22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

L ord Horatio Ainsworth sat at his mahogany desk in the study of Thornbrook Manor, a veritable sea of parchment spread before him. His fingers, usually so deft at the pianoforte, trembled as they caressed the delicate pages. Each bore the unmistakable script of Lady Iris Rosier—her words, her thoughts, her heart poured out in ink and sealed with wax.

" My dearest Lord Thornbrook ," one letter began, the paper worn from frequent handling. " How my heart aches when we are apart! Your music haunts my dreams, a sweet torment that leaves me longing for your touch... "

Horatio closed his eyes, allowing the words to sink in. The Iris who had penned these passionate declarations was a far cry from the polite, confused young woman who now graced the halls of Rosewood Manor. The accident that had stolen her memories had robbed him of so much more.

"I must reach her," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Somehow, I must make her remember. "

An idea as fragile and delicate as a butterfly's wing alighted in his mind. What if he were to return these letters to Iris? Not all at once—that would overwhelm her, perhaps even frighten her away. But one by one, carefully orchestrated to awaken the dormant memories within her.

Horatio rang for his trusted servant, an older man named Simmons, who had been with the family for decades.

"Simmons," Horatio said as the man entered, "I have a delicate task for you. One that requires the utmost discretion."

The servant bowed, his weathered face impassive. "Of course, My Lord. How may I be of service?"

Horatio explained his plan, watching as Simmons' eyes opened with understanding. When he finished, the servant nodded solemnly.

"It shall be done, My Lord. I know just the man for the job—a fellow down on his luck who would be grateful for the work. He can be trusted to be discreet."

"Excellent," Horatio said, feeling a spark of hope for the first time in weeks. "Make sure he understands the importance of secrecy. And Simmons... thank you."

As Simmons departed to set the plan in motion, Horatio turned back to the letters. He selected one that was not too intimate but filled with the warmth and wit that first drew him to Iris. With trembling hands, he sealed it in a plain envelope and handed it to Simmons.

"Let it begin," he whispered as the door closed behind his servant.

When Simmons was gone, Horatio seated himself at the pianoforte. His fingers found the keys, and the haunting melody of the duet he had composed for Iris filled the room.

Somewhere, in the deepening twilight, he hoped that Iris might hear the faint strains of music carried on the evening breeze. And perhaps, just perhaps, she might remember the love that had inspired it.

***

Lady Iris Rosier meandered through the lush gardens of Rosewood Manor, a leather-bound volume of Wordsworth's poetry tucked under her arm.

The absence of her newlywed sister, Maude, left a palpable void in the grand house. Even her mother's departure to visit the newlyweds brought little relief from the stifling atmosphere of half-truths and veiled glances that seemed to follow Iris wherever she went.

She found refuge beneath the rose arbor, its fragrant blooms offering a semblance of privacy. As Iris settled onto the wrought-iron bench, smoothing her pale muslin gown, a rustling in the nearby shrubbery caught her attention.

A man emerged—not one of the gardeners or stable hands, but a rough-looking fellow with a threadbare coat and a hat pulled low over his eyes. Iris's heart leaped into her throat, her hand flying to her chest.

"Who—who are you?" she stammered, rising to her feet. "What business have you here?"

The man held up his hands, a placating gesture. "No harm meant, miss—I mean, m'lady. I've summat for ye if you're the one they call Lady Iris."

Iris's fear gave way to curiosity. "I am she. What is it you have for me?"

Furtively glancing around, the man produced an envelope from his coat. "I was told to give ye this and to say that there'll be more comin' in the days ahead. All very hush-hush like, if ye take my meaning."

Iris accepted the envelope with trembling fingers. The paper was plain and unremarkable, but her breath caught in her throat as she turned it over. There, in a hand as familiar to her as her own reflection, was her name.

"Who gave this to you?" she demanded, but the man was already retreating into the foliage.

"Can't say, m'lady. But I'll be back, don't you worry. Just keep an eye out for old Tom; that's me."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Iris alone with the mysterious missive.

Her heart pounding, Iris broke the seal and unfolded the letter. As she read, her eyes widened, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of confusion and something else—something warm and thrilling.

" Dear Lord Thornbrook ," the letter began in her own hand. " How my thoughts fly to you on wings of music! Our duet yesterday was nothing short of transcendent. Your passion at the keys awakens something within me that I scarcely dare name... "

Iris sank back onto the bench, her mind reeling. Lord Thornbrook—the very man her mother seemed so determined to keep at arm's length—was the recipient of this ardent declaration? And yet, it was undeniably her own writing and turns of phrase.

As she read on, flashes of memory teased at the edges of her consciousness: the feel of cool ivory beneath her fingertips, the heady scent of sandalwood, and the sound of deep, rich laughter mingling with her own.

"What does this mean?" Iris whispered to the roses, but they offered no answers, only the gentle nodding of their heavy blooms in the afternoon breeze.

Over the next few days, more letters found their way into Iris's hands. Each one revealed a deeper, more intimate connection between herself and Lord Thornbrook that she had been led to believe never existed. She read of shared passions, stolen moments, and a love that seemed to transcend the bounds of propriety.

With each revelation, Iris felt the careful construct of her post-accident life begin to crumble. The polite, distant Lord Thornbrook her mother had described bore little resemblance to the man who had apparently captured her heart so thoroughly.

As she sat in her bedchamber, re-reading the latest letter by candlelight, a soft knock at the door startled her from her reverie.

"Come in," she called, hastily tucking the letter beneath her pillow.

Lucy, her lady's maid, entered with a curtsy. "Beggin' your pardon, My Lady, but her ladyship wishes to speak with you in the morning room."

Iris nodded, smoothing her features into a mask of calm. "Thank you, Lucy. I shall be down directly."

As she made her way through the corridors of Rosewood Manor, Iris couldn't help but feel as though the portraits of her ancestors were watching her, their painted eyes full of judgment. Had she truly been so different before her accident? So passionate, so alive?

Lady Rosier awaited her in the morning room, a tableau of maternal concern arranged on her elegant features. "Ah, Iris, my dear. Do come and sit with me."

Iris complied, perching on the edge of a delicate settee. "Is something the matter, Mama?"

Lady Rosier reached out to pat her daughter's hand. "I've noticed you seem rather... distracted of late, my dear. I do hope you're not dwelling on your accident. It's so important that you look to the future, not the past."

A flash of guilt surged through Iris. If only her mother knew of the letters hidden away in her chambers, each a window into a past she was supposedly meant to forget.

"I assure you, Mama, I am quite well," Iris said, forcing a smile. "Perhaps I am simply missing Maude's company."

Lady Rosier nodded, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. "Of course, dear. It is a great change for us all. But we must press on. In fact, I've invited Lord Edgar to dine with us this evening. Isn't that lovely?"

Iris's heart sank. Once, the prospect of an evening with the amiable Lord Edgar might have pleased her, but now, with the weight of her discovered past pressing upon her, the thought filled her with a nameless dread.

"How... thoughtful of you, Mama," she managed, her voice strained.

Lady Rosier beamed, oblivious to her daughter's discomfort. "I knew you'd be pleased. Now, run along and choose a suitable gown. We want you looking your best for Lord Edgar, don't we?"

As Iris retreated to her chambers, her mind whirled with conflicting emotions. The Iris who had written those passionate letters to Lord Thornbrook seemed a stranger to her now—and yet, there was something achingly familiar about the sentiments expressed.

She found herself at the window, gazing out over the manicured lawns towards the distant silhouette of Thornbrook Manor. What secrets lay hidden within those walls? And more importantly, what truths lay buried within her own heart?

Iris sat before her vanity, allowing Lucy to arrange her hair for dinner with Lord Edgar. As the maid's deft fingers wove ribbons through her dark tresses, Iris's thoughts drifted to the letters hidden beneath her mattress.

"Lucy," she said suddenly, " do you recall... before my accident, did I spend much time with Lord Thornbrook?"

Lucy's hands stilled for a moment, her eyes meeting Iris's in the mirror. "I... I'm not sure it's my place to say, My Lady."

Iris turned, fixing her maid with a pleading gaze. "Please, Lucy. I feel as though nobody is telling me the truth. I must…I need to know."

Lucy bit her lip, clearly torn between loyalty to her mistress and fear of overstepping. Finally, she sighed. "You did spend time with his lordship, My Lady. Quite a bit of time, in fact. He was your music teacher, and I would accompany you to your lessons."

Iris's heart raced. "And Lord Edgar? Was I... fond of him?"

"Lord Edgar is a fine gentleman," Lucy said carefully. "But if you're asking if there was a particular attachment... well, I never saw the same light in your eyes when you spoke of him as I did when you mentioned Lord Thornbrook."

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Lady Rosier's voice floated through the wood. "Iris, darling, are you ready? Lord Edgar has arrived."

Iris rose, smoothing her gown. "Thank you, Lucy," she whispered. "For your honesty."

As she descended the stairs to greet Lord Edgar, Iris felt like she was stepping into a role she no longer knew how to play. The amiable lord bowed over her hand, his blue eyes warm with admiration, but Iris found herself searching his face for something—some spark of the passion she had glimpsed in her own words to Lord Thornbrook.

"Lady Iris," Lord Edgar said, offering his arm. "You look lovely this evening."

Iris forced a smile, allowing him to lead her into the dining room. "Thank you, Lord Edgar. You look positively debonair."

As they took their seats, Lady Rosier beamed at them from the head of the table. Iris couldn't help but feel a sense of wrongness. The elegant place settings and the carefully chosen menu all seemed a pale imitation of the life she was beginning to remember.

Lord Edgar engaged her in pleasant conversation, speaking of his latest hunting exploits and the upcoming social season. Iris nodded and smiled in all the right places, but her mind was elsewhere—in a sunlit music room, her fingers dancing over piano keys in harmony with a darker, more passionate presence.

As the final course was cleared away, Lady Rosier rose. "Iris, my dear, why don't you favor us with a song? I'm sure Lord Edgar would love to hear you play."

Panic fluttered in Iris's chest. The thought of sitting at the pianoforte, of playing some insipid drawing-room ballad when her fingers itched to recreate the duets she had shared with Lord Thornbrook, was almost unbearable.

"I... I'm not feeling quite myself, Mama," Iris stammered, rising from her seat. "Please excuse me.

Before anyone could respond, Iris fled the dining room, her skirts rustling as she hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Lady Rosier smoothed over the awkward moment with practiced grace. "I do apologize, Lord Edgar. Iris has been rather out of sorts lately. She misses her sister terribly, you know. Maude's absence has been quite difficult for her."

Lord Edgar nodded sympathetically. "Of course, Lady Rosier. It's perfectly understandable. Please, don't trouble yourself on my account."

Iris closed the door behind her, leaning against it as she tried to catch her breath. She could still hear the conversation below, but she ignored it.

Her heart raced with the magnitude of her realization—she could no longer pretend to be the docile, amnesiac daughter her mother wished her to be.

The truth of her feelings for Lord Thornbrook and the life she had lived before her accident could no longer be denied.