Ben had just positioned the ladder against the front of the house when he saw Josh running across the field, waving his arms like windmills.
“Ben!” he screamed. “Ben, you’ve got to come. Quick!”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ben cried as he hurried toward Josh. At twelve, Josh was small for his age. His limbs were like birch twigs, white and narrow, and his face had an elfin quality, the ears just pointy enough to attract attention and make him the subject of endless teasing.
“There’s been a shipwreck,” Josh exclaimed, trying to catch his breath as he hunched over, hands on his knees. “There’s stuff all over the beach.” Josh pulled a watch from his pocket, dangling it in front of Ben’s face. “That’s solid gold, I reckon,” he said, grinning impishly.
Ben reached for the watch and looked closer. The mechanism had stopped, due to exposure to water, no doubt, but the casing did look like gold. Was it wrong to take it? Ben turned the watch over, marveling at the fine craftsmanship.
“I’m keeping it,” Josh said defiantly, and held out his hand for the watch.
Ben returned the watch to him. “Are there any survivors?” he asked.
Josh’s mouth opened in shock. It hadn’t even occurred to him that victims might wash up on the beach. He’d never seen a shipwreck, had never been part of the aftermath of a tragedy.
“I don’t know,” Josh muttered. “I haven’t seen any.”
Ben took off at a run, Josh trotting behind him.
“Wait!” Josh wailed. “I hardly had time to catch my breath.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Ben called over his shoulder.
He got to the beach in record time. Several people were walking along slowly, hunched over as they peered down at the sand. Some already had bulging pockets, having found something of value, others still searching for something worth keeping. Ben felt a twinge of irritation. How quickly human beings turned to scavenging, lining their pockets with the possessions of the dead. He looked out over the Atlantic. It sparkled in the bright sunshine, the water a silvery blue, a mirror image of the clear sky. Seagulls screamed overhead and dived for fish as waves rolled onto the beach in the age-old rhythm of land and sea.
Ben squinted and shielded his eyes with his hand. A mast rose out of the water about a mile off the coast. His gaze followed the dark wood downward, his imagination supplying the rest. He could almost see the ship resting on the bottom, its hull smashed, its contents disgorged on the ocean floor. How many people had been aboard? How many had survived? Had any of them tried to get to shore, or had they thought they could ride out the storm and continue on their way? Where had the ship been going?
Leaving the scavengers behind, Ben walked along the beach. He wasn’t looking for loot; he was looking for dark shapes in the water—sailors and passengers who’d been aboard the ill-fated vessel. He heard a cry behind him and turned just in time to see Tom and Rob Painter drag a limp shape onto the sand. Given their unhurried manner, he could only assume the person was dead.
Ben walked on, unsure where he was going. He wanted to help, but the thought of pulling bloated, lifeless bodies from the sea made him queasy. And there would be bodies. There had to be. He saw something just up ahead and hurried over. It was a woman lying lifeless on the sand, her dark green skirts sodden, and her legs clad in bright yellow stockings. There was nothing he could do for her, so he left her where she was.
“Ben! Wait!” Josh called as he exploded onto the beach. He ran after Ben, his feet kicking up clouds of sand.
Ben stopped and waited until Josh caught up with him. The boy stared at the dead woman, his mouth opening and closing in shock as he inched past her.
“Is she—?” Josh whispered.
“Yes. Come away.”
They walked on in silence. “We should go back,” Ben said at last. “There’s work to be done.”
“Wait, not yet,” Josh pleaded as he spotted something in the sand and dove for it. Josh turned the object over in his hands, looking to Ben for an explanation.
“I think it’s some kind of navigational tool,” Ben said, hoping he was correct.
“Didn’t help them navigate through the storm,” Josh pointed out.
“No, it didn’t.”
Josh’s eyes widened in surprise, and he took off, darting into the dune with a strangled cry. “Ben! Quick!”
Ben followed his brother, his heart pounding when he realized that what he’d taken to be a bit of flotsam was in fact a leather-clad foot. Ben stopped next to Josh, who was staring down in awe. A young woman lay on the sand, partially hidden from view by scraggly grass. She wore a gown of apple-green wool, and her fair hair was spread about her head like a halo. Her eyes were closed, her skin nearly translucent, and her lips had a bluish tint, but Ben thought he saw movement beneath the pale lids and sank to his knees, reaching for her wrist. It was limp, and he couldn’t locate a pulse. He let out the breath he’d been holding.
“I think she’s gone, Josh.”
Josh shook his head. “No. Try again. I think she’s breathing.”
Ben stared at her chest. Josh was right. It seemed to rise and fall ever so slightly. Ben pressed his hand against her neck. It was cold and clammy, but he did feel a faint pulse. He turned her onto her side and watched in horrified fascination as seawater poured from her mouth. He supposed that was a good sign, so he held her head until the stream became a trickle, then rolled her back onto her back, tore off his coat, and used it to cover the woman. He rubbed her hands to get the circulation going. “Josh, get Dr. Rosings,” Ben added. “And be quick about it.”
Josh took off running down the beach. The number of would-be rescuers had doubled in size since Ben had arrived on the scene, word of the shipwreck having spread through the town. He could now see several lifeless bodies laid out on the sand and was sure more were soon to follow. He bowed his head and said a prayer for the souls of the lost, asking God to spare the young woman before him. She was so lovely, and so young. Had the circumstances been different, she’d have so much living to do before her time came to an end. Ben sat down next to her and reached for her hand, leaving his thumb on the inside of her wrist. It reassured him to feel her pulse.
The woman’s color had improved, and her pulse had grown stronger by the time Dr. Rosings came huffing and puffing toward them. He was an older man, his complexion ruddy and his hair nearly white but still as thick as that of a young man. His round spectacles slid down his narrow nose, which was slick with perspiration, and he nudged them back absentmindedly as he crouched next to the young woman and pushed aside Ben’s coat.
He performed a brief examination, then turned to Ben. “She must be kept warm and dry. Help me get her to town.”
“No!” Ben said, the refusal erupting before he had a chance to think it through. “We’re taking her back to our house. We’ll look after her.”
Dr. Rosings looked surprised but didn’t bother to argue. He had been widowed several years ago, and even though he had Carrie, his Negro servant, to look after him, he did not have anyone who could nurse the young woman properly.
“I’m sure your mother will take good care of her,” Dr. Rosings said. “I’ll come by later, after I’ve seen to the others.” He was in no rush. The bodies laid out on the beach were not in urgent need of care.
Ben lifted the woman into his arms and cut across the beach, bypassing the townsfolk he’d known all his life. He was in no mood to answer any questions or have them gawk at her as if she were a curiosity. He felt strangely protective of her, and although he didn’t consider himself a fanciful man—Derek always teased him that he sorely lacked imagination—Ben felt she would play a vital role in his life.
“Derek won’t like it,” Josh said as he walked alongside, trying to keep up with Ben’s long strides.
“Derek doesn’t have to look after her.”
“Ma won’t like it either,” Josh continued. “It’ll be extra work for her. You should have let Dr. Rosings tak
e her. His servant could do whatever needs doing.”
“Ma won’t mind,” Ben replied gruffly.
“It’s because of Kira, isn’t?” Josh asked, nearly stopping Ben in his tracks.
Yes, it was, Ben admitted silently. Kira had fallen overboard when she and her younger brother had taken out their father’s skiff without permission, just for a lark, not realizing a storm was brewing off the coast of Connecticut. Kira had drowned a few weeks before they were to be married, her remains carried out to sea, leaving her grief-stricken parents with no body to bury and a son whose guilt had nearly driven him mad. Ben’s thumb went to the silver band on his finger. It was to have been Kira’s wedding ring, but he still had it, the ring a constant reminder of his loss. He was only twenty-two, but he felt so much older, especially on a day like today, when he unexpectedly came face to face with the cruel randomness of death.
“It’s for God to decide if she lives or dies,” he said gruffly, “but if she does die, let it be in a clean bed surrounded by good people. No one should die alone.”
Josh shrugged as if Ben’s reasoning didn’t really make much sense to him but didn’t bother to disagree.
Chapter 5
“Goodness me! What’s all this?” Hannah Wilder exclaimed when she saw her sons from the window and rushed out to meet them. “What’s happened?”
“There’s been a shipwreck, Ma,” Josh exclaimed. “We found her on the beach. She’s still alive.”
“Well, let’s get her inside, then. Take her to one of the attic bedrooms, Ben.”
Ben carried the woman up the narrow stairs to the attic. There were two small bedrooms there, each with a sloped ceiling and a dormer window. They had once been intended for the children his parents were going to have, but two girls had died in infancy, and no babies came after Josh, whose birth had nearly killed Hannah. The bedrooms remained empty, used only when their uncle and his family had come to stay, but no one had visited since their father’s death three years before.
Hannah pulled back the woolen blanket on the bed, then eyed the woman’s dress. “Wait,” she told Ben. “Set her down here.” She pointed to the braided rug covering the wooden planks. “Now step outside,” she instructed him.
“What for?”
“Her clothes are wet, and there’s sand everywhere. Out with you,” she said with mock severity.
Ben left the woman on the floor and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Of course, his mother was right. She couldn’t be put to bed in wet garments. When he was called back in, the woman was clad only in a cotton shift, her arms and legs bare. Ben tried not to stare, but the outline of her breasts was clearly visible through the thin fabric, and he could make out her nipples and a dark shadow between her legs.
“Quit gawping and lift her onto the bed,” Hannah admonished him.
Ben lifted the woman and laid her down gently, standing back and watching as his mother brushed the woman’s hair out of her face and covered her with the blanket.
“There now,” she said softly. “You just rest now. Take all the time you need. You are welcome here.”
“She can’t hear you, Ma,” Josh said. He’d come upstairs and was leaning against the doorjamb, watching his mother with a look of consternation on his face.
“And how do you know that?” Hannah asked. “You can hear things when you’re asleep.”
“No, you can’t,” Josh replied stubbornly.
“No? Just the other day, you told me that the wind and the sound of the rain woke you,” Hannah reminded him. “Isn’t that so?”
Josh rolled his eyes. “I suppose. Well, I hope she hears you and wakes up soon. I want to hear about the shipwreck.”
“I doubt she’ll want to talk about it. It must have been horrible,” Hannah said as she ushered Ben and Josh out the door. “Poor thing. I can’t begin to imagine what she must have been through.”
Ben followed his mother downstairs and into the kitchen, where he sat at the table. He hadn’t had his breakfast that morning and was now ravenous. Hannah set about frying bacon and eggs while Ben buttered a piece of bread and gulped down a glass of cold milk. Josh followed his example, grinning at his brother from across the table. He took out the watch and held it up by the chain, watching it swing slowly from side to side like a pendulum.
“Think it’ll work once it dries out?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s that you got there?” Hannah asked, turning just in time to see a ray of sunshine reflect off the gold casing and send a beam of light onto the wall.
“I found it on the beach. It’s made of gold,” Josh gushed. “I want to keep it.”
“Well, you can hold on to it for now,” Hannah said, “but if there are more survivors, you might have to give it back. It may belong to one of them.”
“Yes, Ma,” Josh muttered.
Ben took another bite of bread. He didn’t think there’d be any more survivors. Just the one.
Chapter 6
The sunlight streaming through the window seemed unbearably bright, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut. Her temples were throbbing, the pain bringing tears to her eyes, and a dull ache seemed to radiate from the back of her skull, making it painful to lie on her back. She carefully turned onto her side, facing away from the window, and gingerly opened her eyes. She was in a small room in what appeared to be an attic. There was just the narrow bed, a three-legged stool in place of a bedside table, and a pine chest of drawers. An unlit candle stood on the stool, the holder made of pewter.
She reached out and touched the back of her head, instantly yanking her fingers away. She had a lump the size of an egg that was tender to the touch, the pain shooting into her head like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes felt gritty, and there was an odd taste in her mouth, like she’d eaten something very salty and hadn’t washed it down with a drink, leaving her mouth and lips unbearably dry. She allowed her hand to trail downward, her fingers brushing the soft linen of the well-worn shift and resting on the thick wool blanket. Where was she?
Who was she? The question came unbidden but required an immediate answer, one she didn’t seem to have. No name sprang to mind. No place of residence floated up from the murky depths of memory, and no faces of loved ones materialized before her eyes to offer comfort. She tried to pull up a memory, but her thoughts seemed to bounce off an impenetrable barrier, her questions unable to breach the brick wall her mind seemed to have erected.
“What’s my name?” she whispered into the silence of the room, but no answer came. She wanted to call out, to summon whoever had brought her here, but she didn’t know who they were or what they were called. She didn’t even know if they were friend or foe. She wasn’t sure why that thought had popped into her head, but it made her hesitate. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to alert them that she was awake just yet. She had to try to remember as much as she could, but first, she had to remember herself. The very notion was absurd. How could she not remember her own name?
Forcing herself to concentrate, she mouthed a few names, hoping one of them would feel familiar, right, but they all sounded hollow and alien.
“Elizabeth, Mary, Abigail, Jane,” she muttered. Nothing. No sense of recognition. “Anne, Amelia, Sally.” Silent tears ran down her cheeks, sliding down her nose and dripping onto the embroidered pillowcase. She felt helpless and scared, but most of all completely adrift. At sea.
How had she come to be here, in this room? Had she undressed herself, or had someone taken the liberty of removing her clothes? Had they touched her? Violated her? Her body felt battered and bruised, but she didn’t think it was from a beating. Her hair smelled briny, her eyes were irritated, her lips cracked and dry. She noticed a few grains of sand on the pillow. Where had they come from? Her hair? She lifted a hand and touched the tangled mess. Her hair was matted and damp, sand sprinkling the sheet as she pulled on a curl.
She must have been in the water. Seawater. But why? She shut her eyes and tried desper
ately to bring forth an image, but nothing came. Nothing at all. It was as if her life until that moment had been completely erased from her memory. She covered her face with her hands and wept silently into the sand-covered pillow.
Chapter 7
It must have been about an hour later that the door opened and a middle-aged woman stepped into the room, accompanied by an elderly man with bushy gray whiskers. They had been speaking softly but grew silent when they saw her watching them. The woman smiled brightly and came toward the bed.
“Praise the Lord,” she said with great feeling, clasping her hands before her. “I’m so glad to see you awake. I’ll leave you two to talk.”
“Thank you,” the man said, and approached the bed slowly. “Hello, my dear. My name is John Rosings. I’m a doctor, so you have nothing to fear from me.” He had a kindly face and gentle manner, and she relaxed somewhat, hopeful that this man would be able to help her.
“May I sit down?” the doctor asked. “Oh, I do hope you speak English,” he said. “Do you?”
She nodded. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Good. Well, that’s one hurdle out of the way. How do you feel?” he asked.
Terrified, battered, nauseated, lost, she wanted to scream. “My head aches.” Her voice sounded hoarse, and her throat felt like sandpaper.
“Well, let’s have a look, then.” He reached out and very carefully examined her skull, his cool fingers settling on the throbbing bruise at the back of her head. She let out an involuntary gasp as he pressed a little harder. “I’m sorry for that,” he said, and removed his hands. He then pulled up her eyelids and stared deep into her eyes. “You must have sustained a severe blow,” he said, watching her. “Do you remember being struck?”
The Lost (Echoes from the Past Book 9) Page 3