Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Some moments in life were so absurd that laughter was the only natural response. She tried to stifle it at first, so as to not to disturb the gravity of the situation, for the room had fallen as silent as a deserted chapel. It escaped anyhow, an undignified and most unladylike snort. Right into the Duke's face, too.

Lena couldn't help herself. She laughed until tears streamed down her face and her sides began to cramp. She collapsed into the armchair, clutching her ribs. It wasn't amusement, but a hysterical, nervous release. Soon enough, her laughter turned into something that sounded more like sobs.

Lady Evangeline stared at her in surprise, at first, then laughed with her.

"I fail to see what is so amusing," the Duke growled, clearly put out.

"Me, your wife?" Lena spluttered between gasps, her voice trembling. "Me, a duchess? That's impossible! I have no memory of you or of any marriage between us. "

The truth was, she didn't remember anything at all.

"You truly do not remember?" His face turned to stone.

"We are here to discuss the possibility that you are the Duchess, yes," Mr Mortimer interjected, his tone businesslike. "We must investigate, since we're uncertain. Although if you were to ask me, things are fairly clear."

Lena struggled to regain her composure. "I beg your pardon," she said, wiping her eyes with the corner of an apron, "but surely you must agree that it's unusual for a husband to embark on an investigation of his wife's identity."

"Not at all," he bit out. "Given the circumstances, it is a perfectly reasonable thing to do."

Mr Mortimer cleared his throat. "Her Grace having, ah, departed from this world eight years since."

Lena tilted her head to one side, her mouth dropping open. "Departed?" When the impact of the meaning hit her, her eyes grew as round as saucers. She looked at the Duke, horrified. "I am terribly sorry. My sincerest condolences, but I did not comprehend. You mean to say your wife is dead?"

The Duke looked out of his depth. "That was our assumption until you suddenly appeared."

"Oh." Lena sobered. Then she sat up as straight as an arrow as understanding dawned. "Oh! Forgive me for being a tad slow. Do you truly believe I am your dead wife?" She pointed her finger at her stomach.

"At first it was only me, but now there are three of us who recognise you," Lady Evangeline chimed in with satisfaction. "This can no longer be a coincidence. "

Lena shook her head. "You are making a mistake. I am deeply sorry about your wife, truly, but I am not her." It was a phrase she would continue to repeat the next half hour, as if she were speaking to a brick wall. The three of them continued discussing her as if she were not even in the room.

"It is entirely incomprehensible to me, but she is the spitting image of the Duchess." Mr Mortimer stated. "But this of course begs the question—if she is the Duchess, who is buried at Aldingbourne Hall?"

All eyes turned towards her. Lena squirmed uncomfortably.

"A twin separated at birth?" Aldingbourne said after a heavy silence.

Lena rolled her eyes.

"I concur with Lady Evangeline that this must be Her Grace, the Duchess of Aldingbourne, Catherine Stafford-Hill." Mr Mortimer asserted. "The hair colour. The eye colour. The complexion and the height. Everything is identical."

"Yet her character and demeanour seem different," the Duke observed.

"True," Lady Evangeline put in, "but that is the only aspect that seems different. She has the same talent at the pianoforte, if not more. Her talent has developed, and she plays quite masterfully. And there are certain gestures. Look! How she holds her head as she does now, slightly tilted."

"And she has the same birthmark on her cheek." Three pairs of eyes were fixed on her face.

"I daresay many people have birthmarks on their faces," Lena muttered, self-consciously rubbing hers.

"Yes, but not many have that heart-shaped one, right where people used to place a patch when patches were still in fashion. You used to say you were lucky to be born with it, and that you did not need patches. Don't you remember?" Lady Evangeline pressed.

Lena shook her head.

"Don't you remember anyone at all?" The lady's voice took on a pleading tone.

Mr Mortimer joined in. "Do you really not remember me, Your Grace? Or Lady Evie, or your husband, the Duke? You and Lady Evie were friends. You were married to the Duke for three years. How is it possible you don't remember any of this?"

A feeling of helplessness flickered through her. "I really don't know what to say," she whispered. "My only conclusion is that I am not this Catherine."

Even as she spoke the words, doubt beset her. What if she was, and she'd forgotten it? What proof did she have that she was not Catherine?

"We need to get to the bottom of this." The Duke leaned forwards, piercing her with his stare. "How did you come to be here? Have you been here in Vienna all along? Why don't you remember any of us? What happened in the last eight years?"

Lena opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by a sudden bang on the door. It swung open and a boy with short, stubbly hair and spectacles stumbled into the room .

" So ein Mist !" he swore, followed by a string of other unsavoury swear words.

"Achilles Arenheim, have you been eavesdropping?" Lena asked sternly, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Hecki pushed me," the boy said as he straightened his glasses and looked around curiously. "We didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it's hard not to overhear certain things, and then you started laughing."

The other children filed into the room.

"We really weren't eavesdropping, Mama," Hector said earnestly as he looked curiously at the guests.

"Mama?" the Duke echoed weakly. His eyes were fixed on Hector, his face devoid of all colour.

"Good heavens," Mr Mortimer exclaimed for the second time that day.