She couldn’t recall how to cook creamed eggs, but she was supposed to know how to prepare pheasant? Dear God, she didn’t even know how to heat the stove.
She nibbled on the dry toast. She liked it with more butter, so where would she find that? In the icebox, she supposed. Sliding off the hard-backed wooden chair, she wondered if a more uncomfortable piece of furniture existed in all of Christendom. She could not be expected to sit in it for every meal. It required pillows. She required pillows. Softness, comfort. Why would anyone settle for less?
She wandered over to the wooden box, released the latch, opened the door, and screeched.
The bird stared accusingly at her.
Slamming the door closed, she stepped back, her breathing harsh and shallow. It was dead, she knew it was dead, but it still possessed its eyes, its entire head. She couldn’t cook something that had the ability to glare at her, to make her feel guilty about preparing it.
Drake Darling was going to have to make do with something else for dinner, because she had no desire whatsoever to touch that creature. Shivering, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, then wished she hadn’t because the material itched. It was incredibly stiff and scratchy. She thought of Mr. Darling’s shirt—how soft it had been—and she longed to be wrapped in it once more. She didn’t care that it was his. The linen was much more to her liking. She would put it on as soon as he left this evening.
As for dinner, well, it was late morning so she had several hours to decide how she would handle that. Bread and butter perhaps. Only retrieving the butter meant dealing with the pheasant’s beady eyes again. Bread only then.
The man needed to hire a cook. She could not be expected to manage the house and the kitchen, although apparently she had. She sank back down onto the chair. None of this made sense, none of it felt right.
She supposed she could sit here all day in the uncomfortable chair, pondering, but perhaps he had the right of it. Once she began seeing to her duties, everything would fall into place.
Rising, she glanced around for her apron. She peered behind doors, examined the pantry, looked into drawers. It was not to be found. In her bedchamber perhaps. As she was truly in no hurry to begin scrubbing and polishing, she ambled through the hallways and rooms, searching for anything familiar. She failed to find it as well, but she could see the potential in the rooms, imagined the furniture that should inhabit each one, the paintings that would delight, the sculptures that would add ambiance. How did she know art?
Where was she before she came to work for him? Who was her family? Did she still see them? Did she send them her wages? How much did she earn? Obviously not much when her clothing was so terribly prickly and didn’t fit quite right.
She wandered up the stairs and came to a stop outside Darling’s bedchamber. He was sleeping in the massive bed. Was it appropriate for her to be alone in the residence with him? Did no one care about her reputation?
The longer she was awake, the more she wondered, the more questions arose. She carried on down the empty hallway, her footsteps echoing between the walls. He needed carpets, wall hangings, something to absorb the sound. She couldn’t be expected to creep around all day. Still, she lightened her footfalls. As he had apparently saved her from drowning, she supposed she should show more consideration.
Walking into her bedchamber, she was once again taken aback by the simplicity of it and lack of anything personal. Sitting on the edge of the cot, she was struck by how hard it was. Surely she should remember sleeping on it. On the other hand, its discomfort was cause for not remembering.
Reaching down, she examined each piece of clothing that seemed to be awaiting her inspection. None of it seemed to be to her taste. Other than the fact that everything was quite plain, it was not made to her standards. Sitting back, she stared into space. What precisely were her standards?
Her head began to ache. Blast it all! Not remembering was quite a nuisance. She couldn’t imagine where else she might have placed an apron. Had she been wearing it last night when she’d tumbled into the river? Had Darling tossed it with the remainder of her ruined clothing?
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though she was going to get filthy with her chores. As far as she could tell, she didn’t have a great deal to keep her busy. Dust, he’d told her. She’d begin in the library where furniture and shelves would attract motes and cobwebs.
After returning to the kitchen, where she found a rag, she went to the library. In spite of the room’s sparse furnishings, it contained a masculine quality. She could see him working behind the large, dark desk, his head bent in concentration as he wrote diligently in ledgers. The lamp on the desk would cast a glow over his work. Did he seek her advice on matters? Did he care about her opinion? She couldn’t see herself not offering it if she had one.
Edging around the desk, she sat in the thick leather chair and sighed with pleasure. Lovely. Just like his bed. It seemed he didn’t skimp on his own comfort. In the future she would take her meals in here. Or perhaps she would eat in his bed.
She furrowed her brow. She’d eaten in bed before. Probably when he wasn’t here. She could get away with a lot when he wasn’t about. If she cleaned up after herself he would never know that she made use of his possessions.
Walking over to the shelves, she slapped the rag halfheartedly at the shelves that were empty of everything except dust. She couldn’t say much for her housekeeping skills, although to be fair she found it rather difficult to take battling dirt seriously. No joy was to be found in the action. No fun. However had this become her life?
She narrowed her eyes as an image flashed through her mind. Leather volumes. Dickens. Austen. Shakespeare. She could see them lined up, one after the other. Gold embossed lettering. She lifted her fingers as though she could touch them. She’d read these authors and more. She liked to read. No, she loved to read! She enjoyed being carried away into a world different from her own, with characters who did not sit in judgment of her.
As she considered what her life was, she could well imagine wanting to escape it. But who judged her? Those better than she. But who were they?
If books were so important to her, why weren’t any in her room? Because they were costly. Again, another tidbit that she knew.
She swung away from the shelves and the room seemed to circle around her in a blur. Her life contained other blurs. She began to hum a familiar tune. Lifting her arms, she swayed, then began moving her feet in time to the music that only she could hear. She knew the song, knew the movements, knew that a gentleman had swept her over a floor.
And she was convinced with every fiber of her being that she did not belong here.
“I know how to waltz.”
Squinting against the sunlight pouring into the room, Drake stared at the woman standing near the end of his bed. She’d awoken him with her pronouncement. Why was he not surprised that she would think nothing of interrupting a man from his well-deserved rest? “Pardon?”
“I know how to waltz. I can hear the music. No, it’s more than that. I know the music. I daresay, if you had a pianoforte, I would be able to play it. Chopin. Beethoven. Mozart. I can see my fingers flying over the ivory keys. I can see myself dancing with a gentleman. I can read. Dickens. Austen. Browning. I can quote passages.”
He shoved himself to a sitting position, not caring that the covers fell to his waist. “Your point?”
She blinked, stared at his person, somewhere along his chest, he thought. Her lips parted slightly, and he didn’t know why he felt a need to inhale deeply, expand his chest and beat on it like some great ape in the zoological gardens. He’d never cared about impressing her. He wasn’t about to start now.
Swallowing, she grabbed hold of the bedpost as though she needed its sturdiness to support her so she could remain upright. “I don’t believe a servant would know all those things.”
“You don’t think a servant could watch others dancing and pick up the steps? Memorize the music? Read? I assure you that valuable servants can in fact read.”
“I’m not doubting that a servant can read, but that one would have time to read as widely as I have.”
“You haven’t been in service all that long.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How did I come to work here at all?”
“You were recommended.”
She tilted up her chin. “By whom?”
“I don’t remember the names.” When lying, keep the lies as honest as possible. Don’t create a lie that requires you remember something. “You came with letters of reference.”
She shoved herself away from the bed, balled her hands into tightened fists, and jerked up her chin. “As they aren’t in my bedchamber, as there is nothing in that hideously ill-furnished room that feels at all familiar, I assume you have these letters of which you speak. I should like to see them.”
“They’re in my office at the club.”
“Fetch them.”
He ground his back teeth together. “It is not your place to order me about.”
“But they might assist me in remembering.”
“Has it occurred to you that there may be a reason you don’t want to remember?” Even as he asked the words, it struck him that perhaps they held more truth than he’d intended. Except for a few bruises, physically she appeared fine. The lump on her head hadn’t drawn blood, so how hard could something have truly hit her?
Gnawing on her lower lip, she appeared innocent, almost sweet. Her shoulders softened, her back relaxed. “Why was I in the river?”
“I don’t know.” Honesty.
“How did you know I was there?”
“I was taking a walk. I saw a form huddled at the water’s edge. I didn’t know it was you until I brought you to the residence. You were coated in mud.” Truth.
She shuddered. “Yes, I remember that, washing off the awful stuff.” She furrowed her brow. “Obviously we weren’t being robbed, as there is nothing here of value, so I wasn’t running from a thief. Would someone wish me harm?”
“I shouldn’t think so, but then there is a good bit about you that I don’t know.” A good deal that I do know, but that is to be revealed tomorrow.
She wandered to the window, gazed out onto the street. He wasn’t concerned with anyone spying her, identifying her. This part of London was not frequented by those of her station in life. “It all seems so strange. I just don’t feel as though I belong here.”
“Again, wishful thinking.”
“Perhaps.” She faced him. “We do seem to keep going over the same ground, don’t we? Isn’t it the sign of madness to keep asking the same question and expecting a different answer?”
“You’re not mad.”
“Perhaps I am and all this is simply an illusion. Will you retrieve the letters?”
“Tonight, when I go to the club.”
“When do you return?”
“Generally I stay out all night. Yesterday was an exception. So I’ll be here sometime after dawn tomorrow.”
Scowling, she twisted her lips into a moue of displeasure. “But that’s hours away.”
“Nothing will change between now and then.”
“Except I might remember. I could go to the club—”
“No.” That would result in disaster. If anyone saw her . . . a good many of the members knew her. “That’s not possible.”
“You’re a rather harsh employer.”
“You’re my servant, Phee. I’m striving to get some sleep here so I can see to my responsibilities tonight. You should be seeing to your duties now. I’ll bring you the letters in the morning. Meanwhile, leave.”
“What is the name of your club?”
He gave her a pointed look. He was too familiar with all the times that she and Grace had broken rules, and he suspected that little part of her character had not been lost. If he gave her the name of the club, she’d no doubt make her way there. He knew her well enough to know she could be quite conniving and resourceful. Little witch.
She released an impudent sigh. “Am I a prisoner here?”
“No, but until your memory is more dependable, it would be unwise to travel about London.”
“I think I could make out quite well without my memory.”
“I must question your judgment on that score. You’re in the bedchamber of a man who is not wearing a stitch of clothing, a man who is tired and wishes to sleep, and is growing increasingly irate. You think that’s rational behavior?”
Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth formed a soft O. “I know you’re not wearing a shirt. Are you saying—”
“Yes, quite. Nothing at all rests between my flesh and the sheets.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. I should leave you to rest.”
“Yes, you should.” Before he was tempted to shock her by clambering out of the bed, grabbing her arms, and kissing her senseless. He didn’t want her asking questions about her past, didn’t want her heading out on her own to try to answer the riddle of who she was. He would tell her tomorrow, right before he returned her to her family.
Bowing her head, she scurried from the room, closing the door quietly in her wake. With a sigh, he lay back, shoved a hand beneath his head, and wondered why he was continuing with this sham. It wasn’t nearly as deliciously rewarding as he’d expected it to be.
But that was only because she didn’t yet know the truth. Everything would change then, and her memory would return in full force. He wanted one moment with her that she would never forget, one moment that he could take out and examine on occasion. A moment that contained a task that would speak of servitude as no other would.
An image entered his mind—an evil, wicked image, one in which he would derive great pleasure, one that she would think of whenever their paths crossed, one that would prevent her from being quite so arrogant in his presence. One that would cause her to do his bidding, lest he tell the world what had transpired.
The more he thought on it, the more he wanted it. Just one little thing to hold over her, to topple her off the pedestal upon which she gloated, gazed down on him, and deemed him worthless.
Dark laughter circled around him as satisfaction took hold. He’d have his fun tonight. Tomorrow he would return her to her world, just a bit humbler.