“Forevermore…” she breathed in delicious revelry.

The soft chimes of the mantel clock intruded into Lierin’s dreams and reminded her that she had not yet found her niche in life. She raised a hand to her aching head and gingerly explored the sore and swollen lump on her brow, wondering if another cooling compress would ease the pain. The pitcher had been left on the bedside table, and struggling up against the pillows, she reached for the cloth that lay beside it.

“Well, it’s about time you roused.” Marelda’s voice cut through the silence, startling a gasp from the other. “It’s obvious you’re not used to any kind of regulated life.”

Lierin raised up on an elbow, but had to close her eyes as the room lurched, and a crushing pressure came against her temples. After a moment the throbbing diminished slightly, and she cautiously lifted her eyelids to look at the woman. “You have me at a loss, madam.”

Marelda sneered derisively. “I doubt that.”

Lierin was bemused by the other’s sarcasm. She had no recollection of ever having known her and certainly could not remember a cause for her animosity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Who are you, and what do you want of me?”

“I am Marelda Rousse, and I want you to tell everyone who you are and why you really came here.”

Lierin pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as she attempted to absorb the other’s words. “Madam, I fear I don’t know what my name should be, and even if it meant my life, I could not tell you why I’m here.”

Marelda laughed coldly and when she spoke, her tone was honed to a knife-edge sharpness. “My dear…whatever your name is…your little act has already convinced an anguished man that you are his wife…when in actuality Lierin Wingate has been dead and gone these past three years.”

“My act?” The emerald eyes opened wide in confused wonder, then slowly closed as Lierin sank back into the pillows. “Oh, madam,” she sighed, “were this an act, I pray it be the last and the play be done. Then I would be free of this mummery. I am so addled by my plight, sleep is my sole escape.”

“And of course no one in the family would dream of interrupting your slumber to ask any pertinent questions,” Marelda replied with rancor.

The green eyes opened again, this time a darker hue beneath a sharper frown, and fixed the other with a questioning stare. “Do you honestly think I purchased these bruises, and then, as they said, foolishly charged my mount into a running team?”

“I’ve known many,” Marelda snapped, “who would do as much for what you stand to gain.” She contemplated her long, carefully tended nails. “Though you whine of your injured wits, they seem sharp enough when your lies are confronted.”

Lierin rolled her head listlessly on the pillows, and her frown deepened as she sought to find the key to this illusive puzzle. “I don’t know why you come upon me with so much hatred. Though I cannot swear to it, I would say I never saw you before this moment, and I certainly mean you no ill.”

Marelda could no longer bear the sight of the other’s bruised but classic beauty, and rose to stare out the windows. “No ill, you say?” Her voice bore an unmistakable sneer. “If you are indeed the one you say…”

Lierin was growing tired and protested weakly. “’Twas not I, but the Ashton man who put the name to me. I cannot say for sure if it’s that or anoth-”

Marelda turned angrily, slashing her hands sideways with a gesture that cut off Lierin’s words. “If you are in truth his wife…then you have already stabbed me once, twice, thrice. It was I, his intended bride, who was betrayed those years ago when he journeyed south to New Orleans and found one he fancied so much that he wed her and left me weeping on my lonely pillow. Then he returned the widower, and months passed before my hopes could rise again.” Marelda paced back and forth beyond the foot of the bed. “He was so bereaved and anguished that he could see nothing outside his memories. Though I sought to comfort him and was ever at his side, he saw me not. I was less to him than the simplest kitchen charmaid. Finally he began to be a man again, and once more my hopes took flight. Last night we gathered to welcome his return, and I yearned for his sturdy arms to hold me in fondest welcome. He came…with you where I should have been. So in your innocence…if you are truly Lierin and I say not…I have still been wronged.”

“I’m sorry,” Lierin murmured quietly.

“You’re sorry!” Marelda railed, then calmed slightly and, with curling lips, sneered, “How sweetly you mewl your apologies, but I’m not one you can cajole with your simpering innocence. Have your moment of delight, dear girl, but I will see the truth come out, and I will turn every stone to see it done. When your lies fly back into your face, I will laugh with delight. Good afternoon, my dear. Rest well…if you can.”

She swept around in a swirl of skirts and, snatching open the door, departed, leaving the room still and quiet, much like a spring day after a passing thunderstorm.

Lierin was left shaken by the woman’s venomous hatred. She had no way of discerning the truth of the matter, whether the judgment against her was fair or false, but at the present moment it was difficult to imagine herself being the cause of such furor.

Chapter Three

THE Wingate carriage splashed through the water-filled ruts that pockmarked the road and turned in at the short, circular drive. Wide, rusty gates prevented further passage on the lane that circled close to the smoldering ruins of the madhouse. The porch roof hung in precarious suspension from the front of the gutted building, posing a threat to any who drew near. The smoke-blackened walls offered a similar danger. Huge sections of brickwork had been torn out when the roof collapsed, leaving a jagged silhouette against the sky and an undefinable second story. The openings of the darkly gaping windows were blurred with heat-curled strips of wooden framing and seemed to stare in bleary-eyed agony. Trees that had closely hugged the brick structure were oddly truncated and stood like giant, black-bodied mourners around a crypt. Thick trails of smoke still gathered and swirled in confused indecision, as if reluctant to make their departure from the besooted shell.

Tents had been pitched in the yard to provide temporary shelter for the outcasts, and a pair of attendants were struggling to rig up support for a large tarpaulin that was being raised in the back yard near the small cookhouse. A campfire had been built in close proximity to the remaining structure, which was barely large enough to accommodate the attendants, much less the inmates. A few demented souls displayed a fixed fascination with the flames and were discouraged from going too near by the stout, grim-faced matron who exerted her authority by means of a long, heavy switch, which she wielded with impartial fervor, sometimes catching those who had found bowls and gathered to await the distribution of food. The confusion of these innocents was closely comparable to the bewilderment of the ones who milled about in a dazed stupor, oblivious to everything around them. Others of a more violent nature had been chained to heavy stakes pounded into the ground.

The sight in the yard did not cheer Ashton’s heart, for he saw the inmates as a pitiful bunch, whose treatment apparently depended on the whims of the staff. In good conscience he could never condemn anyone he loved to such a fate. Indeed, he was already forming an aversion for the switch-wielding matron, and he wondered if he would find himself embroiled in an argument before he concluded his business here.

He descended from the carriage and stepped with Hiram to the rear boot where they began unloading baskets of food, clothing, and wares. One of the attendants called a greeting and came at a run to open the small gate as they approached with their burdens. Following belatedly at a slower, halting pace were a few childlike wards. As Ashton pushed through the gate, they clapped him on the back and welcomed him as if he were a long-lost friend. He gave them each a basket, and the caretaker directed them to take the goods to the cookhouse. They hurried off, happy to do his bidding.

“There’ll be more of the same coming in a few days,” Ashton informed the gray-haired orderly. The man wore a perpetual harried look and seemed to be unaware of the raw blisters on his forearms and hands until Ashton gestured to them. “You should see to yourself.”

The man raised his arms and stared at the burns as if seeing them for the first time, but he dismissed the sores with a shrug. “They give me no pain, sir. Most o’ these poor folk canna look after themselves.”

There was a hint of a Gaelic burr in the way he rolled his r’s. “When they’ve had a bite to eat an’ a place to sleep, I’ll see to meself.”

Ashton almost flinched as he heard the switch hit its mark again, and he could not resist a sardonic comment. “By that time, your charges will have no hide left to worry about.”

Bemused, the man followed Ashton’s directed stare and saw an example of the woman’s treatment for himself as she lashed another with her willowly whip. “Miss Gunther!” he barked sharply. “Have ye no ken what these folk might do to ye should they take a notion? An’ seein’ as how ye’ve ignored me, I’d be inclined to turn me head.”

The matron seemed taken aback by his threat and reluctantly dropped the switch. Satisfied, the gray-haired man faced Ashton again and held out a hand in introduction. “Name’s Peter Logan, sir. I’ve been workin’ here at the asylum for the last year or so, an’ now with two o’ the staff gone, I’m in charge now, much to Miss Gunther’s displeasure.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop in dismay. “Before this happened, I was thinkin’ I was doin’ a wee bit o’ good at improvin’ the plight o’ these poor wretches.”