“Jonathan?”
The answer provided was widened eyes.
“You know me?”
Gregory took a few steps closer. “Of course I know you. I’ve known you since we were in leading strings. What’s going on? Where have you been?”
Ignoring the question, the man prompted, “Is that my name? Am I… Jonathan?” He made a move to put his arm against the nearest wall for support.
Realization dawned on Gregory too late as he watched Jonathan slump to the ground right beside his front door.
Gregory beckoned to Bugbsy who had to have been hovering nearby since he was at his side in a flash. “Call the physician, one other than Dr. Giles, have a room readied for Jonathan, and for god’s sake have Godfrey find this man some decent clothes.” Turning to the nearest footman he snapped his fingers and motioned to his friend. “Find a second and carry this man, carefully, to the room Bugsby has prepared.”
Gregory raked his hands through his hair. What the devil was happening? Where had Jonathan been? Why was he here now? It was obvious that there was some lapse in his memory, but to what extent? Was the man healthy? Safe to bring into his home? But this was Jonathan, he had to do everything in his power to show his loyalty.
With the deluge of questions regarding Jonathan’s condition, Gregory didn’t even have a thumb of space in his brain to ask an equally important train of questions including, why the devil had Margaret slapped him?
After two footmen supported the now ambulatory Jonathan to his room, Gregory found himself uncharacteristically pacing the room.
“By your greeting, I assume I’m supposed to know who you are, but please accept my deepest apologies that I do not.”
“My name is Gregory.” And then he perfunctorily mumbled, “Gregory Campbell, Duke of Wellingford,” feeling like an idiot that he had to tell his best friend his name and status. It all felt wrong. He shouldn’t have to tell his best friend he was a duke. He shouldn’t have to tell him his name. Nevermind, his name, Gregory shouldn’t have to tell Jonathan his own bloody name. His pulse was racing and fists were clenching as he continued his pacing.
“Might you consider taking a seat? I’m getting a Corinthian’s workout just watching you move about.” And as an afterthought, “Your grace.”
Despite the last two words being mumbled, they reverberated through Gregory’s entire cellular system. “I’m not Your Grace,” he continued, “To you. To you, I’m just Gregory. We’ve been best mates for over two decades. I’m Gregory. You’re Jonathan.”
He was too flustered to think straight. “Hell and damnation. Where the bloody hell is that physician?”
Just then Dr. Gant, as if summoned by extraordinary vulgarities, appeared. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” He smiled pleasantly. “Mayhap you should prepare a small room for me? I would certainly appear more quickly if I reside here, no obscenities required.” He chuckled to himself. “Now now, what seems to be issue?”
“It’s Jonathan.” Gregory pointed to his friend resting on the bed expecting Dr. Gant to understand.
When he looked at his friend, he noticed that Jonathan didn’t look weak enough to have to lie down, yet something was ostensibly wrong.
“So it appears.” He turned to the patient he had seen to in previous years, “My lord.”
Jonathan hooked an eyebrow at the nomenclature.
Dr. Gant murmured to himself, and Gregory could only make out the ever-illuminating phrase, “I see.”
Gregory must have been huffing out his frustration because the physician requested that he take his toxic breathing out of the room while he assessed the patient.
After a while, he met Gregory in the parlor to discuss Jonathan’s situation.
“It appears as though he is suffering from what we physicians have now identified as amnesia. He has lost his memory.”
Gregory shook his head and rubbed his hands against his thighs. All ducal manner had been slowly ebbing away until now, when he found himself with his head in his hands, unloading on an avuncular acquaintance.
“What happened? When will he remember? What can be done?”
“All good questions, and all in good time. Truthfully, we don’t know much about this condition. He may never remember. He may remember everything tomorrow. We have no way of knowing. There are no known cures. There are several potential causes, most including bumps or bashes to the head. I have a few colleagues that have dealt with this, particularly those working with patients from the war. I’ll contact them and ask their advice. For now, bedrest is not required, but he must be allowed to rest. He must not be provoked or overstimulated, and he must be treated with care.”
Gregory had no words, so Dr. Gant continued. “In my estimation, it would be ideal for Jonathan to remain here rather than return to his home. He obviously came here for a reason. Maybe this place with its familiar environment and faces will aid in healing his mind and restoring his memories.” He paused, “There are no guarantees. I do not wish to mislead you. But there is always a reason to hold out hope.”
“I understand.”
“Send for me if needed. Otherwise I shall return in a few days’ time to re-evaluate him.”
