Page 35 of Wicked Games

The tray had four little feet that fit snugly on either side of my thighs as she placed it on my lap. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A brightly polished sterling silver set was carefully arranged on the tray. The pot was elaborately engraved with fancy swirls and flowers. There was a pitcher of cream and a tiny pot of sugar. Hearty toast points were arranged upright in a little silver caddy. There was even a silver egg holder with one perfectly boiled egg. Arranged to the side, there were several small pastries with dishes of marmalade and clotted cream.

I had to admit it looked beautiful and terribly luxurious. I had never had breakfast in bed before. Realizing I hadn’t really eaten much at dinner, before Richard had… had seen to… punish me, I was looking forward to tucking into every delectable morsel. Carefully grasping the teapot handle, I tipped it over one delicate teacup that was decorated with thistles and roses.

Expecting tea—I was in England after all… at least I thought I was still in England—I was surprised when a brew of dark chocolate poured out. This was definitely not the powdered stuff you made with hot water. It looked rich and creamy.

“Hot chocolate?”

Parker looked in my direction from across the room where she was busy fussing over the dresses in the wardrobe. At my question, she hurried over to the bed, a worried expression on her face.

Raising her hands in a placating gesture, she lowered her tone and spoke softly to me as if she were soothing a temper-prone child. “Lady Elizabeth, you usually prefer a warm chocolate to break your fast. You’ve often said tea was too bitter for your digestion this early in the morning. So, I’ve brought you what I’ve always brought you. I can have Cook prepare something different if you wish it.”

Usually prefer.

Often.

Always.

Words of familiarity, of a settled routine, of knowledge of my likes and dislikes. The worst part was it was true. I didn’t like tea in the morning, always preferring the sweetness of hot chocolate. Yet, in all my conversations with Mary in the costume room during rehearsals and the run of the play, I cannot recall ever once telling her that. Were my memories false? Did that really happen? She was speaking as if she not only knew me but my likes and dislikes as well.

Deciding to play along for now, I said, “Of course, I must have forgotten. No, please do not bother Cook.”

Keeping silent, I obediently sipped at my chocolate and ate marmalade toast as I wondered how far this fantasy was going to take me.

After she rang for a maid to clear away my tray, Parker set about dressing me for the day.

“His Grace has stated you are declining all invitations from your friends for teas and outings till you are feeling more yourself so I have chosen one of your favorite at-home taffeta dresses for today, if you approve.”

There it was again.

Your friends.

Your favorite dress.

Words of familiarity, of a routine I couldn’t recall.

Parker held up a soft powder blue taffeta dress with delicate draping and closely pleated kilting on the hem and cuffs. I immediately recognized it as the dress I wore in the opening scene of the play but of course, like last night’s dinner dress, this was far more elegant and did not have that musty moth ball smell or pale yellow pit stains that were the norm for theater costumes.

After Parker laced me into a whalebone corset, I stepped into the dress before allowing Parker to raise it up over my hips so that I could place my arms into the sleeves. The dress buttoned down the front with a row of fifteen fabric-covered buttons and featured a few pale yellow rosettes closer to the waist. As I reached for the buttons, Parker gently pushed my hands away. After giving me a slightly admonishing look, she slowly and methodically began to fasten the dress.

With her concentrating on her task, I thought I could take her off-guard. “This reminds me of that time I was wearing this dress and Joe dropped that slice of pizza at my feet. You were so mad when he got marinara sauce on the trim.”

I watched her closely for even the slightest sign of recall, even a slight twitch of the lips.

Nothing.

“I’m sorry, my lady. I’m afraid I don’t know what a piz is or anyone named Joe.”

“It’s pizza, not piz.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind,” I sighed.

Sitting dutifully at the vanity table, I watched as Parker warmed several curling tongs in the fire, before returning to my side to curl my hair into perfect sausage curls. She then swept up half my hair into a loose chignon secured at the top, with the rest of the curls cascading down my back.

After surveying her handiwork, she nodded and turned her attention to straightening up the room.

I stood… then realized I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do now.

---