Nothing to Commend Her (27 page)

"I—I don't know, my lady. Only that you were asleep for quite some time. We were afraid that—well, it's no matter now."

Martha did know, but for some reason wouldn't say, Emily was sure of it.

Another woman appeared bearing a tray as Martha propped her up in the bed and adjusted the covers. This one was timid and literally quaking in her boots.

"Thank you, Phoebe,” Martha said softly and took the tray. The young girl disappeared as if death were chasing her.

But death had been chasing Emily. She'd been dying of cancer. Then there was the concert, and Lila, and her trip to the country, it all came rushing back to her.

Martha placed the tray across her lap. “Here you are, my lady. After a hearty breakfast, you'll feel right as rain in no time,” she said and moved across the room, unblocking Emily's view of the mirror above the vanity.

Little did Martha know, Emily would never be right again. The woman staring back at her from the mirror was not Emily Mayfield.

She lifted her hand and touched her cheek, although pale, it was a pleasantly shaped cheek, but it was not hers. Nor was the nose or eyes. She looked down at her long tapered fingers, a distinct difference from her own.

"My God,” she breathed.

"I'm sorry, my lady, did you say something?” Martha said from the doorway.

Emily swallowed and shook her head and the woman left.

"Okay,” she whispered. “There's a perfectly good explanation. I'm either dead or still in a comma."

She took a few more calming breaths. Yes, that had to be it. Just a little hallucination. After all, her hair was gone from the chemotherapy, but even if she still had any it wouldn't be long and blonde. And her eyes, although she couldn't be certain, looked blue, while hers had been brown. She warily lifted the neckline of her nightgown and examined her body.

"Huh, not bad,” she muttered. But it wasn't what she was used to. A barely there bust, even when she was healthy, and mostly skin and bones after all the treatments was the norm, but this—it was a shapely, nicely endowed body, and completely unbelievable.

She dropped the neckline with a frown. “It has to be a dream.” And yet her stomach grumbled in disagreement. “Okay, so not a dream, then what? Can you be hungry in a coma?"

She thought for several minutes as her stomach continued its grumbling. Well, food seemed to be what she needed, so she'd eat. What else could she do? Run out of the room screaming something about body snatchers?

No, whatever was going on, she'd have to take it one minute to the next. After all, if she was in a coma and it was all a dream, what could it hurt to enjoy it? So far it was fairly nice. Really weird, but nice.

She lifted the fork to her lips and waves of pleasure washed over her. Just the thought of food like ham and eggs usually made her nauseous, but no more. She dug into the fare with gusto, savoring every morsel as it slid over her tongue. It had been so long since she'd enjoyed the simple pleasure of eating. This dream is a keeper, she thought with a smile.

As she ate, she looked more closely at her surroundings. She did love the old manor houses scattered all across England, which might explain the decor, including a viscount, and the absence of the cancer was an easy guess. No one would wish that on themselves, but why the new body? Why not dream up her old self?

She glanced at the long tapered fingers and wondered if they could play the piano as well or perhaps better than her own. Emily's fingers had been one of her trials. They were often too short to perform certain complicated pieces, but she'd overcome the disadvantage. Oh, she wasn't the toast of the town by any means, but she had a following of a sort, and she relished her bit of success.

"Okay, so longer fingers make sense, but the whole package?"

She set the tray aside after thoroughly cleaning her plate and settled back against the pillows as she tried to make sense of everything. Images, memories perhaps, she wasn't sure, drifted through her mind.

There was that odd sense of walking through a mist after she'd collapsed. She recalled passing a woman, and she'd been smiling, but she never looked at Emily. She just kept on walking, her destination, a strange glowing door, was all she seemed to see.

She snapped her head up and looked at her reflection. That was the woman she'd seen, the one in the mirror! But who was she? And why had she taken on her appearance in her dream? Had she seen the woman somewhere on tour and plucked her out of some forgotten memory?

Wanting a closer look, she eased from the bed and steadied herself on the various pieces of furniture as she crossed the room to the dressing table. She sat on the small cushioned stool and looked more closely at her reflection.

"I don't know you,” she whispered, certain she'd never seen the woman before. Except for that odd misty memory.

She picked up the brush and ran it through her sleep-tangled hair, surprised that the pull and tug stung just as it would if it were real. But how could she be feeling everything if it were only a dream?

A small pillow of hatpins sat to the side. She pulled one from the velvet and with gritted teeth, pricked her finger. “Ouch,” she hissed.

Shoving her finger in her mouth, she returned her gaze to the mirror and stared in awe.

"No, it isn't possible. A nurse probably just stuck me with a needle or something,” she muttered around her sore finger. She was in a coma in some hospital somewhere. But a distinct chill raced across her skin. Would a nurse have pricked her finger?

"No,” she muttered, shaking her head. “She would've stuck a needle in my arm or the back of my hand."

That realization had her rushing back to bed and pulling the covers up over her head. How could this be? Could she be dead? If so, then death was something far different than she'd ever imagined. There was that possibility, but why take on the form of a shapely blonde? It wasn't as if she'd been unattractive—before. She was comfortable in her body, when it was healthy. But mostly, and as ludicrous as it sounded, she didn't
feel
dead.

Her lips growing numb from her nibbling, one final possibility popped into her head. Easing the covers aside, she sat up and looked once again at the stranger in the mirror. Was it possible that she'd somehow been given a second chance? Through some twisted form of reincarnation, had she been given a healthy body and a new life to live?

But why backward in time, or so she assumed by the antique clothes, and her superb but historic surroundings? Why not forward?

She slowly shook her head at her reflection. “It doesn't matter,” she whispered, a crooked grin on her lips. She was alive and she was enormously grateful.

Her eyes stole heavenward and she whispered her thanks. “But if this is a dream and I'm in a coma, I'd like to stay here ‘til it's over if you don't mind,” she added, just to be sure. It was a much nicer place to leave behind than a cold antiseptic hospital room.

A small noise caught her attention. At first she thought nothing of it, a house this size, one she assumed was rather large and with a full staff made noises. But this was a breathing noise

She turned her head and caught sight of the edge of a pink ruffle sticking out from behind a chair nearest the door.

She'd have to set things straight with everyone she'd met so far. Waving a poker at them wasn't a good way to begin. She didn't want them thinking she was a nutcase, but this, she suspected, was someone she'd yet to meet.

"Hello,” she said, attempting to coax out her not-so-stealthy visitor.

A little blonde head peeked out from around the chair. “They said you were awake."

"Yes, as you can see I am."

The child stepped into view, but made no effort to move closer. She actually seemed wary of her, the fire poker incident apparently having reached her small ears.

"They also said you were mad,” the little girl said, and her eyes shot wide as she dodged back to her hiding place.

Emily let out a rough chuckle. “It's all right. I'm not about to blame you for something you overheard. But you really shouldn't repeat everything you hear,” she said softly. “It's not polite."

"You're not angry?” she asked softly from her hiding place.

"Of course not."

She peeked out from around the chair. “Is it true then? Are you mad?"

Now that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? But regardless of what she believed, be she dreaming or reincarnated, she didn't want to frighten a little girl, so she decided to play along. It was her only option, and this child with her blunt way of speaking might just be the person she needed to help her get her bearings in what could be her new life.

"I'm not crazy, but I am...confused,” she said.

Her pretty little face scrunched up in uncertainty.

"Can I tell you a secret?” Emily asked.

That drew the child out and she nodded.

"I don't remember who I am, where I am, or anything?"

Her pretty blue eyes widened. “You don't?"

"No, not a thing."

"Is that why you talk funny?"

Ah, yes, her accent. She'd have to work on that. At least it wasn't too far off, she'd moved about so much doing concerts, she'd dropped most of her Americanisms, but she definitely didn't sound like the English Gentry, and if she had indeed taken over another woman's life, she needed to make some adjustments to her speech and her behavior.

"Yes, um, I'm sort of relearning how to do things. Starting over,” she said.

"That doesn't sound like fun,” the child said.

Emily shook her head gravely. “No it isn't. But you could help me. If you want to,” she hurried to add. “You could tell me things."

The girl eased to the foot of the bed. “I don't know a lot. I'm only eight."

She smiled at the child. “I'll bet you know more than I do. For instance, I didn't know you were only eight. You look much older and are far brighter than I would've thought for your age."

She straightened her spine and smiled brightly. “Papa says I'm smart."

"I'm sure he's right. And, um, Papa is the Viscount Westmore?"

She nodded with a worried frown. “You really don't remember, do you?"

So this beautiful little girl was her daughter—sort of. All of it was very confusing, but she'd deal with things as they came at her as best she could.

"No, I don't,” Emily replied. “But it's our secret, all right? If your papa knew, he might send me away, and I don't want to go away. Do you understand?"

"Oh, Papa wouldn't do that. He's a nice man. He would want you to get better."

"I'm sure he would, but he and I might disagree on how I should go about accomplishing that."

"Oh."

"So will you help me and keep my secret?"

She nodded.

"Thank you. What's your name?"

Her brows rose and her eyes widened. “Michelle."

"Michelle. That's a lovely name. And, um, do you know my name?"

The girl blinked and said. “Millicent."

"And I'm—I'm your mother?"

She nodded slowly.

Emily rested back against her pillow, marveling at her situation. She was now a wife and mother. Two things she'd not accomplished in her life, but had intended to, once her career slowed down. Of course she hadn't met the right man, but then she'd thought she had time.

"How come you remember how to eat?” Michelle asked with a glance at the tray.

"Well, there are some things, I suppose, we just don't forget. They're second nature, like breathing. We just know how."

"Are you still sick?"

"Not really, no. But I'm not quite ready to—to—” She had no idea what she was supposed to do. She had no experience at being a viscountess. Healthy or otherwise.

"Dress?"

"Yes, dress,” she said with a smile. “I'm still a bit tired.”
And completely out of my element
, she wanted to add, but didn't.

"So you're not going to die like they said?"

Emily blinked at that, not quite sure how to answer. “I honestly don't know,” she replied. “Everyone dies at some point, but I feel fine. So I don't think I'm about to die anytime soon,” she said with a grin, somehow knowing she was right. She was healthy, for the first time in a very long while. She could feel it.

The little girl tilted her head as she studied her. “You look different."

"I do?” She glanced at the mirror over the dressing table and touched her cheek. “Different how?"

"Well,” she said, squiggling up onto the bed. “You don't have those lines around your mouth anymore,” she said, motioning near Emily's face with her fingers. “Or that funny bump between your eyebrows."

She laughed. “I think I like the improvement then."

Michelle's eyes widened and her mouth fell lax as she stared at Emily.

Emily sat bolt upright. “What is it, sweetie? What's wrong? Are you sick?” She'd never had any close family, just a few friends, and she'd never been around children much. But the look on Michelle's face struck a bolt of fear straight to her heart.

Michelle shook her head slowly. “You smiled. And laughed. I don't think I've ever seen you do that before,” she said with awe.

"You haven't seen—oh sweetheart,” she fell back against the cushions with a giggle. But the humor quickly died in her throat.

What sort of woman was this Millicent Westmore? And what had really been wrong with her?

Jo currently resides in North Carolina with her patient and supportive family while she juggles her writing career and her position as a programmer analyst. In her early years, she wrote folk songs, poetry, and an occasional short story or two, but never dreamed of writing a book. She didn't even like to read! But one fateful day, she picked up a romance novel and found herself hooked. Not only did she discover the joy of reading, but the joy of writing books. These days, if she isn't tapping away at her computer on a story of her own, she has her nose buried in the latest romance novel hot off the presses, and is enjoying every minute of it.

She participates regularly in a critique group, and attends various seminars and classes, constantly honing her writing skills, determined to squeeze as much time into developing her craft as she does creating new stories about the quest for love. Someday, she hopes to take off her programming hat and write full time. So many of her dreams have already come true. What's one more?