Free Night of the Candles by Jennifer Blake Page B

it came away with a trace of lip color, something she never used. She stared at it for a time, but she did not mention it to Marta.
    She did speak of it to the doctor when he arrived.
    A middle-aged man with gold rimmed spectacles, a paunch, mutton-chop whiskers, and wearing gaiters with his charcoal gray suit, he pursed his lips, staring at the floor as he spoke.
    At last he said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. As the nurse pointed out, amnesia, the loss of memory, is not too unusual a complication with concussion.”
    “But, Doctor, why did I do things I wouldn’t ordinarily think of doing? It is this that disturbs me more than the fact of the forgetfulness.”
    “I can’t give you an answer to that. We don’t know too much about it actually. In any case, it is not so great a thing. I would advise you to forget it. It may not happen again.”
    “But it could?”
    “Well, yes, I suppose it could. We have no way of controlling these periods of amnesia. You must not frighten yourself by giving rein to an overactive imagination. There is probably some perfectly rational, normal explanation for your behavior, you have only forgotten what it is. I’m going to give you some drops for the headache. They are to be taken only when you need them, and I will leave them with the nurse here. She will see to it.”
    He glanced up at Marta standing back out of the way near the fireplace. “You are … ah … familiar with this?”
    She gave a curt nod without speaking, her eyes going to Amanda who grimaced. That the good doctor should treat her like a child or someone wanting in sense was an irritation. She was not ordinarily a nervous person, and she didn’t believe she was being overly concerned. It was only the vague feeling that there was something more to the incident the night before than had yet come to light.
    Now the doctor was staring at Marta. “Are we acquainted?” he asked suddenly.
    Marta’s face took on a stolid, almost bovine look. “I’m not sure, Herr Doktor. You did not, I believe, attend Madame Monteigne in her last illness.”
    “No. My practice is in the next parish. My colleague is out of town for several weeks. During his absence I’ve been holding a surgery twice a week for his patients in town, in addition to my own. I make no secret of the fact that I will be heartily glad to see his return. I’m still persuaded this is not our first meeting. I have a good memory for faces. Comes from recognizing patients, you know. If we have met before, I’m sure it will come to me.”
    “Yes, Herr Doktor,” Marta replied politely.
    The man picked up his bag. “Well, young lady, I want you to take care of yourself, don’t be too anxious to be up and about. Time is a great healer, you know, a great healer.” With a few more similar bromides he got himself out the door.
    When he had gone down the stairs where Sophia waited to give him some light refreshments before she showed him out of the house, Amanda lay staring at the ceiling. What did the man think, that she was a hysterical female, glorying in her illness and determined to dramatize it? It was a weird enough tale, but she had not imagined it. The gown, the cosmetics were there as proof, or had been before she had removed them.
    Marta was very quiet. Amanda glanced at her, seeing her frown of preoccupation. What was she thinking? It was hard to tell what might be going on behind that broad white face. The woman had been most attentive, she was grateful to her. But she could not help remembering what Sophia had said, that Marta was extending herself for the sake of her job and her position at Monteigne, not for any liking she might feel toward Amanda herself.
    Marta had not seemed to care too much for the doctor. Perhaps she was apprehensive over losing her position at Monteigne, and she was afraid that he would say Amanda had no use for her. Or it might be a kind of professional jealousy; she was miffed that, with her experience available,