Danice Allen

  REMEMBER ME

  Table of Contents

  Remember Me

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  More from Danice Allen

  Connect with Diversion Books

  Remember Me

  Danice Allen

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1996 by Danice Allen

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition April 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-275-8

  More from Danice Allen

  Arms of a Stranger

  The Perfect Gentleman

  Dedicated with heartfelt gratitude to my sister-in-law, Debbie Ford. Deb, I can never thank you enough for taking care of my mom. May the angels watch over you and yours forever.

  Chapter 1

  Darlington Hall, village of Edenbridge

  Surrey, England

  October 1816

  “Mr. Tibble, can you possibly be saying that you’ve had this letter in your office since my father and mother died six months ago?”

  The harried solicitor gripped the rim of his hat as he held it against his chest and peered anxiously at Amanda over the top of his spectacles. “Yes, Miss Darlington,” he admitted meekly. “It was a grievous mistake made by one of our less experienced clerks. The letter had been misfiled under Darlingscott, a client of ours in … er … Warwick, I think. Or is it Wart Hill?”

  Amanda raised a brow. “Indeed, Mr. Tibble, it appears that everyone in your office has difficulty with names.”

  Mr. Tibble bowed his head, and Amanda was immediately sorry she’d spoken with such cool disdain. She did not like to see timid Mr. Tibble quake, but she was having a hard time controlling her displeasure. The envelope she’d let fall to her lap, standing out so glaringly white against the skirt of her black bombazine gown, might contain a letter from her deceased parents using just the sort of tender words she’d longed to hear from them when they were alive.

  It had been difficult mourning them, for they had been reserved and sparing with their affections. This posthumous letter gave her hope that unexpressed warmth had been hidden beneath her parents’ staid exteriors.

  “When was the letter delivered to your office, Mr. Tibble?” asked Amanda in a purposely softened voice.

  Mr. Tibble dared to look up. “According to our records, it was three years ago, Miss Darlington. The instructions attached to it stated that the letter was to be delivered unopened to you on the advent of both your parents’ death, whether they died separately and years apart, or together … as they did.”

  “Yes, as they did,” murmured Amanda, remembering anew the horrible night she learned of the carriage accident that had instantly killed her father and mother. As an only child, Amanda had had to deal with all the arrangements for the funeral with only her two aunts, Nan and Prissy, to assist.

  Mr. Tibble stood up. “I want to apologize again, Miss Darlington, most profusely,” he said with respectful fervor. “I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Amanda sighed. “It wasn’t your fault, I daresay.”

  Mr. Tibble smiled tentatively and bowed, giving Amanda an eye-level view of his balding pate. “How gracious you are, Miss Darlington! Now I will leave you to your letter. That is, unless you wish me to be present in case …” His voice trailed off tactfully.

  “I’m sure there’s no need for you to stay,” said Amanda, also standing, and towering over the diminutive Mr. Tibble. “As we covered everything that could possibly be related to the estate directly after the funeral, this can only be a private letter dealing with family matters.”

  Mr. Tibble smiled and bowed again, taking a backward step toward the door to the library. “Yes, of course. Excellent.”

  Amanda advanced and the solicitor took another backward step, still clutching his hat to his narrow chest. “I’ll be going then. Do send word if you need me.”

  A few steps later and in a bracing tone, he said, “Tibble, Benchworth, and Cadbury have been unutterably honored to take care of your father’s business for thirty years, Miss Darlington, and I do hope this little matter of misfiling won’t offput you so much that you decide to—”

  Amanda took Mr. Tibble’s arm, gently turned him in the right direction, and hastened him to the door. She felt rather like a bully, as she had his advantage in height by at least four inches. “Never fear, Mr. Tibble,” she assured him, showing him firmly out. “I don’t intend to change solicitors. Henchpenny will show you to the door. Good day, Mr. Tibble.”

  Finally having got rid of the obsequious fellow, Amanda returned to her comfortable chair by the fire and sat down. She picked up the letter from the table on which she’d placed it and unsealed the envelope with a crested dagger. With trembling fingers she removed a single piece of parchment paper and carefully unfolded it.

  She closed her eyes for an instant and took a deep breath. She was prepared to be moved by emotion. She was ready to shed a few tears.

  She opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on her father’s pinched, formal handwriting. Five minutes later, the letter fell from numb fingers and fluttered to the floor. She leaned back against the cushions of the wing chair and stared dry-eyed at the brightly colored autumn leaves as they drifted past the mullioned windows of the library.

  “Dearest, you look positively ashen!” cried Nan.

  “As pale as a ghost,” concurred Prissy. Both of them hovered over Amanda like hens over a chick. “Whatever’s the matter, Amanda Jane?”

  Amanda stirred herself and sat up straight in the chair. “Dear aunts,” she said sadly, “you had better sit down.”

  As well it might, this ominous pronouncement struck terror to the hearts of the two elderly spinsters and immediately compelled them to do exactly as they’d been advised. They sat down and, speechless for once, waited for their niece to explain.

  “I received a letter today from the solicitor.”

  “Oh, dear,” Nan said faintly. “Your father’s will has been found to be null and void? You don’t own the house after all?”

  “No,” said Amanda patiently, “the house is mine. The farm is mine. With no title in question and no male heir, Father could leave his money to whom he pleased. I am just as rich as ever, and you both are just as settled as my permanent houseguests. There is no question of our security.”

  “Then what was the letter about, pray tell?” prompted Prissy, twisting her hands in her lap. Aunt Prissy’s hands were constantly in motion, the nervous habit as much a part of her as the mother-of pearl combs she always wore in her silver hair. Nan covered her own baby-soft thatch of white hair with a modest lace cap that tied under her plump chi
n. As befitted their period of mourning, they both wore severe black gowns.

  Amanda shook her head. “I don’t know if I believe it yet, even though I read it with my own eyes.” She paused, then forced herself to press on to the crucial point as quickly as possible. “Father has more property, a cottage on Thorney Island in West Sussex.”

  The aunts exchanged glances. “But more property is good news, isn’t it, Amanda Jane?” Nan’s fading brown eyes were wide with puzzlement.

  “Generally speaking—”

  “I’ve never heard of Thorney Island,” interrupted Prissy, “but if the cottage is livable, I daresay we could use a little holiday now and then on the coast. A cottage which is charmingly rustic is always pleasant, but I cannot abide damp walls, you know. How far is Thorney Island from here, I wonder? Brighton’s so crowded lately, and it’s harder than ever to get a bathing machine—”

  “Oh, hush, Pris!” admonished Nan, swatting at her sister’s skirt. “Amanda Jane’s not finished speaking.”

  “Yes, do hear me out,” said Amanda, with what she thought was admirable restraint. “This is not the time to rejoice in the possibility of dry stone cottages and bathing machines, Aunt Prissy. The house on Thorney Island is already occupied.”

  Nan, the more perceptive of the two, said, “And the occupant of this house is the thing that worries you most, Amanda Jane? Who is it? Good gracious, has your father got a mad uncle boarded up in the attic or some such French penny-novel nonsense? I never liked him, you know—God rest his soul—and I warned Clorinda not to marry him, but she wouldn’t listen—”

  “Now whose tongue is singing like a fiddlestick?” observed Prissy with a sniff.

  “Don’t argue, please,” said Amanda, suddenly feeling very unequal to the task before her. She ran a shaky hand over her eyes and fell back in the chair.

  “You are truly upset, Amanda Jane,” said Nan with concern. She leaned forward and placed her hand on Amanda’s knee. “Tell us, dear. Tell us what’s wrong, and we promise to listen quietly.”

  Amanda rested her own hand on top of Nan’s and forced herself to smile. “Thank you, dearest. Your quiet, undivided attention would be greatly appreciated.”

  Completely sobered and frightened by Amanda’s unusual show of emotion, the aunts sat broomstick straight and listened. “The letter isn’t from the solicitor; it’s from Father and Mother.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Prissy in a quavering voice.

  Amanda explained how the letter had been misfiled. “It was meant to be read directly after the funeral. It tells of another relation to us, but not an uncle … mad or otherwise.”

  Prissy wrung her hands even more energetically than usual. “Then who?”

  Amanda cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to her hands, which were resting in her lap. Now she clenched them till the knuckles were white. “I have a sibling.”

  This statement was met with silence. Without raising her head, Amanda hurried on. “Father had a child with a woman other than my mother. The letter doesn’t say what sex or age the child is. It says only that the child has been kept at father’s property, Thornfield Cottage on Thorney Island, since birth. Raised by a caretaker named Mrs. Grimshaw, the child has no knowledge of who its parents are. According to the letter, Father has been sending Mrs. Grimshaw fifty pounds every two months as a salary—to keep the house, buy food, etcetera. He does not mention any education for the child.”

  Amanda braved a look at her aunts and found them slack-jawed with shock.

  “I don’t wonder that you are surprised,” said Amanda, adding bitterly, “Father and Mother were such models of respectability.”

  “I warned her not to marry him,” murmured Nan.

  “Men are such vile beasts!” added Prissy.

  “What happened to the child’s natural mother?” asked Nan.

  “She died at childbirth.”

  “Oh,” said the aunts together, silenced again.

  Amanda stood and paced the hearth rug. She caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt-edged mirror over the mantel and was surprised to see her usual neat reflection staring back. Not a wisp of her pale blond hair was out of place. Her high-necked gown was as tidy and prim as her strict and proper mother could have possibly wished for. But inside Amanda was in turmoil, as torn apart as she’d ever been in the whole of her three-and-twenty years.

  “My parents’ entire life was a lie.”

  Nan rose naturally to the defense of her sister. “Don’t blame Clorinda for something your father did.”

  “Mother knew of the child and must have condoned this secretive arrangement.”

  Prissy shrugged her narrow shoulders. “But what could she do about it? At least the child has been cared for.”

  “I find the handling of the whole situation deplorable,” said Amanda with disgust. “Hiding the child away on some remote island, raised by a paid caretaker, was wrong. The child should have either been taken in by my parents when the natural mother died—even if Father had to claim him or her as an orphan he’d decided to sponsor—or arranged for the child to be adopted by a caring couple.”

  “There would have been speculations, whispered rumors,” suggested Nan. “Your father would have found that sort of thing … unpleasant.”

  “How pleasant has it been for my brother, or sister? Practically imprisoning the poor thing, with no idea who he is, with no one to love him but a servant who may or may not be kind!” Amanda shook her head vehemently. “I shudder to think my father’s conscience was so easily mollified by sending off fifty pounds every other month, then never giving the poor little merry-begotten another thought!”

  “Amanda Jane!” exclaimed the aunts in unison, surprised by her loose language.

  Amanda stopped her furious pacing and turned to face her aunts. “Do you realize that no money has been sent to Thornfield Cottage since March and it is now the fifth of October?”

  “Have there been no letters from Thornfield Cottage requesting money of your father?” asked Prissy.

  “According to Father’s letter, the caretaker was never told the family name or given the directions to this house. Father’s instructions to me were to continue the same practice as long as I deemed it necessary—basing my decision on yearly visits in the spring to Mrs. Grimshaw at a prearranged spot away from Thornfield Cottage—or to simply quit sending the money if I chose to ignore the situation. It sounds like he never once clapped eyes on the child.” She shook her head. “And he must have thought me as heartless as he if he thought I could act in a similarly cold and businesslike manner.”

  “What are you going to do, Amanda Jane?” asked Nan. “Obviously you are gravely concerned about the child.”

  Amanda felt a calmness wash over her even as she drummed up the courage to speak. “I’m going to fetch the child and bring it here.”

  “You’re going to do what?” Once again the aunts were in fine voice and completely unified.

  “Well, why shouldn’t I? I’ve led a proper life, looking up to my parents as shining examples of how to behave. And look where’s it’s got me! I’m quite on the shelf, as stuffy and joyless as my parents ever were. Did you see them exchange one tender look, aunts? Did she ever straighten his cravat? Did he ever stroke her cheek or allow his hand to linger at her waist once he’d guided her through the door? Never!”

  “They did not approve of public displays of affection, I daresay,” offered Prissy, not very convincingly.

  “Nor private, either, I’d wager,” said Amanda. “Once Mother gave birth to me, they probably never again shared a warming pan. I shan’t let my life be dictated any longer by my parents’ notions of what’s proper. I’m going to go immediately and find out what’s happened to that child and then rescue it from Father and Mother’s so-called charity.”

  “People might think the child is yours,” suggested Nan in a quiet voice.

  “I don’t give a blessed fig what people think of me anymore,” announced Ama
nda, moving to the bellpull by the fireplace and giving it a vigorous tug. “I only want to do what’s right for the child, and the gossips be hanged.”

  Prissy wrung her hands with feverish intensity. “What’s right for the child might not include bringing it here, Amanda Jane. Are you perhaps thinking of yourself a little? Have you wanted a brother or sister to care for?”

  Amanda was brought up short. Was she being selfish? Did she want a brother or sister to share this massive house with her? Did she want a child to raise, since she apparently wasn’t destined for marriage and children of her own? She loved her aunts, but they’d not be around forever. And even now, they couldn’t fill a need in her that grew stronger every day…. Would a child, a sibling, fill that void?

  “I’m not going to worry about my motives right now, aunts,” she told them. “Time is of the essence. Who knows what’s happened to that child since the money stopped coming. Once I’ve made sure of the child’s well-being, I’ll give considerable thought to the future.”

  The door opened, and the butler entered the room.

  “You rang, miss?”

  “Yes, Henchpenny. I need you to make some arrangements for me. I’m going on a trip.”

  “To the village, miss?”

  “No, Henchpenny, this will be a long trip. I may be gone several days.”

  He did not blink an eye, although Amanda hadn’t ventured much beyond Edenbridge since her miserable season in London four years ago. “You’ll need the traveling chaise then, miss. How many outriders will you require?”

  “Only two. Harley and Joe will do nicely. If Theo complains, simply tell him I’ll drive myself.”

  The butler’s lips twitched. “Yes, miss. I make no doubt that such a threat will secure Mister Theo’s immediate cooperation. And shall I tell your abigail to pack for the both of you?”

  “No, Henchpenny,” said Amanda, stooping to retrieve the letter from where it still reposed on the floor. When she stood up again her face felt flushed, but whether it was from dipping her head or from the exhilaration of the new sense of freedom that surged through her veins, she wasn’t sure. And she didn’t care. “No, Henchpenny,” she began again. “Tell Iris to pack only for me.”