room? Or will have when we off-load
them all on to him again in the morning! ” Charlotte merely glanced at her but said nothing.
Hannah smiled, and let Waterloo out at the French window as part of the final ritual before settling down for the night.
Charlotte carried Richard’s breakfast tray to him while Hannah was still enjoying a leisurely bath in one of the far from up-to-date bathrooms at Tremarth, following an absolutely undisturbed night during which the patient had slept soundly and peacefully. He was looking so much better — and so very much more like the Richard Tremarth Charlotte had felt strangely antagonised by when he made himself known to her in the bar of the Three Sailors — that she could hardly believe he hadn’t also recovered his memory when she set the tray down on the bedside table, and prepared to swing the table across the bed.
“It’s a wonderful morning,” she declared, giving him quite a radiant smile, “and you look as if you’ve had a good night. Have you?”
“A perfect night. At least — ” he frowned a little as he attempted to recall it — “I must have slept like a log, for I don’t even remember dreaming. And I’ve had some pretty lurid dreams lately.”
“Have you?” She poured him a cup of tea, and held it out to him gently. “That must have been beastly. I hate lurid dreams.”
He smiled at her quizzically.
“To look at you one could only imagine you having the nicest dreams . . . cool and crisp,
like that pink linen dress of yours. And by the way, it doesn’t fight with your hair, does it?”
“Ought it to?”
“Well, it is red hair, isn’t it?” He put his sleek dark head a little on one side and regarded her with undisguised interest. “And although I don’t know much about women’s clothes, and that sort of thing, I’ve always understood that redheads have to be careful when it comes to the choice of colours. After all, red has a habit of clashing with other colours.”
She smiled at him demurely while she tucked a pillow in behind his shoulders.
“I don’t have very much trouble choosing things to suit me,” she told him.
He looked vaguely anxious, noticing for the first time the rose on the tray.
“I haven’t offended you, have I?” he asked.
“Calling you a redhead, I mean _” He lightly
touched the stem of the rose, while his black brows bent together. “For some reason your hair fascinates me I’ve a kind of feeling it’s linked up, in a way, with my past — whatever that may have been like!”
“Then you don’t remember anything clearly yet?” she asked, concern immediately entering her tone.
He shook his head. The expression in his strange eyes worried her.
“Not a thing! I wish I could, I — ”
“Yes?”
“You tell me I ought to know you, and yet I don’t. It’s — infuriating!”
“I wouldn’t let it worry you,” she said, in the wonderfully soft, feminine voice she had adopted towards him since his accident — such a contrast to the voice she had used when she declined to sell him Tremarth. “It’s not of any great importance at the moment, and you will remember.”
“Yes; but when?”
“Dr. Mackay says the kind of amnesia you’re suffering from clears itself up quite suddenly.” She was disturbed because she couldn’t give him any more convincing answer than that.
“And is this Dr. Mackay a good doctor? Is he a local doctor?”
“Yes. Hannah thinks he’s quite remarkably good.”
“Hannah?” Once again his brows crinkled painfully. “Oh, yes, the young woman who wears the nurse’s uniform but tells me she’s not properly qualified.... But I’d say she’s extremely efficient all the same. I like Hannah,” he concluded in a more abstracted tone, as if it was not important, anyway.
“And what about Miss Brown?” Charlotte asked. “She’s terribly attractive, and surely you must remember her?” This was deliberate probing on her part, and she waited a trifle
them all on to him again in the morning! ” Charlotte merely glanced at her but said nothing.
Hannah smiled, and let Waterloo out at the French window as part of the final ritual before settling down for the night.
Charlotte carried Richard’s breakfast tray to him while Hannah was still enjoying a leisurely bath in one of the far from up-to-date bathrooms at Tremarth, following an absolutely undisturbed night during which the patient had slept soundly and peacefully. He was looking so much better — and so very much more like the Richard Tremarth Charlotte had felt strangely antagonised by when he made himself known to her in the bar of the Three Sailors — that she could hardly believe he hadn’t also recovered his memory when she set the tray down on the bedside table, and prepared to swing the table across the bed.
“It’s a wonderful morning,” she declared, giving him quite a radiant smile, “and you look as if you’ve had a good night. Have you?”
“A perfect night. At least — ” he frowned a little as he attempted to recall it — “I must have slept like a log, for I don’t even remember dreaming. And I’ve had some pretty lurid dreams lately.”
“Have you?” She poured him a cup of tea, and held it out to him gently. “That must have been beastly. I hate lurid dreams.”
He smiled at her quizzically.
“To look at you one could only imagine you having the nicest dreams . . . cool and crisp,
like that pink linen dress of yours. And by the way, it doesn’t fight with your hair, does it?”
“Ought it to?”
“Well, it is red hair, isn’t it?” He put his sleek dark head a little on one side and regarded her with undisguised interest. “And although I don’t know much about women’s clothes, and that sort of thing, I’ve always understood that redheads have to be careful when it comes to the choice of colours. After all, red has a habit of clashing with other colours.”
She smiled at him demurely while she tucked a pillow in behind his shoulders.
“I don’t have very much trouble choosing things to suit me,” she told him.
He looked vaguely anxious, noticing for the first time the rose on the tray.
“I haven’t offended you, have I?” he asked.
“Calling you a redhead, I mean _” He lightly
touched the stem of the rose, while his black brows bent together. “For some reason your hair fascinates me I’ve a kind of feeling it’s linked up, in a way, with my past — whatever that may have been like!”
“Then you don’t remember anything clearly yet?” she asked, concern immediately entering her tone.
He shook his head. The expression in his strange eyes worried her.
“Not a thing! I wish I could, I — ”
“Yes?”
“You tell me I ought to know you, and yet I don’t. It’s — infuriating!”
“I wouldn’t let it worry you,” she said, in the wonderfully soft, feminine voice she had adopted towards him since his accident — such a contrast to the voice she had used when she declined to sell him Tremarth. “It’s not of any great importance at the moment, and you will remember.”
“Yes; but when?”
“Dr. Mackay says the kind of amnesia you’re suffering from clears itself up quite suddenly.” She was disturbed because she couldn’t give him any more convincing answer than that.
“And is this Dr. Mackay a good doctor? Is he a local doctor?”
“Yes. Hannah thinks he’s quite remarkably good.”
“Hannah?” Once again his brows crinkled painfully. “Oh, yes, the young woman who wears the nurse’s uniform but tells me she’s not properly qualified.... But I’d say she’s extremely efficient all the same. I like Hannah,” he concluded in a more abstracted tone, as if it was not important, anyway.
“And what about Miss Brown?” Charlotte asked. “She’s terribly attractive, and surely you must remember her?” This was deliberate probing on her part, and she waited a trifle
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