“Now that you have found Rosalind here, Charles, surely you will not want to post off to Northumberland, will you?” coaxed Lucy.

  “No, indeed. I have told Bell to send the post chaise away when it comes to fetch me. I…it’s a difficult matter to discuss, but I must tell you why I was in such a hurry to leave. It will explain Rosalind’s flight from her home, at least in part.

  “Her father and my mother were brother and sister. You must know that I was orphaned at an early age. Rosalind’s parents brought me up as their own son, and my uncle ran the estate, Bennendale, which had been his father’s until my nabob grandsire bought it. There are several reasons why I entered the army, including a youthful desire to win my spurs. And I did not wish to deprive my uncle of the land that should have been his. That was a consideration that weighed heavily.

  “So I purchased a pair of colors, and, as you know, I was later posted to India. I was not displeased to become acquainted with the country from which my fortune proceeded.

  “One of the disadvantages of a primitive society is, as you may guess, that the mails are often delayed, or even destroyed. I did not discover until very recently that my uncle and aunt had perished in an epidemic, a year since. Naturally, I at once applied for leave to come home to take care of my affairs and make arrangements for my cousin’s comfort. I had thoughts even then of selling out, which my meeting with Lucy confirmed and brought to fruition. Unfortunately for me, as it turned out, General Frazer had a great victory shortly before my departure, and I was ordered to bring dispatches home with me. My voyage was speeded, but I have since been held kicking my heels in London when I should have been in Northumberland. Not that I can regret the weeks that I have spent in winning the love of my dear Lucy, yet my cousin had desperate need of me, of which I knew nothing.

  “For the rest of this tale, I must rely on a letter I received yesterday from Lady Cressman, a close neighbor. It seems that my Uncle and Aunt Stuart were scarce in their graves when my Uncle Henry, my father’s younger brother, arrived at Bennendale, bringing with him a Colonel Overton. He settled into my house and began to press my poor Rosalind to marry the colonel, to whom he owed a large sum of money. Rosalind has fifteen thousand pounds, and the dastard proposed to free himself of debt in this way.

  “At first my cousin had considerable freedom, though she was constantly bullied. She saw Lady Cressman frequently, and wrote to me several times, letters which I never received. Gradually her visits ceased. As my uncle dismissed our old servants and hired his own, he gained more control over her even as he discovered her to be adamant in her refusal to marry his creditor. He had taken over the management of the estate and Rosalind’s guardianship on the grounds that my survival was questionable. Either he destroyed my letters or they simply went astray, and no one thought to inquire at my regiment.

  “Lady Cressman writes that she tried several times to see my cousin at Bennendale but was turned away by shockingly rough-looking characters. Her husband forbade her to do more. Sir Donald is a pacific gentleman who would go to a great deal of trouble to avoid trouble.

  “The rest of the story was told to Lady Cressman by Rosalind’s abigail, a few days past, so I have it at third hand. According to her, my uncle grew more and more impatient and unpleasant toward her mistress until at last he confined her to her room. This maid, Joan, was the only one to see my cousin apart from my uncle and the odious Colonel Overton. Imprisonment and a diet of bread and water, while undermining Rosalind’s health, did not shake her determination. She was sure that I must return soon.

  “One day, in late February, Joan caught sight of a letter on my uncle’s desk. It was from myself, announcing my arrival in London. She told Rosalind, who unwisely taxed my uncle with the discovery. I think the man must have been partly insane by this time. His only response was to beat my cousin savagely, swearing that she would be wed before I could rescue her. The maid tried to prevent the beating, but was held fast by Colonel Overton. Her attempt, together with her revelation to her mistress of my return, led to my uncle imprisoning her in the same room.

  “That night, Rosalind decided on a desperate measure. There is a huge old oak standing near the house, of which one branch reaches nearly to the window of her chamber. As I remember it, the branch is very narrow and weak and does not come within three feet of the casement. Certainly I never attempted the climb in my youth, and I was accounted an intrepid, nay, a foolhardy climber. My cousin had not seriously considered it before, because of the danger and because she had nowhere to flee. Now she was desperate, and she had only to reach London to find me.

  “She escaped, of course. The maid was to follow, but was too terrified by the sight of my brave cousin swinging from the fragile branch to make the attempt. My uncle kept her shut up, that she might not inform on him, and only an oversight on his part allowed her at last, after nearly two months, to reach Lady Cressman, who wrote immediately to me.

  “The rest of Rosalind’s story, you know better than I.”

  “There!” exclaimed Lucy in triumph, “did I not say she was a heroine?”

  The Carstairs were not the only ones to have listened to Charles’s exposition with bated breath. In a very short time every servant in the house knew the whole story.

  “Miss Lucy’s right,” was the general opinion. “A real heroine, right out o’ one o’ they romantical novels!”

  Dr. Knighton was announced before any further discussion could take place. Lady Annabel took him to Miss Stuart’s chamber.

  “What shall you do about your wicked uncle?” Lucy demanded of the major.

  “I shall consult my lawyer about legal remedies at once. Otherwise, I can do little for the present. I cannot leave London while Rosalind is ill.”

  “You shall stay here,” said Richard, and then wondered if that was going too far. The beaming gratitude in Lucy’s eyes persuaded him that it had been the right thing to say. He also enjoyed the look of astonishment on the major’s face.

  “Well,” ventured that gentleman with caution, “it is most kind of you. I had thought to…”

  “Of course you will stay here, Charles,” Lucy stated firmly. “Rosalind needs you nearby. After all, she has only just found you after searching for two months! You know,” she added reflectively, “I am inclined to think that Rosalind is very nearly as romantic a name as Clarissa. As You Like It, you see.”

  The gentlemen could not restrain their laughter, which released the tensions of the past hour.

  “At least Shakespeare is a vast improvement over Count Casimir’s Castle,” wheezed Richard at last.

  “Not only that, but you are quite correct, dearest,” explained Charles. “As You Like It was my Uncle Roy’s favorite play. However, I cannot think he ever expected poor Rosalind to live up to her name.”

  Lady Annabel was heard bidding the doctor farewell. She came to the library directly.

  “I am so happy to hear you laughing, my dears,” she assured them, noting their guilty faces. “Rosalind would not mind, you know. She never relieved her own troubles by forcing them on the rest of us.”

  “What did Dr. Knighton say?” queried Richard with eager impatience.

  “He can find nothing physically wrong. He approved my prescription,” she said with some pride. “Miss Stuart was too drowsy to answer any questions and he says she is to sleep for twenty-four hours. If she should awake this evening and grow restless, she is to have another sleeping draft. He will come in the morning to see if anything more need be done.”

  The rest of the day passed slowly. They were all anxious to hear Rosalind’s version of the story. Lucy was allowed to watch by her bedside for a while and was there when her friend awoke. Rosalind did not seem to recognize her, but she did not complain of any pain and soon fell asleep again.

  When she roused again it was morning, and not long before the doctor was expected. Mary was sitting beside her, mending a torn hem. She had been warned that Miss Stuart might be confused and that she was not to say more than was absolutely necessary.

  Miss Stuart looked at her in a puzzled way, and then closed her eyes. “Am I ill?” she asked. “My head hurts abominably.”

  “I’ll get ‘ee some breakfast, miss,” said Mary. “Tha’s not eaten proper in two days.”

  When she left the room, Rosalind’s headache seemed to be ebbing, but when the maid returned, it came back in full force. She ate a little. Though she was hungry, it was too much effort to eat, nor could she summon up enough energy to think. She vaguely remembered seeing Charles, and willingly abandoned all her problems to him. If she had found him, she knew her uncle no longer had power over her.

  When Dr. Knighton arrived, he asked Lady Annabel and Mary to sit on the far side of the chamber, where Miss Stuart could not see them, explaining that he did not want her attention distracted. After examining her and pronouncing her physically fit, he began to ask her a few cautious questions.

  Though her head was much improved again, she said she had felt as if it were being ground between two millstones. With great care the doctor probed her memory, until he thought he understood the situation.

  “You have had a shock, young lady,” he told her kindly, “but there is nothing seriously wrong with you. I suggest you stay in bed today, read if you want to, sew, whatever takes your fancy. You must be sure to eat properly in order to regain your strength quickly. There is just one other thing I want you to do. If these headaches return, make a note of every circumstance surrounding the onset: who is present, what you are doing, the time of day, what you have eaten immediately prior, you understand the kind of thing? Very well. I shall drop by tomorrow, but I have every confidence that you will be happily up and about.”

  Lady Annabel kissed her brow and said, “I am delighted, my dear,” then followed the doctor out. They went to the drawing room, where the others were awaiting the news.

  “It is of the utmost importance,” began Dr. Knighton, “that Miss—uh—Stuart should not be upset in any way. I have no fears for her physical health, you understand. Her mind is another matter. She is, so to speak, standing astride a mental abyss. She remembers with perfect clarity everything in her life up to the moment her horse threw her on the Yorkshire moors. The next thing she remembers is recognizing Major Bowen in a strange room.”

  “My library, in which she has often sat,” said Richard thoughtfully. “So she did not know me when she looked at me in that odd way. Is that what you are saying, Doctor? That she does not remember any of us?”

  “That is correct, my dear sir. It is possible that the memory of the past few weeks will return gradually as she sees you regularly. Indeed, that seems to be the most likely event. However, I do not want her to see more than one person at a time for the moment. I confess I am worried about the headaches. I should like to bring my German colleague to see her tomorrow.”

  “No!” cried Lady Annabel, with uncharacteristic violence. “I will not have that…that monster in the house.”

  “Yes, I understood that you had taken him in aversion, my lady, with good cause, I admit. Yet he is a brilliant physician in his field. Should you have any objection to my consulting him?”

  “I suppose not,” said Richard grudgingly, “as long as you do not try any treatment he may propose without full permission.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Carstairs, though it must lie with Major Bowen to give that permission. Good-bye, my lady, Miss Carstairs, gentlemen. I shall return tomorrow.”

  Lucy and Charles were all agog to hear about the “monster” to whom Lady Annabel objected so strongly. By the time the tale had been told, ending with the unforgettable quotation: “I mix up mine lenkvitches, iss all,” they were all helpless with laughter.

  “What a pity,” remarked Richard, “that Miss Stuart will not be able to recall the incident. She described it much more amusingly than I can, having been present.”

  His comment sobered them all.

  “If you do not object, Lady Annabel, I shall go and see my cousin,” proposed Charles. “If she does not see me soon, she may believe she dreamed of our meeting. I hate to think what that would do to her memories.”

  After the doctor had left her, Rosalind’s headache came back again. Asking for a piece of paper, she wrote painfully:

  Food—none

  Drink—none

  Time—(she consulted the clock on the mantel) eleven A.M.

  Occupation—none

  Present—no one.

  After a moment’s consideration she scratched out the last and substituted “maid.” Then she lay back with her eyes closed and prayed that the pain would go away. It faded, but every time she opened her eyes again, it returned, so she kept them shut.

  Soon Charles came in and chased Mary out. “Miss Stuart is my cousin,” he pointed out. “I wish to speak privately with her.”

  His presence seemed to banish the headache completely. Under his anxious interrogation she told him the full story of the dreadful year she had gone through.

  “Oh, Charlie, if you had not come home at last, what should I have done?”

  Horrified by her description, which was much more distressing at first hand than through the medium of Lady Cressman’s letter, he soothed and comforted her. At last, clinging to his hand, she asked him doubtfully, “How did I come here, Charles? I rode and rode through the snow, it seemed like forever, but I cannot recall reaching London nor how I found you.”

  Charles was not sure whether, or how, he ought to answer. Rosalind seemed worried about it, so he decided it would upset her less to hear a part of the truth.

  “You have been ill for some time,” he explained gently. “You were found in Yorkshire by some very kind people who brought you here to me. This is their house, in London.”

  “Are they the ones who were in that room with us, where I found you? A lady and a girl and a tall dark gentleman?”

  “Yes. They have been taking care of you.” He debated telling her about his own love for Lucy. It seemed to add an unnecessary complication, so he left the news for later. Lucy had not told him of Richard’s love for Rosalind, deeming her brother’s confidence more important than her beloved’s early enlightenment. She was sure it would all turn out happily in the end.

  Thus Charles did not know the true reason for Richard’s change of heart toward him. He could not call the demanded delay before their marriage unreasonable, considering that Lucy was not yet eighteen. Only two things remained to mar his happiness, Rosalind’s imperfect health and memory, and the question of what to do about his Uncle Henry. The latter, at least, he could dismiss for the present.

  “I must have been very ill,” mused his cousin. “I do not feel as if I know them at all. Yet when I see them I feel a strange sort of tugging in my head. They must be delightful people to care for a complete stranger, Charles.”

  She was shy but composed when they came in, one by one, to see her. Her head was bad again, so that she was unable to converse for long. She thanked Richard and Lady Annabel for taking her in and looking after her. It near broke Richard’s heart that she looked on him as a stranger, until he considered that the alternative was to be regarded as a rejected suitor. Perhaps Lucy was right, and he would have a second chance, be able to start again with a clean slate and avoid all his mistakes. Then he remembered that the doctor expected her to regain the missing weeks gradually. There was no comfort for him whichever way he looked.

  With Lucy, Rosalind had been able to talk a little longer, as her headache was not so severe at that time. She diligently noted its comings and goings and began to see a pattern. It seemed to disappear almost when she was alone or with Charles. Was she in some way sensitive to strangers?

  Dr. Knighton was delighted when he saw her carefully kept record the next day. It confirmed his suspicions absolutely. He spoke to her only briefly, telling her she should leave her bed, though not her chamber. Then he hurried off to explain his theory, or rather Herr Doktor Holzkopf’s theory. He was a little puzzled by the maid’s appearance on the list, and bore her off with him, just in case.

  His audience, gathered once more in the drawing room, was the same with the addition of a frightened Mary.

  “See!” he cried, waving Rosalind’s record at them triumphantly. “This confirms all my suppositions. Miss Stuart is in pain only when a Carstairs, or this young woman, is present.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt her owt, sir, honest I wouldn’t,” sobbed Mary. “No more the others wouldn’t neither.”

  “No, no, my good girl, I am not suggesting it is deliberate. You see, ladies and gentlemen, a part of her mind recognizes you, a part that is being suppressed for some reason. In fact, the part of the memory that deals with the last two months. The stimulus of your presence, any of you, brings the warfare in her mind into the open, so to speak, and gives her a raging headache.” He looked round beaming, as if he expected applause, like a conjurer pulling a rabbit from a top hat.

  Again, Mary was the only one to speak.

  “Then why,” she demanded suspiciously, “isn’t James here? He went into t’room several times, to mend t’fire like, an’ he tol’ me he spoke to her, just to see if she were wanting owt. She knowed James when she were my Miss Fell.”

  “Aha!” exclaimed the great man, “you have inadvertently supplied the missing link, my dear young woman. You must have been very fond of Miss Fell, close to her?”

  Mary nodded and sniffed.

  “There we have it! James, I take it, is a footman. She would hardly know him in more than a casual way. She was only acquainted with Miss Carstairs for a week at the beginning, when she was very ill, and a few days at the end of the period. You will note that she records only mild pain in the presence of Miss Carstairs. Proof! This proves that the sight of anyone with whom she was intimate during the missing two months triggers these alarming headaches. Miss Stuart must go home!”

  No argument would change his mind. The only totally efficacious treatment, he insisted, was to return to the place where nothing would remind her of the part of her life that she could not remember.