Henry Five, given her as a courting gift by the Duke of Devonshire many years ago. She also possesses the largest collection of beetles, possibly in the known world. Her companion, Lady Clarice, has the fattest Siamese cat you have ever seen. I knew that Mr. Hale, as you christened the mutt, would be a welcome addition to their household. They are very charitable and like to help anyone in need.”

“So they adopted Mr. Hale?”

“Yes. You did not think your aunt would welcome him.”

She smiled. “They sound like ladies I would like to know.”

“They feel the same way about you. They have already recruited you to work for them in their charities.”

For a moment their gazes locked again. Virginia found it difficult to breathe. Forcing herself to speak, she said, “I wonder where I came up with the name of Mr. Hale?”

“You said he was an American patriot. You were horribly smug about it, as a matter of fact.”

Nathan Hale?

At that moment a severe-looking lady dressed in a gray frock trimmed in pink sailed into the room, a short young man behind her. The current of intimacy between Virginia and the viscount disappeared.

“Virginia! You should never have had anything to do with that horrible balloon! I am certain your uncle would never approve. And now I understand that you have gone and lost your memory!” Her face was flushed in annoyance as she noted the bandages. “What have you done to yourself?” she demanded.

“You must be my Agletree,” she said.

“Oh, this is absurd,” the woman said. “Of course I am your aunt. And this is the Honorable George Tisdale, my nephew. How could you have lost your memory?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” she said. Virginia realized one thing for certain: she was not fond of her aunt.

The viscount had stood up when the woman walked into the room. “The physician reports that she should regain her memory soon, but presently she doesn’t remember anything after the fire that destroyed her home. She has cuts and abrasions on her face and a concussion.”

“Oh, dear,” Lady Ogletree said. “I do not suppose she can be moved, then.”

“It would not be a good idea,” said Lord Strangeways. “She is in a good deal of pain.”

He aunt sighed gustily. “What a bother, to be sure.”

“I can have a room made up for you here,” the viscount continued. “Come with me, please, your ladyship. Miss Livingstone needs quiet and a rest.” Turning back to Virginia as he ushered her aunt and Mr. Tisdale out the door, he gave her a broad wink.

For the next couple of days, Virginia slept a lot and was reintroduced to a duke and duchess of all things. It seemed, incredibly, that they were her friends.

“I know you are having trouble with your memory,” the beautiful black-haired Duchess of Ruisdell said. “But I hope you will soon remember that you are to come to my house for a literary luncheon. You were quite looking forward to it.”

The duchess was accompanied by the funny little woman with gray sausage ringlets who had fed her tea what must have been yesterday. She made a great to-do about checking Virginia from head to foot.

“I think this doctor can be trusted. His treatment seems sound,” she said.

They subsequently left, as had a bluff and hearty Lord Freddie—who could not stop apologizing to her—and a very kind Sir Bertie, who, she gathered, had been in the balloon with them.

Her bandages had been removed, leaving her feeling more human, and the pain in her head receded, though she still remained in bed, according to her doctor’s orders. Now that her aunt had arrived, however, Virginia received no more visits from the viscount as that lady did not think it proper.

Lady Ogletree was vexed that the story of the balloon mishap appeared in the society pages of The Morning Post, including the account of her amnesia. She spent her time tut-tutting about her niece’s bedroom, ensuring that Virginia knew what a bother this was and how many social engagements the lady was forced to miss.

On the fourth day after the accident, Virginia was allowed up for a while. It felt good to be dressed in her own clothes, which her aunt had brought. While she was sitting downstairs in the drawing room, reading the viscount’s copy of Punch by the lovely light of the French doors, the butler entered the room.

“You have a visitor from London, miss. A Mr. Sagethorn.”

Sagethorn? The name meant nothing to her. But then, it wouldn’t. Not with her memory gone.

As her aunt had gone into Deal with the viscount that morning to buy some embroidery floss, Virginia asked that the caller be brought in and that the door be left open. No doubt her aunt would disapprove, but she was getting bored and welcomed the company, whoever Mr. Sagethorn turned out to be.

Of course she did not recognize the man, but he was of medium height, dressed all in brown. He wore a short round hat rather than a top hat and had a very long and pointed nose. His skin was browned as though he spent time at sea. Other than that he was unremarkable in every way.

She stood upon his entry, offering her hand. “I am sorry. Do I know you? I have had an accident and don’t remember things perfectly.”

Mr. Sagethorn looked very pleased with this information, his eyes lighting up.

“Well, then,” he said. “I am sorry you have suffered an accident, but we had not met yet in any case. We do have a close association, however.” She heard the flat vowels of an American in his speech.

Her eyes grew round, and she looked at him keenly. “We do?” She had a feeling that Mr. Sagethorn was not of her aunt’s social position. His clothing was worn and his long hair tied back in the style of yesteryear. However, Virginia knew enough about herself to know she had been of Republican sympathies in America and therefore did not limit her acquaintances to people of her same financial status.

“Please sit down,” she invited him. “If you would be so kind, I would appreciate it if you would refresh my memory about this association.”

“Are we likely to be overheard?” the man asked, looking over his shoulder at the open door.

Virginia became alarmed. “Surely you can have nothing to say to me that is of a private nature.”

The man smiled, but it was a cold smile, and she was not reassured. His eyes were sharp, and his set jaw told of a determined frame of mind.

“You have done nothing to worry about,” he said. “As a matter of fact, you have been tremendously successful in our estimation.”

“Whose estimation?” she asked. Now her curiosity was piqued.

“I am speaking from the point of view of an American,” he said. “I am a countryman of yours.”

“Yes. That is easy to tell by your speech. But what are you talking about?”

“We instructed you to use your aunt and uncle’s position in society to meet anyone who might be of use to us in obtaining information about the enemy. The British are our enemy. You do remember that?”

Alarmed, she said, “Yes. But these people I am reacquainting myself with—they are not the enemy. They are my friends.”

The man began pacing in circles, his hands clasped behind his back. “You have also made the acquaintance of a Viscount Beau Wellingham. He works for the Foreign Office. Fortunately, you encountered his sister and befriended her almost from the first day of your residence here. Miss Saunders is known to be indiscreet.”

Her heart bounded in her chest, and her head injury throbbed. “I did?”

“And Viscount Strangeways is one of Lord Wellingham’s intimate friends.”

“He is?” She got up and darted to the front window to look out. No one was coming. Her palms became slippery with anxiety.

“He is.”

The man in brown certainly seemed more her enemy than her new friends. His character now appeared most unsavory. “You can’t be suggesting that I spy on these people!”

“I can see that I must brief you on your mission again. We need to know anything that could help us get the drop on the British forces in America. For instance, if and when an attack is planned on Washington. The war is going badly in the southeast. The British have taken much of the land along the Chesapeake.”

Now her stomach was churning. It went against everything in her to think of Lord Strangeways and his friends as people she had agreed to spy on. “How am I supposed to find that out? I am only social friends with these people, I would guess. I don’t even remember them. Even if I wanted to, how would I gain a knowledge of their most closely held secrets?”

“A woman such as yourself is in a very good position. You are close to Miss Arabella Saunders. She is the sister of Beau Saunders, as I said. Cultivate that friendship. Soon they will forget that you are an American. A word will be dropped here and there. Anything you hear about the war may be a help. But the greatest action you can perform is to gain access to Wellingham’s private study and go through his papers. It is known that he takes a leather folio home from the Foreign Office.”

How could she do this? How could she betray Lord Strangeways’s friend? She stood up again and felt dizziness overtake her. She swayed, and Mr. Sagethorn was at her side in an instant to catch her before she could fall.

“It is all right,” she said as the dizziness waned. Putting her hand to her head, she sat down once more.

You have lost your memory, but does that include losing your patriotism? Face it, Virginia. You seem to have tender feelings for Lord Strangeways. An English aristocrat! Unlike you in every way.

“I cannot believe anyone ever thought I would have value as a spy!” she said. “I am only a regular girl!”

A frown creased his forehead. “You were actually very enthusiastic about the idea. Can’t you remember how much you miss your home, your country?” His words sounded impatient.

A vision of Longwood, her plantation home, overtook her. Her memories of that time were certainly intact. She remembered the evening she spent at her home with Mr. Jefferson, whose plantation abutted her family’s, and the President and Mrs. Madison. The first lady had been gracious and on terms of the greatest intimacy with Virginia’s mother.

Her journal! She suddenly remembered that she had recorded that evening in particular for her posterity. What other things had she recorded? Did she have an account of her agreement to spy and the promises she had made? If so, was the journal back in London?

A carriage was pulling up into the drive. Virginia ran to the window once more.

“It is the viscount and my aunt! You must go!”

The man in brown took a card from his waistcoat pocket. “Send correspondence to me at this address. We are depending on you,” he said.

Then he let himself out the French doors. Greatly agitated, Virginia sank back into her chair and could do no more than stare.

Apparently I am a spy.

Her eyes connected with the portrait of a lovely woman over the stately mantel. Her classical dress indicated that she must be of an age to be the viscount’s mother. Virginia shivered. What was she going to do?