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Chapter Text

It had to be You - Chapter One

As he slowly regained consciousness, George Russell tried to open his eyes, but his lids felt unusually heavy. The left part of his head throbbed as if being repeatedly hit with a hammer.

He was lying in a really nice bed. Why was it so hard to wake up?

George tried to gather his thoughts in regard to what had caused such discomfort, but his mind was completely blank. The harder he tried to make sense of his current circumstances, the more his brain seemed to struggle to come up with anything.

What was happening? This couldn’t be the result of a typical hangover. It was definitely something else.

Had he died? He never would have guessed it hurt this much.

“Easy, easy, Mr. Russell.”

The tranquilizing voice belonged to a man — probably someone old — and was doing little to reassure George.

The distress of not knowing where he was and what was happening multiplied with each passing second. Feeling more anxious than he thought was possible, George channeled that restless energy into a last effort to finally force his eyes open.

An intense light reached his pupils, making him instantly close them again with a scowl.

It was so bright… Was that what the afterlife looked like?

“Mr. Russell, can you hear me?” The unknown voice asked.

George couldn’t tell much, but he could definitely pick up on the tone of worry the older man failed miserably to conceal.

“Mr. Russell?” The stranger insisted. “This is Dr. Stevenson. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

George was so annoyed at his lack of control over his own body that he mustered up the strength to keep his eyes open out of sheer willpower.

“Hello, Mr. Russell,” an elderly man with steel-rimmed spectacles and a kind gaze stared back at him. “Welcome back. You gave us quite a scare.”

George grimaced. He opened his mouth to ask what happened, but it felt unusually dry, like he hadn’t drunk a sip of water in days.

The doctor then provided an answer before George could formulate the question.

“There was an accident, Mr. Russell. You were taking a walk in the park with your son earlier this morning. A racing carriage failed to dodge a stray stone. You took quite a hit to the head, sir.”

His son? What son? What was that man talking about?

“You needed sutures to stop the bleeding, but it’s under control now. The wound should heal in a few days,” the doctor explained, more worried about the patient’s neurological status than the cut on his head. “How are you feeling?” He asked after noticing the confusion on the younger man’s face.

“As if I was hit by a carriage,” George answered, causing a round of laughter.

“It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” the doctor commented lightheartedly.

Three different sounds of laughter made George aware that the doctor wasn’t the only person present. After taking a deep breath, he gathered the strength to turn his head in the opposite direction.

He saw another two men with white hair standing beside each other. One was dressed like a butler, and the other was clad in an elegant suit carrying a pocket watch.

“I’ll inform Mrs. Russell that the master woke up,” Church told the others.

His mistress hadn’t left her husband’s bedside all day, and minutes after she was nearly coerced into going downstairs to have her first meal of the day, the man decided to wake up. Church knew how devoted a wife she was; he could only imagine how upset Mrs. Russell would be if no one updated her immediately.

When the loyal servant left the room, Richard Clay took a few steps forward and approached George’s bed while Dr. Stevenson continued his assessment.

“As I was saying, Mr. Russell, you had a serious concussion. I need to ask you some questions to properly evaluate your condition.”

That explained many things, George figured, letting out a heavy sigh.

“How long was I out?” He asked, shifting in bed to take a sitting position. The lancinating pain in his head only got worse with the movement, but it was in George’s nature to be practical and not act like an invalid.

The doctor briefly held his gaze before revealing, “you’ve been oscillating between sleep and conscience and saying disconnected things for the past fourteen hours. This is the first time you’re able to hold an intelligible conversation.”

George widened his eyes, surprised at the revelation. The situation sounded graver than he had initially imagined.

“Do you know where you are?” The doctor asked after noticing the way the patient studied his surroundings.

He didn’t need to give a verbal answer because the shock on his face said more than words ever could.

“We’re in your home on Fifth Avenue. Do you recall leaving it this morning?”

“My home?” George furrowed a brow, discovering that doing that made his head hurt even more. “On Fifth Avenue? Are we in New York?”

“Do you know what day it is, Mr. Russell?”

George opened his mouth to answer but was alarmed to realize he had no idea.

Bravely resisting the urge to panic, George closed his eyes and tried harder to remember, but his effort was in vain. His mind was absolutely empty.

What was happening to him?

“Loss of recent memory is a common occurrence in accidents such as yours,” the doctor informed. “Don’t stress yourself over it. The most important thing is that you’ve regained conscience, and there are no physical signs of alarm.”

“But I… I…“ George stammered, trying to remember something.

Anything.

He couldn’t.

The doctor noticed his anxiety and tried to persuade him to relax back against the pillows.

“Clay?! Richard Clay?” George focused on the man standing on the left, studying his features more attentively for the first time. “Is that you?”

The employee noticed the air of disbelief on his boss’s face and wondered what to make of it.

Should it really be that confusing that Russell’s right-hand man was present in a moment of chaos?

Until now, they had no idea if George would regain consciousness. It was important that Clay knew what to expect because none of the companies that were a part of Russell Consolidated Trust were about to run themselves.

“Yes, Mr. Russell. Are you feeling alright?”

George looked from the man’s intrigued face to his surroundings and then back to his own hands.

Something strange was happening.

He couldn’t think of a single memory, but he recognized the man in front of him. Except that the Richard Clay he remembered still had brown hair, and this one was at least a couple of decades older.

George had met him as a child when Clay had first started working as his father’s accountant, which obviously had happened years ago.

How much time had passed between then and now exactly?

George wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Before he could begin to process the alarming discoveries he was making, the door to his room was abruptly opened, and a woman rushed to his side.

“George! Thank God!” She sat beside him in bed and took both hands in hers. “You wouldn’t wake up. I was about to lose my mind,” the woman added with a sigh of relief.

The first thing George noticed about her was the look of concern on her pale face. When she raised a hand to gently cup the side of his cheek, he slightly pulled back, taken by surprise by the intimate gesture.

Her blue eyes and graceful features were strangely familiar. The same could be said about her sultry, commanding voice… It resonated deep inside him even though George had no idea why.

Staring was rude, but he couldn’t help it. There was a certain magnetism about the woman that reeled him in. Her presence stirred up his already messy emotions.

And then it finally clicked. When George made sense of her identity, he was in for an even greater shock.

“Bertha?” He blinked twice to make sure his eyes weren’t fooling him. “Liam Connelly’s little sister?” George frowned, looking into her eyes. When she nodded almost imperceptibly, he blurted out, “you’re old now.”

The woman’s soft smile changed into an offended scowl.

“What?” Bertha slightly drew back, caught off guard by the comment.

She stood from the bed, and George belatedly noticed how unflattering his blunt statement had been.

“I mean, you’re older than the last time I saw you,” he said, trying to access memories that wouldn’t return. Even the details in his past he could actually think of seemed blurry and distant, similarly to a story he’d read a long time ago and only remembered vaguely.

“You saw me at breakfast this morning, George,” Bertha said, shaking her head. After a brief conversation, her husband had left for the park, and then the accident happened.

She knew the stressful day had probably affected her appearance, but she doubted it was enough to make her look noticeably older. The unsuitable comment was very unlike her husband.

“I don’t remember,” George’s head ached as he kept forcing his brain to devise a logical explanation for her presence. “Why are you here, though? Do you live in New York now?”

The unreasonable questions informed Bertha that the situation was more severe than she had initially imagined.

“Why am I here?” The mistress furrowed her brow, repeating her husband’s words. She looked to the doctor and then to Richard Clay, who slightly shrugged, showing he was as confused as her. “George, are you sure you’re alright? You’re talking to me like I am someone else. Do you know who I am?”

Of course he knew who she was, George smacked his lips with a hint of annoyance.

How could he not?

Bertha Connelly was possibly the most obnoxious, irritating, condescending human being he’d ever met.

Her family had moved from Ireland to George’s neighborhood when she was still an infant. Her parents and older siblings worked in a crop field just outside town.

He used to see her around quite often growing up, and it felt like the moment she’d learned to speak was also the moment she’d decided to turn his life into a living hell.

Even though she was two years younger than George, Bertha constantly got under his skin with her sharp tongue and confident poise. She also happened to be the smartest person he knew, which made her all the more annoying.

It was only natural that they started competing in absolutely everything during their childhood.

George could easily best her in racing games and tasks that demanded physical strength, but she posed a real challenge whenever they quarreled. He specifically remembered this one time the reverend had punished them after they disrupted his Sunday sermon with a particularly loud argument. George still shivered when he remembered the blisters on his hands after a full day of polishing every bench and scrubbing every marble floor.

Bertha went out of her way to tease and provoke him, and George hated it when she won their arguments — which happened more often than he cared to admit.

They were always bickering, and they absolutely detested each other.

George could tell some time had passed, but he had no reason to think much had changed.

“You’re Bertha Connelly, Liam’s little sister,” George said matter-of-factly. Your father works at Saville’s farm.”

Bertha shuddered when she heard the reference to her family’s humble past.

“I haven’t been Bertha Connelly in a long time, George,” Mrs. Russell told him, a suspicion growing strong. She searched for help in Dr. Stevenson’s face, silently hoping he had a logical explanation for what was happening.

“Mr. Russell,” the doctor took a step forward. The worry lines on his face didn’t go unnoticed by Bertha, alarming her more. “You can’t recall what day it is, and that’s perfectly reasonable after a serious concussion. What is the last thing you do remember?”

Once again, George reflexively opened his mouth to answer but started to panic when he couldn’t think of anything.

His mind was still blank. It was absolutely maddening.

Bertha didn’t need any medical training to reach the same conclusion as the doctor.

She sat down by George’s bedside. His panting breaths told her how agitated he was. Before she could open her mouth to say something comforting, he pushed the covers aside in an evident attempt to leave the bed.

“George, calm down, please.” Bertha reached out to hold his hand. She shouldn’t be surprised he didn’t hold hers back; it felt unnatural nonetheless. “I know this must be really confusing for you,” she said, trying to sound serene but failing. But you can’t go anywhere.”

“I don’t think I need your permission,” George’s first impulse was to defy her orders.

Old habits died hard.

“What’s gotten into you?” Bertha scolded her husband, watching him make another attempt at getting up. She gently splayed her hand on his chest to stop him from leaving the bed. “You have to relax!”

“How can I relax when I can barely remember who I am?” George rejected her touch and stubbornly turned on his side to get up. The pain in his head had not subsided, but he had more pressing matters than physical discomfort. “I don’t recognize this house, I don’t know what the hell I am supposed to be doing here, and I haven’t the slightest clue as to why the most irritating person I have ever met is now inside my bed chambers,” he looked at her inquisitively.

Bertha blinked, appalled.

“A head injury does not give you a free pass to act like an insufferable idiot,” Bertha scolded him. She noticed his confusion and sighed heavily.

Everyone seemed to be tiptoeing around the obvious conclusion. As usual, Bertha would have to be the one to address the elephant in the room.

“George, I am obviously more than your childhood friend’s younger sister. You seriously don’t remember anything other than that?” She asked, dejected by the repercussions of that likely possibility.

The silence in the room grew more uncomfortable with each passing second. Sensing the tension in the air, the doctor intervened, aware that upsetting the patient was the last thing they should do if they had any hope of him regaining his senses.

“Mr. Russell, you don’t recognize your own wife?” Dr. Stevenson asked.

If the situation wasn’t so alarming, George’s expression of sheer shock would have made Bertha smile.

“My—my wife?” George looked from the woman standing next to him to the doctor and then to Clay, desperate for reassurance. His father’s former accountant merely nodded as if confirming what the doctor had revealed.

George’s knees gave in, forcing him to sit on the bed.

Had the world turned upside down?!

George had made many plans as a young man. Some were really ambitious, he knew. But striving for greatness also meant that he wasn't afraid to take risks.

The opulence of that bedroom, the fact he had a butler, the expensive furniture around him… all those signs pointed to the obvious conclusion George had been successful with his goals.

But if anyone had asked his younger self how his life would be when he grew up, the last thing George would have guessed was that he’d grow up to marry the devil incarnate.

“Can you give us a moment?” He looked at both Clay and the doctor.

Dr. Stevenson hesitated briefly, unsure if he should leave the patient’s side, but he figured it was only fair the man had a moment of privacy after the shocking discoveries of that evening.

There would be time to fully assess the patient’s condition once Mr. Russell had some time to come to terms with his new reality.

“Clay, could you please ask Church to serve tea in the drawing room? I will be with you two shortly.”

The way Bertha Russell took charge of the situation and dictated the following steps didn’t surprise the men in the room, except for the one who had just discovered he was married to her.

As soon as she found herself alone with her husband, Bertha went in his direction, but George turned his back on her, pretending he was checking his surroundings.

He approached the window and slightly opened the curtains to study the street outside. He could tell it was late in the evening, for there were no movement of pedestrian or carriages, and most lamps were turned off.

George noticed that he was on the upper floor of a gigantic residence. Near the entrance, there were a few lights shaped like bulbs, but they didn’t look like candles or oil lamps. He wondered what kind of invention it was but didn’t dwell much on it.

“You and I are married,” he said to Bertha, still trying to get used to the idea.

George could only wonder what kind of sick twist his life had taken to force him into that.

Had he made some kind of deal with her father? Surely that couldn’t be the case. When he was younger, George hadn’t really given marriage much thought since his focus was entirely on his business plans.

It would be less shocking if he found out he had married a woman from a wealthy background, which certainly wasn’t the case with Bertha Connelly.

This… whatever had prompted this… George just had no idea.

There was no logical reason for him to ever willingly tie himself to Bertha for life.

“Yes, we are,” she confirmed, unsure what to say. She didn’t want to risk revealing more that could further shock her husband, aware that he was already overwhelmed.
“And we have a son?” George inquired after a few seconds of silence, recalling the doctor’s explanation of what he had been doing at the time of the accident.

Bertha hesitated for a split second. She would never lie to him, but she instinctively knew it was better to take things slowly, giving her husband time to process his discoveries.

“We have children, yes.”

George closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly through his nose.

“What year are we in?” He finally turned around to meet her gaze.

Bertha bit her bottom lip before answering.

“1888.”

“1888?!” George thought nothing else could surprise him at that point, but oh, how wrong was he.

After quickly doing the math in his head, he realized he was in his late forties.

How come he couldn’t remember a single memory of the past three decades of his life?

Panicking would be an acceptable response in a situation like that, but George knew it wouldn’t help his predicament. The practical, logical thing to do was to get information from the only person whose word he supposed he could trust.

“I need to speak to Clay.”

“What you need is to go back to bed and let your mind reorganize itself,” Bertha said with authority, not intimidated by his unfriendly attitude.

George glared at her in disbelief.

Hell would freeze over the day Bertha Connelly ever had any sort of power over him.

Who did she think she was to be giving him orders?

“I don’t think you have the right to tell me what to do,” George answered with an impatient huff, still pacing back and forth.

He was trying so desperately to situate himself and remember anything that his headache got exponentially worse.

George’s confusion quickly turned into anxiety.

And his anxiety, into anger.

He had no idea why the adult figure of Bertha Connelly got to him even more than her childhood version once had. It was… strange.

George was obviously rich and powerful now, yet she still made him feel like the insecure little boy of the past.

He had no idea what sort of arrangement they had, but whenever she stared at him with those incandescent blue eyes, he got a funny feeling in his stomach. With each passing second, he discovered he was susceptible to her in ways he couldn’t explain.

George Russell was only comfortable in a position of power, and this woman posed a threat to his mental stability. She made him feel vulnerable, and he couldn’t even understand why.

Feeling suffocated, George pulled at the collar of his shirt. He needed time alone to think.

“I think you should go,” he turned to face the woman who instilled so many foreign emotions in him.

Bertha picked up on the traces of resentment in his voice. She wondered what could possibly be going through her husband’s head to trigger him like that.

“George, listen. Be reasonable, please. I know you’re worried and confused, but you’re going to be alright,” Bertha tried to convey positivity and offer him emotional support. “I don’t know how, but we will find a way to overcome this, and soon enough, everything will return to normal. You will recover your memory. You just need to rest your body and allow it to heal.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” George stared at his wife with a pragmatic, emotionally distant gaze.

Bertha noticed he was talking to her in the same way he debated with his business adversaries, as if he was dictating the rules while subtly daring her to defy him.

It was so unusual and far from the loving, affectionate way her husband always addressed her that Bertha’s heart tightened inside her chest.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” she smiled charmingly at him, hoping to dissuade some of his hostility.

That smile messed with George, making him yearn for something he didn’t know.

That situation was getting out of control.

“We’ll overcome this together. We’ve been through much worse,” Bertha affirmed, trying to sound encouraging. “Soon enough, we’ll be laughing about this, you’ll see. You just have to give it time.”

Her confidence as she spoke the words and the intimate way she talked to him irritated George.

“There is nothing to laugh about. My life is falling apart right before my eyes, and the last thing I need right now is some generic speech of support,” his voice was cold and distant.

Bertha could feel tears gathering in her eyes. That did not sound like her husband at all.

“I really need you to leave and give me some time to think.”

“George,” Bertha tilted her head with a pleading gaze. “You’re being very unreasonable. I know you’re nervous, but you’re…”

“You don’t know anything,” George interrupted her, annoyed by her insistence.

His biggest frustration was with his own mind for not remembering anything, but right now, the woman standing before him was the easier target, and he unconsciously took out all his anger on her.

“I don’t know you. I don’t want to be here under your scrutiny watching you dictate my decisions as if you know what’s best for me,” George took a couple of steps in her direction, engulfing her with his shadow. His head was throbbing, and all he wanted was to be alone to get his thoughts together. “Stop telling me everything will be alright; you don’t know that. I barely remember who you are…” He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily before continuing. “The fact of the matter is, I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you, and I sure as hell don’t like you. Your presence here is suffocating me,” George hissed, unable to comprehend why she affected him so much that it prompted such cruel words to leave his mouth.

He noticed the rosy color completely vanished from her face as tears welled up in Bertha’s eyes.

Of all the things he’d watched and learned since he’d woken up, the image of her beautiful blue eyes stained with sadness was the most difficult one to face.

Thinking about that only reinforced his urge to be away from her.

“You’re still here,” George turned his back on her, feeling like a coward for not standing another second of witnessing how dejected she seemed. “Please, leave. I don’t want to have to ask you one more time.”

Bertha’s breaths were rapid and shallow. Her husband’s verbal attack had hurt her so much that for the first time in a long time, she felt paralyzed, unable to think of how to respond or react.

Telling herself to pull herself together, Bertha proudly raised her chin. With no other choice, she left the room, feeling her throat constrict as she swallowed back the tears that had been burning her eyes.

Rationally, she knew George was having a bad reaction to an unimaginable situation. She could only conjecture how awful it must be to wake up and not be able to access a single memory from the past years.

But the coldness with which her husband had treated her had shocked Bertha because the George Russell she had married and built a life with would never talk to her in such a way.

And yet that didn’t change the fact that it had been her husband who had stood in front of her face just a few seconds ago and stated with conviction that he didn’t like her and had no interest in knowing her.

Because right now, to this George, everything he had said was true.

He didn’t know her.

He didn’t love her.

And Bertha wasn’t sure he ever would again.

.

Bertha leaned against the closed door of her bedroom and finally gave in to the tears that had been threatening to fall for the past two hours.

Now that Richard Clay and Dr. Stevenson had left — and George slept peacefully after the physician had given him an infusion of laudanum to help him relax — Bertha could shift her focus from being a hostess to considering the new reality she found herself in.

In a matter of hours, her entire life had turned upside down, and she didn’t know what to do.

Bertha was proud of herself for always knowing what to do, but this unprecedented situation directly implicated a person she loved more than life.

George still thought of her as the young girl who used to compete with him back when they were still kids, constantly at odds with each other. He had firmly stated he didn’t like her, and Bertha had no idea how to fix it.

About half an hour after her husband had told her to leave, Dr. Stevenson had returned to his bedroom to thoroughly examine the patient and assess the situation.

The doctor believed the memory loss could be temporary, but he had emphasized that there was no way to be sure. There was an actual chance George might never remember the most recent past.

Bertha knew that if such were the case, she would be willing to rebuild their lives from scratch. At that moment, it didn’t matter that her husband’s condition might mean he wouldn’t have as much success in his business.

What good was a life of wealth and comfort if Bertha didn’t have George to share it with?

If she had to spend the rest of her days catching him up on every single detail of their lives together, Bertha would gladly do so.

If they needed to give up the house and return to a more modest lifestyle, Bertha would adapt to that, too.

The only thing she knew she wouldn’t survive was if her husband kept rejecting her and treating her like a stranger.

George was her main source of security and comfort. It didn’t matter what was happening in the world, Bertha always fought her battles with confidence and determination because she knew that, at the end of day, she always had George to come home to. Her husband was always on her side, having proved countless times he would be there for her through anything.

Through everything.

Their relationship was based on respect, trust, and love. But now, they were at a serious risk of losing what had taken them years to build and solidify.

Dr. Stevenson had been very clear in his conversation with Mrs. Russell and Richard Clay minutes before his departure: the best course of action was to have George remain calm and relaxed. The more confused and desperate he was, the fewer the chances of his brain making a recovery.

The doctor had also been adamant about the best course of action: George shouldn’t be treated like a stranger or a different person. According to the physician, maintaining the same routine and the habits he had before the accident might be beneficial in speeding up Mr. Russell’s recovery.

Bertha only hoped her husband was willing to follow the doctor’s orders instead of shutting off like he had earlier that evening.

Those conjectures kept Bertha awake for more than two hours after she’d gone to bed. When she finally drifted off to sleep, her rest was interrupted by several nightmares in which her husband had gone from being her strongest supporter to her biggest antagonizer.

.

When he woke up the following day, George still hadn’t recovered a single memory.

He opened the curtains in his bedroom to allow sunlight to illuminate his surroundings. There was a clear autumn morning outside, the deep blue in the sky starkly contrasting with the orange leaves atop the trees, but George could hardly pay any attention to so much beauty.

His head still hurt considerably, but that was the least of his concerns. Right now, he needed to carefully analyze his current situation so he could find a solution.

It was a strange predicament.

George knew he was in his forties. He didn’t feel any younger than he was, but his only memories and impressions were from his childhood and teenage years.

He could name every object around him and describe its use. Based on his view of Central Park, he could tell he was in New York, even though George had no idea how he’d come to live there. He could recognize some people from his past — Richard Clay and Bertha Connelly, for starters.

But he couldn’t say what kind of relationship he had with either of them.

George was obviously very rich, but he couldn’t tell how or when he’d amassed so much wealth.

His circumstances were so pitiful that George had no idea where to even begin.

Perhaps Richard Clay could help. The man had always been very competent at his job, and knowing his appreciation for loyalty, if so many years later the former accountant was still around, George could tell he was probably someone of importance in his business. Maybe a partner? Or a high-ranked employee?

The master was debating whether or not to send for the man after breakfast when the door to his room opened so quietly that he only noticed it because he was pacing back and forth inside the bedroom.

George furrowed his brows, initially surprised to see no one behind it. But as his eyes invariably traveled further south, he noticed a miniature person clinging to the doorknob with both hands, struggling to decide whether or not to enter.

The moment George made eye contact with the child, the little boy seemed to make a decision and rushed inside so abruptly that he literally ran into the adult’s legs.

“Father!”

George was nearly knocked back when the kid excitedly wrapped both arms around one of his thighs in a clumsy hug and looked up with a beaming smile on his face.

The first thing George noticed about the young child was that his blue eyes, surrounded by dark, thick lashes, were very familiar.

The fair skin, cherub cheeks, and delicate features left little room for doubt: that boy was definitely Bertha Connelly’s son.

The only trait he clearly did not inherit from his mother was his hair — long strands of thick dark hair that curled at the ends.

The little boy had George’s hair.

“I…Uh…” the man had no idea how to react. He hadn’t been prepared to make that discovery so bluntly. But the reality was undeniable.

Acting purely on instinct, George crouched down to the boy’s height and smiled tentatively.

“Did the carriage break your head, Father?” The little boy asked, his eyes sparkling with amazement as he stood on the tips of his toes to get a better view of George’s wound. His dad chuckled at how the sentence was phrased, but before he could answer, the child continued talking, “Mrs. Bruce told me that Mr. Borden made jelly with the strawberries I picked with Mother in Newport. Do you want to try it on your toast?” He nodded enthusiastically at George as if encouraging him to answer yes. “Then, after breakfast, you can help me build a train track with the wood pieces you gave me. But it’s Sunday, so Mother said we have to go to church first,” the child tilted his head to the side in a gesture of resignation. “Do you think Mary Beth and Andrew will be there too?” He asked with a cheerful expression.

George didn’t know what was more impressive: the speed with which the boy changed subjects, the eloquence, and rich vocabulary for such a young child, or the way he wouldn’t stop smiling, which suggested he was very happy to be in his father’s company.

“Father, can we…—”

“CHARLIE!”

The sound of Bertha’s strict voice finally ended the boy’s incessant chatter.

“Uh, oh,” he widened his eyes at George a fraction of a second before Bertha entered the room.

The mistress had her hands on her hips and now looked at her son with an expression that showed he was in big trouble.

“What did I tell you about coming here?” Bertha reprimanded the boy. She stepped forward and took him in her arms, indirectly allowing George to stand up again. “Your father is injured. He needs peace and quiet to rest.”

“But, Mama, you said I couldn’t come because Father was sleeping. But he’s not sleeping. Look,” Charlie turned his head and met his father’s gaze. Once again, a beaming smile softened his adorable features. “He said he will help me build a big train track.”

“Did I?” George asked, surprised at the trace of amusement he heard in his own voice.

There hadn’t been nearly enough time for George to make a proper judgment about his son, but he could already tell the boy was smart and resourceful.

“We have to leave. Your father needs to rest,” Bertha smacked her lips disapprovingly at her son’s disobedience. But her expression completely changed from affectionate and caring to disengaged and distant when she sustained her husband’s gaze. “I will have someone bring you a breakfast tray,” she passed Charlie from one arm to another before heading directly to the door. “Excuse me,” Bertha nodded almost imperceptibly and left the room.

When he found himself alone, George sighed heavily.

Bertha’s impersonal attitude towards him this morning starkly contrasted her warm display of devotion the night before. George supposed he should be relieved the woman wasn’t imposing anymore, but he couldn’t understand why her guarded demeanor made him feel so awful about himself.

The businessman didn’t have much time to speculate about his wife’s estranged behavior. Soon after breakfast, George was informed that Dr. Stevenson had returned to check on him. While the competent doctor repeated a thorough physical exam, George asked the butler if someone in the house had sent for Richard Clay.

An hour later, George found himself in the comfort of his home’s library, sitting opposite the man he’d come to learn was his right hand at work. Richard Clay spent the rest of the morning filling George in every aspect of his professional activities.

Finding out he owned business endeavors in diverse fields such as real estate, steel, copper, coal, oil, railroads, and even newer industries such as electricity didn’t exactly surprise George, for that had been his plan ever since he was a young boy. But even the humblest man wouldn’t be indifferent to so much success.

Knowing he ran a successful business and had become one of the wealthiest men in the country put George more at ease. At least he was now sure he could afford the best modern medicine had to offer, and even if his memory didn’t return, he at least had a substantial sum in the bank to make sure the Russells were settled for life.

After the meeting was over, George invited Clay to stay for lunch. When he asked the staff about his wife, they informed him that Mrs. Russell had left hours ago with Charlie and hadn’t told them of her plans.

George wondered if his wife was purposefully avoiding him, but it wasn’t like he could blame her.

Now that he felt more comfortable in Richard Clay’s presence and the man instilled in him some trust, George took the opportunity to discuss more personal matters over the meal they were sharing.

“You want me to tell you about Mrs. Russell?” Richard Clay pulled his white eyebrows up in shock.

George couldn’t understand why the request seemed so unusual.

“You’re obviously the most capable person of doing so,” George put down his knife and held the man’s gaze with practicality. “We’ve established you’ve been part of my life since I was young. You said you watched me grow from a small-town investor to build the empire I now own. And you also said you joined me in the earlier years of my business ventures. We’ve obviously spent countless hours working side by side. I assume we probably have traveled quite a bit together, too. Why shouldn’t I think you know at least some details about my personal life?”

Clay loosened the collar of his shirt, uneasy about the turn that conversation was taking.

At sixty-three, he was a proud bachelor, having spent the vast majority of his life inside an office. But even though he could easily read his business competitors and get the best of them, he didn’t have the same talent to make judgments about the opposite sex.

In all fairness, the private life of his employer had never been something he’d paid much attention to, so there wasn’t much he could tell Mr. Russell about his wife. She was a beautiful woman. That was hard to miss, even for clueless bachelors like himself. Clay couldn’t deny her presence lit up every room she walked into. He just wasn’t exactly sure what the man wanted to know.

“The two of you were really young when you married.” Clay decided that taking it from the start might be the best way to satisfy the man’s curiosity. “I was still working for your father at the time, but you were no more than twenty years old if I recall it correctly.”

“Hmm,” George touched his roast pork with the tip of his fork without taking a bite. The information was certainly intriguing. “I was under the impression Bertha Connelly and I couldn’t stand each other,” he successfully feigned indifference.

Richard Clay couldn’t conceal the smile that tugged at his lips.

“If I may be so bold to say, sir, the antagonizing feelings you nurtured for one another growing up weren’t rooted in hatred. It was quite the opposite,” Clay tried to put it as mildly as possible. “I suppose you were too innocent up until a certain age to realize as much. But you have always been a clever man, and it was no different where this was concerned. The moment you realized the true nature of your feelings for Mrs. Russell, you did what you always do, sir. You quickly fought off the competition and put a ring on her finger.”

George furrowed his brows, intrigued by the revelation.

Clay was saying that after he’d become old enough to pay attention to the opposite sex, George had found out he was more attracted to Bertha than he’d initially imagined?

He supposed that if he’d changed his heart about her to the point of proposing marriage, many of his childhood assumptions about Bertha had been incorrect.

The only certainty George had that still remained was that she was strikingly beautiful — be it in the past in a secondhand dress with the hem stained with mud or in an elegant morning dress such as earlier that day.

“If you don’t mind me speaking candidly, sir, I wouldn’t know much about Mrs. Russell as a wife inside the walls of your home. But, at the office, you have always remarked about her talents and sharp instincts. You constantly praise her wits and her ability to comprehend what most men fail to deduce when it comes to numbers and investments,” Clay shared, surprising George. “You once told me that you’re glad your wife wasn’t born a man, for she would have been your toughest competitor in business.”

“Really?” George blinked, absolutely appalled.

“You also said that you wouldn’t have gotten to where you are without Mrs. Russell,” Richard Clay repeated what his boss often affirmed. “I don’t know many men who speak as proudly of their wives as you do.”

George took his time digesting the information he had just received. Bertha’s intelligence didn’t surprise him, but how Clay described her as a partner certainly did. He hadn’t expected that.

Learning that he was married to his childhood nemesis was already a big shock; to learn that they apparently made a great team together was enough to make his brains twist.

Judging by what Clay said, George didn’t just have a wife but was very fond of her as well.

Mr. Russell wanted to know several other things, but he assumed Richard Clay could not give him those specific answers.

Hours after the man left, George returned to his chambers, still processing his newfound reality.

He had discovered Bertha wasn’t only his wife; she was his biggest ally. And Richard Clay wasn’t the only one who shared this impression. Dr. Stevenson had also made a remark or two about how lucky George was to have such a devoted, loving spouse. During today’s examination, the doctor had revealed Bertha was pretty much forced to leave his side the night before, or else she might have starved herself.

During the past thirty years of George’s life, Bertha had been his biggest supporter and trusted partner. She had helped him become the man he was today.

And yesterday, George had treated her as if she wasn’t any better than a mere acquaintance.

Feeling his heart heavy inside his chest, George sank into the comfortable upholstered chair in his bedroom, feeling the worst he’d felt ever since he’d woken up from his injury.

Bertha had done everything in her power to calm him down and make sure George took care of himself. She had been willing to talk to him and explain things, but he had pushed her away.

It was no wonder she hadn’t wanted anything to do with him this morning.

And then there was the matter of their children… Bertha had mentioned they’d had more than one, but so far, he’d only met little Charlie.

Who was the other? Or others?

How many were there?

George desperately wanted to know more about his kids.

After processing the situation with his analytical mind, the master reached the most logical conclusion: he had made a complete fool of himself.

His wife hadn’t deserved to be treated in such a way, and now George could only hope she’d have it in his heart to forgive his asinine remarks and unbecoming comments. How could he even judge her for keeping him at arm’s length that morning?

He needed to apologize. And he would do it as soon as Bertha agreed to see him.

With a heavy sigh, George summoned the butler and instructed Church to tell his wife the moment she got home that he wished to speak to her.

Chapter Text

It had to be You - Chapter Two

Bertha wrapped the strap of her white robe tightly around her waist as a heavy sigh escaped her lips. Although she usually felt reinvigorated after a bath, not even the tepid water and her favorite perfumed soap were enough to brighten her mood.

The conversation she’d had with her husband the evening before kept replaying in her head despite Bertha’s attempts to keep her mind occupied throughout the day. All her effort had been in vain. Whether during the reverend’s sermon at church that morning or during lunch with the Fanes, George’s harsh words were the only thing she could think of.

Bertha had returned home late in the afternoon. The moment she entered the foyer, Church informed the mistress that her husband had asked to see her.

Bertha had then inquired the loyal servant about her husband’s health status. Dr. Stevenson had already briefed her earlier, assuring her that everything else was fine except for the memory loss. So she couldn’t really imagine why George had asked for her.

Despite her curiosity to find out, Bertha secretly felt a coward for delaying the encounter. Her fear resided entirely in the uncertainty of what a new conversation would entail. Things were already awful as they were. There was no need to make them worse.

Not knowing what George was going to say was a strange feeling. After nearly three decades, Bertha knew her husband better than herself. To think he saw her as the equivalent of a stranger and kept her at arm’s length was heartbreaking.

Unconsciously seeking some comfort in her biggest source of joy, Bertha made her way down the corridor to the spacious room that had once belonged to her eldest son and now accommodated her youngest. Charlie’s little squeal of happiness when he saw her made Bertha momentarily forget about her worries.

“You can turn in for the night, Miss Wheaton,” Bertha informed the young woman. Still in her early twenties, Mrs. Bruce’s niece had been working with the Russells since Bertha’s youngest son was born. “I’ll take care of Charlie’s bedtime.”

The nanny nodded and left after wishing the child good night.

“Do you want to read a story together, Mama?” Charlie couldn’t conceal his excitement at his mother’s presence. It was common for Bertha to participate in his daily activities, but even after a full day spent in her company, the boy still rejoiced in the surprise of her unexpected arrival.

At least someone in the house still welcomed her presence, Bertha thought with dismay.

“There’s nothing I’d love more,” she sat in the rocking chair near Charlie’s bed and waited for him to pick a book from the many arranged side by side on a low shelf. When the boy decided on a volume, he pranced in his mother’s direction and crawled into her lap.

Bertha gladly welcomed him by wrapping one arm around the child, keeping him nestled against her chest. She supported the book on her free leg and used her hand to leaf through the pages.

“Look, there is a big boat,” Charlie pointed to the pictures. He was yet too young to know how to read, but his remarkable imagination made it so that literacy was overrated when he could simply make up his own stories. “The captain of the boat is a pirate! He has a sword made of gold.”

“Does he?” Bertha hummed, feigning shock. She was far too used to her son’s fantastic tales, but they never stopped amusing her. There were no pirates whatsoever in the original story, but who was she to defy her son’s retelling of the tale. “How can he wield a gold sword? It must weigh a ton.”

“It’s not heavy for him; it weighs very little, for he is very strong,” Charlie clarified, going through the pages until the following image. He saw a picture of a prince and a princess and waited for his mother to read the words. But when she said nothing, the boy looked up to meet her gaze. “Are you sad, Mama?”

Bertha was caught off guard by her child’s question and even more so by the gentle way he cupped her face with his tiny hand in the exact same affectionate way his father often did.

Tears quickly pooled in her eyes.

In an attempt to hide them, Bertha buried her face in Charlie’s hair and kissed the top of his head repeatedly, silently conveying her love.

She could simply say she wasn’t sad, but it would be an obvious lie, and Bertha didn’t wish to be so flagrantly dishonest with her son.

“I am sad that your father is hurt, my love.” She did her best to preserve Charlie’s feelings while still telling the truth. “But there’s nothing to worry about. I am sure he will make a quick recovery.”

The boy had asked about George more than once during the day, and Bertha had explained that his father was still resting after the accident. She knew Charlie was finding the situation strange. After all, Sundays were a day reserved for family in their household.

She was surprised when Charlie leaped off her lap and rushed to the corner where he’d picked the book. Bertha watched him scroll through a box and then quickly run back to her as soon as he found what he was looking for.

“Here, Mama,” Charlie handed her a rectangular box containing pencils of different sizes. “You can use these to make him a pretty drawing to show how worried you are. I am sure he will feel much better,” Charlie smiled encouragingly. “Father always says my drawings make him happy. I am sure yours will, too.”

Bertha felt her heart constrict inside her chest with her son’s innocence and display of support. How amazing would it be if a simple drawing could fix the fracture in her marriage?

“That’s an excellent idea.”

She once again encircled Charlie’s tiny frame with her arm and held him tightly against her chest.

The only thing that hurt more than the treatment George had reserved for her was the possibility her darling boy might be submitted to similar indifference. She knew her husband well enough to assume he wouldn’t treat a child so cruelly, but Bertha couldn’t take any chances.

She had never imagined getting such cold, uncaring treatment from George and would never risk letting Charlie experience the same. The boy was crazy about his father and worshipped him like a hero. Charlie was used to having George’s attention on a daily basis, so Bertha knew that preventing any contact with his father would be a challenge. But until she made sure to have an important conversation with George and impose that any cold treatment towards Charlie was inadmissible, Bertha would shield her son. She would protect Charlie at all costs, even if that meant distancing herself from the love of her life.

The mistress took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

Charlie’s presence and selfless affection were a comfort, but she missed her other children terribly.

Time went by too fast. It felt like yesterday, she could still hold Larry and Gladys in her arms and rock them to sleep. It was much simpler to keep them safe when they were small and still lived under their roof.

Bertha’s life was upside down, and she had no idea what would become of her marriage.

But as she hummed a lullaby to Charlie and he dozed off in her arms with his cheek against her chest, Bertha’s only certainty was that, as usual, any decision she made would be putting her children’s best interest first.

.

It was almost nine in the evening when George heard soft knocks outside the door to his room.

“Come in,” he said, unsure about what would happen next.

Since his conversation with Clay earlier that afternoon, George had been anxiously waiting for his wife’s return so he could apologize and explain himself. There was so much uncertainty in his mind that he didn’t know whether his long-lasting headache was due to the trauma he’d endured or the thoughts that reverberated aimlessly in his mind through the last hours of solitude, accompanied by an unwavering load of guilt.

With each passing hour, George gradually lost hope that he would still see his wife that day, but it had never crossed his mind to actively search for her. Bertha had been informed that he wished to see her — if she didn’t come to him, it was because she wasn’t ready for the conversation they needed to have. After his treatment of her last night, the least George owed her was to respect her wishes and do things in her own time.

But here she was, walking in warily after closing the door behind her. George noticed how she protectively crossed her arms in front of her body.

He also noticed the long strands of shiny brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders, easily moving with each graceful movement of her neck. His wife had it tied up in an elegant style the day before, but now she appeared before him wearing a sophisticated white robe with her brushed locks almost glowing under the dim lights inside the bedroom.

It would have been one of the most attractive sights he’d ever beheld if her eyes weren’t so puffy and her expression so forlorn. He could tell she had been crying, and George imagined he was the one responsible for those tears.

The realization only added to his self-loathing.

“Hi,” he started sheepishly, sitting up in bed to get a better view of his wife.

Bertha gave him a watery smile and hesitantly took a few steps in his direction. After the events of their last encounter, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what George had to say. The last thing she wanted was for them to grow further apart.

“How are you feeling?” Bertha asked. Despite her reservations, she couldn’t help worrying about her husband’s wellbeing.

“I feel terrible,” George answered truthfully and clarified when he noticed her concern, “but it has nothing to do with my head.”

Bertha frowned, suggesting she was confused, which led him to elaborate.

“I wanted to ask for your forgiveness,” George started, as practical and straightforward as usual. “I treated you horribly last night. I had no right to put you through that.”

Bertha could see on his face that he meant it. After a few seconds of merely holding each other’s gaze, she broke the silence.

“So, will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Ask for my forgiveness.”

George’s lips creased on a poorly hidden smile as he was overtaken by a mix of pride and satisfaction. His wife clearly stood up for herself and challenged him, and he could see the attractiveness in that.

“I’m sorry. I crossed a line, and everything I said was uncalled for. I acted like an inconsiderate fool,” George confessed, guilty and ashamed. “I haven’t yet had the time to fully process these new circumstances but that didn’t give me the right to take out my frustrations on you. I lacked empathy and failed to realize you’re just as affected by this as me,” George looked into her eyes, speaking from his heart. “I see it now.”

Bertha was pleasantly surprised by the unexpected turn of events. But before she could express any reaction, he continued.

“I know what I said to you was unforgivable, but I ask that you consider forgiving me anyway, even though I probably don’t deserve it,” George expressed himself as honestly as he could. “To be quite frank, I am terrified about this situation.”

“I know. I can imagine,” Bertha let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, feeling immensely relieved. Finally, something good. The man she knew and loved was still there somewhere. “I am scared, too.”

George automatically moved his hand as if reaching out for her, but once he realized what he was doing, he directed it back to his lap.

“I don’t know how to deal with this,” he tried to explain his condition, incapable of looking her straight in the eye. “The last thirty years have been completely erased from my mind. And then yesterday, I woke up to find out I am married to Bertha Connelly.”

“Russell,” she corrected him.

“Hm?”

“Russell,” she repeated. “Bertha Russell.”

George knew he should find the sound of those words combined strange, but they blended perfectly well.

“Of course.”

How could he be so foolish? Of course she had his name. They were married, but he still couldn’t comprehend how that had come to happen.

“I haven’t heard anyone refer to me as Bertha Connelly in a really long time,” his wife tentatively walked a few steps in his direction, her arms still guarding herself.

When he didn’t reject her proximity, Bertha relaxed a little and sat opposite him on the edge of the bed. “And to be honest, Russell always sounded better in my ears.”

“Is that so?” George couldn’t contain his curiosity. “Why?”

“Well, because it’s the name I got when I married you. I had an… estranged relationship with my family. My mother always made it seem that carrying my father’s last name was something to be ashamed of,” Bertha explained without giving many details. “But with you, it was different. We got married, and I was proud to be married to a man of honor and integrity. And because of that, I wasn’t ashamed of my name anymore.”

George smiled, deeply touched. He had no idea how to react to the wave of tenderness that swept over his heart.

Bertha stoically contained the tears that threatened to gather in her eyes. She had probably cried more in the last twenty-four hours than in the past two decades. She absolutely detested showing any sign of weakness, even if George was the only one she felt comfortable doing it with.

Her heart was heavy inside her chest.

The man she loved and trusted more than anyone was sitting across from her in his bed, and he didn’t remember any of the amazing memories they had created together. He couldn’t remember he loved her, and because of that, he couldn’t feel it. Bertha was terrified that George might never overcome the amnesia.

The notion that he might never remember them again made her reconsider her resolution not to shed any more tears.

George noticed the way she took a hand to her throat and wondered what was going through her head.

“How did this happen?” He asked, pointing to himself and then to her. “I don’t remember a lot of our past, but in the few memories I do have, you were always antagonizing me,” he affirmed, earning a delightful chuckle in return. Her response made George’s face lighten up. “I was under the impression we couldn’t stand each other.”

“You’re right. Growing up, we couldn’t stand each other,” Bertha confirmed. “It seemed that you were constantly cross with me. But we grew up. I grew up,” Bertha emphasized. “I stopped tormenting you, and you became kinder to me. And I found out I hadn’t really seen how bothered you could get until other boys started giving me their attention.”

George processed her words.

He had always been the sort of man who went after what he wanted. George could also be very possessive of the things that were most important to him. He was like this in business, and it wouldn’t be any different in matters of the heart.

So he had married Bertha because he discovered he was attracted to her, George wondered, studying her slender figure.

The moment she’d walked into his bedroom, her beauty had captured his attention. Bertha’s attractiveness didn’t come solely from her looks but also from her aura of sophistication. Most women spent a lifetime trying to perfect something similar, whereas he could tell it came naturally to his wife. She commanded the room merely with her presence, and George could see how alluring her air of regal aloofness might have been to his younger self.

Without a memory, there was no way he could be sure, but George was willing to bet she had made him earn every second of her attention. He doubted she had made chasing her easy on him.

It wasn’t like he didn’t remember her good looks from before, though. Bertha had always been beautiful. But until now, George had never really noticed just how blue her eyes were. Or how flawless her ivory skin was. It looked like porcelain, making George urge to touch it to find out if it was as soft and smooth as it looked.

“You weren’t the only one who overcame your wrongful impressions,” Bertha explained humbly. “With time, I also realized why I enjoyed tormenting you so much,” she felt like a fool for that fit of sentimentality that was very unlike her. “You were nothing like the other young men we knew. My mother was furious when I rejected two other marriage proposals from wealthy heirs to marry you. She didn’t understand what I already knew all along,” Bertha smiled. “I knew you would be rich and successful, but that’s not why I married you.”

“It wasn’t?” George asked, surprised at himself for being so deeply interested in the answer. “Why did you marry me, then?” he asked, aware that he was shamelessly flirting with her.

Bertha blushed.

“You were very convincing,” she answered with a teasing smack of her lips, making him laugh.

It became clear to George that her faith in him had been deeply rooted from the very beginning. She had taken a chance on him despite having other suitors that could offer more security in the short term. Clay had told him Bertha was his biggest supporter. All those facts combined led him to conclude they had married for reasons other than convenience, wealth, or social status.

“This is surreal,” he took a deep breath, overwhelmed by the truth while simultaneously flattered by his wife’s good opinion of him.

“I know just how you feel,” Bertha replied in a lighthearted tone. She watched as George’s expression shifted when he closed his eyes, probably trying to force his brain to remember something.

“I can’t believe we’re married,” he said after the failed attempt.

“Sometimes, I can’t either,” Bertha shared.

During the first years of her life, Bertha was taught what she should look for in a husband. Her mother always remarked that her beauty couldn’t be for nothing. As a girl, she was encouraged to marry the suitor with the best financial prospects. Growing up with almost nothing and sometimes going to bed on an empty stomach, Bertha understood why her mother felt that way.

Falling in love had never been in her plans.

But she had - hard - and her decision to accept the marriage proposal from the young man with ambitious dreams but very few possessions had upset her mother.

If Mrs. Connelly could see her now, Bertha was sure she would realize she’d been wrong.

“Why?” George asked, unsure of how he felt about her last confession. It sounded alarming. “Do we quarrel a lot?”

“No,” Bertha looked tenderly at him, watching his face soften with the answer. “I mean, sometimes we have a silly discussion or disagreement, but overall, we get along very well. We respect each other and take care of each other.”

George smiled timidly, satisfied to hear that.

When he’d first heard he was married to his rival from the past, he had felt in the worst possible scenario. But hearing Bertha describe the reality of their lives together gave him hope and more joy than George would care to admit.

There was a lot he still didn’t know, but the more Bertha spoke to him, the more optimistic George felt. Before he could filter his thoughts, the words came out of his mouth.

“Do we love each other?” When George finally realized he had actually voiced his thoughts out loud, he stumbled on his words, embarrassed and intrigued at the same time. “I mean, are we happy together? Do we make each other happy?”

Bertha looked him in the eye and felt her heart racing with love and longing. She needed George back soon, or she would go crazy.

“We’re very happy together,” Bertha didn’t realize the silly, loving smile she had when she said the words. She kept eye contact with her husband and her face became more serious when she confessed with a hoarse voice, “we love each other very much.”

Once again, George reached out his hand, searching for hers. But this time, a soft knock from outside the door interrupted them.

“Excuse me, sir, Mr. Borden is wondering if he should send up a tray?”

It was the butler.

Before George could even process the question, he heard his wife’s commanding voice.

“Yes, Church. Send one to my room as well, please.”

If the butler was surprised to hear the mistress’s voice inside the master’s bedroom, his voice showed no traces of it.

“Very well, ma’am.”

After they heard the muffled footsteps of the butler leaving, Bertha got up and cleared her throat. It felt like a precious moment had just slipped through her fingers with the interruption, and she couldn’t even understand why.

“You should get some rest now,” she told George. “The doctor said you shouldn’t excite yourself too much since you need to remain calm and relaxed to recover your memory.”

“No!” George protested more incisively than he’d planned. Yesterday, he had insisted that his wife left, but now that he’d gotten a taste of her presence and heard what she had to say, he was fascinated. “Please, stay a little longer. Tell me more.”

Bertha wasn’t sure whether that was a good idea, but she couldn’t resist it. George was finally back to being his sweet self again, the caring, kindhearted man she loved so much. Maybe if he heard a little more about their lives together, that would help him remember something.

“What would you like to hear about?”

The question caught George off guard, so he looked around, trying to improvise, and saw a sizable stone on one of her fingers.

“Is that the ring I gave you when I asked you to marry me?” He asked, enchanted by her delightful laugh in response.

“No,” Bertha fidgeted with the ring before looking her husband in the eye. “We could never afford something like this when we got engaged,” she explained, allowing him to take her hand to examine the stone more closely. “You gave me this ring a few years later. It was after you signed your first six-digit deal, to be precise.”

George grasped her tiny hand with his much larger one, trying to ignore how nice it felt to touch her. It was just hands, but it felt intimate and personal.

Her nearness caused his gaze to invariably shift from her hands to her face and then her neck. Her defensive posture from before hadn’t allowed George to notice the small pendant hanging from a delicate gold chain. It was very similar to the one on her finger.

“Did the necklace come with the ring?”

Bertha wasn’t surprised her husband had noticed the twin stone. George was excellent at observing details that would go unnoticed by most people. It was one of the skills that made him such an extraordinary investor.

“No, the necklace came on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day we married,” Bertha explained, holding the pendant between two fingers.

Her background and strict upbringing had turned her into someone stoic and not very prone to grand gestures or sweet declarations, which often made her seem cold and uncaring to those she was merely acquainted with.

But even though Bertha wasn’t comfortable with what she considered sentimentalities, she couldn’t remain indifferent to her husband’s sweet gesture.

George didn’t remember anything about that night, but Bertha certainly would never forget it. Her husband had surprised her by showing up in Newport, where she was spending the season. None of them had brought up the topic of the occasion, and by the time dinner was over, Bertha imagined that, after so many years, the date of their nuptials hadn’t even crossed George’s mind.

Oh, but how wrong had she been.

George had surprised her with the gift as soon as they’d made it to her bedroom. The rare emerald gem that had been used to cut the stone on Bertha’s ring had only produced one more stone. George confessed he’d spent years tracking it down, and when he finally found it, he’d had the best jeweler in all of New York craft her the necklace matching the ring.

And then, when Bertha had leaned in to kiss him, her husband had whispered in her ear the words she still shivered when she remembered.

“I want to see you wearing my gift,” George kissed her until Bertha was breathless and then added, making her melt in his arms, “but only my gift, nothing else.”

She had happily obliged, turning a delightful evening into one of the best experiences of her life.

Bertha felt her face hot and realized she was probably blushing while reliving those moments in her head. Embarrassed, she forced herself to focus on something else.

“I only take it off when I go to sleep,” she confessed, fiddling with the ring between the fingers of her opposite hand. “All those years ago, we had just achieved our first big goal. So you gave me the ring as a promise that no matter what happened, you would never lose sight of what matters most.”

Her words touched George somewhere deep inside his heart.

He might not remember the occasion, but the sentiment wasn’t completely foreign. George had always been ambitious with his career plans but never doubted that family always came first.

“And yesterday, I broke my promise,” he realized, assaulted by remorse. The smile that had been on his face until then suddenly vanished. George was a man of his word, and his promises meant a lot to him. But he’d failed the woman he’d married, and he hated that feeling.

“You didn’t break any promises,” Bertha assured him, leaning forward to gently touch his forearm, “I’m here, aren’t I? What we had was a silly quarrel; you didn’t fail me. And you’ve already apologized. I accepted your apology. Now let’s move on.”

George felt deeply touched by her generosity.

“Thank you,” he tried not to give in to the urge to touch her cheek with his hand. “Can I ask you a question?” He said, leaving her intrigued. “I’m checking first because what I will say might come across as offensive, but it’s not my intention.”

“You can ask me anything.”

“How old are our children?” He frowned when Bertha’s face brightened up with delight. “I mean, we’re both in our forties, right? But we have a child that’s not much older than a baby.”

“Charlie is four,” Bertha clarified, amused by his confusion. George was experiencing the doubts that most people who met the Russells for the first time went through. “We have three children. Larry is our oldest,” she explained, moving beside him. He didn’t understand why she was opening the top drawer in one of the nightstands by his bed until he noticed she was holding out a photograph. The black and white image showed a tall, slender young man with a charismatic smile. “This was taken the day he graduated from Harvard,” Bertha explained.

George was stunned.

“So we have a four-year-old and a grown man who’s graduated college?”

Bertha wanted to laugh at her husband’s baffled expression.

“Yes. When we had Larry, I had just turned nineteen,” she elucidated.

“Where is he? I want to meet him.”

“Well, you’ve met him. You’ve known him all his life. You just don’t remember,” Bertha said in a lighthearted tone. “But you’ll meet with him soon. He got married last year, and right now, he is doing business with his brother-in-law in England,” she explained, unable to conceal how proud she felt of her son. George noticed how her eyes lit up when his wife told him about the young man. “Larry has a degree in engineering. He tried his hand as an architect for a while, too. He was actually good at it, but then he invested some money in a new invention, which was a huge success. After that, he and his partner started a company that specializes in funding innovative ideas. They have amassed over twenty patents during the past years.”

“That’s very impressive,” George reacted, unaware he could feel so proud of someone he didn’t remember.

“He learned from the best,” Bertha said, shooting him with a suggestive glance.

The look she gave him made George feel something funny in his stomach.

“You said Larry is with his brother-in-law. Does that mean…?”

“Yes, we have a daughter, too,” Bertha said, noticing the spark of happiness that crossed her husband’s gaze for a fraction of a second. George had never admitted it, and she suspected he never would, but Gladys had always been his soft spot. She genuinely believed her husband loved all their children equally, but he was more protective of their daughter than the two boys. “Gladys is five years younger than Larry,” Bertha went through more pictures, finding the portrait of her daughter made a few years ago.

George took it in his hands and studied the image of a young woman with fair skin and light brown hair. There was a sweetness in her gaze that told him she was a cheerful, kindhearted person, even though he didn’t remember anything about her either.

“Gladys is now married too,” Bertha said, hoping the news didn’t disappoint him. “She married Larry’s partner, actually.”

“Really?” George widened his eyes in shock.

“Yes. That’s a long story. We’ll save it for another time. All you need to know is that she is in Europe with the boys and Marian, Larry’s wife.”

“So, we have two children who are already married and one who’s still on diapers?”

Bertha chuckled.

“Charlie doesn’t need diapers anymore,” she shared.

“Still…” George shook his head. “It’s very unusual for any couple to have children with such a wide age gap.”

“Well…” the morose look on her face told George she was about to touch a delicate subject. “There is a reason for how that came to be. The truth is, we had five children in total,” Bertha swallowed hard.

After so many years, one would think she was already over the losses, but that wasn’t the case. Although Bertha could talk about them now, it still felt like there was a piece of her heart that she would never get back.

“A couple of years after Gladys, we had another girl,” she shared, looking into George’s eyes. There was an avalanche of sympathy in them. Bertha was already used to his kind nature, but it still touched her. “She was born a few weeks prematurely, so she was more fragile than the others,” Bertha bit her lower lip when she felt it trembling. “We named her Catherine. When she was about two months old, a fever took her, and she didn’t make it.”

“I am so sorry,” George said, holding one of her hands again. Unconsciously, he brushed the pad of his thumb over her wrist in a soothing gesture. “I can’t imagine how painful it must have been.”

“It was the worst day of our lives,” Bertha shook her head, transported back in time by the memories. After all that time, the pain had subsided, but it had never really gone away. She eventually learned to live with it, but there wasn’t a day when she didn’t think about her little girl. “We were so devastated over our loss that for a while, the idea of another child didn’t cross our minds. But when Larry turned twelve, we realized the kids were growing too fast. As was your business. We already lived very comfortably by then,” Bertha took a deep breath. “I got pregnant again, and nine months later, we had a boy. A stillborn.”

George closed his eyes, impacted by the news. How could his heart ache so badly for something he didn’t even remember?

The pain in his wife’s face added to his own. He only hoped he had been a supportive partner during those awful experiences.

“I don’t even know what to say,” George shared, unaware that the look of compassion on his face spoke louder than any words ever could. “I just hope I was there for you through those painful times.”

“Of course you were,” Bertha tightened her grip on his hand. “You always were.”

George was equally happy and relieved to hear that.

“So I imagine we decided not to have any more children after that?” He inquired, curious as to how they’d ended up with Charlie.

“Yes,” Bertha confirmed with a nod, correctly guessing what her husband was getting at. “We agreed we should be content with two children,” she confessed.

After the incidents, she had become more protective of Gladys and Larry. Caring for them and ensuring their good future had become Bertha’s number one priority.

“So, how did Charlie come to be?” George asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Bertha’s frame shook with mirth as she held her husband’s suspecting gaze.

“Charlie was… an unexpected addition,” Bertha jested. “1883 was a year in which many grand things happened,” she recalled the numerous events, including the inauguration of the Brooklyn Bridge. “We had been living in this house for less than two years, and we weren’t as influential in society as we are now,” Bertha tried to contextualize her husband as practically as possible. “There was a sort of war going on between the old society of New York and the new money people,” she raised an eyebrow suggestively, and George understood that she was talking about them.

“That sounds like the sort of thing you would be interested in,” he quipped, recalling their childhood. “You were always very good at shaking things up and challenging the status-quo.”

“I see your memory loss hasn’t affected your sense of humor,” Bertha rolled her eyes with pretend disapproval, amusing him.

“I sure hope not,” George indulged her. “But what does the war in society have to do with Charlie?”

“Don’t be impatient. I am getting there,” Bertha said, happy that the atmosphere had changed entirely from dejected to cheerful. “So, that year, the old money crowd wouldn’t let us take boxes at their old Opera House.”

“What happened next?”

“We built our own Opera House,” Bertha said as if it were obvious. “A much larger and modern one.”

“You mean, you built a new Opera House,” George teased her, unable to help himself. She was too gracious to deny it. “Did we fund the endeavor?” He guessed.

The way he used “we” instead of “I” didn’t exactly surprise Bertha, but it was amazing to see that even though her husband didn’t remember how close they were, he still referred to their marriage as one of partnership.

“Most of it, yes,” Bertha answered unabashedly. “If you must know, it was a huge success, and it still is,” she made a point to say as if confirming to her husband one more time that the investment had paid off. “We have the central box.”

“I am glad to hear your business ventures are successful, too,” George said with a mix of pride and affection. “But how exactly does Charlie fit in that story?”

The master realized they were about to touch a more personal topic by the way his wife’s cheeks turned pink. Her fair skin didn’t do her any favors - he could easily read her reactions and figure out they were about to discuss something more personal.

“Well… the opening night of the new Opera House was a very successful event for us both,” Bertha tried to put it mildly. “When we came home, we were both ecstatic and a bit tipsy. So much so that we didn’t think about consequences,” she broke eye contact, censoring herself for finding it so hard to discuss their sex life with her husband when they never had a problem talking about it in the past.

“And then what happened?”

“Charlie happened. He was born in July of the following year.”

It was George’s time to chuckle.

“Discovering the pregnancy was terrifying, of course. None of us expected it, but we both loved the idea of a new baby. I didn’t allow myself to believe it would work until I had a healthy little boy crying his lungs out in my arms,” Bertha recalled, infinitely grateful that they hadn’t lost him. “Charlie was God’s gift to comfort us and brighten our days now that our older children are married and moved out,” she explained.

George had more questions, but one of the servants interrupted them by knocking on the door, announcing that dinner had arrived.

“I should go now,” Bertha decided. There was probably a tray waiting for her in her bedroom.

“Must you go?” George asked in a low voice. He felt embarrassed for his actions the night before. Back then, he’d said he didn’t want Bertha there, but now that George was in her company, he found out he was sorry to see her go.

“I’m afraid I must,” she answered with a kind smile. “You need to get some rest. Dr. Stevenson was very clear in his instructions.”

“Dr. Stevenson also said I should continue doing things as I have always done them,” George pointed out. He had no idea what his daily routine was, but he supposed his wife did. And he wouldn’t mind being instructed by her if it meant the following days would be as delightful as the last half hour in her company. “Will you help me do that?”

Bertha unconsciously tilted her head as she gazed at him with adoring eyes.

“Of course.”

“Good,” George gave her an approving nod, legitimately sad to see her go.

Bertha leaned forward as if about to take a step in his direction but then turned on her heels, making George wonder if she had been about to go kiss him goodbye and changed her mind at the last second.

He had already learned that he had a devoted wife whom he apparently loved very much. But he didn’t yet know the details of their marriage.

George knew that after a couple was done having children, many husbands turned their attentions to other women, something that wives generally seemed not to mind — as long as it was done with discretion.

Did he and Bertha still have a physical relationship?

Judging by Charlie’s existence, he wanted to think they did, but there was always the possibility of the Opera night being a one-time thing. The fact that they slept in different bedrooms also spoke in favor of their maintaining separate lives.

It would be a shame if that was true, George thought with a sigh of dismay. He knew that should be the last thing on his mind at the moment, especially when his wound wasn’t even healed yet, but any healthy man in his position would wonder the same thing when face to face with a woman such as his wife.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Bertha promised, heading towards the door.

“We will,” George smiled, unable to take his eyes off her. “Will you bring Charlie so I can spend some time with him?”

Bertha bit her bottom lip, something he’d already noticed she did when she had doubts.

“We could arrange that, but Charlie has too much energy. He could exhaust you, and that’s against the doctor’s orders,” Bertha pondered. After seeing his expression of sheer disappointment, she conceded. “But maybe a few minutes would do,” she said, noticing the expectations in her husband’s eyes and the renewed hope on his face.

George might have had a hard time accepting the reality that they were a family before, but he was clearly starting to embark on the idea now. Bertha was positively influenced by his joy. Nothing could make her happier at that moment than knowing that her husband’s love for their children apparently transcended any memory or lack thereof.

“Good night, then,” George stared at her, his heart overflowing with a sentiment he couldn’t put a name to.

“Good night, my love.”

Only after she’d already left the bedroom did Bertha realize her slip.

She widened her eyes, shocked at her loss of self-control. Just a few seconds before, she had been able to refrain from kissing her husband. But the term of endearment was such a strong habit that she had no idea how she would ever manage to stop using them from now on. 

Chapter Text

It had to be You - Chapter Three

George distractedly moved inside his bedroom, opening drawers and analyzing objects.

After racking his brains until the late hours, he had fallen into an agitated slumber that normally would barely restore his energies. In spite of the sleep deprivation, he felt strangely serene. The restlessness he’d been experiencing since his accident was slowly subsiding, and after a full night of deep reflections and careful considerations, George was more at peace.

He felt physically fine. Other than a little discomfort at the injury site, he was healthy. That also meant that his strong, active body was protesting so much time spent in a bed.

George still could not remember any of the events of the past decades, but he was slowly adapting to his new reality. Once alone the previous night, he had decided to use that time to organize his thoughts.

The most important conclusion he reached was that it was better to use reason rather than emotion to handle this difficult situation.

First, he needed to deal with the facts he had: too many years had passed since his last memory, and there was a lot he needed to catch up on. That included the family he had built with a woman he barely knew.

According to Bertha, she and George got along very well. And they had three children they seemed to dote on.

Not only his life at home seemed to be a source of joy and comfort, George had also discovered he experienced a similar level of success with his business.

When seen from that perspective, George could very well argue that the nightmare he’d woken up in was actually more like a dream.

Maybe his twenty-year-old self had given little thought to the idea of marriage and raising children, but without knowing how, George was sure that his family was the most important part of his life. He obviously had more money than he would ever need in a lifetime, but if George had to guess, he would say that his biggest treasure was not in the bank, but right by his side day after day, steering him in the right direction.

He was still thinking about his predicament when he heard soft knocks coming from the other side of the door and immediately turned in its direction, feeling his heart racing.

Bertha Connelly — no, George corrected himself — Bertha Russell, the incorrigible troublemaker he had married, was right outside his bedroom, and she had his son with her. Their son. George was still trying to get used to the idea when she opened the door and sneaked inside, closing it before George had the chance to see anything behind her.

“Good morning,” he started shyly. “You came back.”

Bertha smiled fondly at him, noticing he was out of bed. It was gratifying to see him more active. Dr. Stevenson had been adamant about the importance of George resuming his regular activities as soon as possible. The fact he was already up and dressed for the day seemed encouraging enough.

“I said I would,” she answered with a patient gaze.

The sound of quick footsteps followed by giggles could be heard through the door. George then heard the voice of a woman — presumably a nanny — instructing his son to keep the volume down as they waited.

“Is everything alright?” George couldn’t conceal his unease. “Why is Charlie still outside?”

“You’ll see him in a minute,” Bertha pointed to one of the chairs opposite his bed, silently asking him to sit down. She proceeded to do the same on the other side and faced him. “So… before we do this, I thought we should discuss some things just to be sure we’re on the same page.”

George looked at her, intrigued. Noticing she had his full attention, Bertha explained what was going through her mind.

“Charlie was with you in the park when you had the accident, so he knows you hurt your head. He asked for you all day yesterday, and was very disappointed to go to bed without seeing you,” Bertha saw the glow of satisfaction in George’s eyes to be informed his son had asked for him. “On weekdays, your workday starts early and you don't return home until dinner. It’s not uncommon for Charlie to go to bed without seeing you, which is why he is always counting the days until weekends,” Bertha explained. “You always take him to the park on Saturday mornings, and we usually spend Sundays together. He was very sad and worried he didn’t get to see you all day yesterday.”

“Why weren’t you with us at the park?”

“It’s off-limits to me,” Bertha tried to sound as dignified as possible but a smile curved the corner of her lips. “Saturday mornings are the only time of the week Charlie has you all to himself, so I am strictly forbidden from joining you,” she added with a lighthearted sigh. “He says only boys are allowed in your walks, but what he really means is he wants to monopolize your attention and my presence would obviously interfere with his plans.”

George beamed, absolutely delighted to hear his adorable son cherished his company.

“The fact of the matter is, Charlie knows about your accident. He was there, and he saw it when the carriage hit you.” Bertha took a pause, allowing George to process the information. “However, I didn’t tell him about your memory loss for two reasons. First, I am confident you’ll recover it soon, so there’s no point stressing him over this. It’s too complex of a situation for the comprehension of a four-year-old. And second, I imagine he would be devastated to think you forgot about him.” Bertha saw the anguish on her husband’s face and rushed to add, “don’t feel bad about this. It’s not your fault.”

“What should we do, then?” George asked, disheartened. His resolution to remain strictly rational when processing the current situation had gone down the drain after mere seconds in his wife’s presence. “Have you changed your mind about letting him see me?”

“No, of course not,” Bertha assured him. She could tell how concerned her husband was. “Of course you’ll see him. You’re his father and he wouldn’t shut up about it if he didn’t know you’re okay. So, here is what I propose we do: for now, let’s try to have him around you only when I am present, too. I find it unlikely Charlie will notice much has changed, but if he starts to ask questions, I think it’s better if I am there to provide answers.”

“That makes perfect sense,” George agreed.

His eloquent wife had logically explained a delicate situation with an impressive balance between sensitivity and practicality. He took pride in seeing how protective and thoughtful Bertha was as a mother.

The discovery made George feel like somehow he had gotten lucky to have her as the mother of his children, even if he still didn’t know a lot about her.

“If Charlie asks you a question you can’t answer, just distract him with some game or a joke. He loves it when you teach him things,” Bertha shared, watching the huge grin that lit up her husband’s face when he heard her. “And for the love of God, don’t indulge in his attempts at getting you to join him in the playroom. No climbing, jumping, or battling. That goes for imaginary swords too,” Bertha shot him with a censoring glare, making George wonder if those were a customary source of diversion for him and his son. “Don’t forget you took a hard hit to the head less than two days ago.”

“Right,” George nodded with a chuckle. The way Bertha described Charlie made him look forward to spending time with the little boy. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”

“Let’s see if you’ll still be thanking me thirty minutes from now,” Bertha said in a playful tone. She got up, realizing she felt strangely nervous, and headed to the door.

And then, seconds later, George finally saw him. A woman he assumed was a nanny held Charlie by the hand and passed him over to Bertha before returning downstairs.

The moment the door closed, Charlie looked in George’s direction. The child was visibly struggling to contain himself.

The boy let go of Bertha’s hand and dashed toward George, disregarding his mother's advice to be cautious.

“Father!”

Charlie skillfully climbed onto the nearest chair to George, allowing him to be more leveled with his dad’s towering height, and extended both his arms in the adult’s direction.

George immediately understood what he was supposed to do and picked up the child in his arms.

“Hi, son,” George felt his heart racing inside his chest. Just saying that word out loud was enough to mess with his emotions. “How are you today?”

The adult swallowed hard to control his emotions, overwhelmed by the feelings that seemed to make his heart overflow. Being a father was a distant plan in his future when he was growing up, and George didn’t think much of it then. So he never could have imagined how deeply he would come to care for a child. It was as if his old notion of the lengths he could go to protect a person couldn’t even compare to what this boy invoked in him only minutes after being in his company.

Charlie didn’t hear the question; he was too busy leaning forward and grabbing a handful of George’s hair to get it out of the way, allowing a close-up inspection of the wound.

And then, everything happened so quickly that George could barely keep up with the action.

Charlie was already reaching out to his head laceration when Bertha swiftly seized the boy’s arm at the last second, preventing him from touching the injury. George didn’t know what was more impressive: his son’s explosive energy or his wife’s sharp reflexes.

“Keep those dirty fingers off your dad’s wound,” Bertha rebuked Charlie and took him from George, knowing it was safer for everyone if she kept her little rascal by her side, “what did I tell you about taking it easy? Your father is injured. Be gentle.”

Charlie cast a worried glance at his father.

“It’s just a small cut,” George winked at the little boy, watching the happiness in his eyes.

“I got hurt today, too, Father. Look,” Charlie pulled up one of the legs in his short trousers and showed a scraped knee to George. “I tripped and fell.” .

George was quickly under the impression that scraped knees were a part of his son’s daily life.

“You trip and fall all the time.” Bertha narrowed her eyes at the little boy, but could not resist his adorable face. Her stern gaze softened and she planted a kiss on his cherub's cheek. “That’s because you’re never still.”

His wife's heartwarming attitude towards their son brought a smile to George's face.

"I cried buckets when I hurt my knee, but Father didn't shed a tear after the carriage crashed," Charlie told Bertha, looking at his father with raw admiration. “I was going to get Andrew’s baseball but then Father said, Charlie, be careful!, and then he went and got me before the carriage came!” The child shared in a cheerful, celebratory tone, unaware of the important revelation he was making.

From George's reaction, Bertha realized that, like her, he'd just discovered the carriage hadn’t come in his direction. According to what their son was saying, George had gotten in the way of the carriage, sparing his son from being hit by it.

“What do you mean, Charlie?” Bertha asked casually, not wanting the boy to think he was in trouble or else he would stop talking. “Were you in the way of the carriage?”

Charlie fidgeted hesitantly.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re not in trouble. But you have to tell me the truth,” she said firmly.

The child looked at his mother and then at his father, who gave an encouraging nod. Feeling more confident, Charlie confessed, “Father told me not to leave his side, but I saw Andrew near the fountain, Mama. And he had a baseball,” Charlie stressed, implying that detail justified any action that had followed.

Bertha sighed. Andrew was JP Morgan’s oldest grandson, a boy of twelve. Charlie idolized him and followed him around whenever they were together.

“So you ran to Andrew?” Bertha asked in a neutral tone. “And the carriage was coming, but you didn’t see it?”

Charlie nodded affirmatively and looked down, embarrassed.

“But Father saw it! And he came!”

Later that week, as police investigations progressed, the Russells would learn from the report of multiple witnesses that the coachman in the carriage that hit George wasn’t to blame. Upon Charlie's sudden appearance in his path, the man immediately attempted a change in direction. An unexpected stray stone on the ground had knocked the vehicle over, and George had been hit in his successful attempt at getting his son out of the way.

Bertha couldn’t even consider the possibility of her four-year-old being hit by a moving vehicle. If Charlie had sustained the same impact George had, it was very unlikely he would still be with her today.

Bertha clutched the child, her anxiety overwhelming her as she thought about the near-fatal accident George had prevented. Her heart ached with a mix of emotions: there was relief at knowing her son had been spared, and gratitude to her husband for saving their boy.

“Are you alright?” George asked after noticing his wife’s emotional silent response.

Bertha held his gaze, a timid smile creasing her lips.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

George’s features softened as he returned her smile.

He spent the following minutes enjoying Charlie’s company. Soon enough, George discovered his wife had a point when she said the boy was a little hurricane. He soon realized that Charlie enjoyed telling him things, so George let the boy speak, and was easily pulled into a world of wood trains, baseballs, and miniature soldiers.

He had lunch with Bertha and their son, and after that, Mrs. Bruce’s niece came to take Charlie for a nap.

“I feel I should be working,” George confessed to his wife after their meal. They had just left the table, and he now followed her into the drawing room. “It’s such a strange notion to be home on a Monday afternoon knowing I have a business to run.”

“It won’t collapse without you for a few days,” Bertha kindly assured him. “As a matter of fact, this is something we have yet to discuss. Dr. Stevenson said you should surround yourself with the things that are most familiar to you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea that you go to your office just yet.”

George didn’t need to formulate his question. She noticed he had doubts by the way he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

“You have loyal allies who would undoubtedly want to help, but there are also fierce competitors who’d love to see you in a vulnerable state, George,” Bertha explained. “People who have been bested by you and resent you for being more successful,” she added, thinking about the numerous men who had tried to mess with her husband over the years. Every single one of them had been shown why George Russell was at the top of their game. “If you go to the office and word spreads that you’re experiencing memory loss, the competition would probably join forces to try to outplay you since you’re unfamiliarized with the daily nuances of your craft. Leave it to Clay, for now. He is more than capable of keeping things running smoothly while you recover.”

George processed her words and realized she had a solid point.

“We can ask Clay to come here from the office to fill you in on what’s going on. This way, you can still get involved without getting exposed,” Bertha proposed rationally.

George once again admired her sharpness of mind.

“What shall I say to justify my absence, though?”

“We’ll say you’re out of town on business. It’s not uncommon for you to take long trips for work,” Bertha suggested. “If, in the meantime, you recover your memory, wonderful. But if not, it will give us time to at least fill you on some things and prepare you better. We could start with a few social situations.”

“If you think that’s for the best,” George acquiesced. He could tell by Bertha’s line of thought that she had his best interest at heart, and he trusted her judgement.

Bertha nodded, watching him inspect the room around them.

“Have you seen the rest of the house?”

“Not yet,” George confessed.

“Would you like me to take you on a tour?” She offered. Perhaps it would help her husband regain his memory if she described trivial facts or relevant details about the various rooms in their home.

“I’d like that very much.”

There was a part of George that wanted to get familiar with his surroundings, but the best prospect about that impromptu tour would be the company.

George had deemed their home spacious, but a tour with Bertha unveiled the immense size of their property. It took up almost an entire block in the most luxurious neighborhood in New York, and even though his wife hadn’t directly said it, after everything he had learned from Bertha about the war between old money and new money, George was smart enough to figure that building that palace in the heart of the city had been a statement.

He did not remember a single thing about their lives together, but he remembered how competitive Bertha had always been. If, as a child, she already hated losing, George could only imagine the lengths she probably had gone to in her pursuit of social dominance.

That was only the first of many pleasant discoveries on that delightful afternoon.

.

During the following days, a routine was established.

George woke up early in the morning and got some exercise done after having breakfast with his wife and son. Bertha was always occupied during the day — he quickly learned how busy her social life was — and Charlie had lessons with a governess until lunch, so George usually saved those hours to do some reading or explore around the house.

Every day after lunch, a private carriage brought Richard Clay from the office to the Russells’ home. George would then spend the entire afternoon learning about his business and the empire he’d built. It didn’t take him long to start making suggestions and coming up with insightful solutions to the problems Clay laid out for him, something the man seemed to show equal parts of relief and gratitude for.

The evenings were usually George’s least favorite moment of the day. As a young child who still needed a lot of sleep and had a steady routine, Charlie was taken to bed every night before eight, and Bertha usually retired to her chambers after dinner, leaving George with very little to do but reminisce about the things he’d learned while alone in a huge empty room.

That evening, it was no different.

Three readings later, George still hadn't grasped the paragraph's meaning; sighing deeply, he discarded the economy book taken from his library.

Several days had passed since his accident and yet his memory gave no sign of returning. He had no recollection of his pre-accident life, and his frustration intensified daily.

George tried to remain positive, encouraged by his wife’s unwavering support, but he knew that with each passing day, a full recovery became less and less likely.

The only consolation George had was the news his older children had received word of his condition and would soon return home. He could not wait to meet them, even if technically he had known them all their lives. The prospect gave George a lot of hope, for he leaned on the possibility that seeing two people he loved and was very devoted to might trigger the return of some memories.

It was still relatively early, and the thoughts running in his head were a clear indication he would not fall asleep any time soon.

George left his bed and made his way to the largest window in the room, his curiosity piqued by the muffled sound coming from outside. After slightly pulling open the curtains, he discovered it was raining. The soothing murmur of the water hitting the window glass distracted him for a moment.

His lips curved into a melancholic smile as he watched a couple laugh on the other side of the street. The young woman crossed a puddle to avoid getting her shoes wet and the man beside her maneuvered the only umbrella the pair carried, trying to protect them both from the cold drops that fell from the sky.

The scene invariably made his thoughts shift to his wife.

She had said that their relationship was one of mutual respect and partnership. Her support had been unwavering; Bertha had remained by his side whenever he needed her. George was grateful for her devotion, but he could not help a lingering sensation that he was missing out on something even greater than the connection they were slowly rebuilding.

Shaking his head in disapproval of that pathetic display of self-pity, George put on a robe, tying the knot firmly around his waist to cover his naked torso. He probably should not be thinking too much about those things because there was no logical conclusion to reach. There was nothing rational about the situation he was experiencing, and his complete lack of control over his own fate was unnerving.

Intent on going downstairs to his office to get some work done, George entered the small dressing room annexed to his bedroom to change his shoes. Never having been in that area before—his valet typically handled such matters—he was unaware of a hidden door behind the wall's decor.

Intrigued, George reached out and grabbed the doorknob, gently twisting it.

To his surprise, the door was unlocked. He frowned, unsure of what he had encountered. George had expected to find a safe, or some kind of private vault where he kept valuable possessions, but the door led to a narrow corridor that was modest compared to the rest of the house.

A dim light was glowing at the opposite end.

Unable to contain himself, George walked in the dark, wondering if that was some kind of secret passage.

Whatever he had expected to find, it was not a dressing room overlooking a pink and white bedroom.

Before the master could so much as guess where he was, a loud gasp made him turn on his heels.

“George!” Bertha abruptly got up from the chair behind her desk and took a hand to her throat, startled. “What are you doing moving so quietly in the dark? You spooked me.”

“I’m sorry,” George said with sincerity. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. I was just too distracted. I didn’t even hear you coming in.”

He narrowed his eyes, analyzing his wife’s reaction.

Bertha seemed to protest the stealthy way with which he had entered what was obviously her private chamber, but she did not look particularly impressed by his presence there. She raised no objections to it, either.

A silky green robe hid most of her slender figure, but George’s eyes still appreciated what they saw as they roamed over her body.

“I am sorry to interrupt your…” he tried to decipher what exactly she was doing but could not. “I’ll let you get back to it,” George added, turning around toward the door.

“Wait,” Bertha said impulsively. Realizing she may have overreacted to his leaving, she softened her voice to a more casual tone. “I was just writing a reply to an invitation for a charity bazaar. Nothing important.” She opened one of the desk drawers and put a couple of envelopes inside it.

“Are you sure I’m not causing you any trouble?”

“You are not,” Bertha finished clearing her desk and looked up at him with a soft smile.

Her husband showing up in her bedroom at night gave Bertha a nostalgic feeling. It was not uncommon for him to seek her company during the hours between dinner and bedtime, and her bedroom was often where they met to spend some time together, catch up on each other’s plans, or discuss details about what was going on in their lives.

George’s presence in her bedroom gave her a welcome sense of normalcy amidst the chaos of uncertainty that had been haunting her as of late.

“There is a secret passageway between our bedrooms,” George stated the obvious because he did not know what to say as he studied his surroundings. There were many windows but, at the moment, all of them were covered by elegant curtains.

Behind Bertha, there was a large bed, and next to it, a couple of upholstered chairs with a matching ottoman. Everything looked impressively comfortable and simultaneously harmonious, imprinting the room with his wife’s very characteristic aura of unmatched gracefulness.

George’s comment made Bertha smile.

“It’s not exactly secret,” she tilted her head, intimately amused by his reaction. “You were actually the one who told the architect to add it when he was planning the house.”

“Really? It's strange how I don’t remember it,” George joked, earning an enchanting, spontaneous chuckle from his wife.

Bertha left her desk and crossed the room to her bed, pulling the covers in an attempt to keep her hands busy.

“When we planned the house, we knew we would need separate bedrooms. Dr. Stevenson always insisted that sharing a bed is unhealthy,” she explained to fill the silence, wondering why being alone in a room with her husband was making her anxious.

George scowled, unsure about that statement.

“Why is that?”

“He says that when two people sleep together, the weaker person will rob the vitality of the stronger one.”

George huffed in what sounded like indignation.

“We’re terrible patients, though, because we ignore his orders more often than we follow them,” Bertha revealed as she fluffed her pillows with gentle pats.

“Do we?” George asked trying to sound relaxed and unimpressed, even though the conversation had just gotten more interesting.

“Yes,” Bertha confirmed, reaching out to light up a candle near her nightstand. “You usually come here every night after dinner. It’s the one moment of the day when it’s just the two of us,” she revealed, adjusting the candle in its holder. “No servants, no children.”

“And what do we do when it’s just the two of us?”

His straightforward question made Bertha stop what she was doing and turn around only to find her husband’s eyes fixated on her.

A faint blush covered her features.

“We talk,” Bertha emphasized, trying to decipher the inscrutable look on his face. “I tell you things about my day, you tell me things about your day. We discuss the children, the house, your work, our plans… whatever is more relevant at the moment.”

“I see,” George said, reflecting on the discovery. While it was wonderful to be given more evidence about the strong partnership in his marriage, that was not exactly what had been hoping to hear.

Belatedly realizing he had not been the only one who had lost something important with his accident, George softened his gaze as he met his wife’s eyes. “Do you wish to tell me about your day?”

Bertha had not expected the question, but her husband’s kindness did not surprise her. She gave him a soft glance that passed as an affirmative answer.

“How do we do this? How does it work?” George looked around.

Bertha understood he was trying to emulate their normal routine. His effort was rewarded with one of her most adorable smiles.

“You usually sit over there,” she pointed at the largest chair on the set.

Bertha was pleased that even though she had not given her husband any more details, he leaned back against the assigned chair, put his legs on the ottoman and crossed them at the ankles in the exact manner he so often did.

His conscience might not remember his actions, but his body certainly did.

“So,” George took a deep breath, intertwined his fingers in his lap, and looked at her with an inquiring, enthusiastic gaze. “How was your day?”

Bertha waited until he was visibly settled to saunter towards her vanity. She sat down with her back to George and collected a hairbrush before she made eye contact with him through her reflection in the mirror.

“I had a meeting with Andrew Carnegie’s wife, Louise,” Bertha saw on her husband’s face that he had no idea who those people were and explained. “The Carnegies are a family of industrialists, like ourselves. Mr. Carnegie’s wife is much younger than him, and she is having a difficult time settling into society, so you’ve asked me to help her out,” Bertha shared. “You and her husband are business partners in several endeavors.”

“Oh,” George nodded, not for the first time learning about the important role his wife played in ensuring their family’s best interests. Bertha might not have an elegant office in his company headquarters, but she surely did more for the Russell name than he could have imagined. “And do you enjoy her company?”

“I suppose.” Bertha let her shoulders sag. She kept on brushing her hair while they held each other’s gazes in the mirror. “She’s young and educated, but a little too naïve, in desperate need of guidance. It feels rather like a stimulating challenge.”

Over the past week, George had briefly learned about his wife’s rise to the top of New York society. It only made sense that after reaching the highest ranks, Bertha aimed for even more.

She was wondering how much George knew about their current social influence when the puzzled look on his face caught her attention.

“What is it?” Bertha asked.

“I think I might remember something,” his eyes were wide with surprise and anticipation. George grinned, unable to contain himself. “I think it's a scent. I can't identify what it is, but I’m sure I’ve felt this before.”

“A scent?” Bertha tried not to sound too disappointed. When her husband said he remembered something, she had hoped for a concrete memory, which apparently was not the case. “What do you think it is?”

His lack of verbal reply made Bertha turn her head over her shoulder. Upon doing so, she noticed he was approaching her with a determined expression.

George reached her at the exact moment Bertha stood up, his chest only inches away from her back.

She involuntarily closed her eyes.

Her husband’s presence behind her seemed to compress the surrounding air. The simple act of breathing suddenly became a challenge.

A little gasp escaped Bertha’s lips when George bent forward with his arms flanking her body and braced himself against the vanity. Bertha found herself encapsulated between his large frame and the furniture, but she barely had time to react.

A shiver ran down her spine when her husband leaned over and gently brushed his nose against her nape, breathing her in. Bertha’s skin prickled when he tentatively buried his face in the angle where her neck met her shoulder.

She trembled in response, afraid that if she moved a single muscle, the magnetism that seemed to draw them together would fade.

All rationality was gone when George slightly changed the angle of his face, now running the tip of his nose on the column of her neck. His warm breath made her stumble.

Bertha had to grasp the edge of her vanity to keep her balance.

God, how did he still make her melt like that after more than two decades?

“It is you,” George’s voice was hoarse against her skin when he finally enlightened her. “Your hair.”

“What about my hair?” Bertha asked in a whisper.

George once again filled his lungs with the amazing scent of honeysuckle mixed with gentle notes of sandalwood.

“I know this scent. I am confident I’ve felt it before,” George elucidated. Despite his frustration at not remembering more, this was the closest he had come to accessing a memory.

“Of course you do.” Bertha looked at him through her lashes, unaware of the effect that had on him. George might not have a single memory of the countless nights he had wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her hair before covering the surface of her neck with playful bites and kisses, but she surely had not forgotten about them.

That gesture was the most reliable indicator of his intentions, usually after their conversation was over and they were supposed to kiss each other goodnight.

Whenever George did that, Bertha knew he would not be spending the night in his own bed.

Their proximity and physical touch must have unnerved him too, for George abruptly took a step back as soon as he seemed to regain his senses.

When Bertha finally saw her own image in the mirror, she noticed her cheeks were flushed. Her heavy breaths also gave away how that brief interaction had affected her.

Bertha bit her lower lip in frustration. She could not think of the last time an uncomfortable silence had lingered between them.

“Well…” George finally broke it after what felt like an eternity. “I suppose I should leave you to rest now,” he decided, hesitating before raising his hand to affectionately rub her upper arm. “Good night.”

George noticed the concern on her face. Without any traces of makeup, his wife looked even younger and healthier. Her blue eyes were gleaming with concern, her cheeks with tainted pink with slight embarrassment; her red lips were the most inviting George had ever seen. He wanted to touch her more than anything, but he was sure that was not the best idea.

He was almost at the door when Bertha’s voice once again made him turn around.

“George.”

He held her gaze in silence, waiting for Bertha to say what he yearned for her to say.

If she had summoned him back merely to say good night, George would not bear the disappointment.

“Do you…” Bertha struggled with her words after she had impulsively held him back a second time. Even though she had done it on a whim, now that her racing brain quickly processed it, Bertha supposed it might actually be a good idea. “Do you want to spend the night here?” She saw how his face transformed at the proposition with what looked like a mix of relief and contentment.

“I’d like that very much but…” George’s conscience struggled against his desire. “Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable for you?” He asked with consideration. “It would be like having a stranger in your bed.”

“You are not a stranger to me, George,” Bertha corrected him. “You might not remember me, but I remember you. You are my husband.” Her eyes shifted to the spacious bed and then back to him. While you may feel as though you do not know me, I know you. You will never be a stranger inside the walls of this room,” Bertha wanted to put an end to the distance between them and touch him, but she was not sure it was appropriate. “Besides, I am not implying anything is going to happen,” she supposed it was best to leave that very clear.

Even though George would never be a stranger to her, Bertha was not sure she was comfortable being intimate with him when he did not remember who she really was or what they meant to each other.

She thought to have glimpsed a shadow of disappointment briefly cross his eyes before she added, “I am only making this suggestion because Dr. Stevenson said we need as much normalcy as possible and the truth is, you sleep here more often than in your own bedroom.”

“I thought you said the doctor warned us that sharing a bed is unhealthy.”

“I also said we are terrible patients.” Bertha suppressed a smile.

George took a deep breath. He was charting into unknown territory now, and the prospect was equally scary and exciting.

Aside from a few childhood recollections, George barely remembered Bertha, but she was caring for him in a way no one ever had before. Growing up with old parents, he was used to being in the role of caretaker of everyone around him, so that was a completely new position to be in.

“Alright then,” he sat on the edge of her bed when she pulled the covers.

“I’ll just finish with my bedtime routine. It won’t be long,” she promised, making her way back to the vanity.

George told himself the only reason he was nervous was that he did not know how things were going to be from now on. However, Bertha's brief backward glance and smile sent his heart racing, revealing that his emotional turmoil stemmed from more than just uncertainty about the future.

As she finished brushing her hair and applied what seemed to be a moisturizer on her arms, George looked away hoping to find something that altered the direction his thoughts had taken.

There was a painted portrait of their children strategically placed within sight, giving him one more chance to study Larry and Gladys.

He had no concrete memory of them, but George could not shake off the sensation he knew them well based only on the accounts Bertha made of the duo.

His family seemed to be everything he could have ever hoped for. Not even in his wildest dreams could George have imagined such luck. He had three children who were happy, healthy, and loving.

And a wife who was so intriguing that with each passing hour, she surprised him with new discoveries about her.

When George had woken up from his trauma and discovered he was married to Bertha, his first reaction had been rejection. As he had expected, Bertha indeed had a strong personality, and that was clear in the way she behaved and spoke to those around her. His wife was challenging, stubborn, and rarely backed down when confronted.

Those were the traits that George still remembered from their childhood, qualities that he initially supposed would have repelled him.

But as the days had progressed, George was given several hints that helped him understand how he had come to fall in love with Bertha.

She was loyal, dedicated, and understanding. Even if she was a bit impetuous and proud, Bertha had forgiven George, harboring no trace of resentment for the way he had initially treated her. She was collected and formal with the servants and the people who called on her, keeping a polite distance, but with him and Charlie, she would always smile sincerely and allow herself to be physically affectionate.

She was doing her best to accommodate his needs and make him feel at home, despite the awkward situation they found themselves in. Bertha managed that mess admirably, never once complaining about it, victimizing herself, or making George feel guilty about his condition.

Getting to know someone and discovering they were worthy of admiration was a very strange thing when one had been married to said person for over two decades.

Supposing he ought to do something practical instead of just thinking about things he could not control, George turned toward the bed. Bertha had told him which side was hers, so the master sat on the opposite one with his legs under the cozy blankets before resting his back against the headboard. He could still hear the low sound of the rain outside through the window, and somehow that soothed him.

George shifted to accommodate himself better and his gaze fell on the nightstand beside him. He knew that bedroom was his wife’s private space inside their home but there were obvious signs of his presence there, such as a masculine pair of reading glasses and a document titled Dow Jones Railroad Average, published on a bulletin named Customers’ Afternoon Letter.

With his curiosity piqued, George picked it up and read through the index that listed stock values and other relevant information about the financial market.

“I’m always reminding you not to bring work to bed. I guess this time it couldn’t be any different,” Bertha said in a playful tone as she emerged from her dressing room. “Sometimes we joke that you’re married to your work and I’m only the mistress.”

George raised his eyes from the document, all but forgetting everything he’d just read. In a fraction of a second, the topics that had struck him as interesting now seemed completely dull compared to the sight he was beholding.

Bertha came walking in his direction with her hair down, shiny locks of brown hair cascading over her shoulders. She had taken off her robe and now sauntered slowly in only a white nightgown that did a wonderful job highlighting her feminine shape.

He tried not to notice the outline of her breasts against the soft, almost transparent cotton as she raised her arms to fix her hair, but it was a futile effort. George felt stupid for not masking his admiring look. She sat beside him on the bed, apparently unaware of the torture she was putting him through.

The right thing to do would be to look away, but George found himself unable to stop staring. The woman beside him was absolutely stunning, and it struck him once again that Bertha Connelly had become his wife.

That meant George had been with her.

Many times, he would bet. He seriously doubted that, in his right mind, he would have a wife like that and be able to keep his hands off her.

The more time George spent with her, the stronger his belief grew that their relationship must involve all levels of intimacy. He could not imagine lying next to someone like Bertha and not desiring her attentions.

It could be just wishful thinking, but somewhere deep inside, George became sure that what they had transcended everything he knew about love, desire, and partnership.

She finally slipped underneath the covers before George had the chance to say anything. He tried not to think much about it, but his own mind betrayed him, creating mental images of the gorgeous woman almost asleep next to him wearing even less than what she had on now.

George wondered if Bertha was a quiet one, or if she liked to dominate and be on top. Was she shy, or did she let go completely? He had no idea, but if he had to guess, he would bet she was wild and completely giving in bed.

George could easily imagine her naked in his arms, looking up at him with those huge blue eyes and a tempting smile on her face, begging him to give her what she wanted…

He did not know how, but he was sure she was a complete delight and could easily make him lose all control.

The master forced his eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to extinguish those unbecoming ideas from his mind. Now was not the time to be conjecturing about that. He had put his wife through enough without making her the object of his lustful reveries.

It was only wise to leave such thoughts aside and focus on the only thing that mattered presently: recovering his memory.

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

George was snapped back to reality by her voice.

“No. I was hoping we could talk some more.”

“Of course. If there’s something you wish to discuss, you can just ask,” Bertha offered selflessly. She gently turned on her side, facing him. “What would you like to hear about?”

“You.”

Bertha saw the spark in his eyes and let out a slow breath. What was happening to her?

Why was she feeling like there were butterflies in her stomach? She wasn't used to any of this. Not anymore.

She remembered back when she had gotten engaged to George, how often she would experience that fluttery sensation in her chest… those magical seconds of anticipation before each kiss, and that feeling of being lifted into the air whenever he touched her.

But over the years, the uncertainty and excitement had slowly evolved into a steady intimacy. After so many years together, George was still as generous and amazing as in their first night together, but instead of surprise, there was trust; instead of hungry anxiety, there was comfortable familiarity.

The two of them did not need to take every step of their intimacy slowly anymore because they already knew what each other liked. They had learned over the years how to consolidate the perfect recipe for when they were together, but now Bertha could see in his eyes that all of it was gone, washed away with his lost memories.

But now, George wanted to hear more about her, and it was easier to focus on that than to think about how she missed his loving touch.

“Hmmm,” Bertha tried to think of any random details that might please him to hear and were simultaneously useful. “I was the one who insisted we moved to fifth avenue. You did not mind our old house, and it took me some time, but I eventually convinced you we should build the house of our dreams instead of buying an existing one,” she rested her head on her hand, propping her elbow on the bed, lying on her side to face him. “I can be very persuasive.”

“That I already knew,” he teased, captivated by her charms. A few seconds passed in which they smiled at each other lovingly, and then George inquired, “Do you always speak your mind? Or are you doing that to help me remember something?”

His innocent question made Bertha laugh.

“What you’re seeing is what you get, George. Always. I always tell you exactly what I am thinking, even when you don’t particularly want to hear it. We tell each other everything.”

“That is a little daunting,” George said somberly, but then his face lost all tension as his expression softened and he smiled, “but also quite reassuring.”

“I know,” Bertha understood him perfectly. She felt the same way.

She put down her arm and rested her head on the pillow. George controlled the urge to take her in his arms.

He was undoubtedly attracted to her, but there was also another sentiment behind that impulse that was hard for George to name. It was as if he desperately wished to have Bertha near him, and not only for physical reasons.

“How are you feeling about this whole situation?” George finally mustered up the courage to ask, “I know these are hard times for you too, so I just want you to know that you can talk to me about anything you want.” George placed a finger on her chin and gently turned her face to meet his gaze, “you don’t have to sacrifice yourself in order to spare me. Your feelings matter a lot too, and I don’t want to see you sad or having a hard time with something if I can help it.”

Bertha bit her lower lip, deeply touched by his selflessness and the way George cared for her. In his head, he’d only known her for a short while, but he was already acting with kindness and consideration, making sure she felt heard and seen as well.

“I’m alright, George,” she assured him, unable to formulate an answer that could do justice to his kindness. Being vulnerable was something she was not very good at, even if her husband was the only one allowed to see her rare moments of fragility. “I promise that if things become too much for me to handle, I will tell you. But don’t worry, because it’s not the case.”

Bertha kept her eyes open, staring at George as he stared back at her. That silence in the room as they studied each other should have been uncomfortable, but it was strangely nice. After a few seconds, she smiled at him and George immediately smiled back.

Bertha was grateful for the peacefulness she felt when she saw on his face the familiar serene smile that was so typical of him. For a moment, it was like nothing was different and this was just another ordinary night in their lives.

“I’m going to blow off the candles now, if that’s alright with you?” She asked, watching him nod affirmatively in response.

George settled back on the bed, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Even though he couldn’t see Bertha, he remained on his side facing her.

Minutes later, when the thoughts about his new discoveries were still reverberating in his head and he assumed his wife was asleep, George heard her soft whisper in the dark.

“George? Are you still awake?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something?” With hesitation, she rolled onto her back, arms folded across her abdomen, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “You can say no if you are not comfortable, I would perfectly understand it.”

“You can ask me anything,” he reassured her.

“Can I hold you?”

George felt an inexplicable sense of euphoria that overwhelmed him.

It was incredible to find out that he and Bertha longed for the same thing without having discussed it.

“Anytime you want to,” he answered, opening his arms to accommodate her, “you have only to ask.”

Bertha bit her lower lip when she heard the words coming out of his mouth. The same familiar words she often said whenever he asked if he could spend the night.

George’s memories were still there somewhere. They had to be. He just couldn’t unlock them yet. If that wasn’t the case, why would he have chosen to say those specific words?

Bertha scooted closer to his side. She wrapped one arm around her husband’s waist and rested her head between his shoulder and chest.

George looked down, capturing the familiar scent of his wife’s hair. Unable to resist it, he kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, feeling more comfortable and relaxed than he’d been ever since he’d woken up from the accident.

Upon holding Bertha in his arms, every trace of anxiety and uncertainty vanished completely, leaving in its place a sense of relief, joy, and tranquility, as though George had just discovered he was exactly where he was meant to be all along.

Chapter Text

It had to be You (Part Four - Finale)

Bertha made an effort to open her heavy eyelids, slowly regaining consciousness. Her cozy bed was so comfortable that the thought of leaving it was comparable to torture.

Her body was strangely relaxed, the side of her head resting against something solid and warm.

When her eyes adjusted to the morning light coming through the curtains, she realized the solid and warm surface was her husband.

Sometime during the night, the tie around his robe had loosened, exposing his sculpted chest. And that was not all of it.

She and George were tangled in a mess of limbs. He was still on his back, one arm firmly wrapped around her as Bertha used his torso as a pillow. Her right leg was thrown over his hips, her foot occupying the space between his knees. As she slept, her typical tossing and turning had caused her nightgown to bunch upwards, baring her legs.

The eyes that just moments ago were struggling to open were now widened in shock.

She must have moved during her current inspection, for George stirred in his sleep, though he never fully woke up. He shifted slightly to the side, seeking a different position, and relaxed again, deeply asleep. His free hand, however, traced the well-known path from Bertha’s knee along the full extension of her thigh, keeping her leg pressed against his hips.

His ridiculously large hand claimed her body as his property, fingers curling around her bottom with the familiarity of someone who’d done the exact same movement countless times before.

Had it been any other circumstance, Bertha would just snuggle against George’s delightful warmth and not think much of it. Perhaps she would relax and fall back asleep. Or maybe she would wake her husband with kisses on his neck to initiate something even more intimate.

Under normal conditions, Bertha would just go along according to her mood; a pattern that had become so natural over their many years together that now it felt like she was overthinking it.

She and George had a very physical relationship and he was no stranger to every inch of her body.

He had always had a weakness for her legs, and often teased her saying how good it felt to have them tightly wrapped around his hips. Bertha should not be surprised that even in his sleep, her insatiable husband had sought the intimacy his body was so accustomed to.

She remained frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. The smartest choice would be to calmly disentangle herself from George, but there was a huge chance he would wake up, and she feared how awkward things might get if he caught them in the position they were in.

But then again… there was nothing inherently wrong in what was happening, Bertha reminded herself.

He was her husband, after all.

And she had been so deprived of his touch that letting go felt almost impossible.

Bertha took a deep breath to steady herself. Her gaze fell upon George’s face. The few rays of sunshine that made it through the curtains allowed her to study her husband’s features.

He looked so relaxed in his sleep that there wasn’t a single line of worry on his face. George’s full beard looked as immaculate as ever, compliment of his valet. But what really caught Bertha’s attention were his eyelashes.

No man had the right to have lashes so long and thick. In the aftermath of one of their countless nights together, when they were too tired to get up after loving each other, Bertha had told her husband in jest that he had girly eyelashes, which she’d meant as a compliment but George playfully took as offense. His retaliation didn’t involve a lot of words; instead, he had pinned her down with his own body before showering her neck with hungry kisses.

Bertha impulsively trailed her fingertips along the line of his jaw, smiling when his head slightly turned in her direction. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget that George had no recollection of ever marrying her.

Bertha tried not to think about the fact that just because her husband had always shown appreciation for her touch in the past, it didn’t mean that he would feel the same way now.

She couldn’t cope with it. The idea of losing what she and George meant to each other alarmed Bertha so much that she forced herself not to think about it.

Obliterating her every thought, Bertha focused only on the magical sensation of feeling him again.

George’s deep, regular breaths made his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm that was almost soothing.

Bertha cupped one of his cheeks with her hand, and absentmindedly used her thumb to trace the extension of his bottom lip, his trimmed beard tickling her skin.

But when George slowly opened his lids and made eye contact with her, she abruptly pulled apart.

George had no idea a person could leave a bed so quickly. Before he could make sense of where he was or what was happening, his wife was already on her feet, tying a tight robe around her waist.

“Good morning,” he said with a sleepy voice, rubbing his eyes as he sat up in bed.

The movement made his own robe slip, exposing his undressed torso. George belatedly noticed his impropriety. When he looked up again at his wife, she mumbled something about checking the breakfast menu and locked herself in her dressing room.

He was left alone with the burning sensation of Bertha’s skin still against his. She had left so hastily when he woke up that George barely had any time to register anything. But he didn’t overlook the fact that his wife had been sleeping in his arms.

And touching his face.

George knew he could not exactly trust his memory, but he could have sworn that he woke up to find Bertha staring at him with what looked like longing.

But she seemed so mortified to have been caught that George couldn’t suppress a sense of satisfaction.

No matter how much he’d tried not to think about it, the truth was that he was insanely attracted to Bertha.

And what gave him hope was thinking that perhaps he wasn’t alone in his predicament.

.

Despite his initial expectations, George’s optimism gradually faded.

Things went as usual in the morning and afternoon, with work occupying a big portion of his time. Bertha was out during most of the day, though neither Church nor Mrs. Bruce seemed to know exactly where she’d gone.

George was almost done getting ready for dinner when two knocks on his door made him turn his attention from fixing his shirt collar.

He turned around in time to see Bertha entering his room dressed in a beautiful red night gown. Before he could say anything about it, she initiated the conversation.

“I’m afraid it will be just you and Charlie tonight,” Bertha fixed a non-existent wrinkle on her sleeve. She tried to put a casual tone in her words, but it sounded unconvincing, even to herself. “I am needed at a fundraiser for the Metropolitan. I am sorry I didn’t tell you in advance.”

George studied her expression, noticing the way her eyes were avoiding direct contact with him. What was happening? Why was his wife suddenly behaving so dismissively?

“I understand. I hope you enjoy yourself,” George slid both his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

Bertha opened her mouth for a moment, as though she was about to say something else, but quickly shut it and turned around to leave.

Had he been completely mistaken about his impressions?, George asked himself.

During the past few days, he imagined that he and Bertha were slowly rebuilding what he had been told they used to have. A growing sense of intimacy might not be the antidote to cure his amnesia, but it certainly was making the situation much easier.

George may not have a memory, but his personality hadn’t changed. He was as good at reading people as he had always been, and the fact that Bertha’s current actions didn’t match her recent behavior made him question if he was seeing it all wrong.

He thought they were growing closer together. That the spark he’d seen in her eyes was one of longing. He’d been told that they loved each other.

The image of the shock on Bertha’s face when he woke up and caught her looking at him came to his mind, and George tried to make sense of it again.

He had attributed her behavior to a sense of modesty that was typical for women, but perhaps he’d been wrong? Perhaps Bertha wasn’t being shy but unsettled about their physical proximity?

It was entirely possible that George had been wishful thinking, and the physical attraction he thought they shared was merely a product of his eager imagination.

It really would have been too good to be true.

Feeling very foolish for allowing himself to believe that he could have gotten this lucky in his marriage, George took a deep breath and tried to put on a joyful façade during dinner. Despite the morose state his realization put him in, his four-year-old son deserved better than a sullen companion.

Charlie did most of the talking, and George indulged him, allowing the boy to share everything he’d learned from his governess that day.

As usual, his nanny took him to bed soon after.

By eight in the evening, instead of going to his own room, George returned to his library, hoping Bertha spared him more than a minute of her attention if she returned home at a fashionable hour, but that didn’t happen.

By the time the clock hit midnight, George ceased waiting and went to bed trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t feel so awful forever.

.

The next couple of days didn’t do much to improve George’s disposition.

Bertha had managed to clear much of her social calendar to spend time with him during the previous week, but her days were now full of meetings and appointments that suddenly seemed very urgent.

George hardly saw her, and he mostly tried to respect the distance she was putting between them, even though her behavior confused him.

Three days after he’d woken up with her in his arms, he went to bed after another dinner on another night without her.

George took a book to bed and forced himself to focus on the pages to escape the mess in his life for a few minutes.

When a soft knock on his door reached his ears, he looked up expectantly, hoping to find his wife on the other side. But it was a male miniature version of Bertha dressed in an all-white union suit that treaded carefully in his direction.

“Charlie,” George frowned. He closed his book and put it on his nightstand. It was late for his son to be out of bed. “How did you get in here?”

The small child looked behind to the door left ajar and replied as though it should be obvious.

“I walked through the door, Father.”

George contained the chuckle that threatened to make Charlie think it was acceptable to be up at that hour, and put on a serious face. He hadn’t considered how literal four-year-olds could be.

“Don’t you think it’s past the time you went to sleep?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Charlie slowly but steadily walked in George’s direction until he reached the bed and unceremoniously climbed on it. “Can you tell me the story of Jim and Long John Silver again?” Charlie jumped up on the mattress and wielded an imaginary sword. “Tell me about the pirates and the treasure island again, Father!”

George processed his son’s request and noticed the sparkle in the boy’s blue eyes. Charlie looked very excited at the idea of his father telling him a story that, apparently, George was supposed to be familiar with.

He had no idea which one it was. George did not recognize the characters. He knew nothing about pirates or treasures. Or distant islands.

His conscience chose that exact moment to reverberate Bertha’s words.

“…For now, let’s try to have him around you only when I am present, too. I find it unlikely Charlie will notice much has changed, but if he starts to ask questions, I think it’s better if I am there to provide answers.”

“… I imagine he would be devastated to think you forgot about him.”

George’s heart began to race as his brain made up a scenario in which his son found out the truth about his memory loss. The idea that Charlie might consider his father didn’t care enough about him to remember him left George tormented with fear and worry.

He was on the verge of panicking, but Charlie’s expectant look made him pull himself together.

“I’m not sure your mother will be pleased that you left your bed at this late hour,” George said patiently.

“I’ll go fetch her, and you can ask her, Father!”

“Oh, I’m to ask her?” George shook his head. By the time he made sense of what Charlie was proposing, the little boy had already stormed out of the room.

He came back seconds later, followed by steady, graceful footsteps that George had already learned to recognize.

“Charlie,” Bertha stood by the door and directed her stern gaze at her son. “When I instructed you to go to bed, I meant your bed, not your father’s.”

“But, Mama, we came here so Father would tell me a story.”

“No. We came here because you asked to say good night to your Father,” Bertha corrected the little boy, reminding him of the brief exchange in her bedroom a few seconds ago.

“But, but…” Charlie’s lower lip slightly trembled as he struggled to contain his emotions. “You said that Father is still hurt, so he can’t take me to the park tomorrow,” Charlie looked so dejected about being deprived of one more weekend without the usual outing with his father that even his strict mother was touched. “Please, please, Mama… Let him tell me about Long John Silver again!”

Bertha exchanged looks with George and returned her attention to her son.

She took a deep breath, trying to be reasonable. Although Charlie knew he wasn’t meant to be wandering around the house after his bedtime, she understood the boy missed being with his father.

“If your father won’t object…” she said, unsure of how George felt about it.

“I won’t,” George said, eager to spend more time with his son.

Bertha nodded in compliance.

“Very well. Good night to you both, then.”

She was just about to leave when George spoke again.

“Wait.”

Bertha turned around, hating herself for being such a coward that she could barely look her husband in the eyes.

“I—” George hesitated. How was he supposed to tell Bertha that his amnesia was getting in the way of Charlie’s request without directly saying it? “I was wondering if perhaps you’d like to join us,” George suggestively looked at the empty half of his bed. “I’m afraid I might have forgotten some bits of the story Charlie wants to hear, but perhaps you remember?”

Bertha recognized what he was trying to say. George had no recollection of the story Charlie was requesting, so she instructed the boy to get the book in his bedroom.

Charlie cheered excitedly and made a beeline for his bedroom across the corridor.

“Treasure Island is Charlie’s favorite book,” Bertha explained when silence became too unbearable. “It was one of your gifts to him last Christmas. You’ve read it to him many times. But I suppose now you have no recollection of it.”

“I’m just glad it is a book I can just read instead of a made-up story,” George sighed in relief and leaned back against his bed frame. He smiled tentatively at his wife, trying to ease the tension that only seemed to build up between them.

“Yes,” Bertha fidgeted with her hands nervously. “Did Charlie wake you by coming in here?”

“Oh, no” George reassured her. “I was reading in bed.”

And thinking of you.

Bertha didn’t know what to say, so she simply nodded and looked away, overwhelmed by the strange sensation of not knowing what was in her husband’s mind.

A few seconds of quiet felt endless.

“You don’t…” George broke the silence but hesitated, unsure of how to phrase what he wanted to say. He took a deep breath and tried to organize his thoughts before finally explaining in a low, calm voice, “you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

Bertha took her hand to her throat.

George had already noticed the recurrence of that habit when she was nervous.

“It’s alright.”

“I know you are trying to keep your distance,” George said bluntly, catching her off her guard with his straightforwardness. His tone wasn’t accusatory, which only made Bertha feel worse. “I may not understand what has changed between us and why, but I know that much. And I would hate for you to feel forced into something you’re not comfortable with.”

“Why would you think I am trying to be distant?” Bertha furrowed her brows, trying to buy some time to think of what to say.

George was spared from answering by Charlie’s abrupt return. The boy jumped into the bed and made himself comfortable in the middle before beckoning to his mother to join them.

Bertha slowly sat on the edge of George’s bed. It wasn’t like the place was strange territory to her. Even though they usually stayed in her bedroom, sometimes she was the one who came to George.

Charlie spread out on the bed, resting his head on Bertha’s thigh while looking at his father, eagerly waiting for the story to begin.

George started reading the book, and for the handful of pages that followed, he would steal a glance at his wife every few seconds. He didn’t know whether Bertha was aware. But if she were, she made no objections.

He tried to pay attention to the story he was supposed to focus on, but his mind registered the affectionate way Bertha would run her hand on Charlie’s hair, soothing the boy. Her other arm was snaked around their son’s torso, keeping him nested against her.

A few minutes later, after interrupting the reading at least five times with five different questions and suggesting alternate scenarios for every main event in the book, Charlie was visibly struggling to keep his eyes open, but still fought with determination to remain awake.

“I’ll take you to bed,” Bertha stood up and picked the little boy in her arms. Charlie rested his head on his mother’s shoulder.

“Can Father come too?” He looked expectantly at both adults.

Bertha deflected the question by shifting her gaze to George.

“Of course,” he acquiesced, and got up to follow his wife and son out of his room.

George noticed how Bertha rubbed the boy’s back in circular motions and whispered reassuring words on his ear before putting him down in his bed.

When she gave the child a kiss on the head, Charlie took a deep breath, rolled to the side, wrapped in a blanket, and fell into a deep sleep.

George was amazed.

Bertha was the mistress of a household that employed dozens of servants. She had many social endeavors and was involved in a lot of different causes. George knew that she could have easily handed Charlie to his nanny and done other things with her time. But she seemed to genuinely enjoy taking care of Charlie. Seeing her maternal side touched George’s heart deeply.

Bertha was everything a man could ever dream of in a woman, and she kept on repeatedly proving it.

“Charlie is a little restless because he is going through a transition,” his wife broke the silence. “He has only recently started sleeping alone. His nanny used to spend the night with him in his old nursery. But a few weeks before your accident, we moved him to the bedroom that used to be Larry’s.”

George now understood why the little boy was constantly making excuses to leave his room.

“With an imagination like his, I can see why he wouldn’t want to be alone,” George guessed correctly.

“Yes, he makes up stories about monsters and dragons and then has a hard time falling asleep.”

“Is that what happened tonight?” George asked, following Bertha to the corridor. “Is that why he wanted both of us there?”

She closed the door to Charlie’s bedroom, making an effort to be as silent as possible.

Bertha turned around to meet George’s inquiring gaze in the dim corridor.

“Sometimes, along with the comfort of a mother,” she answered in her low, sultry voice, “a child also needs the security of a father.”

A timid smile on George’s face showed he appreciated the way Bertha reminded him of the role he played in their son’s life. But her affirmation also felt like a revelation.

George wondered if, when describing Charlie’s needs, Bertha had also shared something personal.

He remembered enough about his wife’s childhood to know that her father had been the kind of person who caused more problems instead of creating solutions.

They were almost at Bertha’s bedroom door when George impulsively reached out and held her hand.

The unexpected movement seemed to startle her, but she didn’t pull away, which George interpreted as a good sign.

“I know you’re tired and that you’ve been busy,” George started, hoping to sound practical but not critical. “But there is something I must ask you.” He figured that if he didn’t address this now, Bertha would just keep avoiding him. “Have I done something to upset you?”

“What?” Bertha scowled, rejecting the assumption. “No. You have not. Why would you even ask me that?”

“Because I’m trying to understand why you have been avoiding me since the night I slept in your bedroom,” George addressed the elephant in the room.

Bertha swallowed hard.

How could she say it?

How could she explain to her husband that she was mortified after being caught staring at him?

She wasn’t avoiding George. She was avoiding putting herself in a situation where she might lose control.

Bertha did not approve of impulsiveness. Decisions based on whims tended to be passional, and she strove to be rational at all times.

Even though she missed her husband, Bertha would not feel comfortable being intimate with George until he regained his memory or, at least, some sort of notion of what they meant to each other.

Bertha wasn’t blind. She could see George desired her. But physical attraction and love were two very different things.

George didn’t love her, or, for what was worth, didn’t remember he loved her.

If she allowed him to share her bed and her body, she supposed it would be a purely physical experience for George. And she wasn’t sure she could take that step with him without what they had built over nearly three decades together.

Bertha didn’t know if she could surrender to George and not see the loving gaze on his face whenever he took her in his arms and made her his; she wasn’t sure she was ready to feel him inside her without the words he whispered in her ear.

Bertha couldn’t cope with the idea of being just a woman that her husband desired. Not when her heart was his and he meant the world to her.

“I have had a lot of social engagements, I—”

“I know,” George gently interrupted her. “But I was under the impression we always tell each other the truth. The whole truth.”

Bertha blushed, feeling like a child who had been caught misbehaving.

“I know you have many obligations. But until a few days ago, you used to spare me some of your attention. We would spend some time together every day. I imagined that was the norm, and I was very pleased,” George said with honesty. “Don’t get me wrong, I am not making any demands. I would just like to know what to expect.”

“I have had to make up for the appointments and calls that have accumulated over the past week,” Bertha said.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. She had indeed skipped meetings and events she was supposed to attend, but Bertha had not thought twice about it. Being there for her husband in a moment of need was infinitely more important than any social engagement.

But now that he was physically better, Bertha could resort to such an excuse.

She wasn’t entirely confident that she could resist the yearnings of her body if they shared the same bed again.

What would George think of her then? Would he still treat her with the same respect and admiration if she surrendered to him when he imagined she saw him as little more than a stranger?

It was very easy to let herself be carried away by passion. And if she did so, the emotional turmoil it would cause would end up destroying her.

“But that’s not all there is to it, is it?” George asked patiently. “I understand you have your own interests and your own life. But I missed you during dinner. And at breakfast. Every day,” he said with sincerity. “You told me we spend time together, just the two of us, nearly every night. And that we ignore the doctor’s orders more often than we follow them,” he recapitulated. “I assumed that meant we share a bed every other night,” George threaded the subject lightly, studying the reactions on her face to guide his following words. “But then I realized I don’t know exactly what you meant.”

Bertha frowned.

George resumed his explanation before she could ask him to clarify.

“I am just trying to understand what it is that we have.”

Seeing Bertha was still hesitant, George tried a different angle.

“I know that sometimes in a marriage…” He paused, looking for the best words to explain himself without being inappropriate. “Sometimes, after a couple is done having children, wives don’t wish to engage in what one could see as a marital duty,” George’s euphemism earned him a nervous chuckle from Bertha. “I don’t know exactly where our marriage stands in this regard. I thought it was better to ask you. It is not my intent to do or say anything that might give you the impression I am pressuring you into something you’re not comfortable with.”

Bertha opened and closed her mouth several times, at a loss for words. She realized George was associating the change in her behavior after waking up in his arms with a negative reaction on her part to any kind of physical intimacy between them.

If only he knew it was actually the opposite, perhaps they wouldn’t be in this awkward situation.

“Whatever it is that usually happens between us, if anything at all… I want it given. Shared. Never taken,” George confessed, conscious of her restlessness. “I’m not trying to insinuate anything,” he rushed to explain after seeing more of her uncertainty, “but I also won’t pretend that I don’t enjoy your company.”

Bertha smiled tenderly at her husband, unable to stop herself from gazing at him with misty eyes.

“However… if you’re not…” George struggled to find the right words. “If we don’t have that kind of relationship,” he breathed out, annoyed at himself for allowing his disappointment to be so transparent. “I hope we can at least spend time together as we have recently.”

George noticed the exact moment Bertha’s gaze traveled to his lips, and lingered there for a few seconds before she stared at the floor, flustered.

He continued to inspect her face, this time not only with his eyes. His index finger gently lifted her chin, making his wife look up at him.

Bertha’s lips slightly parted. Her blue eyes darkened, sustaining the intensity of her husband’s gaze.

He was expecting a response, and she didn’t have any words to explain the turmoil of emotions that assaulted her heart. As it usually happened for her, Bertha found that the most effective way of expressing her feelings was through action.

She ran her hands through the extension of his arms all the way to his shoulders, not breaking eye contact. The moment she leaned slightly forward, George beat her to it and covered her lips with his.

Bertha’s eyes were closed when she felt the softness of her husband’s lips against her own, but she didn’t need her sight to feel George’s hands accommodating on her waist.

When she kissed him back, Bertha instinctively parted her lips, surprising George by deepening that maddening exchange.

And just when he thought it couldn't get any better than that, a throaty moan escaped her lips, making all of George’s senses come to life with full force.

He snaked an arm around her frame to pull her against his chest before his lips traveled to the elegant column of her neck, which he nuzzled and kissed, ensuring that not one inch felt neglected. A pair of slim arms wrapped his shoulders in response.

When George reluctantly pulled apart, he noticed his wife was just as dazed. Her panting breaths, red lips, and trembling hands left very little room for doubt: those were not the reactions of a woman repulsed by physical intimacy.

Bertha’s body stiffened, as though she had just remembered something important. She looked around nervously, and not knowing how, George understood she was checking to see if any servants might have witnessed the two of them passionately kissing in the corridor.

He didn’t have time to wonder what else was going through her mind, because Bertha hastily opened the door to her room and grabbed his hand, pulling him inside.

George opened his mouth to talk, but his wife silenced any word he might have by picking up where they had left off.

She pinned him against the closed door, her much smaller body pressed against his as she kissed George again and again.

Bertha splayed her left hand on his chest and slowly traced an upward path until it curved around his nape. Her fingers sunk into his hair, her trimmed nails scratching his scalp as she pulled him closer, craving more.

The feel of Bertha’s skin against George’s lips, the desire burning in the depths of her blue eyes, the wonderful scent of her hair… it was all very exciting as though George was discovering her for the first time. And yet, there was a strange familiarity he could not comprehend.

Unable to contain himself any longer, George explored the gentle curves and feminine shapes of her body with his hands. The heat radiating through her clothes ignited the fire inside him.

Bertha shivered in response when her husband’s large hand made its way inside her nightgown and found the curve of her spine. His light strokes on her back made her tilt her head, exposing more of her neck to him.

George seized the chance to explore her with the expertise of someone who knew exactly what pleased his wife. When his path of kisses ended at the curve of her jaw, she straightened herself in his arms with impeccable timing, and their lips met again for another sensual kiss that robbed him of any coherent thought.

The way their movements seemed completely synchronized was a telltale sign that there was nothing new or random about their cadence; all the notes were perfectly harmonious, a dance that had been perfected over many years.

George might not consciously remember it, but his body had a memory of its own. His nose touched the curve where her neck met her shoulder, and he inhaled Bertha deeply, inebriated by how good it was to have her this close.

There was nothing George would like more at the moment than to get rid of all the layers of clothes that separated their bodies so he could get conclusive evidence that his wife was every bit as delightful as he suspected she was.

With agonizing slowness that left Bertha breathing heavily in anticipation, George made his way back to her lips and kissed her slowly. Instead of devouring her as he had just moments ago, he contented himself with savoring every little corner of her mouth, this time with less urgency but far more intimacy.

“George,” Bertha panted when she unwillingly pulled apart.

The sound of his name coming through her lips in what was almost a moan drove him crazy.

“George,” Bertha insisted, slightly stepping back, “wait, I—“

Even though it hurt him physically — and spiritually — George let go of her, respecting her boundaries.

“I’m sorry.” He made a superhuman effort to maintain his sanity. “I shouldn’t have done that, I—“

“Never apologize for kissing me,” Bertha interrupted him with a shy smile, looking into his eyes. Now he was the one who looked disconcerted.

She understood what George had meant, but she also knew that their actions had not been premeditated. The kiss had just happened.

Just as every kiss that had followed.

And it wasn’t as though Bertha had not played a significant part in it.

“I should probably go,” he figured after a few seconds of silent tension. If Bertha kept tempting him like that, he would end up going crazy. The smartest thing to do was to return to the solitude of his bedroom.“Good night.”

Even though it was advisable to keep his distance, George didn’t resist leaning forward just enough to affectionately kiss her forehead.

Bertha watched him walk away, but before George could reach the door, she heard herself speaking.

“George?”

He turned around, giving her his undivided attention.

“Just so you know… it has never been a marital duty to me,” Bertha resorted to his previous choice of words on purpose, hoping to make her meaning clear.

But when George tilted his head, still unsure about what she was saying, Bertha supposed she had to be more direct.

“Being with you,” she bit her lower lip when she saw his gaze roaming over her body. It made her want to reconsider her decision to put a stop to what they had started, and that unusual lack of restraint terrified her. Taking a deep breath to get a hold of herself, Bertha shared the truth. She owed him at least that much. “I’ve never thought of it as a duty.”

“Oh,” George blinked, finally realizing what her words implied.

Her timid smile messed with his emotions so unexpectedly that a wave of warmth spread inside George, drowning him in pure bliss, a sensation he couldn’t remember ever experiencing.

Something powerful took over him. Something stronger than desire; Bertha’s confession filled him with happiness.

George locked eyes with her, and Bertha saw a glint of mischief in his slightly smug expression.

“If that’s the case, I do hope I have made it enjoyable for you.”

His eyes narrowed, sustaining her gaze. George was relishing her revelation. Bertha knew him too well not to see it.

“Well…” she made an effort to keep a straight face. “If you haven’t, at least you don’t remember.”

Her snarky reply had the intended effect of wiping the smugness off his face.

“Was that a confirmation or a denial?” George asked, frowning. Suddenly, that conversation wasn’t as amusing anymore.

It was Bertha’s turn to put on her best self-satisfied smirk.

“You have nothing to worry about, George.”

“That’s not an actual answer.”

“What were you hoping to hear, then?” Bertha protectively folded her arms in front of her body.

Silence lingered for longer than both of them expected, and Bertha felt like the air was getting charged around her. In as much as she adored George with all her heart and had always trusted him, she wasn’t about to vocally declare how satisfying their sex life was. His amnesia made her unsure of how he would react. It was hardly an appropriate topic to discuss with a woman, and because he had no memories of their years together and how comfortable they were around each other, Bertha didn’t know what sort of judgement he might make.

“I don’t know,” George smacked his lips in frustration. Couldn’t she see how much he wanted her? Hadn’t he made it clear already? “I might not have a memory, but I am still a man, Bertha.”

When he shot her with a smoldering gaze, Bertha unconsciously held her breath.

“Yes,” she whispered, unable to break eye contact with him. George was a man in every possible connotation of the word. “Yes, you are.”

He reached forward a little hesitantly and took her hand. Bertha rubbed his fingers affectionately in response.

“George,” her voice was again hoarse as she touched the delicate subject. She looked up from their joined hands to his eyes. “I’m not saying it will never happen, but…”

He waited expectantly, but Bertha seemed unable to finish her sentence.

“You need more time,” George inferred.

Bertha nodded, grateful that she had not needed to verbalize it for him to understand.

Even though it was not what he was hoping to hear, George took comfort in the fact that they were communicating effectively again.

“It’s not about you, or something you’ve done,” she hoped to make that clear to him. “It’s just that… it would be strange for me to be intimate with you when you still don’t remember ever marrying me, or the years we’ve been together.”

What Bertha meant was that she couldn’t cope with the idea of going from being the woman her husband loved and cherished to being a woman he simply desired.

Bertha knew that, during the past couple of weeks, George had come to appreciate her. She suspected that he even liked her. And she had no doubt whatsoever that he was attracted to her.

All those components had been present in her marriage for as long as she could remember, but none of them came close to reaching the depth of what she and her husband actually had, the connection that they had cultivated over the years with equal shares of love, devotion, and partnership.

“I can understand that,” George agreed, hoping not to sound too disappointed.

For the first time since he had woken up from the accident, George felt like he could truly see the situation through his wife’s eyes.

Bertha had lost much more than he’d initially realized. Not only from his not remembering things, but also the security of their relationship, the intimacy of their interactions. They were slowly rebuilding that connection, but there was an entire past that George didn’t remember and she had to carry on her own.

It was a good enough reason for a person to break, but there was Bertha looking at him with more tenderness than George ever thought possible. It made him feel things he couldn’t properly name.

“I have loved you all my life, haven’t I?” He took one step closer, urging to hold his wife in his arms again. But because they had established she wasn’t ready for anything more, George refrained from wrapping her in his embrace and settled for holding both her hands instead. He brought them to his lips, kissing her knuckles as a timid smile lingered on his lips. “I may not remember every detail of our past, but somehow, I am sure it’s true.”

Bertha felt her cheeks hot and censored herself. Her reaction bordered on giddiness.

“I was seventeen when we got married, George. You were nineteen.” She held his hands back. ”We have been together pretty much all our lives.”

“That’s not what I meant,” George explained, stroking her fingers with the pad of his thumb. “I can’t remember our wedding and everything that came after that… but I do remember our childhood and how you always got to me in a way no one else ever could,” he perked up, assaulted by the cherished memories. “I was too young to understand it then. We quarreled, and argued, and picked on each other… so it probably took me a few years to realize what all that animosity truly was. But today, I understand it. I already loved you back then. It is as simple as that.” He saw her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and that motivated him to continue talking. “But now it’s different.”

Bertha was momentarily stunned, wondering what he really meant, but George quickly elaborated on his confession to make sure she had no doubts.

“The first time I fell in love with you, I needed almost two decades to figure out the obvious,” George smiled and could not contain the urge to come closer, encouraged that Bertha didn’t step back.

He took a deep breath and delicately squeezed her hands, elated by her proximity and the relief it was to give voice to his feelings.

“Now, it took me less than two weeks to figure it all out. Less than two weeks for me to realize that falling in love with you isn’t simply a part of who I am, but probably the most important piece in my foundation,” he revealed, unaware of the impact his words had on his wife. “It’s no wonder it keeps happening,” George added lightheartedly, hoping to ease the tension.

“You…?” Bertha pulled apart defensively and looked straight into his eyes. “What did you mean by that?”

“Only that I think I've found my ground again,” George didn’t understand why she seemed so agitated when all he had wanted was to reassure her. “Something to build up from if all else fails and my memories never return.”

“You said you fell in love with me,” Bertha repeated the words hesitantly.

George’s tense expression gradually softened. He looked at his wife with a mix of serenity and admiration that was so familiar it made Bertha unable to suppress her tears this time.

George held her face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing her cheeks.

“Is it really so shocking what I am saying?” A tender smile curved his lips. “I didn’t expect you to be so surprised. I imagined it was quite obvious.”

George took a step back to keep his balance when Bertha launched herself into his arms, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He instinctively wrapped both arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

“That’s what I meant when I said I’ve loved you all my life,” he heard the muffled sound that came from her lips, something between a grunt and a sigh of relief. “I loved you in the past. I have loved you through all the years I cannot remember… so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I feel the same way now.”

“George,” Bertha spoke his name in that low, sultry tone that drove him crazy. She laughed through tears, a mix of excitement, relief, and happiness.

His words might not seem like a big deal in her husband’s mind, but knowing how he felt changed everything for Bertha.

George was no longer someone who saw her as a stranger. She was no longer just a woman in his life. Everything was different now because George was in love with her, just as she had always been in love with him.

And it was so typical of George to treat something of that dimension so naturally… For her husband, the most impactful things in the world, such as love, devotion, and loyalty, were also the basis of any real relationship. George discussed those feelings and virtues with such ease as if they were very simple and easy to understand.

“I didn’t need two weeks to realize that you're the most special person I've ever met,” George saw her face brimming with a variety of emotions.

He was so distraught by the emotions on her face that when Bertha took a step back and held his hand, George silently followed as she led them to her bed.

Bertha put both hands on his shoulders and made him sit on it.

She stood next to him, close enough that George had his arms around her waist the moment she placed a knee on each side of him and unceremoniously sat on his lap.

George felt her body weighing down lightly on his.

“Bertha, what are you—“

She silenced his question with a kiss on his lips.

Though unexpected, it was absolutely welcome. George’s hands immediately went to her hips, pulling her against him. He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest when Bertha’s arms crossed behind his neck, putting an end to any remaining distance between them.

One of her hands tangled in his hair while the other traced the extension of his shoulder down to his chest before she captured his lips with her own.

When they broke apart, George noticed that her usually light eyes were darkened with passion.

Bertha had always known that George wasn’t easily intimidated when faced with a difficult situation. He didn’t falter. He didn’t flinch.

When he had woken up from his accident and found himself in an unusual position, her husband could have turned his back on his family and rejected them as he had no memory of his wife and children. It would be much easier and simpler for him to ignore their existence and move away from them. He certainly had the financial means for it.

Bertha was sure that would be the obvious choice to various men if facing a similar situation.

But not George.

He was decent, caring, and completely invested in their family. Earlier that evening, as he read a story to their son, Bertha had realized that she had expected nothing different from the man she loved, and yet, the honorable way with which he conducted himself still made her feel like her emotions were overflowing in her chest.

“My darling,” George begged, failing to realize that, for the first time, he had naturally and spontaneously used the term of endearment he reserved only for his wife. “Please don’t tempt me. Keeping my hands off you is challenging enough as it is. You’re making it exponentially more difficult.”

Bertha cradled his face in her hands. Her answer came in the form of a kiss that had George on the verge of insanity.

Her hands traveled from his face to her robe. She slowly untied it before letting the garment slide off her shoulders.

George’s eyes gleamed with desire as they roamed his wife’s face, neck, and exposed cleavage.

“Bertha…” George closed his eyes and took a deep breath when his wife’s hands skillfully untied the knot on his robe, trying to honor her previously established boundaries. “You’ll be my undoing.”

“I truly hope so,” Bertha whispered in his ear before capturing his earlobe between her teeth. She straightened herself up and left his lap, tugging at George’s robe to get it off him.

Her husband accepted her silent demand and stood up, allowing her to undress him. As soon as she was done, George held her by the waist, taking her in his arms before laying her down in bed and starting a path of long, tempting kisses from Bertha’s neck down to her abdomen.

He paid special attention to the area just below her navel and grinned widely when a poorly contained squeal escaped her lips, a product of his full beard tickling her delicate skin.

Bertha’s many qualities weren’t limited to her personality, George thought. Her delightfully feminine body was also one of her amazing attributes. The little George had seen before had already driven him crazy. Now he could finally see it all and explore every corner and curve with his lips.

“The night I spent here, I fell asleep thinking that if I hadn’t lost my memory, the first thing I would do when you blew out that candle would be to undress you,” George confessed.

“Did you?” Bertha grinned, stroking the back of his head with her fingers. “And what would happen next?”

“What if instead of telling you,” George’s attention went back to her neck, which he kissed mercilessly. He could hear his wife’s short, frenzied pants, boosting his intent to please her. “I show you?”

“I like that idea…” Bertha closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to get a hold of herself as a wave of shivers ran through her body. George propped himself up on his elbows not to crush his wife and started a downward trail of kisses.

“You do not know how many hours I’ve spent awake each night wondering what it would be like to do this,” he kissed the side of her breast, earning a low hiss in response. “But it still amazes me that reality is so much better than my imagination.”

Bertha arched her back when she felt her husband’s tongue on the most sensitive spot on her breast through the thin fabric of her nightgown. A wave of delicious heat spread through her body, all of her senses coming to life at the same time.

Without realizing what she was doing, Bertha pulled him back to where she could kiss him. She needed more. She needed George. It had been too long since the last time, and the past few weeks of limited physical contact had built up an excess of energy inside of her. Now, all she wanted was for her husband to put an end to that deprivation.

“Are you sure about this?” George held the side of her face, torn between the desire to respect her request and the urge to take her right there and then, “if you want me to stop, I—“

“You can't stop now,” Bertha smiled lovingly at him. “I can't leave you wondering if reality is better than your imagination.” She deliberately took her time pulling her nightgown over her head, encouraged by the look of approval and admiration in her husband’s eyes. When she wrapped her legs around George’s hips, she felt the evidence of his latent desire pressed against her. “That would be cruel.”

George ran a hand through her hair, enraptured. The inexplicable compulsion to have Bertha he had felt since day one took him by storm, wiping out the last shreds of his sanity.

He kissed her lips and lost himself in her mouth before coaxing her lips apart. George imagined he would die from pleasure when he felt Bertha surrender to the kiss, welcoming the intrusion of his tongue in her mouth with her own.

Each little sigh or moan that left her lips boosted his resolve to give her everything. With a languid pace that bordered on torture, George explored the delightful slopes and curves of his wife’s feminine body.

When his lips touched the inside of her thigh, he sensed her urgency in the way Bertha’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, encouraging him to carry on.

He made sure to kiss her everywhere and was rewarded by poorly contained groans. When he felt Bertha was on the verge of pleasure, she pulled him back up and made him lie on his back.

Bertha helped George get rid of his pajama bottoms, the only remaining layer still between them. She slowly slid her hand down his abdomen, feeling his muscles tense under her touch.

Bertha paid special attention to the inside of his muscular thighs, far too familiarized with her husband’s preferences not to know that doing that drove him crazy.

“So this is how you torture me,” George struggled to remain rational when he felt one of her seductive kisses down the column of his throat.

At that moment, he had no doubt that his wife knew things about him he probably wasn’t aware of. Bertha kissed and touched him like an expert, doing things that George didn't even know he liked until she did them.

He let her have her way with him until he was on the edge too. With one swift motion, George grabbed her hips and made her straddle him.

Bertha's heart raced inside her chest as a jolt of pleasure shot through her veins, a heatwave spreading to her entire body. George could feel the blood pounding in his ears. His breath was heavy when Bertha shifted on top of him. A slight change of angle, and she took him inside her.

He closed his eyes and gasped in surprise, suppressing a grunt of pleasure as he felt himself easing into her. Bertha was fully around him now, and she gave herself to him without restraint, circling her hips in slow, rhythmic movements.

She leaned over him, her long brown hair framing the most beautiful smile George had ever seen, before her forehead touched the side of his face. He felt Bertha's hot, heaving breath as she set the pace.

Before it was over, George rolled over her, parting her lips with his. Bertha surrendered to the kiss the same way she surrendered to him: with ardor and complete abandon. The sight of his wife experiencing pleasure made him more determined to give her everything she deserved.

George quickened his thrusts, watching with delight the faces she made. He held himself back and fought the urge to finish inside her, determined to ensure she climaxed before him.

He knew she was close when Bertha dug her nails into his back and broke their kiss, their noses and lips still touching, their breaths mixing. She resisted only for a few seconds. Soon enough, George watched as the building sensations reached their peak, making his wife gasp against his mouth at the same time her body shuddered beneath him.

Her reaction was enough to rob him of his last shred of self-control. George finally allowed himself the same freedom, taken over by a pulsing wave of warmth that shook every inch of his body, making him tremble after reaching the most explosive climax he'd ever experienced.

When he regained a little of his strength, George moved onto his side, taking her with him.

Bertha lay beside him, her hot cheek pressed against his chest as one of her arms tightened around his waist. George held her close and kissed the top of her head, his eyes still open in the darkness of the room. He reveled in the softness of her body pressed against his.

Bertha could feel his heartbeat slowing down as their breathing gradually normalized. With a delighted sigh, she brought her hand to the spot between his chest and stomach and caressed it with her fingertips.

“It was just as good as I remember it,” she confessed, gently forcing him onto his back before she placed a kiss on the side of his neck and snuggled back in his arms.

“It was even better than I imagined,” George confessed with a smile. He couldn’t have thought of such intensity when being with a woman. Not even in his wildest fantasies.

It appeared his wife would never stop surprising him with new fantastic discoveries about her.

Bertha was the whole package. She warmed his bed and his heart as intensely as she had invaded his thoughts and left a mark on his soul.

Bertha propped herself up on one elbow and leaned over her husband, chucking him under the chin to bring his face closer to hers. She kissed him with a sweetness George didn't think was possible. This time, the kiss did not contain the urgency of their burning passion, but the tenderness of the deep affective bond that united them.

That kiss was much more about love than desire. Somehow, he knew it.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Bertha buried her face in the crook of his neck, wondering if George’s amnesia would ever be reversed. Knowing that her husband loved her had given her immense relief, even if it didn't necessarily mean he would remember something from their past.

But while it allowed her to relax a little, it had also brought out all the uncertainty and insecurity that Bertha had been experiencing the past few days.

Truth was, she was emotionally exhausted.

She had done her best to stay strong as she knew it was important to George, Charlie, his business company, the house staff… But at that moment, she remembered her husband's words when he had asked her to share with him anything she was feeling regarding their situation.

Your feelings matter a lot too.

After so many years, Bertha had grown used to sharing her anxieties and fears with George, for she knew she could do so without reservation and fear of judgment. Even when she acted impulsively or did something he disapproved of, George was able to reprimand her with respect and advise her with genuine interest, without ever rejecting her or making her feel bad for being who she was.

George caressed her cheek, feeling her lean into his touch, and smiled lovingly at her.

“You haven’t lost me,” he reassured her, looking straight into her eyes. “It looks like losing my memory isn’t enough to threaten our marriage.”

“I want to stay here forever,” Bertha confessed her love as best she could. Getting out from under the covers entailed losing the security of George’s arms, something she wasn’t willing to give up. “I will never leave this bed,” Bertha tightened her arm around her husband, “and I will not let you out of here either.”

George nudged her waist with his fingertips, making her squirm. He was gifted with the sound of laughter he never tired of hearing.

“I would never object to such a proposal, my darling,” he watched as Bertha took her hand to her neck, her fingertips touching the stone that matched the one on her ring. “We can stay here for the rest of our days; and for the rest of our days you will wear only that necklace. Nothing else,” George added playfully. ”As you did in Newport on the night of our anniversary.”

Bertha's eyes widened, but long seconds passed before she could express a verbal reaction.

“What is it?” George asked with concern when he saw she was staring at him with shock.

“George,” Bertha tried to control her racing heart. “I told you that you gave me this necklace, and the occasion on which it happened. But I never told you where it happened. And I certainly did not mention that you asked me to wear only your gift that night.”

George frowned, sustaining his wife’s gaze with a mix of confusion and apprehension. He reached the same conclusion she'd made, but he didn't dare to voice it.

“You know what that means, don't you?” Bertha grinned, flooded with effusive joy. “You remembered it, George! By yourself.”

She noticed the sparkle in his eyes as he slowly came to terms with the discovery.

George had been bombarded with so much information in the last few days that sometimes he found it difficult to separate the memories of things he had been told from what he might actually remember by himself.

Some of Bertha's descriptions of people, places, and events were so accurate that George could see things vividly in his mind, as if what he saw came from his own memories. He had seen images, read reports, and heard various narrations about different moments of their lives together. Over the course of a few days, it had become increasingly difficult to tell apart what he knew from what he'd learned.

“Are you serious?” He asked, desperate to believe her.

“Yes!” Bertha nodded with enthusiasm before kissing him with infectious joy.

She was so happy that he could not help but smile back.

“I know it's just one memory, and it's small, but it's a start,” she celebrated. “Maybe it’s not even the first time something like this has happened,” Bertha realized, thinking back to how George had spontaneously referred to her as my darling earlier that night.

“I suppose you’re right,” George shared her excitement. “To be quite honest, it is not the first time I have wondered if I know something because I remember it or because you told me. I didn’t mention it before because I didn't want to get your hopes up and end up disappointing you.”

“Do you realize how wonderful this is?” Bertha didn't even bother trying to contain her enthusiasm. “You remember something about us, George. You have a memory with me in it.”

“It is not big but it’s a start, I suppose?” He clasped her hand and laced their fingers together, touched by her happiness.

Bertha wasted no time with words.

She showed her husband she agreed by passionately kissing him again.

.

Over the next few days, George slowly regained more memories. He was so intrigued by the process he was going through that he immediately accepted Dr. Stevenson’s suggestion to have a group of doctors specialized in neurology take a look at his case.

After studying George’s doctor’s files and extensively examining him, the conclusion they reached was that the accident and head trauma had probably resulted in a brain bleed. The doctors supposed the hemorrhage was too small to complicate his gross neurological functions, but impactful enough to compromise his brain’s capacity to access old memories.

Then, as the days passed and the bleeding was reabsorbed, George had gradually regained those functions.

It was just a theory that could not be proved by a physical examination, but it made sense to the doctors. Both Bertha and George were grateful to finally have an answer, but more than that, they were thrilled to overcome the toughest challenge their marriage had endured.

Three weeks after the accident, George had regained most of his memories. He still had some lapses, especially for very specific things, but he was well enough that he could resume his work.

Much to his delight — and Bertha’s relief — little by little, everything went back to normal.

Epilogue

“I can’t believe you forgot about Mom. And Charlie. And us,” Larry shook his head, amused by the recollection of what his parents had gone through.

Even though their mother had sent word about their father’s accident as soon as it had happened, Larry and Gladys had gone through some hardships to return to America, including delayed voyages and bad sea weather; circumstances that had hindered an earlier return.

“I'm glad you weren’t here to witness that,” George replied good-naturedly. He filled two glasses with Scotch whisky and handed one to his son.

It had now been over two weeks since the accident, and the Russell family was ready to leave the scary situation in the past.

After joking about the absurd things he could have said to trick his father had he been there on the days after the accident, Larry updated George on his latest business endeavors and the plans the young man was finalizing to acquire a new townhouse on the Upper East Side.

Father and son had lunch together, and it wasn’t until later that afternoon that George saw Bertha for the first time since the night before.

She had left early in the morning to accompany Gladys and Marian on a shopping trip.

“How was your day, my dear?” George folded the newspaper he was reading and put it aside the moment he detected his wife walking into the drawing room. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

“Oh, yes,” Bertha spared a brief glance and a smile in his direction, but focused her gaze on her hands to skillfully undress her gloves. “You were right to insist I accompany the girls; Marian is very bright, but she doesn't have a clue about what it takes to furnish a new house.”

George’s reply was cut short by Charlie’s sudden arrival. The child advanced towards his father with a long tree twig containing a single dry leaf.

“Look, Father. I have a new sword,” he cheered excitedly.

The boy waved the stick in the air enthusiastically, nearly knocking down an expensive vase on the center of a console table.

“I cannot believe you brought this into the house!” Bertha confiscated the stick before Charlie accidentally hit anything — or anyone — with it.

George forced himself to suppress a smile.

“But, Mama, I need it,” Charlie frowned as he tried to bargain with his strict mother.

“What could you possibly need this for?” Bertha raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

Charlie looked around suspiciously as if confirming it was safe to answer before looking at his mother again and explaining with wide eyes.

“The pirates are coming to steal our gold,” the boy whispered as he once again studied his surroundings with a very serious expression.

George had to turn away to hide his reaction. Even Bertha struggled to keep a neutral expression on her face as she sat down on the armchair closest to Charlie and cradled his shoulders.

“Charlie, we’ve been through this. There are no pirates in New York,” she assured him, fixing the collar on his shirt.

“But what if there are, Mama?” Charlie stood wide-eyed. “What if they try to come here?”

“Your father won’t let them get anywhere near you,” Bertha answered with practicality, more focused on ensuring her son looked presentable. She smoothed the wrinkles on Charlie’s suit jacket and let him go, at last satisfied with his appearance.

Charlie immediately looked at George for confirmation.

“I promise,” George winked at the little boy, who sighed with relief.

It didn’t take long for Charlie’s attention to shift elsewhere. When he looked entertained enough with a set of toy soldiers, Bertha turned her attention to her husband, who had resumed reading the newspaper.

“George,” she called for his attention and sat beside him on the upholstered sofa. “Do you still have to go back to the office this afternoon? I was hoping we could leave a few minutes earlier than usual tonight. I don't want to risk being late.”

George lowered the pages just enough to meet his wife’s gaze.

“I was not aware we were going out tonight,” he did a wonderful job putting on his most clueless face.

Bertha narrowed her eyes, seeing right through her husband.

“We need to be at the Met tonight,” she reminded him, indulging his pretense. “Mrs. Fish is hosting the Carringtons, and you know very well that I have been hoping for a chance to be introduced to Lady Carrington,” Bertha said, referring to the British baron’s wife. “I asked you to free your calendar for tonight.”

“Did you?” George harrumphed as innocently as he could. “Forgive me, my dear, but you know how unreliable my memory has become. I have a business dinner at the Union Club.”

“Right,” Bertha sighed with feigned disappointment. “You’re a very busy man. I understand. And your memory is not what it used to be.”

“I am sorry,” George sighed unconvincingly.

If there was one thing his temporary amnesia had gifted him with, was the everlasting ability to use it as an excuse whenever the need arose.

Withstanding a full evening in the company of people he didn’t care about as they discussed social engagements seemed like a perfect occasion to make good use of his free pass.

“Well, since that is the case, I will just have to accept Mr. Withers’s offer to be a guest in his box. It would not make much sense for me to spend the night alone in our box.”

The mention of the name had the intended effect of wiping George’s satisfied smirk off his face.

Jacob Withers was a wealthy old-money heir who had probably not worked a day in his life, even though he was past the age of fifty. Despite his family’s wealth and good reputation, his interests revolved only around gambling and pursuing the company of any woman who wasn’t his wife.

The man had never been impolite or improper towards Bertha, but from the moment they had been introduced, George had realized the man had been enthralled.

“Is Mrs. Withers joining you?” George asked as casually as he could.

“I don’t think so,” Bertha used the same informal tone in her speech. “Mrs. Withers is in Newport for the season,” she added before getting up from the couch. “I’ll leave you to finish reading the news, my dear. Come, Charlie, let’s go see if Mrs. Bruce still has a slice of that apple pie she made last night,” Bertha extended a hand, which Charlie happily took as they left the drawing room together.

George impatiently folded the newspaper again before tossing it aside, suddenly not caring one bit about the latest trends on Wall Street.

When Bertha saw him again later in the evening, she was already fully dressed for the Opera.

“Oh, hello,” she saw George walking into her bedroom through the passageway between their dressing rooms. “I didn’t know you were home. How was your business dinner?”

Bertha finished putting on her earrings and unclasped the delicate diamond necklace selected from her jewelry safe, silently handing it to George. He stepped forward and placed it around her neck.

“It turns out those negotiations weren’t so urgent,” George let out a breath through his nose. He was well-aware that Bertha had played him. And that she had won. “I can accompany you to the Met, after all.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Bertha smiled at him through the mirror.

George narrowed his eyes at her.

“Are we going to keep pretending that you didn’t know I was lying?” He asked, his sour mood slowly dissolving.

“We can, if you wish,” Bertha answered lightheartedly. “I’m not the one with a faulty memory, but I can pretend mine does not work if that makes you feel any better.”

George bent forward behind her, lowering his head until his lips could reach the side of her neck.

“Do you know what would make me feel much better?” He whispered in her ear.

“I do, actually,” Bertha chuckled, relishing her victory. “And I am sorry to say this, my love, but your mind probably has more lascivious thoughts than Mr. Withers’s right now.”

“Well, at least my mind is filled with lascivious thoughts about my own wife, not someone else’s.” George pointed out.

Bertha could not suppress a grin.

“You were never planning on taking up Mr. Withers’s offer tonight, were you?” George belatedly realized.

“Of course not,” Bertha confirmed, getting up from her vanity. She turned around and looked at her husband, her eyes sparkling with mischief and delight for having outsmarted him. “I would not be seen in the company of that debaucher if my life depended on it. And did you really think I don’t have at least half a dozen invitations to more interesting boxes than his? We don't need the Withers for anything.”

“Then why did you go through the trouble of tricking me into accompanying you?”

Bertha placed her hands on her husband’s chest and affectionately ran them upward to his neck.

“Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps your wife enjoys your company and only wants to spend some time with you?”

George’s mood took a sudden turn.

He smiled back at Bertha and grabbed one of her hands, taking it to his lips to give it a long kiss.

“I am a fool, of course,” he decided, lowering his head just enough to touch Bertha’s forehead with his own.

“Of course,” Bertha teased him. “And since I am such a good wife, you will help me get introduced to the Carringtons. Lord Carrington is very fond of sports, I was told. You must invite him to some outdoor activity in Newport."

George chuckled.

That Bertha was scheming something was as predictable as it was amusing.

“Then I guess spending time in my company is not the only plan you have for this evening?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Oh, but how magic it is when we can mix business with pleasure,” Bertha answered cryptically, but George knew her well enough to understand the message.

The Carringtons were on the business side of the evening. At least his own role was about the pleasure.

“If that’s the case, we should go.”

“Are you worried we might be late?” Bertha looked at her reflection in the mirror one last time before tangling her arm with George’s to walk out of the room.

“Not really. I am just thinking that the sooner we leave, the sooner we can return,” George stopped at the top of the stairs and admired his wife’s imposing figure. She looked as beautiful as ever. “I want us to come back home so I can help you out of that gown. It looks rather uncomfortable.”

Bertha could not hold back her laughter.

“You are incorrigible. I’m always amazed by how your unreliable memory is never an issue in those moments.”

“It truly is a mystery,” George said in jest, briefly looking around to ensure no servant was around before he stole a kiss that had nothing innocent about it.

They were going out that evening as they had countless times before, and George had never imagined he would one day come to appreciate those seemingly ordinary moments.

Every day he had in the company of his family was a gift.

Every day with them was extraordinary because they made it so.

But if the one thing his memory loss had shown him was that, no matter the circumstances, there was no way for him to envision a life without his wife.

She might have remained out of his mind for a few days… but not for one second had Bertha been out of his heart.