Awakening Amelia (2 page)

Amelia continued washing him until she reached his long elegant feet and was able to pat him dry. His ankles bore the scars of shackles, too. He wasn’t as tall as her deceased husband, but then Matthew had been something of a giant. She guessed her patient was around six feet in height.

Another knock at the door had her bringing the sheet back up to his neck. Aunt Betty came in carrying her basket of medicinal remedies.

“How is he, dearest?”

“He’s clean. That’s all I’ve accomplished so far.” She touched his forehead and frowned. “I think we should try to bring his fever down. Do you have anything?”

Betty rummaged in her basket and produced a glass bottle. “This should help.”

Amelia mixed the dose with some water and slid an arm around the man’s shoulders to raise his head off the pillow.

“Drink.” He murmured something and arched away from her, bringing his unshaven cheek against her bosom. “
Beber esta
.”

She managed to trickle the liquid into the corner of his mouth and he swallowed and then took more as if his body craved water even in unconsciousness.

“
What
did you say to him, Amelia?” Betty asked.

“I spoke in Spanish. It’s the only language he appears to understand.”

“How peculiar.” Betty peered at their patient through her spectacles. “He doesn’t
look
foreign.”

“He doesn’t, does he? But perhaps he stole the uniform from a British soldier and ended up being sent here with the regiment accidentally.”

“Your imagination is boundless, Amelia. Maybe he’s been on the continent for so long that he’s forgotten both his manners and the King’s English. It does happen.” She lowered her voice. “Look at all those soldiers in India who go
native
.”

“Perhaps he was a spy posing as a Spaniard and is still protecting his identity?”” Amelia theorized. “That would make more sense.”

“The British don’t use spies, love. We leave that to the French and their despicable allies.”

Amelia knew that wasn’t true, but she was more than happy to let her aunt keep her illusion that the great and mighty British army was somehow above such sordid matters.

“No matter who or what he is, I’ll sit with him for a while and keep offering him sips of water. I’ll call you if he gets worse.”

Betty nodded and then gingerly bent down to pick up the pile of discarded clothing.

“Don’t throw any of that away, will you?” Amelia reminded her. “He might not appreciate it. Ask Dotty if anything can be saved, washed or mended.”

“I’ll ask her. I suppose you’ll want your dinner up here on a tray?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Her aunt kissed her forehead. Amelia knew that now the man was settled in Dove Cottage, Betty considered him her patient and would do anything to help him. “Not at all, my dear. I’ll send Dotty up with it later, and she can bring some gruel for our wounded soldier, too.”

Amelia sighed. “I’ll fetch my work basket. I have plenty of mending to keep me busy.”

She took the chair beside the fireplace, then opened the curtains a crack so that the light fell on her rather than the bed. The man lay more quietly now, his breathing deepening as the medicine started to reduce his fever. When she raised her head from her work, she could see him quite clearly without moving from her chair.

She considered his finely etched profile and ragged beard as she made tiny stitches in a tear in her second best petticoat. He was something of a mystery and she had always loved solving puzzles. Curiosity, as her mother had always warned her, was her downfall and had led to her current restricted life in a small, obscure village by the sea. But she wouldn’t change anything about her current existence. For everything she had lost, she had gained a hundred new experiences.

Until Matthew had died, leaving her alone.

Amelia took a deep breath and shook off her melancholy thoughts. Her husband would be horrified if he could see her now, but she was at least attempting to leave behind her grief and move forward. And now she had a mystery to solve and a patient to set on the road to recovery.

She would count her blessings, darn her petticoat and be thankful.

Chapter 2

“Well, ma’am I didn’t know what to say to the man, did I?” Dotty folded the petticoat with her usual dexterity. “There was something about his eyes I didn’t like and you know how it’s been here lately, what with all the thieving and everything.”

Amelia looked up from her inspection of a rip in her best pillowcase.

“I’m sorry, Dotty. What man? Are you talking about our guest?”

“No, ma’am, the man who came to the door this morning asking after a fellow soldier.”

Amelia gave Dotty her full attention. “Asking about a soldier? What did you tell him?”

“I told him to be on his way. I reckon that if he did have something to do with our man upstairs he deserved to be sent away with a flea in his ear—leaving a sick man lying on the road like that. It’s not Christian.”

“If our guest had lain there another night he would either have been taken off to the poorhouse, or dead.” Amelia shuddered. “That man was no friend.”

“Sally down at the vicarage said the man was asking everyone in the village but no one told him anything.
Jem
said if he’d seen the man he would’ve had a few words with him himself.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Amelia put the pillowcase on her sewing pile. “Do let me know if he comes back, won’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, although I don’t think he’d dare. I told him to mind his own business.” Dotty’s smile was fierce.

Amelia smiled approvingly at her. “Thank you, Dotty, now I must go on up and see how our patient is faring this morning.”

His eyelids felt like they were weighted down with lead bullets. Or worse…pennies to keep them closed in his coffin… With a huge effort, he opened his eyes and studied the unfamiliar blue curtains at the foot of his bed. A subtle roar rattled the windowpanes, and he wondered whether he was in the middle of yet another battle or simply listening to a passing storm.

“Are you awake, sir?”

A figure rose from the fireside and came toward him. He blinked hard, but her features didn’t change into someone more familiar, someone he couldn’t quite picture, but knew was vital to his survival.

“Sir?”

He fumbled to remember her language.
His
language, dammit. “Where am I?”

“You are quite safe.”

“That’s not…” He licked his dry lips, and she immediately offered him a sip of water. He was too weak to hold the cup himself and sipped gratefully at the freezing cold liquid. “…what I asked you.”

“You are in Dove Cottage, sir.” She hesitated. “May I know your name?”

He regarded her for a long moment, cataloguing the unremarkable elements that made up her face, the grey eyes, brown hair and porcelain skin that were unmistakably English.

“It’s…Marco. I think.”

She took his hand and gravely shook it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marco. I’m Amelia Smith.”

“And why am I here?”

“We found you unconscious in the village street, and brought you to Dove Cottage to recover.”

He frowned. “I don’t remember how I got there. How long have I been in this bed?”

“For almost five days now. You had a fever, but thank God, that has passed.”

“Am I in England?”

She sat on the side of the bed, her face angled toward him. “Yes. Where did you think you were?”

“I…don’t know.”

She nodded as if he was making perfect sense. “You had quite a bruise on the back of your skull, sir. I suspect you hit your head badly enough to throw all your senses awry. I’ve seen it happen before. Perhaps you fell from your horse.” She patted his clenched fist. “Your memories will return in good time.”

He accepted another drink of water and then lay back, exhausted, against the pillows. A splatter of rain hit the window, and he jumped.

His companion sighed. “I knew that sunshine wouldn’t last. There’s another storm coming in. I’ll have to make sure Dotty brings in all the clothes from the line. We’re very close to the sea, and the weather is rather unpredictable.”

The staggering normality of her comments made him uneasy. Surely life had never been this simple or uncomplicated? He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been in fear of his life…

“Why did you help me, Mrs. Smith?”

As the light in the room disappeared under the threat of the thunder, she lit a lamp at the side of his bed and looked back at him, her regular features softened by the radiance of the flame.

“I couldn’t leave a member of the British army to die by the side of the road.”

A memory of blistering heat and corpses piled high assailed him and he forced it down. “Why not?”

“Because my late husband was a military man. I have always hoped that if a similar misfortune had befallen him that some good soul would’ve done the same.”

“You are very kind.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was sweet and brightened her face. “Would you like to try some broth or a cup of tea?”

He shook his head even as his eyes started to close again. His headache returned, and he sank back into the relative safety of his dreams. Perhaps when he woke up again, he’d be back in a more familiar world. If he could only remember what that was…

Bright sunlight woke him this time, indicating that the storm had passed. His head was pounding less, so his vision was much better. The room was simply furnished with the small bed, a chest of drawers pushed up against the far wall, a fire place and a chair on which rested a sewing basket. The walls were white plaster and curved oak beams ran across the ceiling, supporting the roof and what he assumed were attics above. It was a charming room and didn’t suit him at all.

He felt…trapped.

The door opened, and the woman came through with a tray in her hands. The smell of something savory drifted over to him, and he salivated like a dog.

“Good morning, Mr. Marco. I thought you might like to try some of Cook’s chicken gruel. She swears it is the best thing for an invalid’s stomach.”

“It’s not Mr. Marco. Its just…Marco.” He frowned. “Or something like that. It sounds wrong now.”

“It certainly doesn’t sound very English.” She set the tray down on top of the chest of drawers and turned to help him sit up, arranging his pillows behind his head. “I assume you are English, or at least British?”

“I think so. Does it matter?”

“Not to me.” She placed the tray on his lap and handed him the spoon. “It’s not as if I’m going to throw you back out onto the street if you are a
foreigner,
although Aunt Betty might consider it.
”

She smiled to show him that she was jesting as she laid a napkin on the sheet beside him.

“I’m finding it hard to remember my English,” he confessed as he spooned up the soup and inhaled the heavenly smell.

“The first words you spoke to me were Spanish.”

He paused, the spoon halfway to his lips as something tugged at his memory. “I don’t remember.”

He tasted the soup and almost moaned at the richness of the broth. He wanted to grab the bowl and simply pour the contents down his throat in one gulp.

Her cool fingers touched his wrist. “I would suggest you take your time, sir. I don’t think you’ve been accustomed to eating well recently.”

He glanced down at his gurgling stomach and realized he was dressed in an old-fashioned nightshirt that was far too big for him.

“Where are my clothes?”

“Dotty washed everything she could and is doing her best to repair what survived. I will have to offer you a new pair of woolen stockings to replace yours, which were so full of holes they fell to pieces when she attempted to scrub them.”

Her wry comment surprised a chuckle out of him. He returned his attention to the soup and slowly ate it under her steady gaze. When he sat back, she deftly removed the tray and set it to one side.

“How is your headache?”

“Slightly better this morning.” He hesitated. “I can’t remember your name.”

“It’s Amelia. Mrs. Amelia Smith.”

“You said your husband was in the military.”

“That’s correct. He died two years ago.” A shadow passed over her face before she met his gaze again. “I miss him every day.”

“Then he will never be forgotten.” Anger stirred somewhere in his memories, and he pushed it back.

“Do you have any recollection of where you come from, Marco?”

“Spain?” He shrugged. “For some reason that feels like both the right and the wrong answer. What year is it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s the year of our lord eighteen hundred and fifteen.”

He slowly closed his mouth as panic shook through him. “It
can’t
be.”

“What year did you think it was?”

“Damnation, I don’t
know
!”

Her hand closed over his, and she smoothed her thumb over his skin. “It’s all right.”

“It isn’t. I feel like such a
fool.
I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where I came from, and I have no idea who I am.”

“And we will keep you safe until you can begin to solve these mysteries.”

“I don’t deserve such consideration. I might be the kind of man who’ll slit your throat in the night and steal all your valuables.”

She held his gaze. “You might be, but perhaps you should know that I keep a loaded pistol beside my bed just in case.”

She was still holding his hand. How could she when he’d just threatened her?

“You are a remarkable woman, Mrs. Smith.”

“I traveled in the baggage train of the army. There isn’t much I don’t know about the behavior of soldiers.”

“You went with your husband?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” She half-smiled. “We eloped. There wasn’t anywhere else for me to go but with him.”

There was a tap on the door and she looked up. “Ah, here is Dotty with your tea and another dose of Aunt Betty’s noxious medicine. She assures me that willow bark is just the thing for your headache.”

He shuddered as he recalled the bitter taste of the medicine. For some reason, he’d found a haven and he wasn’t going to give up his comfortable bed and the luxury of being waited upon for anything. While he attempted to regain his strength he would accept Mrs. Smith’s hospitality, leave her valuables intact and hopefully get some idea of what in God’s name he was going to do next.