Chapter Six

She woke with a start, chilled to the bone as the nightmare that woke her replayed in her mind. Brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes, she scooted until she was leaning against the lavender-scented pillows, trying to calm her racing heart. Was it truly a dream, or had she remembered something? For the life of her, she did not know.

Drawing in a deep breath and slowly exhaling, she looked around the bedchamber, starting in the corner by the door, asking herself if any of the furniture sparked a memory. The mahogany wardrobe and washstand were of the finest quality and highly polished. The lovely pink and white ceramic pitcher and bowl on top of the washstand were faintly familiar, but not quite right—

Blue and white flowers!Yes, that was it! The shape and floral pattern were familiar—it was the color that was different.

Nearly giddy at the fact that she recalled something from her shadowy past, she drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them. Putting her mind to it, ignoring the dull throb in her forehead, she closed her eyes. The memory of washing her face and hands before slipping into the borrowed nightrail filled her and felt very familiar. It was obviously a nighttime routine for her. She was grateful to have even these two tidbits of information, bringing hope that she would slowly but surely recall who she was, where she lived, and why she had traveled all the way to Sussex from London.

London!"Yes," she whispered. "I traveled from London." Letting her mind go back to her nighttime routine, she was grateful the countess had been beyond generous and welcoming, unlike a few of the other members of the ton she'd been introduced to.

Hands covering her mouth to keep her squeal of surprise contained, she repeated what she'd just thought aloud. "Members of the ton." A platinum-blonde beauty with the tongue of a viper flashed before her eyes…and the pain that accompanied it had her hands dropping to her sides as she closed her eyes again and leaned against the down-filled pillows. The physician had warned her to expect a headache that would come and go as the swelling went down and her brain began to recover. What he could not tell her was when her memory would fully return. She refused to accept that it would not eventually do so.

Lady Agnes. Her eyes popped open, and she pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips. The name that popped into her head belonged to the haughty daughter of a peer whose name or title she could not recall. But she definitely remembered the way Lady Agnes had stared at her hair first, and gown second, before dismissing her as if she were not worthy of the lady's regard. Receiving the cut direct without a word had sliced her to the bone and had her struggling to retain her composure. At least in that, she'd succeeded.

A flash of a conversation with an older woman kneading bread on a floured surface soothed her. The room was warm and welcoming, filled with a combination of scents that had her stomach rumbling. Savory stew and berry tarts had her mouth watering and her heart racing. It had to be a memory, because she had not been in the earl's kitchen.

Frowning, she racked her brain trying to recall if she worked in the large kitchen with the kindly woman. It did nothing but increase the pounding in her head. "Am I a servant on the run from a harsh master who turned me out without a reference?" She glanced at the mauve velvet lady's chair in the corner by the washstand before noticing the door to the wardrobe stood open. Her eyes locked on the familiar clothing—a well-made gown the color of twilight hung beside a burgundy coat. A flash of pain and a wisp of a memory of being fitted for both garments—and being stuck by a pin—had her gasping.

"I remember that fitting!" It was in a bedchamber with pretty yellow walls that glowed when the early morning sunlight shone through the windows overlooking a walled garden.

The knock on the door startled her. She pulled the covers up to her chin before saying, "Come in." The door opened, and the housekeeper entered, followed by a maid who carried a small tray. "Mrs. Jones, isn't it?"

The housekeeper smiled. "I'm so pleased that you remember me. How did you sleep last night, now that we moved you to one of the guest rooms? The beds are quite comfortable."

"I slept deeply." She decided to wait before mentioning the nightmare/memory.

"Excellent. How do you feel this morning, Miss Amber? Has your headache lessened?"

Amber… The handsome guard who rescued her had given her that name when she was struggling to recall her name and kept drawing a blank.

Mrs. Jones directed the maid to place the tray with a small teapot, teacup and saucer, and small bowl on the table beneath the window. "Are you hungry?"

"I, uh, believe so." The flash of a nightmarish face, twisted with anger, glared at her. She shivered.

The housekeeper shooed the maid out of the room and retrieved the cream-colored shawl draped over the arm of the lady's chair.

She sighed as the warmth cut through the chill, and thanked the older woman as she tucked the shawl around her.

"There now, that should help you warm up from the outside." Walking over to the table, the housekeeper poured what appeared to be very weak tea—judging by the pale color—into the teacup. Well, at least she'd had a stronger cup yesterday. Mayhap she could ask the kindly cook for another a bit later.

"Mrs. Wyatt's broth will give you a bit of energy, but you should drink the tea first."

She was tempted to wrinkle her nose, but refrained, obeying when the housekeeper told her to have a sip. It wasn't as unpalatable as she feared, though she did wish for a stronger cup of tea that would warm her belly and give her the boost she needed upon rising. She bobbled the cup, splashing hot tea on the saucer and her wrist, then sucked in a breath and bit her bottom lip.

Mrs. Jones retrieved the cup and blotted her wrist before rushing over to the washstand. The housekeeper poured water into the bowl, dampened a cloth in it, and hurried back to her side. "Place this on your wrist—the water is tepid, but will cool your skin. I sent the maid downstairs to bring more hot water for you to wash with. You slept longer than we anticipated."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I'm not normally so clumsy, nor do I think it my custom to sleep well into the morning."

"Can you tell me what you were thinking when you splashed hot tea on yourself?"

She nodded as the worst of the pain receded. "I like strong tea in the morning."

The housekeeper smiled at her. "That is wonderful news! Their lordships—and O'Malley—will be so pleased. You can have a strong cup in a few days' time. At the moment, the doctor has prescribed weak tea along with an invalid's diet of broth and bread. Mrs. Wyatt insisted that she add a bit of butter to your bread."

"Please thank her for me."

"And," the housekeeper continued, "she asked me to gain your promise not to mention it to the physician when he arrives this afternoon to see how you are progressing."

She smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it." Already planning to ask Dermott to sneak two more scones for her, and to ask the cook for another pot of strong tea, she felt better having been able to make a few decisions. For now, she would keep that to herself and ignore the temptation to speak of the delicious scones. She would not want the handsome-as-sin Irishman, nor the kindly cook, to get into trouble for going against the physician's orders. It was entirely her doing that Dermott asked the cook about the scones and the tea. She'd never forget his thoughtfulness, or the cook's willingness to bend the strict dietary rules the doctor put in place.

The housekeeper shook her head. "If I know O'Malley, that rascal probably wheedled an extra scone or two from Mrs. Wyatt and shared them with you."

She felt her cheeks flush and looked away.

"Don't worry, Miss Amber—I won't give either of you away." Mrs. Jones removed the cloth, dipped it in the cool water, and wrung it out before placing it back on her wrist.

The woman's kindness was a balm to her aching heart. "Do you think you could drop the ‘miss' and just call me Amber?" She congratulated herself on taking the initiative and making the decision. Until she remembered her name, she'd go by the name Dermott had given her.

It was a boon to be able to retain what happened from the moment she opened her eyes and stared up into the brilliant green eyes of the handsome Irishman who rescued her. Well, at least, that was what everyone had told her. She wished she could recall more of what happened, but her mind was blank.

The housekeeper smiled. "Of course, Amber. Now tell me," she said, handing her the teacup. "What did you remember?"

"I did remember something else…a name…but not my name."

Mrs. Jones waited patiently.

"Lady Agnes."

"A friend of yours?"

Amber snorted, and promptly felt her face heat with mortification. "Forgive me. That was an unladylike response." The words she uttered echoed in her head, but instead of hearing her own voice, she heard a deep, familiar one that brought tears to her eyes.

"Mayhap it would be best to speak of Lady Agnes another time. I'll take your empty cup. Do you think you can drink the broth and eat the bread?" Her stomach rumbled in reply, and the housekeeper's smile returned. "I will take that as a yes."

Grateful that the intensity of the burn on her wrist was fading, Amber was able to hold the bowl and finish every last drop. "That was delicious."

"Mrs. Wyatt has a way of making the ordinary taste divine." The housekeeper handed Amber the plate with the buttered bread. "Slowly now—the last thing we need is to upset your stomach. Though you did not exhibit signs of it yesterday, you could have a slight concussion."

"Thank you for caring. You remind me of my mother."

Amber's eyes widened as she and Mrs. Jones stared at one another. Finally, the housekeeper spoke. "I am no doctor, but, I daresay, your memory seems to be returning. Now you can cease fretting over the possibility that you won't remember your name or how you came to be near Lippincott Manor."

The name of the earl and countess's home seemed to trigger a memory, but it was hazy and not clear. Amber confided, "I had what I thought was a nightmare, but maybe it wasn't."

The housekeeper took the empty plate, then smoothed Amber's covers before asking, "Would you like to tell me about it?"

Amber frowned. "I think I should tell O'Malley, too. Do you know when he might have time to speak with me?"

"I know he will have the time, but first, you need to rest a bit and digest," Mrs. Jones replied. "When I return, we'll see how you feel. If I think you are up to a visit, we'll make you presentable."

Amber's hands flew to her cheeks. "Oh dear! Am I that disheveled?"

"Not at all, but now that you are not in the same dire straits as you were yesterday," the housekeeper said, "it would not be seemly for O'Malley, or the earl, for that matter, to visit with you in your bedchamber wearing a shawl over your nightrail."

"Borrowed from her ladyship. I have yet had the opportunity to thank her," Amber said.

"Lady Aurelia will most likely pay you a visit after she tends to Master Edward in the nursery," Mrs. Jones told her.

"I would like that, very much," Amber replied.

She pushed the covers aside and started to swing her legs to the side of the bed, but the housekeeper stopped her. "Do you need to use the chamber pot?"

Amber flushed with embarrassment. "Er…I may have to shortly, but was going to wait until I was alone. I've never needed assistance like that before—and wouldn't want to trouble you."

"Would you rather risk becoming lightheaded and falling on your face?" Mrs. Jones asked. "The risk that you would tear the stitches the doctor already used to close your wound is a possibility. Not only would the earl and countess call me to the carpet, but O'Malley…" The housekeeper shook her head. "That doesn't even bear thinking about." Mrs. Jones helped her to stand, and with her matter-of-fact attitude convinced Amber to accept her assistance with the chamber pot.

Amber felt steadier as she washed her hands, prompting her to ask the housekeeper, "Would it be all right if I washed my face, too?"

"As long as you do not get the threads wet, dip your head too low, or move too quickly. We don't want you to become dizzy and faint. Steady and slow, now," the housekeeper cautioned.

Amber felt infinitely better having washed the sleep from her eyes, wishing the round of soap was heather-scented instead of lavender.

Her gasp had Mrs. Jones placing an arm around her back. "Lean on me—"

"Heather!"

"Heather?" Mrs. Jones echoed.

Amber's eyes filled with tears. "My mother's family was from Scotland and preferred rounds of heather-scented soap. She said the heather reminded her of her grandparents' home in the Highlands." Lost in memories that were beginning to bombard her, she leaned heavily on the housekeeper and let herself be led back to the bed. Mayhap she should close her eyes for a bit. She could dress later.

Sinking onto the mattress, she met the housekeeper's questioning gaze. "No names yet, but if I close my eyes I can see my mother's face, though not clearly. She was beautiful, with auburn hair and amber eyes. Papa likes to remind me that I look like her, though my hair is not the same color at all." More tears filled her eyes, and this time slipped free. "She's been gone such a long time."

"You have made great strides in the short time I have been with you this morning," Mrs. Jones said. "I believe it is time to give your weary head a rest. Don't overtax yourself. I'm going to step outside and speak to one of the footmen. Try to close your eyes and sleep. You need it after remembering so many things this morning." She smoothed the covers up to Amber's chin and promised, "I'll be right back."

Amber closed her eyes and let the memory of her mother's loving embrace surround her as a hint of heather lulled her to sleep.