Upon returning home, I found myself determined to unearth more secrets from my past that those around me were unable or unwilling to assist me in discovering. In a small drawer of a bedside table, I found something, wrapped in red silk and tied with a white satin bow. It looked to be a gift, and I wondered to whom I might have failed to bestow it upon.

I carefully unwrapped the parcel and discovered something that knocked the breath from me. Prior to marrying my husband, whom I was ashamed to have not even the slightest memory of, I had apparently been very much in love. But not with my husband!

I sat on my bed, and with trembling hands, turned the pages of a sonnet corona that I had apparently written to someone named Edward Stafford. The inscription on the inside cover read:

To my beloved, Edward,

I dream each night of the day that I might place this in your hand, when finally we meet in Belgium, and my heart, which beats within your breast, shall be reunited with your own which beats in mine.

Forever and always,

Your Olivia

I read and re-read the inscription, trying in vain to find some sense of memory of him; his face, his manner... but it was useless.

Finally, I read through, and found myself awash with a wave of regret that he might have met the same fate as my husband. Perhaps he had perished in some manner - perhaps during the very crossing to Belgium of which I wrote! I held the small book to my breast and grieved the loss of so great a love that it inspired something which I did not believe came only from me, but from the adoration of this gentleman.

. . . One . . .

In sitting down, with quill in hand, I write.
The writer, seeing empty page, laments.
This labor must be set in black and white;
Until it's done, my heart won't be content.

For in this month, two days of great import:
A lovers' destined meeting two months past,
And an escape those lovers do exhort
And I - for these - begin a wearing task.

Each day that passes, leaves me less aloof.
The burning need to follow to the end,
Committed that my love should have the proof
And so, despite this challenge, I ascend.

Will I accomplish this which I desire?
Will words be frozen in vexation's mire?

. . . Two . . .

Will words be frozen in vexations mire?
When all I long for is the words to bind?
Oh, can I write as well as I aspire?
Or will this finish in a muddled mind?

Eyes rising from the page, I look around.
No evidence of him in sound or sight.
Yet ev'rywhere his presence does abound,
Just thoughts of him diminishing my might.

And yet, though weaker made by reverie
I find a strength like mountains rising high
As stony pinnacles that pierce the sea,
The words begin to flow as time draws nigh.

There is no barrier to stop this flow
Upon my love, this message to bestow.

. . . Three . . .

Upon my love, this message to bestow.
Push aside my ever-pressing doubt;
The dearth of words I wittingly outgrow.
Thoughts of him bring rain upon the drought.

The ground, once cracked and dry; devoid of life
Where sustenance was nary seen or found,
Still showing scars and memories of strife,
Now bears a fruit more sweet and more profound.

Even at the time we turned away,
Seeking out an unknown requisite,
And blinded to the future's sweet replay,
No choice but our devotion to admit.

Though to outward eyes my heart is cold,
Your love does advocate that I be bold.

. . . Four . . .

Your love does advocate that I be bold
As winds o'er meadows drive away a scourge.
Our love, the kind of classic stories told,
Each prior failure from my heart is purged.

Each setting sun, the promise of tomorrow.
The rising sun alighting love renewed.
No more, our hearts entrenched in a past sorrow
And ev'ry day love's interest is accrued.

The ending week brings anxious plans to bear
As lovers, come together, hearts alight
We, deeply love, utterly aware
A simple touch or word sets us to right.

No devastating storm could hope to spoil;
This enchantment's web cannot uncoil.

. . . Five . . .

This enchantment's web cannot uncoil.
Meticulously woven with such care
Shrewdest malefactors hope to roil,
Our hearts too tightly bound to rip or tear.

A distance seeming half a world away,
Though daunting in its vastness, breadth and scope,
Does not prevent, discourage or dissuade,
But fortifies the harbor of our hopes.

Humbled by your constance and belief,
My fears and superstitions held at bay,
Your ever-stoic love provides relief,
And sets my sights upon a brighter day.

With each unflagging step, our love evolves.
You energize and strengthen my resolve.

. . . Six . . .

You energize and strengthen my resolve;
Though thought the one of fortitude, verdure.
Around your heart, my own, a moon, revolves.
I find, with you alone, I can endure.

The 'weaker sex' I never thought defined.
Independent, almost to a fault.
Until your adoration, once entwined,
My heart has softened, almost by default.

Thus, lead by you to softer, gentler ground,
Thereby coerced into a slower pace,
T'was there, within myself a heart, I found.
So shed of callous nature, dressed in grace.

You, couturier, bedeck my heart.
So swathing, generate a work of art.

. . . Seven . . .

So swathing, generate a work of art.
The inner self emerges, quite enthralled.
Willfully, my guarded self departs.
Free and joyous; never more be walled.

And as this lover's task comes to an end,
I hope with all my might that I impart
Upon your love and kindness, I depend.
Perhaps more now, than at our very start.

It seems, through all this space I've had to use,
I've not articulated well my view.
If love were words, you'd surely be my muse.
For only one thing spawned this venture: You.

Though meager as my amity requite,
In sitting down with quill in hand, I write.

Weeks passed, and I spent my time enjoying the fine weather and beautiful landscape of La Rocca. My strength returned to me, little by little. Each day, I would arise with the sun, and take breakfast on the veranda of my rented rooms, overlooking the harbor. Afterwards, I took a daily morning walk on the commons.

I came to be re-introduced to many of my friends; and while I remained frustrated and anxious that no recollection returned to me of their faces, or of our past connections, I was grateful for their kind patience. No greater friend was found than Don Aldo, whose thoughtful attention to these awkward introductions gave me great comfort.

Each day, as the morning's shadows shrank back from the sun, I would make my way into the little cafe. The ocean breezes blew in and the tile walls were a cool relief from the midday's scorch. It seemed that most were of like mind, as I found myself amidst many of the residents and visitors at this time of day. All gathered about tables, drinking the rich strong brew served by the barista. The room buzzed with conversation about the weather, the latest news of the various courts, and (of course) of fashion. It was an affable group, at a time of much-needed rest.

On one such morning, I found myself seated about a table with the beautiful Duchesa Fiorentina and her delightful Moor servant and companion, Jean-Matisse, Lady Candace was particularly radiant in her gown in hues of the sunset, Signores Stern, Gandt and Dieter were finely dressed and gallant, and Lady Aph, ever the gracious and entertaining hostess were in attendance. There was also another gentleman to whom I was not introduced, but he relayed such wonderful details of a well-attended discussion on architecture that made me regret not having been there. Or, perhaps I was.

The constant reminder that my life's memories began on the day of my regaining consciousness was a source of anxiety for me. Little did I know that I did not have long to wait before a small breakthrough.

As was usual, the conversation was free-flowing and as apt to change direction as a small stream of water after a long day's rain. The discussion turned to horse-riding, and Lady Candace told of her horse, who was kept by dear friends in the French countryside. Upon further discussion I mentioned that I, too, had a horse back in England, whose name was Barrow. And upon the utterance, I immediately realized that there was no possibility of that information being given to me before being transported to La Rocca. That it was, indeed, a spur of the moment recollection. I was overjoyed!

Quickly and quietly, as the conversation ebbed and flowed, I called over my footman and dispatched him to advise the maids to pack up my things, and that I should like to return to England post haste.

While the bustle of packing my trunks was in full force, a messenger delivered a note to me, that should I be in France, His Serene Highness, Louis di Bourbon-Conti would like very much to have tea. We had re-connected, and he had offered his services in any way, to aid me in my quest to remember my past.

As I had full use of my father's most speedy ship, The Boccara, I changed the route with the crew, and we set sail for Marseilles. As the journey quickly progressed, I reviewed the notes I had taken while in La Rocca, memorizing the names of each friend and the stories and recollections they had relayed, in the hopes that I would find another spark to open the door even further. The effort netted me no results, but I was eager to see my friend and hear what he had to say.

We arrived at the port of Marseilles and some small trunks were loaded onto the coach for my next leg, to meet with Louis. The crew would sail from Marseilles to Bordeaux and I would get to them by stage coach, and then sail back to Portsmouth.

Soon enough, and after a stop at an Inn to regain a fresh appearance, we arrived at the gates of the chateau. I was escorted in by Louis and shown to his parlor, where tea and cakes were already set out. There was an easy comfort between us, and so without the usual pleasantries, I got right down to the matter at hand.

He inquired if I had made any progress, and I explained that while my health was nearly completely restored, my memory was not, though I did relay the matter of recalling my horse's name. It sounded so ridiculous spoken aloud, but he understood and went further, telling me that I had not liked my husband, and some various other details of my life, which others had politely swept aside when speaking with me. I so appreciated his forthright manner, and took in all of the information. He even stepped out a moment and returned with a stack of envelopes; invitations and letters written to him by me.

I suddenly felt quite overwhelmed; I wondered if I shall ever be able to repay the debt of those who have provided me with the clues that might aid me in reassembling my past.

We ended our afternoon with a short tour of his home, and I extended an open invitation to him, should he ever find himself on English soil, and far too soon, I found myself standing again at his gate, with the carriage door open for me. He kissed my hand, we waved to one another, and I left for an Inn at a mid-way point to rest before traveling again, to meet the ship.

My mind raced with all of the new enlightenment afforded me, and I strained to think of any little thing that might grant me the knowledge I sought. One would think that physical exertion would make us more weary, but oh, the taxing efforts of the mind are far more weighty. I believe I slept more on the short voyage from Bordeaux to Portsmouth than I spent awake.

Finally arriving at my estate, I left the footmen to see to the trunks and retired to my sitting room. I sat gazing at the fire for some time, happy to be on a more comfortable surface than the carriage interior, and then rose. I realized that the recollection of Barrow came at a time when I was not actively in pursuit of the memory, but once that glorious remembrance came to mind, I found that I was unable to relax my senses enough to perhaps urge another forward.

Instead, I sat at my desk, and wrote the names of those whom I would invite to the estate to stay. For dinner, a dance, some gambling... all of those would be diverting, and surrounded by my friends, I hoped that more pieces of the puzzle might be laid before me.

... I think I baroque a rib.

I was talking with a friend and working on one of those morph photos where you put an SL face in a RL picture, like the ones MarieLouise Harcourt does (but better.... WAY better)

So I found a photo....

Took a photo of Olivia, trying to keep the angle right, and got this....

I thought her face looked a little longer (I probably stretched it too much to make up for covering the original, then I screwed up the hair by the ear, and there was a smudge I couldn't blur enough, but all in all, not bad for a first effort. I shared it with my friend and he said that if her hair had a little black nose, buck teeth and beady eyes, it would look like she was wearing a beaver on her head ("but an elegant beaver").

So, being the very mature and serious woman that I am....

Thought I'd share the laugh!

New journal entry - 25 August, 1773

From my cabin, I heard the commotion of the crew preparing to come into port. I made my way to the main deck, unsteadily, and as I emerged, and the air tousled my hair and sent my skirts into motion, I saw a view of heaven.

The island, seemingly sprouting up from the ocean, was a combination of rough, rocky shoreline and verdant green. I was transfixed by the view. The architecture was so different from what I had just left. My heart ached with its beauty, and I felt bathed in regret that I did not recognize such a beautiful place. For surely, when one returns to an oasis of this magnitude, one ought to feel a measure of gladness in being so fortunate as to view it again. I stood wondering if my parasol would withstand the ocean breezes that grasped at the ship as it glided into port, and decided instead to simply be warmed by the sun, and allow all of nature to assault my senses.

The soft sway of the boat only added to the surreal impact of what lay before me. But what did lay before me? I knew not, but I looked forward to exploring this place, and seeing what hints of my past might lay within its walls and small alleyways.

As we drew closer, nearing the docks, I moved to a space where I might not be in the way of crewmen seeing to masts and anchors, and leaned on the rail. What seemed small wavering spots soon grew taller, then shadows appeared beneath legs and skirts and I watched as the city came to life before my eyes. I was delighted. The salt air mixed with the smell of fresh-baked goods and my stomach rumbled. I knew I should eat before debarking but the thought of wasting even one minute in setting foot upon the soil of La Rocca was out of the question.

My maid came up and placed a lace shawl about my shoulders to ward off a slight chill and I accepted it, pulling it around me and waiting impatiently as the crew slid the gangplank down. My footmen bid me into my sedan and I nearly waved them off, but in my still-weakened condition, acquiesced and allowed them to safely transport me down the gangplank, to the dock, and up the steep stairs to the commons. I could scarcely believe the contrasts; such small stone corridors weaving a labyrinth beneath the glorious pastoral green.

I rapped lightly on the wall of the sedan, and stepped out when it was placed on the ground, dismissing my footmen. I wished to have a full view of this place, without hindrance of the small enclosure. The sun warmed my skin, and the cool ocean breeze soothed me. No wonder I had come here so often.

I walked toward a large building and within a small copse of Mediterranean pines, a set of stone benches were set, shaded from the heat of the sun, and a small table with wine and glasses set out. I wondered who might have been there... if perhaps I would meet them, if they would know me. Suddenly, the anxiety of coming so far to potentially meet strangers who knew more about me than I knew about myself seemed a silly thing. Suddenly, in the midst of this wondrous place, I found myself hopeful. I walked along the edge of the benches, lightly touching the table holding the wine, and smiled, knowing that some day, perhaps soon, I might be seated there amongst friends, drinking wine and enjoying their company.

As I walked up the steps to the building, I paused to look out at the sea. So strange a journey I had just had. I did not know what had happened to me, awoke in strange surroundings, frightened and alone, and within a matter of mere weeks, found myself in such a glorious place with all the possibilities of life laid before me like a tremendous canvas just waiting to be painted. My mind churned with unanswered questions and unforeseeable outcomes as I slowly climbed the steps, into the shade of the building and through the doors, so immersed in my thoughts. Then I stopped, dead in my tracks.

Such grandeur! I had seen but my own chambers and a small portion of my home upon leaving, the inside of a carriage, the lower decks of a ship, but this... I turned, surveying every painting, every statue, every gilt door frame and felt my eyes well up with tears. I wandered about the Villa taking in everything; each room more exquisite than the one before it and my heart pounded. I could not tell if I was familiar with this place, or if simply the magnitude of its beauty overwhelmed my senses.

After what seemed like hours, I made my way out, and followed the path, down a stairway, and found myself in a lovely cafe overlooking the ocean. I picked up a newspaper, hoping to learn more of what was going on in this glorious place, and a man's voice spoke my name.

Someone knew me, here. I looked up at the older gentleman and came to find that he was the Magistrate of the island. Signore Stern. A friend.

I cannot possibly articulate how grateful I am to be here.

[end of entry]

I've been given a journal to keep. I suppose writing things down might help me to remember, but then why do they not give me one with prior memories? I have asked if I may have some idea of who I am, but all they say is "Lady Olivia" or "Dowager Baroness Clive". I've yet to have a concrete answer, but I suppose the first thing I should do is to write down my name.

Olivia

Clive, I suppose, though some call me Chapman and then correct themselves. The lady and gentleman with the worried expressions are called by that name, and say they are my parents. I do not know them.

My awakening brought me great fear, as one might imagine. I was told I had an incident - what, exactly, has not been disclosed. I find the lack of forthrightness quite appalling, but perhaps they are only withholding information that, if disclosed, would bring me greater discomfort.

After two weeks being fussed over and seen to by a positive army of physicians, I've been packed off on a ship to a place called La Rocca. I'm told that the weather is quite fine and temperate, and that I have many friends there.

I look forward to meeting them.

A servant crosses the field in the early hours, pulling a cart along with provisions from the local market. Looking east to catch a bit of a pale pink and orange sunrise. He slows, squinting as he tries to make something out in the distance... an oar.... an overturned boat.... a body.... then drops the handles of the cart and runs full pitch into the water lapping at the edge of the estate.

_________________________________________________________________________

Nervous conversation in fits and starts echo in the hallway outside her bedchamber

"How long has she been unconscious?"

"Was she bleeding?"

"Is she dead?"

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The physician examines a gash in the thicket of brown hair, giving instruction to the nurse who will tend to the lifeless form for as long as she draws breath. The money is no object; it will be a combination of a bit of luck, some skillful nursing, and a will to live on the part of the patient. He has done all that he can for now. He collects the various implements of the trade, looking down one last time as the chest shallowly rises and falls, and slips on his frock coat, opening the door to speak to the housekeeper.

" Mrs Rawley, I would suggest that you alert the Baroness's family immediately. Her parents will, I am sure, wish to be by their daughter's bedside should she awaken."

"I've already seen to it, Sir," she nods, then casting her eyes down to the floorboards "And.... will she awaken?"

He rests a consoling hand on her shoulder "Time will tell."

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((OOC: Forgive me for the abrupt exit -- I don't know if it's temporary or permanent. I only know it's necessary. I feel sure I'll still speak to some of my friends in the past, but I know a great number of you exist there. I hope to come awake again someday, and find you all well, and happy. ~ Olivia))

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmgBU8r6VQo

Mrs. Rawley was horrified, though she tried to hide it. She was ordinarily someone I looked to a great deal in matters of setting up the household, but I was very clear in my request to have one of the beds set up in the new house immediately. I would take a carriage from the current arrangements in Portsmouth, to Southampton, and stay in the new house. Alone.

Ordinarily, I knew, this would be outrageous, but I was feeling outrageous.

I was a young woman, still only twenty, and had managed to marry the single most boorish man on the face of the planet and only have to withstand his presence in my bedchamber once. As it stood right now, I was sure I did not carry his offspring, and while the demise of any human life is no reason to celebrate, I found myself acting well out of my natural standards simply because of the life I now knew I would lead.

A familiar voice in my head admonished me and warned of my ruin and I giggled, suddenly. Mrs. Rawley looked at me oddly and gave up the fight. She knew better than to try to convince me otherwise. Into the carriage I went with a small valise of items I would need and as we began the short journey, I smiled to myself. "Outrageous" I said to myself, and laughed.

The carriage stopped in front of my new estate, and while footmen brought in my things and assured themselves, at least, that all was well, I stood admiring the view. I refused to step foot into the house until they were gone. Watching the carriage rattle empty back to Portsmouth, I waited until it was around the bend, and took my time up the walk and through the doors. The echo of my footfalls was impressive; so empty and so cavernous it was. I walked up the staircase and into the room that would eventually be filled with my things, and unhooked the outer robe of my gown, slipping it down my arms and laying it over the foot of the bed that had been temporarily brought in.

Shrugging my shoulders to loosen them, after being freed from the burden of yards of silk brocade, I walked the length of the room, then into the hall. I peered over the balustrade and imagined a house full of people, all dressed in finery, and enjoying the music, the food, the free-flowing champagne and suddenly I felt a joy I had not felt since being a child.

Small tapping noises against the window startled me, until I realized it was rain and I dashed down the stairs, across the entry and through the front doors dressed in my chemise and stood, arms outstretched, as the water cascaded down from the sky. I felt wonderful. Baptized by nature and reborn; delirious with the possibilities of my life. I stood laughing at the grey skies until the gauzy fabric clung to me like a second skin, then made my way indoors and up the stairs to my room. Disrobing completely and putting on my night clothes, I quickly jumped under the covers. It had been a very long day, and tomorrow promised to be the same. I pulled another pillow close to me and hugged it tightly, smiling and quickly dropping off.

The rain continued to fall as I slumbered, storms rumbling in the distance, and I began to dream. . .

I was in the new home, and it was furnished! Oh, the lovely brocades and damasks, lace and raw silk, highly polished wood and gilt accents, crystal and china all gleaming under the soft light of candelabras. I walked through the house, hearing a song being sung by what sounded to be a very young girl's voice.

Fairest Isle, all isles exce-lling.
Seat of pleasure and of love,
Venus here will choose her dwe-lling,
And forsake her Cyprian grove.

It seemed an unlikely song for a young girl, and I sought her out, room after room. Her voice sounded so near, but still I could not find her.

Cupid from his fav'rite nation,
Care and envy will remove;
Jealousy that pois'nous passion,
And despair that dies for love.

I began to run through the house, now urgently needing to find the source of the song, when my eyes glanced left and I saw her through the window. I glimpsed a vision of her dancing through the flowers beside the house as she sang, and moved quickly towards the doors to pursue her. Again, I saw a flash of her making her way towards the lake behind the house and I felt compelled to find her, to ask her of what or who she sang.

Gentle murmurs swe-et complaining,
Sighs that blow the fire of love,
Soft repulses, kind disda-ining,
Shall be all the pains you prove.

Finally at the edge of the lake, I stood at the clearing and looked around. Her voice was still clear, constant and beautiful, but she was nowhere to be seen. My eyes traveled the edge of the wood, and then saw something in the water. I clutched my breast and gasped: She had fallen in the lake! But still. . . she sang. How could that be? I carefully walked to the water's edge, climbing gingerly out onto a rock and looked into the lake, reaching out my hand, hoping to be able to save this girl.

As I leaned forward, arm outstretched, I saw her. She was there in the water, smiling at me, covered in flowers with small butterflies fluttering about her. I opened my mouth to ask her to take my hand and my voice was not my own, but her's, finishing the song in that clear and perfect pitch.

Ev'ry swain shall pay his du-ty,
Grateful ev'ry nymph shall prove;
And as these excel in bea-uty,
Those shall be renowned for love.

My lips closed as the song finished and as my outstretched hand touched the water's surface, her reflection disappeared.

I felt someone shaking me and I turned to look at who might be preventing me from saving her when Mrs. Rawley's voice broke through the web of my dream and pulled me back to reality.

"Heavens, you gave me a fright! I have heard moans and screams from the depths of sleep but a song sung suchly?? I feared you were taken by a spirit!"

I looked up at her, and must have reassured her somehow of all being well, though I don't recall uttering a word to her. Finally satisfied, she left the room. I sank back into the pillows and closed my eyes, smiling, allowing my mind to think of a handsome face with smoldering eyes that stared at me, silently. And I softly sang the song to the morning sun.

" Finally, he came to the point. "I must apologize for the lengthy preface, Baroness," he began, "but these matters must be seen to with great care." I waited, perched on my chair and he continued "The long and the short of it, is that the Baron had planned to leave a rather large chunk of his estate to a woman named Katie." My heart stopped beating. I knew that it was the wretched maid of whom he spoke; the very one who told of my plans to flee to Belgium with Edward. I nearly moaned aloud at the thought of his name... to think of that at such a time only added salt to my wound. I was dumbfounded. The Baron must have kept the little shrew as a concubine, and his intentions were to give her what was due to me, his wife!"

Read the full post at:

http://oliviachapman.blogspot.com/2013/07/where-theres-will.html