by Nancy Butler
That nightmare had ended less than a year ago, and he still bore the scars. His nerves had settled, it was true—the tic in his cheek and the trembling in his hands had disappeared. But the villagers continued to treat him as though he were the gaunt stranger with the uncontrolled twitches and lurching walk who had appeared among them ten months before. And he did nothing to change their opinion of him.
The Thames was all he needed—it was his home, his source of peace. He often thought it was because he had been raised on the banks of another great river, one which also ran through a thriving capital city. The water beckoned him, like a prophet’s burning bush. It spoke to him, soothed him, and refreshed him. But it had never before cast a black-haired water witch up on his island, practically at his feet.
He knew he should row the girl over to Treypenny, now that she had regained consciousness, and put her in the care of the magistrate. She was obviously well born—that ball gown she had been wearing would have fed a cottager’s family for a year. But she was still unwell. And it wasn’t much trouble to feed her—Niall had recently brought him a crate of supplies. And in spite of his resentment over her abrupt intrusion into his life, there was something about her that intrigued him.
While she had slept, restless with fever, she had repeatedly cried out in a childlike voice, “Please don’t make me go back!” Romulus was not proof against such a heart-rending plea. He needed to discover what it was she feared so greatly before he made a decision of any kind.
Still, he’d best have Niall ask around tomorrow, to see if any of the young ladies in the district had gone missing Saturday night. Her family was no doubt in a proper state by now. Unless she’d run off and left them a note. Perhaps it was a runaway marriage which had gone awry, or some similar foolishness.
He sighed. Birds notwithstanding, women were surely the most flighty of God’s creatures.
* * *
Diana awoke into darkness. The cygnets were silent—the man must have fed them recently. It was curious, though, that she hadn’t awakened when he came in. But then he was a particularly quiet man. Had he watched her as she slept, held the lantern above her and looked down upon her face? It was unlikely—he was far more interested in his birds than in a sleeping girl with a tangle of black curls. Which was a pity.
Diana climbed from the bed and found she was much steadier on her feet. But she also found herself in desperate need of a privy. She tottered through the door and into a low-ceilinged sitting room, furnished with mismatched castoffs—two tattered arm chairs and a lumpy looking sofa. The stucco walls were painted a pale ochre, and against one of them leaned a tall shelf, brimming with a raggle-taggle collection of books. A branch of candles was burning on the mantel, and beside the hearth stood a surprisingly fine walnut desk.
She crossed the room and poked her head out into the narrow hallway. “Hullo?” she called softly.
“In here,” a disembodied voice replied.
She made her way shakily down the hall to a brightly lit kitchen.
“Feeling better?” The man looked up, but did not rise from his stool, which was pulled up to a scarred pine table. He appeared to be holding a pair of long knitting needles in his hands. Diana realized with a start that there was a bird’s body at the end of the needles.
“Yes, much better,” she said as she drew closer. “What sort of bird is that?”
“Gray heron,” he responded, as he unwound the bandage that was wrapped around the bird’s left leg. “Got himself caught in a wire snare two weeks ago. Here”—he motioned with his chin—“hold that cloth over his head so he won’t struggle. I need to remove the splint and see if his leg is mending properly.”
Diana did as he asked, standing at his shoulder as he worked. It was a pleasure to watch his hands, so deft and sure, as they carefully removed the wooden splints.
“Will he be crippled?” she asked.
“Too soon to tell. I’ll keep him here if he can’t return to the river; I’ve a pen out back for such cases.”
“Speaking of out back…” she said haltingly, “is there by any chance a privy?”
He turned his head and looked at her as though she had asked to have the Royal Barge brought around.
“Well, don’t tell me there isn’t.”
“Well, there is. I’m just surprised you were so plainspoken about it.”
He finished up with the bird, replacing the gauze bindings, and then motioned Diana to follow him. He went down a set of stone steps and into the lantern-lit back yard. Two adjoining net-covered pens stood off to the left; the nearest one contained a basin of water and a pile of hay.
“The privy’s out there,” he said, pointing beyond the pen. “Just past the woodshed. Take the lantern down from the wall so you can see where you’re going.”
When Diana returned to the pen, the man was inside, trying to soothe the frightened bird.
“He’s very agitated tonight,” he said, looking up. “A positive sign that he’s mending, I think.”
“Perhaps I can ease him,” she said as she went through the wood-framed doorway.
She crouched down beside the heron, smoothed the flapping wings, and then took the long neck in the crook of one arm. With her free hand she began to stroke the bird’s breast, humming softly at the back of her throat. The heron gradually stopped fighting and she soon felt the narrow body relax.
“There,” she said, rising to her feet. “I think he’ll do.”
The man was looking at her like she was, in truth, a witch. “How the devil did you do that?”
Diana grinned. “My aunt used to have a parrot. He had fits sometimes, and that’s what she did to calm him down. He was very high strung, but he liked the humming and stroking.”
“I daresay he did.”
The heron was now stalking awkwardly around the pen, but he seemed much less perturbed.
They returned to the kitchen. While her host put his tools away, Diana let her gaze wander around the room. Except for the small hearth and the soapstone sink, it looked more like an infirmary than any kitchen she had ever seen. On a rack along one wall hung an assortment of pliers, shears, tweezers, and metal probes. Glass bottles, stoppered with cork and containing dried herbs and colored liquids sat in a tidy row upon a narrow trestle table. The contents of each bottle was labeled in a sprawling, backhand script. Beneath the trestle a collection of baskets held gauze, bandages and wooden splints.
“Who are you?” she asked as she settled onto a stool.
He looked up from the gauze he was rolling. In the flickering candlelight his eyes had taken on a golden cast. “The keeper of the swans,” he said simply.
Oh, she thought with a shiver, that is almost as good as Tall River God. The Keeper of the Swans.
“And does a name go with that title?”
“Perrin,” he said. “Romulus Perrin.”
“Romulus, as in Rome?” she asked, propping her chin on one hand.
He nodded. “I was born there. I lived in Italy till I was nine.”
Well, that explained the odd inflection in his voice.
“I don’t suppose your name has by any chance returned?” he inquired as he sat down opposite her.
Diana shook her head. “Something is shifting around in my brain. I could recall it at any moment.”
He cast her a look of unveiled skepticism, his dark brows lowering over those golden eyes.
“Perhaps I need a new name until that occurs,” she mused, trying to distract him. There was a book lying face-down on one end of the table—the Inferno by Dante Alighieri. Nice, light supper-time reading, she thought, with a silent chuckle. “How about Allegra?” she suggested. “That sounds properly Italian to me.”
He saw where she had been looking. His long fingers reached out and stroked the morocco spine. “Beatrice would be more fitting in that case, I think.”
He’d given the name its lilting Italian pronunciation. Diana thought that if he ever said a full sentence to her in that r
ich, melodic language she would probably swoon.
She wrinkled her nose. “Too starchy. I think Allegra is a lovely name.”
“Then Allegra it is. And will you require a surname as well?”
After a moment’s thought she said, “What about Swan? Allegra Swan.”
“Sounds like an opera dancer,” he muttered.
She grinned. It did have a nicely florid ring to it.
“Well, if you don’t like the thought of sharing your home with an opera dancer”—she watched in delight as his lean cheeks drew in—“then what about Heron? In honor of our surly friend out there.”
“No, I think I prefer Allegra Swan,” he said. “Though you don’t look much like one.”
“What? An opera dancer?” she teased.
He replied between his teeth, “No, a swan.” His eyes scanned her openly. “You’d have to be stately and elegant, in that case.”
Diana ignored his slighting comment. “As long as it’s not Allegra Partridge,” she said darkly.
“Are you always this glib?” he inquired, crossing his arms on the table as he leaned toward her. “You seem surprisingly at ease for a woman who can remember nothing of her past.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “How is it you were able to remember the aunt with the parrot?”
Diana nearly cursed aloud at her lapse. She’d have to temper everything she said from now on.
“So I did,” she said musingly, her eyes wide. “But for the life of me I cannot recall her name.”
Romulus muttered something under his breath.
“Truly,” she said and gave him her most winning smile.
He continued to frown, which only accentuated the high, arched bridge of his nose, and the stern, stubborn set of his chin. “You’d better get that letter written,” he said gruffly. “So I can row it over to the village in the morning. I’ll find a farmer going to market to carry it to London. With any luck, your Mr. Bailey will receive it tomorrow. Ask him to post his reply to the Waterthrush Pub in Treypenny. If he is able to identify you, then I’ll have you out from underfoot by Wednesday or Thursday.”
Diana shot him a look of annoyance. “You are certainly anxious to be rid of me.”
He returned her look with one of impatience. “My anxiety is for those who have misplaced you. Your family or friends. Hasn’t it occurred to you that they will be overset with worry?”
Diana shrugged. “Perhaps I live alone. Some ladies do, those of a bookish inclination.”
“Oh, and do you sit and read your dusty little sermons in a satin gown?” He motioned behind her to where her ball gown hung on a peg, dry now, but wilted and gray from its sojourn in the river.
“Mmm? Maybe even bookish ladies go out of an evening.”
“Give over,” he said crossly, hiking himself off the stool. “There’s a deal more here than you are willing to tell me. But short of shaking it out of you—’
“If you doubt my story, you could always read my letter to Mr. Bailey before you post it.” She cast him a look of open challenge. “You might get a clue or two from that.”
“That would be pretty now, wouldn’t it? Rifling through a lady’s private correspondence. It’s just that I can’t credit how well you are taking all this. Most of the fellows I knew who lost their memories—”
“Oh, and did you know a great many?” she asked airily.
“In the war,” he stated, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “In Spain. After an artillery shell exploded, it wasn’t uncommon for the soldiers nearby to become disoriented.”
“How long did it usually take them to recover?” she asked more gently. Something in his tone had made her lose all her pertness.
“Hours in some cases. Days in others. Rarely more than a week.”
I have a week then, Diana thought with relief. A week before his suspicions would be truly aroused.
“You are very quiet, all of a sudden,” he said, then added slyly, “Care to have a stab at the truth?”
Diana looked up to where he leaned against the trestle table. “I don’t know the answers,” she said earnestly. Well, that was true enough. “I need time for things to sort themselves out. And I’ll try not to be a charge on you, Romulus. Perhaps I can even help you with your work.”
“You are only hours out of your sickbed,” he reminded her. “And females have no business being out on the river. Look what trouble you got into Saturday night.”
“I wasn’t out on the river on purpose!” she cried, sliding off her stool in agitation.
“Aha!” He jabbed one long finger at her as he said silkily, “And how, pray, do you know that?”
She glared at him. “Even a lackwit wouldn’t take a rowboat out after two weeks of torrential rain.”
“I take my boat put every day,” he said. “But then I am used to the river in all its moods. But tell me again…you recall being in a boat? There was no boat nearby when I found you.”
“I certainly didn’t swim to this place,” she muttered. “So there had to be a boat. But whatever events led to my being in that accursed boat, you can be sure I wasn’t on the river voluntarily.”
“Ah,” he said with an infuriating drawl. “So you think someone is trying to do you in?”
Diana marched up to him. The top of her head barely reached his chin and he was not even standing fully upright. She angled her head back to meet his eyes. “I didn’t choose to fall out of that boat on your island, sir. And after the way you have been treating me, I think it might have been preferable to drown.”
He grinned down at her. “And I thought I was being the soul of hospitality.”
“You can row me to the nearest village in the morning,” she snapped, turning away from his irritating amusement. “I’m sure someone there will offer me a place to stay. In the meantime, if you would kindly point me to the writing supplies—I still need to contact Mr. Bailey.” She went to the kitchen doorway and stood there, arms crossed, one bare foot tapping impatiently upon the stone floor.
Romulus was frowning when he moved away from the trestle and went past her into the hallway. He motioned curtly for her to follow, and after settling her at his writing desk, he stalked from the sitting room.
“Well,” Diana muttered, as she dipped her pen in the ink pot. “He certainly is a testy old thing. Even if he is rather attractive when he gets cross. I wonder what he did in the war? I wonder what he’s doing here on this island caring for baby birds? Oh, what does it matter? I’ll likely be gone in the morning.”
She turned her thoughts to her letter, which needed to be worded very carefully. It wouldn’t do to give too much away. Lawyers were cagey sorts, far too good at reading between the lines.
“Dear Mr. Bailey,” she wrote after some consideration, “a certain young lady, late of Bothys, is at present staying with friends in the country. It will be some time before she can again return to her family. Please assure those who are concerned over her disappearance that nothing untoward has occurred.”
There, she thought with satisfaction. Bailey would easily deduce the identity of his correspondent, and he’d then assure Helen of Diana’s safety. And if the insufferable Mr. Perrin was ungallant enough to open her letter, he would learn only that she had lied about losing her memory. But there would be no way he could use the letter to trace her back to Mortimer House. Not unless he went to London and accosted Bailey himself. And that was highly unlikely. He just wanted her gone from his island.
Once her missive was sealed with a clot of red wax, Diana felt much better. Although her relationship with her elder sister was heated at times, she did not wish to cause Helen unnecessary distress. She placed the letter on the mantel, and then went to examine her host’s bookcase. The lower shelves held reference books and portfolio’s wrapped with brown cord. The upper shelves contained leather-bound copies of the classics, and tattered volumes of the less ponderous poets. A collection of Pope caught her eye. Yes, she could imagine the wry, sarcastic Romulus Perrin enjoying his Ale
xander Pope.
She plucked the book from the shelf, settled into one of the chairs, and began to read, chuckling occasionally to herself. Every few minutes she glanced up at the mantel clock, wondering where her host had disappeared to. Surely there was not a grog shop on this little island. If he didn’t return soon, though, she would be much too sleepy to apologize. Which was what she had every intention of doing. She couldn’t blame Romulus for being suspicious—her acting skills needed a deal of honing, and she had muddled her performance dreadfully. But she hoped an earnestly worded apology would keep him from sending her away.
As she tried to concentrate on Mr. Pope, her thoughts drifted to her father, back home in Bothys with only his books and his aged servants for company. Dear, misguided Papa, who had thought he was acting in her best interests by placing her in Helen’s hands. Diana knew she could return there, and receive nothing more than a stern lecture for being headstrong. But she didn’t want to go back to Yorkshire.
She yawned and gave a weary sigh. No, Yorkshire no longer held any allure. She wanted to stay right here on this island, with Romulus. Because it was…because he was….
* * *
Romulus found her asleep in his favorite chair, The Rape of the Lock lying open at her feet. He retrieved the book and returned it to the shelf, wondering what a society chit could possibly find compelling in the caustic humor of the immortal Pope. He shrugged. Her tastes in literature were none of his concern. In fact his only concern was to get her the hell out of his life. Before he became even remotely attached to her.
It was the only way with foundlings. Once they were strong enough to survive in their world, he saw to it that they were set free. No matter that he might have begun to look forward to their company. Baby birds or society belles, both had to be returned to their proper homes. His island was only a temporary refuge.