The Lost (Echoes from the Past Book 9)

by Irina Shapiro

  “Do you normally go into the city on your own?” Jocelyn asked Derek, who’d been silent far too long, his gaze fixed on the road shrouded in early morning haze.

  “Most of the time,” he replied.

  “Do you not find the journey lonely, especially at night?”

  “No. I like being on my own. I have plenty to think about.”

  “Such as?” Lydia? Jocelyn wanted to ask but stopped herself.

  “We live in extraordinary times,” Derek said. “The decisions we make today will reverberate through the centuries.”

  “Do you think the Continental Army stands a chance against the might of Britain?” Jocelyn asked, eager to draw Derek into a political discussion. The Wilders scrupulously avoided talking about the rebellion, but she’d never heard them proclaim their devotion to the king either. Were they afraid to say too much in front of her, not knowing where her loyalties lay, or did they simply not care either way, believing themselves immune to the winds of change that blew outside their small rural community?

  “I do,” Derek replied.

  “But the Americans are sorely outnumbered, if what the newspapers say is anything to go on.”

  “Maybe so, but they’re more committed.”

  “How do you mean?” Jocelyn asked.

  “A paid soldier fights differently than a man who’s defending his family and his homeland.”

  Jocelyn nodded. There was truth in that. “The British will never surrender New York,” she said.

  “No, but they will be driven out,” Derek replied.

  “You seem awfully sure.”

  “It’s what I believe,” he said.

  “Have you ever considered enlisting?” Jocelyn asked, wondering just how committed Derek was to the cause of freedom.

  “There are many ways to fight,” Derek said evasively.

  “What about Ben? Does he share your conviction?” Jocelyn asked, not ready to let the matter drop.

  Derek turned to look at her. “Does it matter?” he snapped. “Ben rarely sees past the end of his own nose.”

  The statement might have been humorous had his scowl not been so thunderous. Jocelyn had a feeling politics were a sore subject between the brothers, among other things.

  “And what about you?” Derek demanded. “Where do you stand?”

  “What? Me? I don’t take sides,” Jocelyn replied, uncomfortable now that the focus had turned to her.

  “Don’t you?” Derek asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I just think every person should have an opinion on issues that affect them directly.”

  “Even women?” Jocelyn teased. Most men didn’t value women’s opinions, even if they were well informed and often more intelligent than that of their menfolk.

  “Especially women,” Derek replied.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because women are sorely underestimated as weapons of war. They’re clever and brave and can go places men can’t.”

  Jocelyn bit her lip. Something of what Derek said resonated with her, but she couldn’t be sure what her views had been before the shipwreck. What of her husband? Had he been a revolutionary or a royalist? Had she agreed with him? Had they debated openly, or had she kept her views to herself, outwardly supporting him? She wished she could remember.

  “Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Derek said.

  “All right. Are you planning to propose to Lydia Blackwell?” Jocelyn blurted out, and instantly regretted asking.

  Derek turned to face her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Would you mind if I did?”

  “Eh, no, of course not. It’s just that everyone seems to expect it.”

  “Who’s everyone?” Derek asked, clearly amused by the turn the conversation had taken.

  “Lydia, for one.”

  “Has she said so?” Derek asked, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Not in so many words. I think Ben is hoping you will.”

  “Ben wants the farm. He doesn’t care who I marry as long as I leave the running of it to him.”

  “Would you?” Jocelyn asked. She’d assumed Derek would bring his wife to live at the farm, but perhaps he intended to live with Lydia in town and work at the Blackwell Arms.

  “I hate farming. I’m not cut out for it,” Derek replied with a shrug.

  “What are you cut out for?”

  “A life of adventure,” Derek joked. “And heart-pounding romance.”

  “You’re not going to marry Lydia, then,” Jocelyn said.

  “And how did you arrive at that conclusion?”

  “Because the only heart that’s pounding is hers,” Jocelyn replied. And not necessarily for you, she added mentally.

  “Don’t presume to know my feelings,” Derek said, but there was no heat in his voice. He was enjoying their banter.

  “I’m right, though. Aren’t I?”

  “You might be,” Derek teased, that maddening smile playing about his lips. “By the same token, I don’t think there’ll be wedding bells for you and Ben.”

  “I’ve never done anything to encourage Ben. You know that.”

  “He doesn’t need much encouragement. A damsel in distress is enough to set his heart aflame.”

  “That’s not saying much for my charms,” Jocelyn said, smiling despite herself.

  “Nothing wrong with your charms as far as I can see, Mistress Sinclair. Nothing at all.”

  Jocelyn looked down at her hands clasped in her lap, a slow smile spreading across her face. It wasn’t a flowery compliment by any means, but coming from Derek, it meant a lot.

  Chapter 32

  Ben brought down the hammer so hard, the wooden post split right down the middle. He cursed under his breath. Now he’d have to replace it. He threw the hammer to the ground and stalked off, too angry to deal with mending the fence. At this very moment, Alice was alone with his brother, traveling to New York City for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

  When Derek had announced last night that Alice would be joining him, Ben had opened his mouth to protest, but his brother had silenced him with a look. Ben had no claim on her, the look had said. He supposed it was true that she needed to get away from the farm for a bit, and the change of scene might help her recall something of her past. Dr. Rosings had said as much the last time he’d called, but Ben could barely contain his rage.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Derek with Alice. Derek was an honorable man. He’d never do anything to hurt her, but he couldn’t help being better looking or more enigmatic than Ben. Ben was an open book; his mother always told him so. He wasn’t good at playing games or pretending he wasn’t interested, not when his heart was engaged in ways it had never been with Kira. He wanted Alice, and not just because she was vulnerable and alone. He wanted her because she was charming and clever and clearly needed a man, her lush beauty too sensual to be wasted on sleeping alone. He wanted to be that man. He wanted to offer her his love and protection and to plant his seed in her belly, proclaiming to the world that she was his, but he had no right to act on his feelings. Just because Alice had no memory of a husband didn’t mean the man didn’t exist. He may have gone down with the ship, but he could just as easily be alive and well somewhere, grieving the loss of his wife.

  Alice wasn’t able to marry, not until she knew for certain that she was free. But he would wait. He was a patient man. And she would come around to the idea of spending the rest of her life with him, more so if Derek finally made up his damn mind and made an offer to Lydia Blackwell. Ben was sure that her attempts at making Derek jealous by showing an interest in Lieutenant Reynolds were nothing more than clumsily executed ploys to force his hand.

  Stomping across the frostbitten landscape, Ben wondered miserably what was holding Derek back. Lydia was beautiful, wealthy, and willing. What more could a man want?

  Love, his heart replied. A man wanted love, and Derek was halfway in love with Alice.

>   Chapter 33

  Jocelyn gripped the bench as Derek guided the cart onto the ferry that would take them from Long Island to New York City. There were three other wagons loaded with casks of ale and cider, potatoes and pumpkins, baskets of apples, and even fish. The wooden conveyance didn’t seem sturdy enough to get them across the river, but Derek appeared calm, and the other men exchanged greetings and casual comments, clearly unafraid the flimsy wooden platform would tip over or collide with one of the bigger boats.

  The traffic on the East River was surprisingly heavy, with several other ferries making the crossing from points further down the shore, at least three naval ships offloading supplies and troops at the South Street Port, and half a dozen merchant ships flying British flags. Once the ferry left the dock and glided toward the center of the river, Jocelyn spotted several ships anchored close together. They were in a state of advanced dilapidation, and a strong smell of human waste and decay carried on the breeze, forcing her to cover her nose and mouth with her handkerchief.

  “What’s on those ships?” she asked Derek, who glared at the ships, his mouth compressed in a grim line.

  “Prisoners. The British use decommissioned ships as floating prisons for anyone they perceive to be a rebel soldier or spy. The conditions aboard are hellish. People are dying by the dozen every single day, on every ship. It’s an outrage.”

  “Does anyone ever get pardoned?” Jocelyn asked.

  “There’s only one way off a prison ship,” Derek said angrily. “Wrapped in canvas and tossed over the side.”

  “That’s barbaric,” Jocelyn said.

  Derek didn’t reply. He turned away, his gaze fixed on the southern tip of the city.

  The rolling of the ferry and the vile smell made Jocelyn feel sick, so she began to count the ships on the river to distract herself from the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her, but the exercise didn’t help. The ferry was downwind of the prison ships, and the reek intensified as they reached the center of the river.

  “Are you all right?” Derek asked. “You look awful.”

  “I’ll be fine once we dock,” Jocelyn managed to reply, hoping she wouldn’t vomit on his boots. Derek reached for her hand and squeezed it in a reassuring manner.

  “Almost there,” he said. “Just hang on.”

  It took some time to get off the ferry and then twice as long to make it to the next corner. The street leading away from the dock was thronged with wagons and carriages, and there seemed to be people everywhere. British soldiers in their red tunics stood out of the crowd, sailors crowded the decks of their ships, and stevedores called out to each other as they unloaded the merchantmen, cargo lowered using pulley systems that suspended the heavy crates directly over their heads in a most precarious manner.

  At last, they reached Broadway Street, and Derek turned right, leaving the worst of the congestion behind. This street was wider, paved with gray stone and lined with handsome brick houses, some of which were fronted by neatly trimmed bushes and russet-leafed trees. Well-dressed pedestrians strolled leisurely along or hurried about their business, but it was the soldiers who drew Jocelyn’s eye. They were everywhere, walking in pairs with muskets slung over their shoulders, delivering messages, and, in some instances, standing guard, their grim faces shadowed by tricorns pulled low over their eyes to keep out the bright sun.

  A young soldier exited a house on the corner of Broadway and Crown Street and waited for the cart to pass before crossing to the other side. His pale blue eyes met Jocelyn’s gaze and widened with interest, his mouth stretching into a friendly smile. She quickly looked away, uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny.

  “Where are we going?” Jocelyn asked, wondering why Derek had brought her to this part of town. She felt deeply uneasy since most of the houses appeared to be occupied by British officers. Their presence made her stomach clench with fear, even though most of them paid her little mind.

  “To the theater at John Street,” Derek replied patiently. “We’re nearly there.”

  “I thought you said it was closed,” Jocelyn said as the cart slowed down yet again to let an expensive-looking carriage pass.

  “It is, but I thought it might help you to see it for yourself. Do you recognize anything?” Derek asked, looking at her intently, as if willing her to say yes.

  “I feel a sense of familiarity,” she said truthfully. “But I suppose this looks like any other street in any other city.”

  “Yes, but if you had performed at the theater at John Street, you would have walked down these streets, possibly even lived somewhere nearby,” Derek pointed out.

  Jocelyn paid closer attention to the individual facades, wondering if she had come this way. Was it possible that she had lived in one of these grand houses? She didn’t think so. If she had been an actress, she would not have been able to afford extravagant lodgings, unless she’d married one of the theater’s patrons, but this new theory didn’t feel right, so she dismissed it. Could her husband be one of the actors in the troupe? Or might she have had a lover rather than a husband? Was she the type of woman to live with a man without the benefit of marriage? All she knew was that she was carrying someone’s baby, but the man’s identity eluded her.

  The wall her mind put up whenever she thought of her child’s father made her tremble with frustration, so she forced her thoughts down a different path. The theater had been closed since the occupation, so for just over a year. What had she been doing since then? Had she had to earn a living, or had she been supported by her man? And where had she been going at the time of the shipwreck? Had he been with her? Was he now dead? Jocelyn nearly screamed as the questions crowded her mind, each inquiry bringing her closer to tears.

  Everything hinged on remembering the father of her child. If she could do that, then she could unravel the rest of this impenetrable web and finally see a glimmer of light. He was at the center of everything, but she couldn’t conjure up even a twinge of emotion or put a name to her feelings for him. Surely if she had loved him, she’d feel a deep sorrow, an instinctive sense of loss, even if she couldn’t envision his face. How was it possible to draw a complete blank when it came to the most important person in her life?

  “How far away are we from the theater?” Jocelyn asked, tearing her mind away from the futile questions that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Not that far. It’s just down John Street, to the right.”

  She peered down the length of the street as the cart laboriously turned the corner, hoping against hope she’d recognize the theater. Derek stopped in front of a squat brick building and turned to her, clearly expecting a reaction.

  “This doesn’t look much like a theater,” Jocelyn said, deeply disappointed by the factory-like appearance of the place and her failure to recognize it.

  “I think it was a brewery before it became a theater.”

  Jocelyn wrinkled her nose. She’d imagined red velvet curtains and gilded balconies filled with beautifully dressed people who’d come to see a professionally mounted performance. This place probably boasted a makeshift stage and wooden benches.

  “What was it like inside?” she asked.

  “Not very impressive, I’m afraid. But the quality of the acting was top notch,” Derek assured her. “Does it look familiar?” he asked, his voice filled with hope.

  Jocelyn shook her head. “No.”

  “Have you been able to recall anything at all?” Derek asked as the cart moved away from the shut-up theater.

  She’d experienced several flashbacks in the past few weeks, but they had all been scenes of ordinary life: kneading bread, washing linen, shopping for produce, walking with a basket slung over her arm, but she hadn’t seen anyone’s faces clearly. It was as if she had been completely alone, going about her life in a city full of people without truly belonging to anyone.

  “Not anything that matters,” Jocelyn replied miserably. “Where to now?”

  “There’s a tavern not far from here. Let’s get
something to eat and then we’ll continue our tour of the city,” Derek suggested.

  “All right.”

  Ned’s Ale House was crowded. Derek found them a table in the corner and went up to the bar to order a drink—a tankard of ale for himself and a half-pint of cider for Jocelyn. She was hungry and tired, not having slept well last night in anticipation of today’s journey. As soon as Derek returned to the table, she took a long sip of cider, then excused herself to go to the necessary before ordering the food. Weaving through the crowd of mostly men, Jocelyn made her way toward the back door of the building. She was just about to push it open when the blue-eyed soldier she’d seen earlier stepped into her path, his back blocking her from Derek’s view.

  “Good day, mistress,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “Eh, good day,” Jocelyn replied. “Please excuse me.”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” she replied, wondering if she’d really met him in the past or he was just trying it on with her.

  “It’s Robert. Robert Sykes.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sykes, but you mistake me for someone else.”

  He gave her an odd look but took a step back. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, ma’am.” He gave her a curt bow and allowed her to pass.

  Jocelyn stepped out into the yard and hurried toward the privy, hoping the soldier wouldn’t follow her outside, where she’d be defenseless. Finishing her business in record time, thanks to the eye-watering stench inside the tiny outhouse, she returned to the dining room and made her way toward the table and Derek.