The Anonymous Miss Addams

“Eight to five you’re a parson’s eldest,” Pierre was stung into replying. “And a Methodist parson to boot. Only the worse sort of strumpet or a holier-than-thou old maid would even dare utter the word ‘leg’ in front of a gentleman. Somehow, I can’t quite picture you in the role of strumpet. You dislike men entirely too much. Which leaves us with only the other alternative. Now, are you really trying to tell me that you have no recollection of your own name?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I know my own name! Everyone knows his own name,” she shot back at him. “I just—” Her voice began to lose some of its confidence. “I just seem to have, um, momentarily misplaced the memory. It’ll come to me any time now. I’m sure of it.”

“How reassuring,” Pierre soothed, slowly advancing into the room. “And, of course, once you succeed in locating this truant name, you’ll doubtless inform me as to why you were lying unconscious in the middle of the roadway just north of here, obstructing traffic and upsetting my coachman no end. It’s the merest bagatelle—no more than a trifling inconvenience—this temporary lapse.”

The violet eyes shot blue-purple flame. “Oh, do be quiet, Mr.—”

“Standish,” Pierre supplied immediately, lowering himself into a seated position on the bottom of the bed. “Pierre Standish. See how easy that was. Now you try it. How utterly charmed I am to meet you, Miss—”

She nodded her head three times, as if the movement would jog her memory. “Miss…Miss…oh, drat! I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Quietly, my dear Miss Forgetful, quietly,” Pierre scolded absently. “We shall abandon this exercise momentarily, as it seems only to annoy you, and speak of other things. How is your head? You sustained a rather nasty bump on it, one way or another.”

She reached up to gingerly inspect the lump she had discovered earlier upon awakening. “It’s still there, if that’s any answer,” she told him. “Your guess is as good as mine as to how I came to have it. And, even though I am sure it matters little to you, it hurts like the very devil.”

Pierre frowned at her use of the word “devil.” Tipping his head to one side, he commented, “I believe we can dispense with the notion that you are a parson’s daughter. Your language is too broad.”

“Then I am to be the worst sort of strumpet?” she asked, narrowing her eyes belligerently. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Pierre shook his head, “No, not a strumpet, either. You’re much too insulting. You’d have starved by now.”

“Perhaps I am a thief,” she suggested, pulling the blankets more firmly under her chin. “Perhaps you should be locking up your family silver at this very moment, for fear I shall lope off with it the instant I find my clothes. I may assume that I have some clothing somewhere? Not that I’m likely to recognize it any more than I recognize this nightgown I have on now.”

“There’s no reason for you to recognize it. It was my mother’s,” Pierre told her. “She died several years ago.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Surprised that my mother is deceased?” Pierre questioned, looking at her oddly.

“Surprised that she lived so long, with you for a son,” she answered meanly, for even a fool could see that she was feeling very mean.

“Touché, madam. I believe that evens up our insults quite nicely.” Pierre rose from the bed and turned from her before he spoke again. “I’ll send a maid with some breakfast,” he said just as he reached the doorway to his own bedchamber. “That is, if I recover from the wounds your tongue has inflicted. Later, when you are more rested, my father will doubtless wish to interview you. Pray don’t repeat your latest attempt at nastiness to him, for he loved my mother very much.”

“I’m sorry,” she called after him. “Really, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just…it’s just that I’m really very upset. I mean, I don’t even know where I am, let alone who I am. Please—forgive me.”

Pierre turned to look at the young woman now sitting up in the bed, her violet eyes drenched with tears. “Neither of us has been very nice, have we?” he said. “It happens that way with some people, I’ve heard. We have already decided not to like each other, no matter how little Dame Reason is involved in the decision. Let us agree to forgive each other, madam, and have done with it.”

“Agreed!” she said smiling for the first time, the unexpected beauty of it making a direct hit on Pierre’s senses, so that he blinked twice, said nothing, and left the room, suddenly uncomfortable at being dressed in nothing more than his banyan.

A HOT BATH HELPED to ease the soreness she had felt over every inch of her body from the moment she had first awakened in the beautiful, sunlit bedchamber.

The young maid who had introduced herself as Susan had carefully washed her hair, massaging away some of her tension and banishing the headache that had been pounding against her temples.

The meal of poached eggs, country bacon, toast, and tea had erased the gnawing hunger that had made her believe her stomach must have been worrying that her throat had somehow been cut.

But nothing could ease the terrible, blood-chilling panic that shivered through her body each time she attempted to remember who she was, or where she lived, or how she had come to be lying unconscious in the middle of a roadway.

“I just don’t remember!” she said out loud as she sat at the dressing table in the nightgown and robe Susan had brought her after her bath, glaring at her unfamiliar reflection, her chin in her hands. “I don’t remember anything; nothing before waking up here this morning.”

“There are many who would not curse such a lapse, but rather rejoice in it. Good afternoon, Miss Penance. I’m André Standish, your host. Forgive me, but I did knock.”

“You—you look just like him,” she was stung into saying as she stared into the mirror, where André’s reflection smiled back at her. “If it weren’t for the color of your hair, I’d swear—”

“Ah, you’d swear,” André interrupted. “I see my son has not exaggerated. You are an enigma, aren’t you, Miss Penance? You have the look and accent of a lady, but your conversation is sprinkled with words most well-brought-up young females have been taught to shun. Of course, there was a time, more years ago than I care to recall, when all the best ladies were shockingly frank in their speech, but that time has since passed, more’s the pity. Perhaps you were raised solely by your father, or a doting uncle. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”

She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his voice more than his actual words. His tone was so gentle, so reassuring. “No,” she answered, suddenly sleepy, and wondering why she felt she could lean her head against his arm and doze, secure in the knowledge that he’d never hurt her. “No, I don’t think so. Men seem to frighten me—except you, that is. I was very afraid of your son this morning. I don’t think I’ve been around men very much.”

“Pierre can be most formidable, even in his banyan. Especially in his banyan, I imagine.” André laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re frightened, and with every right. Forgive me for trying to prod you into memory. There’s no rush, you know. We shall take this thing one day at a time. Now, come lie down on the bed for a while. You must be exhausted. I’ve already sent for the doctor, but he is busy with someone who is really ill and not merely confused by a bump on the head. He sent along a note assuring me that you’ll remember everything in time. He will be here tomorrow to answer any questions you might have.”

She allowed herself to be helped into bed. Looking up at André, she said, “You’re not at all like your son after all. You’re very nice.”

“Pierre’s a beast, I’m ashamed to say. Quite uncivilized,” André confessed with a smile and a slight shake of his silver head. “Were I you, I should stay as far removed from him as possible. Now, get some rest while I go downstairs and cudgel my brain into coming up with a female companion for you. It isn’t correct for you to be the lone young woman in a masculine household.”

She was very sleepy, but she didn’t miss the meaning of his words. “Then—then you think I’m a young lady?”

“Was there ever any doubt?” André replied, winking at her as he closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE YOUNG LADY Pierre had dubbed Miss Penance walked aimlessly along the twisting gravel paths of the substantial Standish Court ornamental gardens, idly swinging a yellow chip straw bonnet by its pink satin ribbons, her feet dragging only a little in the soft, too-large kid slippers that had once belonged to Eleanore Standish.

The gardens were glorious, a fairyland of flowers and evergreens and whimsical statuary, all bathed in the warmth of a sunny late summer’s afternoon. It was a perfect place to spend a few quiet moments, which was the reason André Standish had suggested it to her earlier, after she had risen from her nap.

So far, neither her nap, the walk, nor the peacefulness of her surroundings had jogged her memory. She had been without it for only a few hours, but she measured its loss minute by minute, and the gravity and scope of that loss were gnawing at her, causing the still tender bump on her head to throb most painfully.

She could be anybody—or nobody. It would be awful to be a Nobody. No one would send out an alarm for a Nobody. A Nobody could disappear from the face of the earth without a trace and no one would care, no one would feel the loss. A Somebody would be missed, and an immediate search would be instituted. Besides, she didn’t feel like a Nobody; she felt like a Somebody.

“That’s no great help,” she told herself out loud. “Everybody wants to be a Somebody. Now, how do you suppose I know that?”

Her seemingly selective memory was what really upset and confused her. How could she know so much and still not know who she was? She knew the name of that flower climbing the trellis over there—it was a morning glory, a purple one.

She knew she was in Sussex, for Susan had told her. She knew Sussex was in England, and that Susan had not told her. She knew where Austria was, and could name at least three principal crops of France. She knew the Italian word for head was capo, but did not know how she knew it.

She was sure she had always particularly favored chicken as it had been presented to her for luncheon in her room, and could name the ingredients used in its preparation. She had counted to three thousand as she had sat in her bath, and probably could have continued to count for the remainder of the day without problem.

So why couldn’t she remember her name?

She could be married, for pity’s sake! That thought stopped her short, and she bit her lip in trepidation. She could have a husband somewhere. Children. Crying for her, missing her. No, she didn’t feel married. Could a person feel married? How did being unmarried feel?

She could be a bad person. Why, she could be a thief, as she had suggested to Pierre Standish. Perhaps she had been discovered with her hand in some good wife’s silver drawer, and had been running from the constable when she had fallen, hitting her head on a stone.

She could be a murderess! She could have murdered a man—her husband, perhaps?—and been fleeing the scene of that dastardly crime in the dead man’s cloak when she had somehow come to grief in the middle of the roadway.

Pierre Standish had certainly been unflattering when he pointed out that her speech, although cultured in accent, contained a few expressions that were not normally considered to be ladylike. Ladies did not rob or murder.

The thought of Pierre Standish had her moving again, as if she could distance herself from thinking of the man. How dare he enter her bedchamber in such a state of indecent undress! And once he had realized what he had done, why hadn’t he excused himself and retired, as any reasonable man would have done, rather than plunk himself down on the bottom of her bed so familiarly and immediately commence insulting her? He hadn’t had an ounce of pity for her plight. As a matter of fact, he seemed to find the entire situation vaguely amusing. No wonder her language had not been the best.

No, she didn’t know much, but she knew she didn’t like Pierre Standish.

She did like André Standish, however. The older Standish was kindness itself, fatherly, and certainly sympathetic to her plight. After all, hadn’t he told her not to worry, that his hospitality was hers until she rediscovered her identity, and even beyond, if that discovery proved to present new problems for her? Hadn’t he assigned Susan as her personal maid, and even promised to provide a female chaperone as soon as may be? Hadn’t he even gifted her with the use of his late wife’s entire wardrobe?

The gown she was wearing now was six years out of fashion and marred by the helpful but vaguely inept alterations Susan had performed on the bodice, waist and hem as her new mistress napped, but it was still a most beautiful creation of sprigged muslin and cotton lace.

She smoothed the skirt of the gown with her hands, grateful once again for being able to wear it, and then purposely made her mind go blank, concentrating on nothing as she continued to walk, not knowing that her appearance was more than passably pleasing, it was beautiful.

Her hair, that unbelievably thick and lengthy mane of softly waving ebony, was tucked into a huge topknot, with several errant curling tendrils clinging to her forehead, cheeks and nape.

Her face was flawless, except for a lingering paleness and a vaguely cloudy look to her unusual violet eyes. Her mouth, generous and wide, drooped imperceptibly at the corners as she stopped in front of a rose bush, picked a large red bloom, and began methodically stripping away its petals, tossing them over the bush.

She looked young, innocent, vulnerable, and just a little sad.

“’Ey! Gets yourself somewheres else, fer criminy’s sake! Yer wants ter blow m’lay?”

She turned her head this way and that, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.

“Oi says, take yerself off, yer ninny. Find yerself yer own ’idey-’ole.”

“Hidey-hole?” she repeated, leaning forward a little, as she was sure that voice had come from behind the rose bush. “Who or what are you hiding from?”

“The froggie, o’course. Who else do yer think? Now, take yerself off!”

She wasn’t afraid, for the voice sounded very young and more than a little frightened. Her smooth brow furrowed in confusion at his words, though, and she asked, “Hiding from a frog, are you? Well, if that isn’t above everything silly! I would imagine you’d be more likely to come upon a frog in the gardens, wouldn’t you? If you don’t wish to come face-to-face with one, don’t you think it would be preferable to hide where frogs don’t go?”

Jeremy Holloway was so overcome by this blatant idiocy that he forgot himself and stood up, just to get a good look at the woman who could spout anything so ridiculous. “Yer dicked in the nob, lady?” he exclaimed in consternation, then quickly ducked again, whining, “Yer seen me now. Yer gonna cry beef on me?”

She leaned forward some more and was able to see a boy as he crouched on all fours, ready to scurry off to find a new hidey-hole. “If you mean, am I going to turn you in, no, I don’t think I am. After all, who would I turn you in to in the first place?”

“Dat froggie, dat’s who! And all because Oi gots a few active citizens. Oi asks yer—is dat fair? Show me a lily white wot’s ain’t gots some, dat’s wot Oi says.”

Her head was reeling. “Are you speaking English?” she questioned, careful not to move for fear the boy would run off before she could get a good look at him.

All was quiet for a few moments, but at last, his decision made, Jeremy poked his head above the rose bush, looked furtively right and left, and then abandoned his hiding place. “Yer the one m’ gingerbread man found in the road yesterdee,” he told her unnecessarily. “Yer cleaned up right well, Oi suppose. But not this cove. Not Jeremy ’Olloway. Nobody’s gonna dunk this cove in Adam’s ale agin.”

“Thank you, I think,” she answered, beating down the urge to step back a pace or two, for, in truth, Jeremy didn’t smell too fresh. The boy was filthy, his clothing ragged and three sizes too small. “You might too. I imagine Adam’s ale is water? What’s a lily white, Jeremy, and whose citizens are active? And a gingerbread man?”

With an expression on his thin face that suggested she must be the most ignorant person ever to walk the earth, Jeremy supplied impatiently, “A lily white’s a sweep, o’ course. Everyun knows dat. Oi’m really a ’prentice, or Oi wuz, till yesterdee. My mum sold me ter ol’ ’Awkins fer ’alf a crown, which is more than m’ brother went fer. Wot else? Oh, yer. A gingerbread man is a rich gentry cove, like Mr. Standish. ’Appy now? Yer asks more questions than a parson.”

“Lily white because they’re so very dirty? Oh, that’s very good,” she commented, smiling at Jeremy, her heart wrung by his offhanded reference to what must have been a terrible experience. “But what’s an active citizen?”

Jeremy put his head down, scuffing one bare foot against the gravel path. “Lice,” he mumbled, then raised his head to fairly shout: “An’ ’e ain’t stickin’ Jeremy ’Olloway’s ’air in no tar an’ shavin’ it! Oi’ll skewer ’im first—an’ so Oi telled ’im, jist afore Oi kicked ’im an’ loped off! ’E didn’t foller me, ’cause ’e ’ates the ground Oi dirties an’ wants me gone. ’E telled me so ’imself.”

“Mon Dieu! There you are, you vilain moineau, you nasty sparrow! Please to grab his ear, mademoiselle, so that I might cage him! I have the water hot, and the scissors is at the ready!”

More rapidly than she could react, the scene exploded before her eyes. A thin, harried-looking Frenchman appeared in front of her, a stout rope in one hand, a large empty sack in the other, and Jeremy Holloway disappeared, faster than a gold piece vanishes into a beggar’s pocket.

“You have let for him to escape me again!” the Frenchman accused, his watery eyes narrowed as he glared at her.

“You frightened him, the poor boy,” she accused, feeling protective.

“Please not to put in your grain of salt, mademoiselle,” he returned nastily, drawing himself up to his full height. “I have been run to the rags searching for the small monster. I have been made sore with trying.”

She understood. In that moment she understood something else as well—Jeremy’s words coming back to her—and the light of battle entered her eyes. “Oh, do be quiet, froggie,” she ordered, privately pleased with herself.

“Froggie!” The servant’s head snapped back with the insult, as if he had been slapped.

They stood there, the pair of them frozen in their aggressive stances for several seconds, then Duvall opened his mouth to speak. Fortunately for his opponent, something else took his attention just as he was about to begin, for his response to her name-calling was sure to be terrible, if unintelligible to anyone not familiar with gutter French.

“I say, Duvall, must I do everything for you?” asked a weary voice from somewhere behind them, and both of them turned to see Pierre Standish coming down the pathway, Jeremy Holloway’s left earlobe firmly inched between his thumb and forefinger. “I set you a simple chore, and now, more than four and twenty hours later, the evidence of your failure has barreled into me as I attempted to take the afternoon air. I cannot adequately express my disappointment, Duvall, truly I cannot. Ah, good afternoon, Miss Penance. You’re looking well. My congratulations on your rapid recovery since this morning. One can only hope your disposition is now as sunny as your appearance.”

She placed her fists on her hips. “You let go of that poor, innocent boy this instant, you monster!”

Pierre’s social smile remained intact. “Oh dear, I deduce that I have once again raised myself up only to open myself to a fall. Obviously you are to be perpetually tiresome, Miss Penance. But it is of no matter if you are quite set on such a course, as you are not my problem. This urchin, however, is my concern. Be still, Master Holloway, if you please,” he asked of the squirming Jeremy, “as it would pain me to box your ears. Duvall, are you going to allow me to be thwarted in my zeal to accomplish a good deed? If nothing else, please consider the fate of my immortal soul.”

Duvall began to wring his hands, his entire posture one of pitiable subservience. “Ask of me to cut off my two hands, good sir, and I will gladly make them a gift to you. Have my tongue to be ripped out with the pincers and served up to the dogs for dinner—order hot spikes to be driven under my fingernails. Anything, dear sir! Anything but, but”—he gestured toward Jeremy—“but this!”

“Come, come, Duvall,” Pierre scolded, advancing another step. “Don’t be so bashful. How often have I begged you to consider yourself free to express your innermost thoughts? Tell me how you really feel. Help him, Miss Penance. Explain to my dear Duvall that he shouldn’t keep such a tight rein on his emotions.”

Miss Penance, as even she had begun to think of herself, narrowed her eyes as she ran her gaze assessingly up and down the elegantly clad Pierre Standish. “You look better dressed,” she said at last, although the tone of her voice did not hint at any great improvement over his banyan and bare, hairy legs. “The only thing remaining to be done to make you passably bearable would be to put a gag in your mouth. You are, Mr. Standish, by and large, the most insufferable, arrogant, nasty creature it has ever been my misfortune to encounter! How dare you maul that poor child that way? How dare you insult this man, who is obviously your slave?”

Ignoring her insults, Pierre honed in on one thing she had said. “Of all the creatures you have met, Miss Penance? May I deduce from this that you have regained your memory? Shall I have Duvall order a celebratory feast?”

Quick tears sprang to her eyes. “How I loathe you, Mr. Standish,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth. “No, I have not yet regained my memory, sir. But I have met your father, your beleaguered servant, and this poor underfed, persecuted boy—and each of them is twice the man you are. You—you idiotic, conceited fop!”

“God’s beard! She makes of you a mockery, good sir! It is of the most deplorable!” Duvall exclaimed, taking three steps away from her in order to distance himself from her disparaging words.

Jeremy halted in his struggle to free himself from Pierre’s painful grip, his mouth hanging wide as he gasped at Miss Penance. “Dicked in the nob, dat’s wot she is,” he said at last. “Dat’s thanks, ain’t it, guv’nor—and atter all yer done fer ’er! Does yer wants me ter level ’er? She’s jist m’ size, so’s it’d be a fair fight.”

Pierre looked down on the recently liberated chimney sweep. “I’d rather you allowed Duvall to make you presentable, Master Holloway, if you are cudgeling your brain for a way to express your thanks to me. Duvall? You agree?”

“Ask of me to cut off my two hands, good sir, and I will gladly make them a gift to you. Have my tongue to be ripped out with the pincers and—” Duvall stopped himself, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. “Yes, sir,” he ended fatalistically. “Very good, sir.”

“You both are so kind, you threaten to unman me,” Pierre drawled, a smile lurking in his dark eyes as he looked over to see Miss Penance holding back her fury with an effort. “Please leave us now, before I embarrass myself by falling on your necks in gratitude for your loyalty.”

Jeremy and Duvall reached the end of the path before Miss Penance said, her voice measured, “You…make…me…ill! I suppose you think I’m supposed to be feeling three kinds of a fool for berating you when you are so obviously deserving of my thanks for not allowing me to lie in the road when you discovered me? That is the point of this exercise, is it not? Well, please do not hold your breath waiting for my thanks, for you will only succeed in turning that insufferably arrogant face of yours a hideous purple!”

Pierre walked over to a nearby bench and motioned for her to sit down. “You’re right, of course,” he agreed, settling himself beside her. “I was the most horrid of selfish creatures to have spirited you away from your so comfortable resting place. How could I have been such a cad? How will you ever forgive me for my callous disregard for your privacy? Shall I order the horses put to immediately, so that I can return you there before bedtime?”