Simply Anna

by Jennifer Moore

  John nodded for him to continue.

  “Mr. Norton and I discovered a woman on the beach.”

  “A woman?” Clarissa’s eyes grew even wider.

  “Yes, at first we assumed her to be . . . deceased.” He did not want to describe in what state they had found her while Clarissa was present. Although from her earlier comments, he did not think his hostess possessed an overly sensitive disposition. “Dr. Bevan is attending to her even now, but she had not awoken at the time I left for supper. Mr. Norton speculates that she could have washed ashore from a shipwreck. Maybe the storm a few nights ago.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” John smoothed his mustache. “The current and all. Have you any idea how long she was in the water?”

  “None, sir. I thought to alert the constable in Port Antonio. Perhaps send to Kingston and Black River to inquire about a shipwreck, or if anyone is searching for a woman named Anna.”

  “Anna?” Clarissa said.

  “Yes, she wore a pendant with the name on a gold disc.”

  “Not a very pretty name, is it?” She wrinkled her small button nose. “Certainly not elegant.”

  Philip was taken aback. He quite liked the name Anna, and while it was not as flowery as Clarissa or Jacqueline, it brought to mind someone who was delicate and feminine but not spoiled and demanding. “I think Anna is a very suitable name for a lady,” he said, unsure why he felt it necessary to defend the stranger in his guest chamber.

  Clarissa’s round eyes took on a hard look. “Is this Anna a lady then? What is her age? Is she attractive?” She clipped off each sentence and folded her arms across her chest.

  “I’m afraid her condition was such that it was impossible for me to tell anything about her at all, Miss Stapleton.” His tone barely concealed his irritation with her questions.

  John motioned for a servant to serve the port. “Aye, the constable will look into the matter. She could have come from anywhere. Hispaniola or even one of the smaller islands.”

  Clarissa excused herself to the drawing room while the men remained with their drinks. Philip felt the tension leave the room with her.

  “Lovely girl, isn’t she, Lord Philip?” John said with an affectionate smile when they sat back in their chairs.

  “Yes, you are a lucky man to have such a daughter.”

  “She’s likely the most eligible woman on the island.” John’s gaze bore into his.

  Philip swirled the dark liquid in his glass, trying to think of something to change the topic. It seemed that every time he’d done so this evening, he’d ended up on a more uncomfortable subject than the last.

  John drank deeply and set his glass on the table, squinting his eyes as he studied Philip. “I imagine you’d be immensely suitable for my Clarissa—and a member of the aristocracy to boot. But, I’ll not rush things.” He leaned back, folding his hands across his ample waistline. “Best to let young people take their course, if you know what I mean.”

  Philip was at a loss for words. The heat returned to his neck. He’d never met a man as brazen when it came to sensitive subjects. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself leg shackled before the evening was out.

  His host chuckled. “Cat got yer tongue, I see. I take that as a good sign.” He stroked his mustache. “There’s a bit of business I’d thought to discuss with you if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” Philip’s words spilled out in a rush. He had never been so relieved to transfer topics in his life.

  “It’s about your big man. Head of a gang, I think he is.”

  Philip knew precisely of whom John was speaking. He’d seen Malachi a number of times over the last few weeks and had been extremely impressed with the man’s physical strength as well as his sure way of directing the people beneath him. Malachi had a calm, assured manner that Philip found himself rather envious of. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem. I’ve had my eye on that one for years. A Negro with his skill and strength, he’s an asset to any operation.”

  Philip remained quiet, not sure what John was getting at.

  “I have offered him a position here at Kensington Estate numerous times, but he’s refused. I suspect Horace Braithwaite may have had something to do with his response, but now that he’s no longer overseer . . .”

  Philip’s chest was tight, whether from anger or frustration he did not know. There was much he didn’t understand about the way of things on the island, but he did know that his slaves were his property and any attempt to acquire them should be taken up with him or Mr. Norton. “And may I ask, sir, why you thought it acceptable to offer employment to my worker instead of speaking to my overseer or myself about his purchase?”

  “His purchase?” John’s face split into a grin. “Like I said, you’ve much to learn. I suggest you begin by determining which of yer workers are bondsmen and which are free.”

  “Malachi is a free black?”

  “Aye, purchased his papers years ago. He’s had many an offer for higher paying positions, but for some reason he’s remained where he is as the mere head of a gang at Oakely Park.”

  Philip considered this information. Why would Malachi settle for lesser paying duties when he was free to choose his own situation? Was it truly because of Mr. Braithwaite? Philip had seen how cruel the overseer could be and had witnessed his demeaning treatment of Malachi. If he’d the opportunity to get away from a man who mistreated him, why didn’t he?

  “I plan to make him an offer again. Just thought I’d inform you—one gentleman to another.”

  “Then we shall see what Malachi chooses to do.” Philip raised his glass and smiled, but the expression was forced. He knew precisely what John had seen in Malachi—the man was strong and capable. But he could not imagine that, given the choice, Malachi would be content to work for these people. He hoped the man would at least give him the opportunity to match John Stapleton’s offer.

  As Philip rode along the jungle road back to Oakely Park two hours later, he attempted to sort through the things he’d learned. He wondered again about Malachi and what had kept the man at his menial position. He didn’t imagine Malachi could have feared Mr. Braithwaite physically. Had Mr. Braithwaite been holding something over him? Was he being blackmailed? What was the large man’s reasoning?

  He changed his train of thought to John Stapleton’s obvious hints that he should consider marrying Clarissa, an alliance that would more than double his assets. He imagined what his father would think when Philip told him how he’d increased his earnings. The marquess would be immensely proud and Philip’s brother immensely jealous. And the woman herself, Clarissa was . . . well, she was wealthy, and . . . he was certain she possessed other desirable attributes. He simply hadn’t had the opportunity to discover them. He thought he could possibly endure her tiresome conversation, pouty mouth, and bouncing ringlets for a few minutes a day. How much time was a man obliged to spend with his wife anyway? The foliage on the side of the road rustled, and his horse skittered.

  Philip lifted his pistol and spoke in a low tone to calm his mount. He peered into the dark jungle surrounding him, but the only light came from slight glow of the moon illuminating the path. He urged the horse forward at a quicker pace that matched the increased speed of his heartbeat.

  The image of a woman floating through the dark sea arose in his mind. The very thought of the helplessness she had likely felt and the terror that must have coursed through her veins was the stuff of nightmares. What kind of a person possesses the strength of mind to push aside her panic and figure out a way to bind herself to an oar when every instinct within her should have set her to fits of hysteria that would have resulted in her drowning? He imagined that Jacqueline would have fainted dead away at the first instant or spent her dying breath determining who was at fault for her plight. Likely she would be most furious that her clothing was wet.

  He wondered how Anna fared. Was she well? Had she awoken? Had she— His heart felt heavy at the other
possibility. He did not know why the idea of this stranger’s death made him sad. Perhaps because he still did not have many acquaintances in Jamaica, or perhaps because he had yet to solve the mystery of how she had turned up on his beach. Anna, he said under his breath. What a charming name.

  Chapter 5

  Her skin felt hot and tight. Her eyelids were heavy, and her head ached. She heard hushed voices nearby but neither recognized them nor understood what they were saying. And she was so tired. She fought against the darkness that tried to creep back over her and, with a concerted effort, opened first one eye then the other.

  It took a moment for her vision to focus. Her mind was hazy. Where was she? She took in the large four-poster mahogany bed, the thin curtains hanging from the canopy, the whitewashed walls with dark wood trim, and exposed ceiling beams. None of it looked familiar. She turned her head to the side, wincing at the pain, and wondered why her body felt so sluggish. Was she ill? Two people stood in front of the large, shuttered windows, although she couldn’t make out any details through the gauzy fabric of the curtains around the bed.

  She tried to speak, but the sound that escaped was little more than a raspy groan. She swallowed and tried again.

  The people stopped their conversation and hurried to her, pulling back the curtains. Standing over her was a young man with light-orange hair, wearing round-rimmed glasses, and a dark-skinned woman with her hair bound in a scarf. Her heart pounded. She didn’t recognize either of them. She tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain shot through her head and she groaned again.

  “Just lay still, miss,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Bevan.” Up close, she saw that freckles covered his hands and face.

  “Where am I?” she croaked. She moved to sit up again, feeling incredibly vulnerable lying prostrate with two strangers standing over her.

  “You’re at Oakely Park,” Dr. Bevan said. “You suffered a trauma, but you’re safe now.” He motioned to his companion. “Betty is the housekeeper.”

  Betty lifted her chin and inclined her head in a gesture better suited to a queen than a housekeeper.

  Oakely Park? She willed herself to think. The words did not sound in the least familiar. How did she get to this place? And what had happened? She gritted her teeth and pressed her arms into the mattress, trying to raise herself onto her elbows.

  “Do not exert yourself.” Dr. Bevan slipped a hand behind her back and lifted her slowly forward.

  The pain in her head was nearly unbearable, and she closed her eyes when the room started spinning.

  Betty placed pillows behind her, helping her to a nearly sitting positon, then poured a glass of water.

  The drink felt cool on her dry throat. “Thank you.” She touched her head and found it wrapped in a bandage. Her arms were slick, covered in some type of oil, and her nightclothes were unfamiliar.

  Dr. Bevan sat in a chair next to the bed. “Do you think you’ve the stomach for some food? Perhaps a bit of broth?”

  She nodded, and Betty left the room. “Please, can you tell me what happened?”

  “Lord Philip found you on the beach three days ago.”

  None of the doctor’s words made any sense. “Lord Philip? The beach? But how did I . . . ?”

  “Your skin is burned, and you suffered from extreme dehydration—which could explain your confusion.” He leaned forward to help her take another sip and then sat back in the chair. “Based on your condition, we believe you were exposed to the sun for quite some time, and though we cannot be sure, we theorized that you may have been washed ashore from a shipwreck.”

  Her mind reeled, but she couldn’t uncover any memory of a shipwreck—or a ship. She breathed faster. Why couldn’t she remember? “A shipwreck? I don’t . . .” She’d been on a ship? From where? Panic swelled in her chest. She couldn’t remember where she’d come from. She tried harder, trying to think of who might be searching for her. She came up with nothing. Not one name, not one face. She pushed her mind, willing it to remember something, but found only emptiness.

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “I don’t remember anything.” Her heart pounded so forcefully she could feel the banging in her aching head. She struggled to control a surge of terror. “Doctor, I— Who am I?” She pressed her eyes closed, searching through her mind, but where there should be memories, it was entirely blank. Her throat swelled, and she thought she would choke. Her arms and legs began to tremble.

  “Miss, you must calm yourself. Like I said, dehydration can cause confusion.”

  Her trembles caused her teeth to rattle. She tried to compose herself, to breathe deeply and still her shaking. It was no use. “Doctor, it is not confusion. I can think; I can speak. I can recite a sonnet if you wish. But I do not remember anything about my life. How old am I? Do I have a husband? Children? Where am I from? What do I look like? I do not even know my own name.” She brushed her fingers over the base of her neck, unsure of what comfort she sought there, but not finding it somehow increased her distress.

  Dr. Bevan drew his brows together. He pinched his chin and tapped his finger against his lip for a moment. “Your name is Anna.” His expression remained thoughtful as he watched her reaction.

  She let it settle in her mind. Anna. She felt nothing. The name did not seem any more familiar to her than any other. “Anna?” She focused on the word, hoping it would unlock the chamber in her mind where she knew the rest of herself was hidden. “I do not recognize the name. How do you know it is mine?”

  “A necklace you were wearing. The pendant was carved with the word Anna.”

  She touched the base of her neck again. A sob rose in her throat. “Why can I not remember, Doctor?” The shaking increased.

  Dr. Bevan took her hand. “I have read about such a condition. Amnesia, it is called. I do not think it manifests the same in every instance, but I fear becoming upset will only impede the process of you memory returning. Do you understand? You must calm yourself.”

  Anna nodded. She concentrated on her breathing and willed her pounding heart to slow. He helped her to drink again, and she turned her mind to other questions that the doctor would have the answers to. “Where is Oakely Park, Doctor?” A small sob hitched her breath, but she focused on the man next to her.

  “It is a plantation on the north shore of Jamaica, nearly fifteen miles west of Port Antonio.”

  Anna could see the map of Jamaica clearly in her mind and wondered how it was possible. “I know about Jamaica. This side of the island is quite sparsely populated, if I remember correctly.” She continued speaking, hoping to keep from sinking back into panic. “A jagged shoreline makes landing a ship difficult, and the Blue Mountains lie between here and the larger cities of Spanish Town and Kingston.”

  Dr. Bevan’s brows drew together again. “I wonder if you are from the island,” he said. “Although your easily burned skin and accent indicate otherwise.”

  “I do not know,” Anna said. Was she a colonist? Were people right now searching for her? People whom she could not— She shook her head as the fear began to rise again. “Lord Philip, I think you said. Is he the owner of Oakely Park?”

  Dr. Bevan nodded and then raised his gaze as Betty entered. “Lord Philip has left for the evening to attend a dinner party at another plantation,” he said to Anna.

  Anna sipped at the chicken soup until the pain in her head became too strong and her eyelids too heavy. She kept her mind on the things she knew for sure.

  Jamaica. She could remember various facts about the island and its history but was unable to conjure an image of anything besides the map.

  Lord Philip. She wondered what type of man he was. She pictured a wealthy British plantation owner with his hundreds of dark-skinned slaves and found the image in her mind did not portray him in the most flattering light. Lord Philip, she thought to herself as she drifted into sleep. She wondered if the man was as unpleasant as she imagined.

  Chapter 6

  Philip sat at the dining room table waiting f
or his breakfast, as was unfortunately becoming his habit. He did not even spare a thought to the tardiness of the meal today but stared instead at Dr. Bevan. “What do you mean she has no memory? How is this possible?”

  The doctor pinched his chin, looking thoughtful as he spoke. “The condition is unusual but not unheard of. I have read of similar cases, sometimes brought on by an injury to the head. Or when the patient has suffered a particular trauma. It seems Anna has endured both.”

  “Will her memory return?”

  “I am afraid I do not know, my lord. I have no personal experience with a case like this. She seems to have some knowledge of the island. She could even be a resident. Perhaps something at Oakely Park will rekindle her memory.”

  Philip drummed his fingers on the table. He was not sure precisely what it was about the situation that frustrated him. Anna had not been an inconvenience; she’d not been a bother at all, but he’d counted on her waking fully recovered. He didn’t realize how anxious he’d become to know the full story of her adventure, and now it seemed the situation wouldn’t wrap up cleanly at all. “And how long will it take?”

  “I cannot say. There is no way to know. She could recover her memories at any moment—or never.” He knitted his fingers on the table before him, his expression softening as he leaned forward. “She is, as you can imagine, quite upset. I gave her a dose of laudanum last night to calm her.”

  “She has no memory whatsoever?” He knew he was repeating himself, but the entire situation seemed so implausible.

  “Anna is very bright, my lord. She recalls facts and information about the world. But somehow she seems to have forgotten her own place within it. When she attempts to remember anything about her life, she finds nothing but darkness—a void.”