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more movement than nature requires. No reading or close work for a fortnight.”
    “No reading ?” said Kate, horrified.
    “His brain is concussed,” said Dr. Fitch tightly. “Indeed, he mightn’t even be able to read—alexia, it’s called. Moreover, patients sometimes exhibit odd behaviors, or suffer a degree of disinhibition. My colleague had a patient who imagined himself Prince Albert and got himself arrested climbing over the palace gates. Yes, rest is essential.”
    But Kate had already seen enough to know the man would not be so quiet. “Surely he’ll go mad?”
    “Then you must see he does not,” said the doctor. “Read to him. Converse with him.”
    “Cards?” Nancy suggested. “I could play piquet with him.”
    “Not until two weeks have passed,” said Dr. Fitch, “at the very least. Besides, Miss Wentworth, if you will pardon my saying, you are too restive a person for sick-bedding.” He paused, and snatched up his satchel. “Now, my good ladies, I shall return in two days’ time. But send for me if there’s any change.”
    Kate slicked her hands down the front of her skirt. “And . . . and his memory, Doctor? We should very much like to contact his family.”
    Dr. Fitch shrugged. “Ordinarily the loss is fleeting,” he said, “but I will not lie to you, Lady d’Allenay. Mr. Edward may be your guest for some weeks.”
    “And if his memory doesn’t return?”
    The doctor shook his head. “Never seen it happen,” he said confidently. “Oh, one reads of such things. But to see it? No. Even our Prince Albert eventually came round.”
    With that, the doctor bowed, and started to the door, Mrs. Peppin following.
    Kate picked up the small pile of nightclothes she’d assembled. “Well,” she said, looking pensively across the hall, “we had better go in and check on our guest.”
    “Not I!” Nancy’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “I am too restive . Besides, you’re the one who nearly killed him.”
    “Ah, back in form, I see,” said Kate dryly. “What will you be doing, I wonder, whilst I tend my patient?”
    “Writing to Uncle Upshaw,” she said, flouncing from the room, “to tell him I wish to get married at once.”
    “Ah!” Kate followed her out. “ At once , is it?”
    “It seems the prudent course,” said Nancy, making a dramatic pirouette in the middle of the passageway. “This frightful accident has reminded me that life is precious, Kate, and I don’t want to waste it.”
    On a sigh, Kate knocked softly on the door. Inside, she was a little dismayed to see that her guest now lay beneath the bedcovers, the sheets pulled to his chin. She felt, strangely, more awkward than ever. He moved as if he wished to stand, as any gentleman would have done. Then, realizing the awkwardness of the situation, he froze.
    “No, you mustn’t move,” she declared, holding up a staying hand. “Here. I’ve brought you some things. A nightshirt and a robe. Oh, and slippers—which may or may not fit.”
    “Thank you,” he said simply. “And please thank whomever—your husband, perhaps?—who so kindly loaned—”
    “They are Fendershot’s,” said Kate, shaking out the nightshirt. “Our butler. I’m not married.”
    “Oh.” He looked at her solemnly. “I’m very sorry. Lady . . . d’Allenay, was it?”
    “Yes—oh, but no—” Realizing his conclusion, she shook her head again. “I am not widowed. I have never been married.”
    He looked a little askance at her. “I inherited the title,” she explained, “from my grandfather some years ago.”
    “Ah,” he said, looking almost as awkward as she. “That is . . . unusual, is it not?”
    “Not common,” she acknowledged. “Here, may I help you into this nightshirt? The castle is drafty, I fear.”
    His eyes widened. “I may have taken a blow to the head, my lady, but even I realize the impropriety of being dressed by an unwed lady.”
    “I un- dressed you,” she replied.
    “And now I can re -dress