Page 21 of His Duchess to Remember

“Nay, Your Grace. That was my father.” The doctor stared down into the glass of brandy that Malcolm had poured for him, for there did not seem to be any whisky at all in the household.

“And ye can’t get yer father to come here?” Malcolm said. “Or write to him, to ask more about those months she spent at Highcastle?”

Stanforth sighed and took a sip, grimacing. “My father is gone, Your Grace. He has been gone for some three years now. I do have his records, but they are in Scotland.” He paused. “If you had been less rash, maybe we could have looked over some of them before you came here.”

It was a bold man who would scold Malcolm so openly, though he did not mind it. It was probably deserved, considering he had departed Highcastle without warning while under the doctor’s care.

Malcolm took a sip of his own drink and pulled a similar face. He did not much like brandy. “Is it… normal for someone in my condition to have a… uh… change of character?”

The thought had been bothering him since dinner, when Octavia had informed him that he was completely different to the Malcolm she had known. How on earth could a knock to the head have altered him so much? Or, perhaps, the better question was what had happened in the missing ten years that had altered him so much?

“In truth, Your Grace, I don’t know,” the doctor replied, frowning. “I had been reading some accounts of amnesia while I was tending to you at Highcastle, but they are so rare, and there doesn’t seem to be any uniformity in the symptoms, the outcomes, the healing process, the way in which it presents.”

Malcolm swirled the amber liquid, mesmerized. “Is there a chance I’ll never recover those memories?”

“There is,” the doctor replied, “but there’s just as much chance that you will. As I said, there’s no exactness to this. I have a theory that it pertains to swelling and inflammation of the brain, alongside lasting damage from the injury itself.”

“What do ye mean?”

Stanforth sat forward slightly in his chair. “When you hurt your ankle, for example, it can look rather nasty, but bruising and swelling doesn’t always mean that the bone beneath is broken. It might just be a sprain, and the joint or limb will return to normal once the swelling has gone away. However, sometimes, the bone is broken. For some, that can be remedied in a way that the bone returns to normal eventually. For others, it will never be the same again, and they may limp permanently.”

It was a useful analogy, though not entirely helpful.

“So, I may remember nothing or everything or only some of what I once kenned?” Malcolm said.

The doctor nodded, offering an apologetic look. “Time and rest will tell us.” He frowned at the glass in Malcolm’s hand. “You mightn’t want to drink so much of that, either. Nothing that can addle the mind.”

“But if I wished to remain forgetful?” Malcolm asked, watching the liquid coat the glass. “I should drink more?”

Stanforth narrowed his eyes. “Why on earth would you want that?”

“Just a thought,” Malcolm said, and set the glass down.

Why on earth wouldn’t I?

As far as he could tell, the man he used to be was not someone worth remembering at all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“This is gibberish,” Malcolm said, resisting the urge to tear out every page of the exasperating ledgers so he could use them as kindling. “Utter gibberish.”

The butler, Mr. Lincoln, stood by with the patience of a saint. “It is difficult at first, I’ve no doubt about that, but I’m sure there must be a mention of your cipher somewhere.”

“Wouldn’t it be at Highcastle?”

The butler hesitated. “Ah, well… you used to send duplicates rather often. I would put them away for you in this very study, Your Grace.”

Malcolm observed the man. “So, ye must have kenned me quite well, then?”

“Reasonably, Your Grace.” Mr. Lincoln put on a nervous smile. “I have been in your employ for six years. Indeed, you chose me personally to come to Huntfield to help Her Grace settle into the manor.”

“Ye were at Highcastle before that?”

The butler nodded. “I was.”

“Ye don’t sound Scottish.” A flicker of wariness crept up the back of Malcolm’s neck.

“Oh, I’m not, but my mother was. She came from a village near to your castle, and it was her wish to be buried there,” the butler explained at a clip. “I stayed a while after the funeral, and that is when I saw your advertisement for a butler. Although, if I may, I was somewhat glad to be tasked with tending to Huntfield instead, for the Scottish weather was terrible for my rheumatism.”