by Angela Couch
“I shall consider myself warned.”
Rachel reappeared in dry clothes. She went to the fire to pour what had to be now scalding water into a pan.
“It still remains unclear why you are helping me.”
“I admit to not knowing myself until an hour or so ago.” Joseph glanced at Rachel and then back again. “But now I realize it’s because somewhere in a place I’ve never been, in a time I’ve only heard of, a man said to love your enemies. If it had been an ordinary man, I could have shrugged it off without a second thought—I almost did—but it was the Son of God, so it seems the thing to do.”
Even though his eyes remained on Joseph, letters and pages of a book flashed across his mind, growing bold. He could see the words. He knew them so well. “‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you...that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.’” He looked to his benefactors. “There are people who actually live Christianity, and not merely profess it?”
“Don’t look at me.” Joseph motioned toward his wife as she gathered clean cloths. “If you want a true Christian, Rachel is the one representing this family. Her goodness sort of rubs off on the people around her.” Joseph stood and moved away as she approached. “Hunter will be waiting for oats and a good currying.”
Rachel remained silent as she set the basin near the cot. She finished removing the bandage, her hands much kinder then Joseph’s had been. Still, a groan couldn’t be contained as she cleaned where the scab had opened.
“I’m sorry.” She winced as though she were the one in pain.
“What have you to be sorry for? I am sure we can blame everything quite easily on my British stupidity.” The humor he’d tried for didn’t make it past his clenched teeth. “I should be apologizing for causing you more trouble.”
Her hands paused as her gaze found his. “Just give yourself time to heal, all right?” She spread a dark salve across the fresh bandage, and pressed it gently against the wound. “If you try to kill yourself again, I’ll shoot you myself.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, the side of his mouth pulling up against his will. “You and Joseph both.”
She straightened the blankets around him, her countenance grave. “Any of our friends and neighbors would gladly come with loaded muskets and do just that if they knew you were here. Don’t you understand that? You put us at risk, too.”
“Forgive me.” He covered his eyes with his hand. How could he have been so foolish? He did not want to hurt the Garnets in any way. That was all the more reason to leave...as soon as he was well enough.
13
He jerked awake to the dimly lit room. Images, faces, flashed across his foggy mind. Everything abstract. Clouded. Even his surroundings. The small rustic room. The hard bed making his body ache. He didn’t feel overheated and yet perspiration trickled from his face.
The creaking of a door pulled his gaze to a young man as he stepped into the room and stifled a yawn. Recognition pushed back several layers of the haze.
And then she appeared, stepping around Joseph, moving directly toward the cot.
“How did you sleep?” Rachel crouched over him. “You don’t look well.” She placed her palm on his forehead. “That’s strange. You’re soaked but you feel chill.” A spark ignited in her eyes. “You fool. Your fever probably returned last night thanks to your escapade yesterday.”
He pushed her hand away. “Do not concern yourself. I believe I have learned my lesson.”
“I hope so.” She sighed. “I’ll get you fresh blankets.”
With a glance down at his bare arms and chest, he grimaced. “Could I disturb you for clothes, as well?”
She pursed her lips, as though deeply contemplating his request. “I don’t know if I trust you with them now.”
Joseph chuckled from across the room. “The man did say he’s learned his lesson. The least you can give him is a clean shirt.”
“Fine, but anything else he has to earn by behaving himself and staying where he belongs.” She moved toward the bedroom.
He nodded his thanks to Joseph, who held his gaze, all joviality draining from his face. “Rachel, give him some of Pa’s clothes. They’ll fit him better than mine.”
She twisted back to Joseph. “But...”
“It’s all right. Just do it. I’ll get all the stock looked after this morning so you can see to our friend here. I’ll stop for breakfast when I bring the milk.” Joseph pulled a tricorn hat onto his head and disappeared out the door.
Rachel didn’t move, still staring after her husband, her cheeks white. No doubt the thought of seeing her father’s garments on the likes of him turned her stomach.
“You do not have to.”
She glanced at him before dropping her gaze. “It’s fine. Joseph is right. It’s impractical to leave them sitting in the trunk when Pa has no more use for them.” Her eyes shone, and she turned toward the bedroom.
“I am sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” Her hands came to her face as she slipped from sight.
He massaged the dull ache behind his temples.
Rachel returned within a few minutes, setting the clothes on the rocking chair and then laying a new quilt over him. “Can you hold this one in place while I withdraw the damp ones?”
He nodded, doing as directed. A moment later she hung the used quilts over the back of two chairs to dry. “Do you need the pot?” she asked, her back still to him.
“I can wait until Joseph gets back.” He would probably never get used to needing help with that. Even now, his face heated discussing it with a beautiful young woman—even if she was married. “Would you help me with the shirt?”
Stepping to the rocker, she took the garment in her hands and shook it out. Moisture again brimmed in her eyes, making them appear larger. With the shirt draped over her arm, she moved to his side and pulled the blanket from his chest. Her gaze lingered a moment too long, and he fought the urge to squirm.
It wasn’t as though she were a beautiful, unmarried lady with whom there could be any attachment. She had a husband and was only serving in the capacity of a nurse.
Still, warmth crept up his neck as Rachel rotated him slightly onto his good side, sliding his arm into one sleeve and tucking the shirt behind him. She moved to the other side and helped him with the second sleeve, knelt beside the cot and put her hands on his chest as her fingers worked to button the front. While worn, the shirt was actual linen, not homespun.
“I can do that.” He cleared his throat. “I am sure you have more than me to attend to.”
Her hands paused then she nodded, her eyes flickering briefly to his. “I’ll fix breakfast.”
After he finished with the buttons, he looked to the ceiling.
Rachel’s presence was marked by the clanking of pans, the gurgling of water being poured, the cracking of eggs—she commented at least a couple had survived yesterday’s misadventure, whatever that was—and the scrape of smooth wood against wood. The rafters remained silent and unchanging, just as they had for the past week and a half. He moved his gaze to her, folding the pillow in half to hold his head higher as he watched everything she did.
“You know, I won’t poison your food or anything of the sort,” Rachel said after a few minutes, her voice terse.
He raised a brow. “I am hardly concerned about that.”
“I wasn’t sure, the way you watch me—as if you’re scrutinizing my every action.”
No wonder she had avoided the house in the past. “I did not intend to appear so audacious. There is not much for me to do except stare at the ceiling. I fear I have become rather bored with that.”
“I imagine so.” Regret touched her face and softened her features. “I’m sorry I purposefully stayed away. I never gave much thought to how you would spend those hours.”
“You had your reasons.”
“Though very poor ones. It was
wrong of me. Perhaps we could find you something to do.” Her lips gained fullness with the suggestion of a smile. “I don’t suppose you knit.”
He chuckled. “I do not.” He raised his hands. “I am afraid these are not so useful.”
“Would you like something to read? I assume from the manner of your speech, that you are capable.”
“You have books?” Why did that surprise him?
Her chin lifted. “Perhaps we are not the peasants you assume us to be. My mother brought volumes of poetry and other books to teach us to read by. Even several novels. And we have the Bible, of course. Though I don’t suppose you need it.”
“Why would I not need the Bible? Is it not written, ‘man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God’?”
“That’s why. You probably don’t need it because it seems you already have every verse stored in your head. Tell me, how is it you can’t remember your own name, but can quote scripture as if you wrote it?”
He relaxed into the pillow, the hazy rafters no longer his focus. Still his mind could not grasp the answer. Either the human brain was a finicky thing, or the words of that book meant more to him than even his own identity.
Rachel came from the bedroom a moment later and handed him a thick, leather-bound volume. He took it, wiping his sleeve across the dusty cover.
“I got to thinking last night,” she said on her way back to the table, “maybe it would help your memory if we listed some names. If you heard your own, perhaps you’d recognize it.”
“I suppose it is worth the attempt if you are willing to assist me.” He opened the book and glanced at the words. The prophecies of Isaiah. “I have spent hours searching my mind, yet it continues to evade me.”
She picked up the bowl and moved to the fireplace where the table blocked most of her actions. She stirred the coals and set something over them on a rack. “What are some fine English names? How about Thomas?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“James, Andrew, Simon, John?”
“Are you listing common British names or the Apostles of Christ?” He smiled at her.
“Well, you do seem to be Christian, and they are quite common names here. I’m not British—at least, not anymore—so you tell me which names are popular in England.”
“No, let us continue with this.” He flipped through the pages of the Bible. “You are correct. I am Christian. I do not remember it, exactly, I simply...I know it. My belief in Christ seems to run deeper than memories or thoughts. It is the core of who I am, as though I would cease to exist without that sense of faith in the Lord. For ‘who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation or distress or...’” He looked to her with a sheepish smile. Pulling himself up a little more, he redirected his attention back to the Bible. “Shall we continue? What are some of the other names?”
The sizzle of batter meeting a hot skillet was followed by a mouthwatering aroma.
His stomach pinched and churned. Had it been most of a day since he had eaten last? The pain in his thigh had been distracting enough until now.
“Do you want them from the Old Testament? There’s Adam, Jacob, Ezekiel, or, perhaps,” she flashed him a grin, “Nebuchadnezzar?”
“Nebuchadnezzar? Do you really think that fits?” He shook his head. “Perhaps we should start with the New Testament. I am sure you agree I look more like a Herod or Pilate?”
“I wasn’t planning to say anything, but I think you’re right.” She shot him a disapproving glare. “We’re wasting time. Let’s be serious.”
“I thought we were.”
He was rewarded with another scowl, but, so far as he could remember, he had never seen one as pretty. He chuckled and turned his focus to the Bible. “What other names are there?”
“What would a mother call her little redheaded boy? I know your hair is dark now—browner—but I am guessing you were quite fiery as a child. How about Peter, or Thomas...oh, I said that one already. There’s also Stephen.”
“Stephen.” There was something about that name.
“Is that it? Is that your name?”
He searched his mind, ignoring the pressure mounting there. “I think not.”
“Oh, no.” Her cry was accompanied by the scent of something charring. “You distracted me, and they started to burn.” She flipped the flat cakes onto a plate and poured more batter into the skillet.
He continued his trek through the pages until he came to a list of the disciples’ names. “You did not mention Philip yet, did you?”
“No. I didn’t list even half of them.”
“Nathaniel, Matthew, and of course there is always Judas.”
“Your mother would have been a cruel woman to name you after Judas.”
A laugh formed in his chest, tendrils of pleasure spreading through him as it released from his throat. What a relief after days of tension. “There were two of them.”
“Yes, but only Iscariot is remembered.” Rachel placed the batch of hot cakes on a plate under an overturned pot. “I think I like the name Thomas for a redhead. That, or Andrew. But I already said that one, too. I guess we will have to move on to names not in the Bible, or back to the Old Testament. Are you sure it’s not Nebuchadnezzar?”
He closed the Bible, but continued to stare at it. “Say that name again.”
“What name—Nebuchadnezzar?”
“No. Before that one. Andrew.” What was it about that name? Almost a familiarity.
“What about it?”
He met her gaze, but remained somber as he willed the fog to lift. “Say it to me again.”
“Why?”
“Please, repeat it once more.”
“Andrew?” she asked, her voice unsure.
“Again. Speak it as though you were addressing me.”
“Andrew.”
Something in her voice, a gentleness, brought his gaze back to her.
Rachel’s hair was pulled into a tight braid, yet already fine strands of gold had escaped to frame her olive-toned face. With the lamp dim at her side and the morning light pouring from the window, she seemed encircled as if by a heavenly aureole.
He fought down the lump in his throat and again looked away. Not only was he an enemy soldier—she was another man’s wife.
~*~
Rachel struggled to catch her breath. His gaze had become so intense; it was as though he had reached out and touched her. His abrupt withdrawal tugged at her heart. She turned back to the skillet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I recognize that name, is all.”
“Do you think it could be yours?”
“I could hardly be sure.”
“It’s a good enough name.” She cleared her voice, but it still sounded strange to her ears. “Would you mind if we called you Andrew? It seems odd having nothing at all.”
“You mean nothing that would not rally the Continental soldiers.”
She glanced over her shoulder.
His dimples showed, then deepened, extending down his cheeks as he smiled. It transformed his face and lit his eyes. Her heart did a little skip. “I suppose.”
Rachel quickly directed her attention back to the fire and stirred down the coals. “I wonder.” What of his coat under the pile of hay—had Joseph ever checked it for anything that would identify their patient? Strangely, such had never occurred to her.
“What was that you said?”
Rachel dropped the poker back to its place and hurried through the door into the rain. Darting into the barn, she went directly to the stack of hay. Joseph was nowhere in sight, which was good. She didn’t want to explain. She’d wait until her search proved fruitful—if it proved so.
The coat was well buried, literally in the heart of the stack. Joseph definitely wanted to take no chance of it being discovered. Sprigs of dried grass clung to her dress and head by the time she pulled the red uniform out. Rachel sat back, reality turning her empty stomach. She couldn�
��t think about that now. She had one purpose—to find out who that man really was, and to help him remember. But what if that was a mistake? Right now he was a harmless nobody with no alliances or duty. What would become of that man when his memory returned?
A paper crinkled under the pressure of her fingers as they gripped the coarse fabric. Rachel reached into the pocket and withdrew a letter. The blue waxen seal already broken, she unfolded it, flattening the parchment over the scarlet coat.
Captain Andrew Wyndham,
I have written to inform you that the request for Lieutenant Stephen Wyndham’s transfer to the Eighth Regiment has hereby been approved. Though this is highly irregular, I have been made aware of your family’s situation. I trust you shall continue to put your duty to your country and the uniform you wear above that which you owe to your kin.
Lieutenant-colonel Barry St. Leger
Rachel stared at the words. Andrew Wyndham. The name of a gentleman...and a captain in His Majesty’s army. She folded the letter into the coat and shoved it again under the haystack, burying it well. Then she dusted her skirts clean. At the sound of heavy boots plodding their way toward the barn doors, Rachel scurried back to the cabin.
“Where did you go?”
She finished stirring the coals and placed another split log over them. “I remembered that...that there was something I needed to take care of in the barn.”
“Something involving hay?”
Rachel glanced toward his raised brow. Andrew. She knew his name now. She should tell him. But how? “What makes you say that?”
“Your hair is quite lovely ornamented with it.”
“My hair?” She caught coarse strands of pale green between her damp fingers. Returning to the door, she discarded the bits outside and then dried her hands on her apron. “I was thinking, you’ve been here for two weeks in our home; you may as well know me by my Christian name.”
“Rachel?”
“Yes.” She remembered how shocked she’d been the first time her name had crossed those lips. She’d been afraid of what he knew. If he would become a hazard to them. If only she could trust him enough to tell him everything she’d discovered.