Lee Wilkinson - A Husband's Revenge

Looking down at her hands, she saw they were slim and shapely, the oval nails free of polish, the fingers bare of rings.

She felt a peculiar relief.

When the nurse had rinsed the glass and refilled it with tap water, she said, ‘It looks as if you’ll be here for the night at least, so would you like a little supper?’

‘No, thank you. I’m not hungry.’

‘Then get some sleep. Perhaps by morning your memory will have come back.’ Switching off the light, the nurse departed.

Oh, if only! It was terrifying, this feeling of being lost, isolated in a black void. She lay for what seemed hours, trying fruitlessly to shed some light on who she was and where she’d come from, before finally falling asleep.

Some time later she woke with a start, hugging her pillow in a death grip.

Someone was just closing the door. Failing to latch, it swung open a few inches, letting a crack of light spill into the room from the corridor.

‘I’ve no intention of waiting until morning.’ Just outside the door a masculine voice spoke clearly, decisively.

Sounding flustered, the nurse said, ‘We don’t normally release patients this late.’

‘I’m sure you could make an exception.’

‘Well, you’d have to speak to Dr Hauser.’

‘Very well.’

They began to move away.

‘I couldn’t let her go without his permission, and I’m not sure if... Oh, here he is...’

Though she could still hear the murmur of conversation, the actual words were no longer clear. After a minute or two the voices came closer, apparently returning.

Dr Hauser was saying, ‘We certainly need the bed, but I’m afraid I can’t allow—’

That authoritative voice cut in crisply. ‘I want her out of this place. Now!’

Stiffly, the doctor said, ‘I have my patient’s welfare to consider, and I really don’t think—’

‘Look—’ this time the tone was more moderate, the impatience curbed—I’m aware you do some very good work here. I’m also well aware that this kind of charity hospital is always drastically underfunded...’

There was a pause and a rustle. ‘Here’s a cheque made out to the hospital. It’s blank at the moment. If you’ll make the necessary arrangements for her immediate release, I’ll be happy to make a substantial contribution towards the hospital’s running costs.’

Sounding mollified, the doctor said, ‘Will you step into my office for a moment?’ and three pairs of footsteps moved away.

Sitting up against her pillows, torn between hope and anxiety, she waited. Was this someone come for her? If it was, and please God it was, surely a familiar face would bring her memory back?

It seemed an age before one set of footsteps returned and the door swung wider. ‘Ah, you’re awake. Good.’

The doctor switched on the shaded night-light. ‘Have you remembered anything?’

Her throat moved as she swallowed. ‘No.’

He came to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know you’ve been identified as Clare Saunders...’

The name meant nothing to her.

‘And you’re English. That accounts for the accent’

Of course she was English. Yet both the nurse and doctor had American accents. That fact hadn’t really registered until now, almost as if subconsciously she’d expected to hear American accents... ‘But I’ve never been to the States.’ She spoke the thought aloud.

‘You mean until you came to live here?’

‘I live in England.’ Of that she was sure.

‘At the moment you’re living here in New York.’

‘New York! No, I can’t possibly be living in New York.’ For some reason the idea scared her witless. ‘You must have got the wrong person.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re Mrs Clare Saunders. Your husband has given us definite proof of your identity.’

‘My husband! But I haven’t got a husband!’ That was something else she was sure of. ‘I’m not married!’

Reacting to the note of rising hysteria in her voice, Dr Hauser said sharply, ‘Now, try to stay calm. Amnesia can be extremely upsetting, but it should only be a matter of time before your memory returns in full.’

‘What if it doesn’t?’

‘In the vast majority of cases it does,’ he said a shade irritably. ‘Believe me, Mrs Saunders, you have nothing to fear. We are quite sadsned—both with your husband’s identity and with yours. We’re prepared to let you leave at once, and as soon as Mr Saunders has signed the papers that release you into his care, he’ll be here.’

What would have been good news a short time ago was all at once terrifying. If only she didn’t have to go tonight. By tomorrow her memory might have returned.

She caught at the doctor’s arm. ‘Oh, please, can’t I stay until morning?’ But even as she begged she sensed there was no help to be had from that quarter.

‘Do you know where this hospital is situated?’

‘No.’ It was just a whisper.

‘This downtown area is rough,’ he told her. ‘Late at night we get a lot of drunks and people injured in brawls. You obviously don’t belong in a place like this, and I can’t blame your husband for wanting to take you home without delay.’

He patted her hand. ‘Don’t forget, all your doubts will be set at rest if you recognise him.’

And if she didn’t?

But the doctor was satisfied, and that was all there was to it. If he hadn’t been, despite the contribution to the hospital’s funds—she closed her mind to the word ‘bribe’—he wouldn’t have released her.

Or would he?

The door swung open and a tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered man strode in. He was very well dressed, but it was his easy air of power and authority, his natural arrogance, that proclaimed him top of the heap.

As if by right he took the doctor’s place on the edge of the bed. He appeared to be in his early thirties, his face was lean and tough, and his handsome blackpupilled eyes were a light, clear green beneath curved brows.

He was a complete stranger.

As though mesmerised, she found herself staring at his mouth. The upper lip was thin, the lower fuller, and with a slight dip in the centre that echoed the cleft in his chin. It was an austere, yet sensual mouth—a mouth that was at once beautiful and ruthless.

Suddenly she shivered.

Those brilliant eyes searched her face, apparently looking for some sign of recognition. When he found none, his own face hardened, as though with anger, but his voice was soft as he said, ‘Clare, darling...I’ve been nearly frantic.’

Then, as without conscious volition she shrank away, he said, ‘It’s Jos... Surely you remember me? I’m your husband.’

If he was, why did she feel this instinctive fear of him? And why did she get the impression that he was cloaking his displeasure, playing the part of a loving husband to satisfy Dr Hauser?

He took her hand.

In a reflex action she snatched it away, cradling it against her chest as though he’d hurt it.

‘You’re not my husband! I know you’re not.’ Turning to the doctor, she cried desperately, ‘I’ve never seen him before!’ She held out her left hand. ‘Look, I’m not even wearing a ring.’

The man who called himself Jos felt in his pocket and produced a wide band of chased gold and a huge diamond solitaire. ‘You took your rings off when you showered this morning and forgot to put them back.’

No, she didn’t believe him. Somehow she knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who would lightly remove her wedding ring.

As she began to shake her head he caught her hand, and, holding it with delicate cruelty when she would have pulled it free, slipped both rings onto her slender finger. ‘See? A perfect fit.’

He gave her a cool, implacable stare, which sent a quiver of apprehension through her, before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing the palm. ‘And if you want further proof that we’re married...’ Removing a marriage certificate and a couple of snapshots from his wallet, he held them out to her.