Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  “Mrs. Milton, please. I haven’t the time for this.”

  “You’d best make the time, Dr. Carter, as it only involves the poor man’s life. Directin’ him to a local boardin’house is like tellin’ a fox to take up residence with the hounds. At the very least, you ought to turn him over to the state.”

  He rubbed his temple. “Mrs. Milton.” He dropped his hand to his side and sat back against his leather chair. “The man is far too old to become a ward of any state.” He swept a grudging hand toward the open window beside him that mirrored a quiet, moonless night. “Given his size and level of intelligence, I doubt he’ll run into any trouble.”

  The bastard didn’t even care that the minute that Brit put his polished boots on the wrong street, he’d be dead. She marched toward him, halting before his desk. “Whilst I know the world is full of woes we can’t mend, we sure as hell ought to try. I want you to board him.”

  He blinked. “What? Here?”

  “No, you dunce. In your home. What better way to care for your patient than givin’ him a room next to your own?”

  Dr. Carter threw back his head and puffed out a breath. After staring up at the ceiling for a long moment, he leveled his head and confided in a very impersonal tone, “I cannot take him home with me. My wife would throw a fit if I commenced bringing home all of my patients.”

  “Better your wife than me.”

  He pointed at her. “I’m asking you to leave before I have you tossed on your goddamn nose. I’ve had enough of this.” He swept a finger to the door. “Get out.”

  It was obvious this man wasn’t taking her seriously. Setting both hands atop his piled ledgers, she leaned across the desk toward him and lowered her voice a whole octave to better deliver her threat. “Before you go about tossin’ me out on my nose, Dr. Carter, I want you to think about whether or not your life means anythin’ to you.”

  He rose to his feet, towering above her. The broad planes of his aging face tightened as he leaned toward her across the desk. “Are you threatening me?” he rasped, placing both of his hands parallel to her own.

  “Nah. ’Tis just a question like…between friends, don’t you see.” Georgia narrowed her gaze to match his. “But supposin’ the Forty Thieves, who provide me with whatever protection I require, were to hear of my distress? What then? I’d be thinkin’ it’d be in your best interest to help this man along. Because if you don’t, I’d reckon that the quality of your life will diminish to the point that the Holy Virgin wouldn’t even be able to help you.”

  His eyes held hers, his rigid brow flickering with renewed uncertainty. “I am a servant of the state. No rabble has power or say over me.”

  Georgia continued to stare him down. “Toss me on my nose and count all of the men who will show up at your door. I dare you. Go on. Toss me.”

  Dr. Carter edged back and away, slowly removing his hands from the desk. Swiping a trembling hand across his face, he sat and shifted in his seat, refusing to look at her. “Might I ask why you are so intent on assisting him? Is he a customer who never fully disclosed his name and owes you money? Is that what this is about?”

  Georgia lowered her chin, her pulse roaring in her ears. “How dare you? I sell hot corn on the hour of every summer and scrub clothes for priests in three wards, barely makin’ half of what you eat in an effort to stay respectable.” She snapped a finger toward the open door. “I don’t know who the hell that man is any more than you do! Cursed that I am, I feel guilt for what happened to him. He was hit runnin’ after my reticule. I may not be fobbin’ high society, sir, but how does showin’ an ounce of concern for a man make me a whore?”

  Dr. Carter fell back against the chair and sighed. “I simply wanted to know what I was attaching my name to.”

  “Well, now you know. I do laundry. Not men.”

  He cleared his throat. “Thank you for more than clarifying that.”

  “I still don’t understand a spit of any of this. How does a man forget his own name and life?”

  Running the tips of his fingers against his mustache, he eyed her. “I’ve actually read about a condition similar to his known as ‘memory loss’ in one of my medical journals. It involved a soldier who was rendered blank after a severe blow to the head during the war. I myself never thought it medically possible, but it’s obvious this man’s memory is for the most part gone. I wanted you to be aware of that given your concern.”

  She swallowed, bringing her shaky hands together. This was her fault. She should have never looked at him that day. Perhaps things might have been different. Perhaps he’d still have had a mind. “Don’t you know anythin’ about him? Anythin’ at all?”

  “A few things, yes. ’Tis obvious by the clothing he arrived in, his speech and mannerisms, as well as the money that was found on his person, that he appears to be of British affluence.”

  She huffed out a breath. “I already knew that. His buttons were made out of silver, sir. Not even bankers can afford silver buttons.”

  “Then you know about as much about the man as I do, Mrs. Milton.” He held up a hand, shifting in his seat. “Threats aside, I will agree that assisting him is the right thing to do, but my time is very limited, so I am going to ask for your assistance, in turn. I work as many as twelve hours a day and my wife and six children barely see me. What little time I do have, I spend with them and hope to God you’ll not impose on what I consider to be incredibly precious.”

  Georgia blinked, her throat tightening. Now she felt like a bloke of the worst sort, having bullied a family man. “I didn’t mean to toss threats, but I learned a long time ago that generosity and compassion have to be threatened out of people.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment. “You are far more impressive in nature than you let on.”

  She set her chin. “The frayed gown has a tendency to mislead people into thinkin’ I’m as equally frayed. Now let’s get on with this. What will you have me do? I’ll see to it if it means helpin’ him. That’s all I really care about.”

  He sighed. “Find a means to board him until he is claimed.”

  She lifted a brow. He wanted her to board him? Impossible. There was only one bed in her low closet and it belonged to her. Even if she did manage to get past sharing it with a man she didn’t know, he’d only end up leeching resources she barely had. “Bein’ a respectable widow, sir, I’ve neither the money nor the means.”

  Dr. Carter leaned over and yanked open one of the drawers on the desk, scooping up a stringed, small leather satchel. “I retrieved everything from his pockets when he first arrived to prevent anything from being stolen. The patients here aren’t particularly trustworthy.” He tapped it. “Inside, you’ll find a fob and a pocketbook containing one hundred and thirty-two dollars. It should be more than enough to oversee all of his expenses. I’ll even waive the hospital fee if you promise to board him for however long it takes to locate his family.”

  Georgia gawked at the lopsided satchel. “One hundred and thirty-two dollars? Away with you. Who wanders about the city with that much money in one pocket?”

  He smirked. “A pirate, I suppose.” He paused and shifted awkwardly in his seat. “I should probably disclose that he claims to be a Salé pirate.”

  She gasped. “Whatever do you mean he claims to be?”

  He cleared his throat. “If you intend to board him, which I hope you will, I highly recommend you not exasperate his situation. He isn’t in the least bit dangerous, but riling him into questioning his own sanity will only result in pointless paranoia. If he says he is a Salé pirate, he is. Do you understand?”

  Heaven preserve her soul. What was she getting herself into? Whilst, yes, she wanted to help, and the man seemed infinitely divine on the street, she didn’t know who this Brit was or what he was capable of. What if he’d already been deranged prior to being clipped by the omni and his so-called “memory loss” was, in fact, who he really was?

  “Abide by calling him Robinson Crusoe,” he continued
. “He prefers it.”

  She blinked. “I thought you had said he didn’t know his name.”

  “He doesn’t. He thinks Robinson Crusoe is his name.”

  She squinted, not understanding his point. “Beggin’ your pardon, but Robinson Crusoe sounds like a very legitimate name to me.”

  He blinked rapidly. “You obviously haven’t read the book.”

  Now he really wasn’t making any sense. “What book?”

  Dr. Carter leaned toward her, awkwardly refusing to meet her gaze. “Mrs. Milton.”

  “Yes?”

  “Robinson Crusoe is the name of a character from a book. ’Tis a story decades old and well-known amongst boys and men alike. The main character is a sailor whose ship is overtaken by Salé pirates who force him into becoming a slave. He manages to escape, only to be shipwrecked on an island frequented by cannibals. So you see…our Salé slave and pirate thinks he is this character. He thinks he is Robinson Crusoe.”

  Her eyed widened. “That doesn’t sound like memory loss to me. He sounds…deranged.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know. But he isn’t.” He shifted toward her. “In trying to understand his most unusual condition, I presented him a map of the world and asked him where we were and where he lived. Imagine my astonishment when he points to France and mentions rue des Francs-Bourgeois in Paris. ’Tis a street I know very well, given my wife’s parents had lived on that same street prior to the Revolution that pushed them out. ’Tis still an impressive area frequented by those of affluence and one Robinson Crusoe would have never frequented. I have written to his address to inquire, but without a name or house number, it may lead nowhere.

  “So you see, he may not remember who he is, but he still remembers factual things outside of this Crusoe. Factual things that must pertain to his own life. I have therefore concluded that his condition isn’t one of full-blown fantasy but an inability to decipher between fact and fiction. That doesn’t make him deranged. It only makes him…unreliable. Something to keep in mind whilst you board him.” He plucked up a piece of stationery from his cluttered desk, along with an ink-slathered quill. “I will require your name and address before you depart with him.”

  She angled toward him. “Don’t you think that a man who claims to have met cannibals is a walkin’ liability I ought to avoid? Regardless of if he knows life outside of this—this Crusoe? What if he should eat me and all of my neighbors in honor of his cannibal friends? What then, sir?”

  Dr. Carter burst into laughter and caught himself against the desk, eyeing her. “He won’t—” He laughed again, shaking his head. “No. He won’t. Not this man.”

  She set her hands on her hips. “I’m bein’ quite serious and I wish to Joseph you’d be, too. I’ve seen far too much to question what is or isn’t rational. Men are never rational, sir. They only pretend to be and I’m rather worried I may end up swimmin’ in my own blood.”

  His features sagged. “I cannot predict what he will or will not do, but the man is genuinely compassionate and protective of others. Throughout his entire stay, he’s done nothing but lecture us on our inability to tend to patients and is always getting out of bed to assist others in the hall, despite having orders that he rest. If that assurance isn’t enough, I suggest you let him walk out into the world, Mrs. Milton. For he is neither your responsibility nor mine. So what will you have me do? The choice is yours.”

  Oh, now, that just wasn’t fair. She sighed. “I’ll find a means to board him,” she grouched, waving toward the parchment. “The name is Mrs. Georgia Emily Milton and the tenement is 28 Orange Street. Orange. Like the bastard who destroyed Ireland.”

  Dr. Carter paused, leaned over the parchment and sloppily scribed her name and address. “Thank you.”

  This was going to be a mess. She’d probably have to hover over this Brit like a hen over a cracked egg. But then again, if there was anyone who understood cracked, it most certainly was her. “About how long will I have to board him? Exactly?”

  “That I cannot say. It could be a few days or several months, depending on how long it takes for someone to recognize him.”

  She refrained from groaning. Though she hated submitting to guilt, for it was a pesky emotion that always got her into trouble, she owed the man this much, given it was her reticule that had sent him under an omni.

  Dr. Carter set aside the quill, swiped up the satchel and held it out. “I will leave this in your care and will be in touch. Make the money last. We don’t know how long it will be before anyone claims him.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll ensure both he and it lasts.” She reached out and tugged the small, weighty satchel from his hand. Why did she have this eerie feeling that she was taking on a man who was about to do far more than ruin her month?

  CHAPTER THREE

  She Ventures, and He Wins.

  —A Comedy Written by a Young Lady (1696)

  A MAN OBNOXIOUSLY CLEARED his throat from behind Georgia where she still lingered before Dr. Carter’s desk. “I realize the hour is anything but convenient, Dr. Carter, but I’m asking to depart all the same before I lead a revolt in the hall. None of the goddamn linens in our beds have been tended to in over three days. For those men who have fluids pouring out from more than the usual places, I find it vile and disturbing. You and your minions ought to be hanged for your wretched disregard for humanity. Hanged.”

  The harsh British voice startled Georgia into turning to the man. She instinctively pressed the small satchel in her hand against her hip, her eyes jumping from a broad chest up to a taut, masculine face. The man didn’t sound quite as mindless as Dr. Carter had led her to believe.

  The Brit, who lingered all but a stride away, glanced down at her and paused. His black hair had been brushed back from his forehead with tonic, giving him the appearance of the distinguished gentleman she had met on the street, but that sizable scab and the large yellowing bruise marring the right side of his cheekbone and square jaw made him look like one of the boys. Dried blood from the day of the accident still spattered parts of his knotted cravat and full sections of his outer gray coat near the width of his broad shoulder.

  Merciful God. They had never even washed his clothes. The rest of him appeared to be well scrubbed, though she sensed it was not anything the hospital had bothered with, but something he had insisted on.

  Shifting toward her, he searched her face and drew in a ragged breath. “I know you.”

  She smiled awkwardly. “Aye. That you do.”

  He half nodded. “Yes.” His shaven face flushed. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize anyone would be coming.” Stepping toward her, he reached out and swept up her hand, making her almost drop the satchel that was still pressed in the other one.

  Her heart flipped at the base of her throat as he bent over to softly kiss her bare hand.

  No one but her Raymond had ever kissed her hand like that. It was the signature of a gentleman who could see beyond the rags. Georgia swallowed against the tightness of her throat and tried to tug her hand loose only to find that the man wouldn’t let go. “Might I…have my hand back? Or do you plan on keepin’ it?”

  He glanced up and tightened his hold, that large hand taking complete command of hers.

  It was obvious he planned on keeping it.

  With a solid twist, she tugged her hand out of his, a rising heat overtaking her cheeks. “I realize things are a bit muddled for you, Brit, but when I ask for somethin’ back, you give it back. Be it a hand or anythin’ else. Agreed?”

  He edged closer, his pensive expression gauging her. “I apologize for being unable to remember the details pertaining to our relationship, but are you my wife?”

  Her lips parted. Oh, the poor man’s mind had been completely bashed. He didn’t remember her at all, and given his cheeky behavior on the street that day, he probably did have a wife, damn bastard.

  Dr. Carter cleared his throat from behind. “Mrs. Crusoe, I recommend you heed my earlier advice of not riling him
into a form of paranoia. ’Tis best.”

  Mrs. Crusoe? Georgia swung toward the man and pointed at him. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no. There isn’t goin’ to be any of that.”

  “Mrs. Crusoe.” Dr. Carter’s voice dropped to a low warning. “I hold you responsible for his health and his delicate state of mind for as long as he is in your care. I will say no more.”

  Oh, this couldn’t be right. How could feeding into a man’s delusions be responsible? It wasn’t! She swiveled back, intent on settling this before she took him home. “Never you mind him, Brit. You and I most certainly aren’t married. In truth, I barely consider us friends.”

  “You barely consider us friends?” His mouth tightened as he continued to stare. “That isn’t at all what I remember.”

  She quirked a brow. “And what exactly do you remember?”

  He shifted his scabbed jaw and glanced toward Dr. Carter before recapturing her gaze. “’Tis hardly respectable to say, given that we are not married.”

  Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  He smoothed his blood-spattered cravat against his throat and set his chin, avoiding her gaze. “Whilst I am pleased that you are here, for I was beginning to wonder if anyone would come, given my inability to remember names, I ask that we save this conversation for another time. Would you be so kind as to return me to my flat? I’m exhausted.”

  She paused. “Your flat? You mean you know where it is?”

  His brow wrinkled. “Yes and no. I thought it was located on rue des Francs-Bourgeois, but Dr. Carter informed me that we are not in Paris, but in New York. So I suppose the answer is no. I don’t know where my flat is.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. You know where I live, don’t you?”