Nine

Kelston Hall’s drawing room

days later—early afternoon

After another fruitless perusal that failed to jog a single memory, Zander uncrossed his knees and, sighing, snapped the news sheet closed. He tossed the well-read paper on the muted red and beige striped chintz settee beside him before bending forward and resting his elbows on his tweed covered knees, chin cradled on his fisted hands.

Staring into the unlit hearth, he tapped his toes, needing to expel the energy his healing body accumulated almost hourly. He might not remember his previous life, but he had not been a man of leisure, nor did he enjoy being idle or sedentary now.

Three days ago, Lilly had lifted the order that he must remain locked in her chamber.

She did not give a reason, but Charles said she detested animals being confined in cages, much less humans, and he presumed Lilly had concluded after nearly another week that Zander did not pose a threat.

Giving the news sheet an undeserved, side-eyed glower, Zander plowed a hand through his hair.

One would think if someone went missing for weeks, a caring family would post adverts describing the missing person, where they were last known to have been, and perhaps even offer a reward, if financially feasible.

The papers remained conspicuously absent of any such notices, which led him to believe no one cared about his absence. Or, if he had any living family, they were too poor to place a notice in The Times .

Even as his physical body healed, his frustration grew.

It seemed he would need something substantially more powerful than outdated papers to regain his memory.

Who the blazes am I ?

Over a week had passed, and he was no closer to discovering who he was than he had been when he had awoken.

Actually…that was not entirely true.

Over the past few days, hazy bits and bobs had filtered into his consciousness.

A petite, gaudily attired, bespeckled woman dripping with jewels and feathers.

A small, rundown cabin in the woods.

A snowball fight with grown men—and an auburn-haired a woman too.

Staring out the window, Zander blew out a long breath.

What did any of it mean?

What was more, he was bored out of his bloody mind.

This forced slothfulness grated more and more with each passing day. Thank God Lilly permitted him to wander the private part of the house as long as he avoided the children. She was adamant about that stricture.

Charles had approved Zander rising from his convalescence bed, but only if he continued to recuperate at a sedate pace.

No long treks outdoors.

Certainly no rigorous hikes, and heaven forbid that he go for a horseback ride or a swim.

How was he to discover who he was, confined to a few rooms in the house?

He may as well take up knitting, tatting, or embroidery.

Still, prowling about the local hamlets and villages probably was not the most prudent action. Not only might he encounter the sheriff—something he was not prepared to do just yet—it stood to reason, his abductors may well still lurk in the area.

Not that he would recognize them should he stumble upon the blighters.

All the more reason to stay put, as Lilly had calmly extolled two mornings ago when he had nearly begged like a two-year-old for an outing.

Fiend seize it .

Childish as it was, he could not hide a scowl and a pang of envy yesterday when four older children rode past the drawing room on their return to the stables.

What kind of orphanage provided riding lessons, among other unusual, but useful, training to the students?

A remarkable one.

Run by the extraordinary, forward-thinking Miss Lilibet Granger.

“I assure you, Miss Granger,” a man intoned in a maddening, reedy voice that could have peeled paint from the ceiling, “I am most capable of instructing the children in geography, mathematics, and natural philosophy, and I am positive you will agree, my references are impeccable.”

“So you have mentioned,” Miss Granger replied. “I look forward to reading them.”

Zander detected the merest hint of sarcasm in her dry response.

Another interviewee for the position recently vacated by the remiss Miss Sanders, according to Mrs. B. The cook had no qualms about tickling Zander’s ears with the latest household and village gossip. And curse him for a twaddling fool. He looked forward to her chin-wagging sessions.

The old dear had imparted many interesting morsels.

Without a jot of compunction, he wandered to the doorway to earwig on the conversation between the potential teacher and Lilly. Peeking around the corner, Zander spied a long-faced chap with an impressive pair of sideburns the size of baby quokkas, but not nearly as adorable.

How the devil do I know what quokka is ?

The fellow carried a well-oiled leather portfolio under one arm.

The sot looked and sounded like a humorless prig.

Precisely the sort of instructor children abhorred.

That made five— no, six —this week, but this chap was only the second male to apply for the position. Probably because most men did not like being accountable to a woman, and although Charles was part-owner of Kelston Hall Children’s Home, he did not partake in the day-to-day operation of the orphanage and school.

Zander scratched his nose.

In truth, Charles and Miss Granger inheriting the place, was quite odd. Zander could not think if a single other instance where a peer simply deeded a manor to two orphans, but then again, his ability to recall anything relevant prior to his awakening, proved an irritating obstruction.

Mr. I am-full-of-my-own-self-importance spoke again, and Zander winced.

God, that voice .

The children would hie for the hills with bits of rag stuffed in their ears just to escape his orations.

“As I mentioned in the interview, Miss Granger, my no-nonsense and stern approach to instruction and an occasional ruler across the knuckles for the worst-behaved students have served me well in my previous positions,” the prig said.

Badly done, you boastful bully .

“I rarely have had to resort to the rod to enforce acceptable conduct. I believe in the biblical principle of spare the rod and spoil the child,” He intoned with false piety.

The corners of Lilly’s eyes flexed, and if the idiot had not been tooting his own horn, he would have noticed her displeasure. “Actually, that phrase is from Hudibras , a 17 th century poem by Samuel Butler. The biblical verse you have mistaken it for emphasizes the importance of loving parents disciplining their children, and the rod is symbolic of guidance or correction, rather than literal, corporal punishment.”

“Regretfully, you are mistaken, Miss Granger. For I also studied theology at university,” argued the dimwitted candidate. “As I am certain you are aware, such subjects are reserved for men’s superior intellect. It is understandable how you could have made such a mistake.”

Zander’s blood boiled at the thinly veiled insult.

The bloody, condescending, insolent jackanape .

Zander fisted his hands against the urge to rap his knuckles across the numbskull’s weak jaw.

Miss Granger merely raised an eyebrow.

She is too smart to argue with a feckless fool .

The chap thrust out his unimpressive chest and jutted his almost absent chin atop his extraordinarily long neck, skyward.

The effect triggered another memory.

A long-necked turtle.

Where in the blazes had Zander seen such a thing?

The same place he had seen a quokka?

He should share these recent recollections with Lilly, but as they only created more questions, rather than the answers they both wanted, Zander would wait.

“I assure you. No one has ever said that Balthazar Drumblewick does not enforce discipline, both inside and outside the classroom,” the boor bragged.

Zander stifled a snort.

Miss Granger fashioned what he recognized as her polite smile.

“Thank you, for coming, Mr. Drumblewick. I shall inform you once a decision has been made.”

“ Erm . Yes, of course.” Drumblewick could not quite prevent his eyebrows from lashing together in disappointment.

Or…was that quickly masked look censure?

Zander narrowed his eyes.

Lilly’s slightly elevated eyebrows revealed she had seen through the pompous windbag.

“I shall look forward to hearing from you. I can start as early as next week.” Drumblewick bowed, and the shock of hair he had combed across his bald pate sprang loose from his pomade plastered head.

When he rose, the oily-waxy strand dangled near his ear like a hatchling snake.

To Miss Granger’s credit, she did not so much as blink in surprise. Instead, she opened the door and held it for the disgruntled man.

Plastering the offensive, greasy strand across his head again, he gave a curt nod and then took his leave.

After closing the door, Lilly leaned against the stout panel. Lifting her face, she closed her eyes, appearing almost fragile in the filtered light.

“God give me strength. Isn’t there a single qualified candidate who is not crack-brained?”

Zander could not contain his chuckle.

At once, she righted herself and glanced around suspiciously.

“Zander? Is that you?”