Love at Second Sight - Excerpt
I
Memory Lapse
September, 1882
“Ugh.”
She twisted, stretching limbs that had been too long in one position, trying to loosen her muscles and awaken her brain. Mornings were the worst.
Her movements sparked a sickly churning in her stomach. Damn. Was she ill? Had she had too much to drink last night? Her head didn’t seem to be pounding.
She cracked her eyelids. If she were truly suffering the bottle-ache, the sunlight would spear into her brain like a randy john into a two-penny whore.
Nothing.
No stabbing, no headache. Which meant she really was sick.
She groaned and rolled over, reaching for the warm body and strong arms that would comfort her. She would snuggle against his chest and he’d stroke her hair and tell her everything would be all right.
Her arms grasped nothing but air. The other half of the bed was empty.
She blinked and opened her eyes fully, trying to clear her sleep-fogged mind. The room sharpened into focus. Where was she?
Unadorned wood-paneled walls surrounded her. The bed and the small dressing table looked to be fixed to the walls and the floor. A shaft of sunlight slanted across the bed from the single, round window.
A boat. That explained the queasiness. She was seasick.
What it didn’t explain was why she didn’t remember any of this. Or why moments ago she’d been so certain she always woke beside a man. Who was he, she wondered. For that matter, who was she?
“Bloody hell!”
She bolted upright, jerking any remaining sleepiness from her mind. She was awake. Fully. And remembered… nothing.
She threw back the covers to get a look at herself. The filmy, pale green nightgown didn’t conceal much. It wasn’t entirely transparent, but she could clearly make out the dark circles surrounding her nipples. The fabric clung to plump breasts and a slightly rounded belly. What skin she could see was pale and unblemished, save for an inch-long, crescent-shaped birthmark on her left wrist. She seized a lock of hair. Black, shot through with brown highlights.
She clambered from the bed and examined the stranger that stared back at her from the mirror. Moisture glistened in eyes the color of amber. Tingles of fear raced along unfamiliar skin. How could she not know her own body? How could she not know her own name?
She choked back an upwelling of nausea. Lost, alone, with no memory, and seasick on top of it all. She had risen from her dreams into a waking nightmare.
She clutched the table with both hands, steadying herself.
“It’s only a problem. Problems have solutions.”
There. She was good at this sort of thing. Analyzing problems. Finding the solutions.
Her whole body twitched. How did she know that? That was a good sign, wasn’t it? If she could remember a detail like that, then there was hope she would remember other things as well.
Unless whatever had caused this also caused false memories.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” she told herself sternly.
And the first thing to do was to look for clues to her identity. Beginning with herself.
“This nightgown I’m wearing is of quality material and workmanship, which suggests a certain amount of money at my disposal. The fact that I’m staying in this cabin reinforces that idea. While it isn’t large, it’s well-appointed and carefully maintained. First-class accommodations. I speak with a Mayfair accent, so I must be from that part of London. My use of bad language and indecent thoughts, however, suggest that I might not be entirely a lady. Perhaps I was born to the aristocracy and have fallen from grace. Or perhaps I was born elsewhere and have learned to mimic an upper class woman.”
Her eyes dropped to her hands, fixing on the gold band on her left ring finger.
“I’m wearing a wedding band. It’s simple and…” She paused to pull it off and inspect it. “Not engraved. I might be married, but then where is my husband? Is he the man I expected in my bed?”
She took another look around the room. Her trunk—at least, she assumed it was hers— stood in a corner, opened wide to display its contents.
“There is only a single trunk, and it has only a woman’s garments inside. Clearly no man is sharing this room. Perhaps my husband is in a separate room? Or perhaps I’m not married and the ring is only to allow myself the freedom of a married woman or a widow to move about unchaperoned. Maybe I’m a courtesan.”
She wondered what it said about her that she would prefer the life of a courtesan to a marriage where her husband didn’t wish to share her bed.
“Moving on.”
The trunk was her best hope for clues. She began with a survey of the outside and was rewarded when she discovered a tag bearing a name and a destination.
“I have a name!” she squealed. “I am ‘A. Harper,’ and I’m on my way to Es—Esbj—no, no, the j sounds more like a y. Esbjerg, Denmark.”
Neither the name Harper nor the city of Esbjerg triggered any new memories. Still, she knew more than she had before the investigation began.
“I wonder what my given name is. Agnes? Ugh, I hope not. Arabella? Augusta? Angelique sounds like a courtesan, I think.”
She turned to the contents of the trunk, removing each item carefully and mentally cataloging it. Her memory didn’t seem to be lacking now. It simply had certain, rather significant, holes in it.
The two traveling dresses were simple, sturdy, and well-made. Good fabric, neat stitching. The single evening gown was a lovely, deep-orange silk, with a daring, scooped neckline and a tidy bustle. All the clothing of a wealthy woman.
Eight pairs of gloves in different lengths and colors accompanied the dresses, but no hats, scarves, or other accessories. The only shoes were a single pair of dancing slippers to match the evening gown and a pair of black ankle boots.
The underthings intrigued her. Her corsets were made of beautiful, shimmery fabric, with fancy ribbon trimming. Embroidered patterns ran up the sides of every pair of stockings. Even the drawers and chemises had pretty ruffles or bits of colored trim. These undergarments were made to be seen. Perhaps she really was a courtesan.
Setting the last of the clothing aside, she turned to the few other items packed inside the trunk. Angelique, or whoever she was, possessed a pretty silver hairbrush, a matching hand mirror, and a small bag of other personal grooming products. A little stuffed bear in a pink tutu and a jaggedly-sewn green waistcoat with mismatched buttons had been tucked in a corner—a relic of the childhood she’d forgotten along with everything else.
“Ooh, these look fun.”
She lifted out the stack of penny dreadfuls and thumbed through them. A brass bookmark in the shape of a tiny dagger jutted from the bottom book. She withdrew it carefully, marking the place with a finger. Perhaps if she read the book, she might remember something.
The little knife-bookmark had been stamped on one side with the maker’s mark. She flipped it over and gasped. On the reverse were engraved the words, “To Anna. Stay Fierce. Love Nick.”
“Anna.” She tested the name on her tongue. It felt right. She could be an Anna. “But who is Nick?”
Her husband, perhaps? It was difficult to imagine a husband who didn’t share her room using such intimate forms of address. Or telling her to “stay fierce.” Most men didn’t want a fierce wife.
Maybe Nick was her protector. Or had been in the past.
“And we’re back to the courtesan idea again.” It made sense for a woman who read penny dreadfuls and swore and drank.
She pulled out the last item in the trunk—a mostly-empty, unlabeled whisky bottle. She popped the cork and took a sniff. Yes, definitely whisky, and high quality too. If she’d drunk it all, it had been over a span of time. She had already established that she was not the worse for drink this morning. She recorked the bottle and set it aside. Her stomach was still protesting, and whisky would only make things worse.
“But if I’m a courtesan, where are all my jewels? And my cosmetics? I haven’t any of either, and that seems terribly peculiar.”
It seemed terribly peculiar for any woman of means to lack jewelry, in fact. Had she been robbed? Had she sold off her trinkets to pay for this journey? And why Denmark? What Englishwoman had business in Denmark of all places?
Anna’s chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh. So many questions, and few answers. Still, she had more knowledge than she had possessed only a few minutes prior. She would repack the trunk and go out exploring. Perhaps her fellow passengers or a crew member could help jog her memory. At the very least, she could request an anti-seasickness potion. Some steamers stocked them for the first class passengers.
Another random fact. She knew so many random facts and so little about herself.
Anna restored her possessions to their prior locations, keeping everything neat and tidy. As she packed things into drawers, she spied a small bottle that she had missed among her personal items. Made of glass, with a rubber dropper cap, it appeared to contain some sort of medicine or potion. She lifted it out to read the label.
Jenson’s Original Fetal Health Tonic - Safe and Effective Daily Potion
for Mother and Child
Anna’s jaw went slack. For several seconds she sat, frozen, gaping at the bottle.
She wasn’t seasick. She was pregnant.
II
A Dark and Stormy Day
“For God’s sake, man, come back inside.”
“Not until I see that steamer.” Quinn Harper tugged on the collar of his overcoat. Cold rain dribbled down the back of his neck, soaking into his already-damp shirt. “I’m not moving until I know she’s safe.”
“Don’t be foolish, mate.” Wilhelm Petersen, one of Quinn’s warehouse managers, rubbed the bridge of his once-broken nose and tapped his foot impatiently. “You’ll either catch your death or get washed out to sea.”
As if to prove a point, another wave crashed over the pier, puddling around Quinn’s rubber wellingtons. The ships anchored in the Esbjerg harbor bounced in the churning water. Out past the breakwater, the sea heaved and roiled, lashed by the wind and pounding rain. Tendrils of lightning forked across the sky.
“If that ship goes down, it’ll destroy me. It’s carrying the most important person in my life, do you understand that?”
The two most important people. They weren’t talking much about the baby yet, because Anna was nervous. Early bouts of bleeding had scared her. Her daily drops of health potion were helping, as far as he could tell, but he hadn’t seen her in two weeks. In the nine months since their Christmas wedding, this was the first time he’d been away from her for more than a day. He wanted nothing more in the world than to hold her and know that she was well.
“I understand that you’re off your head,” Petersen grumbled. “You can’t help her out here. Come back to the tavern and have another drink.”
“I’ve had enough. I only get drunk with Anna.” The whisky he’d had earlier had already left him woozy. Not enough food or sleep and too much tension made for a poor head for spirits, it seemed.
“You are off your head. What kind of man wants to lush it up with his wife and not his mates?”
The flood of memories brought a smile to Quinn’s face. “We do tastings together. Sample the merchandise. Sometimes we get carried away and it leads to… other things.” Let it sound like he was talking about bedroom antics. He didn’t want to share the way it truly led to silly games, private jokes, and hours of laughter. That was too personal, too intimate. Quinn had never in his life had a friend so close as Anna and he didn’t want to let anyone else encroach on that world.
“Newlyweds.” The word carried the casual disdain of a man who didn’t know what he was missing. “You realize any sensible man would’ve left her safe at home and scratched any itch with a sweet little Danish girl, right? Now get your daft, romantic self back inside before we both freeze our arses off.”
“You go. I’m waiting.”
“Her ship’s fine. Our cargo boat made it here in one piece. I’m living proof of it.”
“Storm’s gotten worse since then.” Quinn turned his face to the wind, welcoming the sting of the rain on his cheeks. The physical discomfort provided relief from his raw emotions. “It’s a bad one and it came on suddenly. We’ve lost ships in less than this, and you know it.”
He rubbed his temple with fingers stiff from the cold. The dizziness was growing worse. Maybe he was crazy to be out here. But this helpless feeling of knowing Anna was out there was driving him mad.
“At least have another sip of whisky. Warm yourself up.”
Quinn felt the nudge of a liquor flask against his arm, but waved off the offer. “No. That drink at noon went right to my head.”
“That so?” his companion inquired.
“Aye. Feeling a bit off. Might be coming down with something.”
“You don’t say. How’s the memory? You know why you’re standing out here in a bloody downpour?”
“What? Of course. For…” The image of her flashed in his mind. Dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, her rosy lips curved in a coy smile. The tinkle of her laughter echoed in his ears. “For Anna. My… wife.”
Why did his brain seem so sluggish? He could still picture her in his mind’s eye, but the words came slowly and sounded strange.
“You don’t have a wife,” said the man standing beside him.
“What? I do. A-Anna.” Did she really exist? Had he just imagined her?
“I think it’s about time we left this godforsaken port behind and walked back to the tavern, don’t you?”
“I, um…” He rubbed his temple, trying to wake himself up or shake off the confusion, or anything really. Where was he? What was going on? Why was he out in such a storm?
The stranger next to him took his arm and steered him away from the shore. “You don’t have a wife.”
“I don’t?”
“No. No wife. Your name is Smith and you’re a warehouse manager.”
“I am?”
“You just lost your job. You’re looking to head back home to England.”
“England. Home. London.”
“No! Not London. Somewhere else.”
“Scotland? Edinburgh?”
“No, dammit. Somewhere we don’t… Newcastle.”
“I don’t live in Newcastle.”
“Yes. Yes, you do. You’re Mr. Smith, an unmarried man from Newcastle.”
“Smith. Newcastle. Right.”
Why did that sound wrong? Quinn squeezed his eyes closed, stumbled, and opened them again. He was ill. That was it. He was ill and his head was swimming and nothing made sense. He’d go inside, out of this storm, and have a lie-down and wake up feeling better.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep repeating it until you remember.”
Quinn nodded weakly. God, did he feel awful. The whole world seemed to be spinning, and he didn’t think he was drunk. Drunk was more fun. Drunk was bawdy jokes and laughter and a dark-haired angel.
“Wasn’t I waiting for something? Someone?”
“There is no someone. Come along, Smith. Let’s get you inside and get another good dose of whisky in you.”
“Aye.”
Whisky sounded right. He knew all about whisky. But damned if he could remember why.
