“It was hell on earth.”
She looked up at his harsh tone and met his bleak blue gaze. “I know.” She sighed. “I still have nightmares about some of the things I saw there.”
“Where was your husband killed?”
“Two years ago at the battle of Vitoria.”
He looked almost as stricken as she felt. “I offer you my sincere condolences, Mrs. Smith. I had no idea the conflict would drag on for so many years.”
“What’s the last thing you do recall?” Amelia made an attempt to divert the topic away from her loss and back to her guest. “Were you involved in any action in the Peninsular?”
He considered her question, his gaze becoming unfocused and inward. “I’m not sure. I have a sense that I carried messages between regiments and battalion commanders, but that’s all I can remember.”
“It will come back to you, sir.” She stabbed her needle into her ball of darning wool and balanced it on top of the pile of mending in her workbasket. “Now, let me take those dishes down to the kitchen and inquire what is for dinner. Perhaps you will feel more the thing when you have eaten something substantial.”
She gathered up the used crockery, piled it on the tray and went down to the kitchen. It was interesting how her patient could talk so freely about some matters and then suddenly be all at sea again. It was as if some parts of him were locked away. Perhaps he’d seen so many horrors that his mind refused to accept them and he’d buried them along with too much of his sense of self.
Amelia sighed as she put the tray on the kitchen table and turned to find Dotty coming in from the garden with a basket of washing.
“I’m glad you got that lot dried before it rained again.” She helped Dotty heave the basket onto a chair. “How did our patient’s shirt survive your attempt to wash it?”
“It’s threadbare, Mrs. Smith.” Dotty rummaged in the basket and produced the shirt. “The slightest tear, and the whole thing will only be fit for the rag bag.”
“Then we’ll have to find him something else to wear.” Amelia considered her options. “I do believe I have the parts of a shirt I started for Matthew. If I cut them down I could fashion something for Marco.”
Dotty indicated a pile of clothes on the dresser. “I’ve given him a new pair of stockings, his breeches are buckskin, and though stained in places, are still wearable as is his waistcoat, which now has new buttons. He has no underthings or a cravat.”
“We can manage those. Where is his coat?”
“It’s on the back of the chair by the fire. I darned it as best I could.”
Amelia picked up the heavy military coat and considered it. The color had faded badly to a rusty pink but she thought it had once been red. All the pewter regimental buttons had been hacked off along with any insignia. Marco might have owned the coat, inherited it or adapted it to his own use. Either he or someone else had taken off everything of value to sell or obliterate the identity of the wearer.
And now she was being fanciful. If Marco had been a prisoner of war, he’d probably had no other option than to steal anything that would keep him warm and at least covered against the extremes of the weather. Only the officers had the money to send back to their tailors in England for a new uniform whenever one became soiled. Everyone else had to make do on the long marches between the battles, taking any coat that was better than their own from anyone unlucky enough to leave it behind or die in it.
His
tailor
…
She studied the coat more carefully. Someone had to have made it. If it did belong to Marco it might help identify him.
“What exactly are you looking for, Mrs. Smith?” Dotty asked as Amelia turned the coat inside out.
“To see if there is a tailor’s mark.”
“What good will that do?”
“If I find one, I can write to the tailor, describe our patient and ask if they can identify him.”
“What a clever idea, Mrs. Smith! I would never have thought of such a thing.”
Amelia brought the coat into the light and continued her exploration of the seams with her fingertips until she encountered something rough stitched into the lining.
“There’s something here.” She squinted at the small black stitching. “There’s an uppercase ‘S’ and a lowercase ‘t’.”
“St?” Dotty repeated dubiously. “Short for Saint something?”
Amelia considered the fine stitching of the never-meant-to–be-seen lining, which indicated that the coat had been fashioned by an expert. “If I were to make a guess, I’d say Stultz, but only because that’s who made my brother’s coats and he always wanted the best.”
“Do you know where this Mr. Stultz lives, Mrs. Smith?”
“He’s in London, Dotty. He has a shop on Clifford Street. I’ll write to him tonight and ask for his help.” She turned the coat the right side out again and draped it over the chair. “Let’s look at Marco’s waistcoat and see if it has the same mark. Mr. Stultz is probably far too famous these days to bother with such a request, but it never hurts to ask.”
Dotty started folding the laundry, and Amelia rose to help her.
“Why is Mr. Stultz famous?”
“Because he makes clothes for Beau Brummel and the Prince Regent, among others.”
“The Prince of Wales?” Dotty looked thrilled and almost dropped the corner of the sheet. “Do you think our Mr. Marco is a friend of royalty?”
“I doubt it.” Amelia folded the pillowcase in four and laid it on the pile. “But as I said, who knows? Perhaps our visitor will turn out to be a handsome prince in disguise.”
As Dotty joined in her laughter, Amelia wondered exactly who Marco really was. If the coat did belong to him, and Stultz was his tailor, he was hardly a common man. Pushing that unsettling thought aside, she reached for another pillowcase and reminded herself not to imagine difficulties where none existed.
Marco was under her care. When he regained his memory he would leave Highcliff and Dove Cottage and she would never see him again, which was as it should be. And perhaps, knowing her unerring ability to tumble headfirst into trouble, it was the best thing for all of them.
Marco swung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly stood up. His headache had gone, his stomach was full and he felt better than he had in years. How he knew that, when he didn’t know where he’d been, was a mystery. He was getting used to having little insights followed by a big black hole of nothing.
“Oh!”
He looked up as Mrs. Smith came through the door with a pile of folded clothes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am.”
She clutched the clothes to her bosom and stared up at him, her grey eyes widening.
“It’s just that I haven’t seen you standing on your own two feet before. You are taller than I thought.”
“That’s probably because you’ve been feeding me far too well.”
She cast a knowledgeable eye over him. “Well you aren’t quite as thin as you were when we found you, but I suspect you could put on several more pounds before we would be forced to let out your breeches.”
He found himself smiling again. She had a quiet, droll sense of humor that, if one wasn’t careful, one might miss completely. In the two weeks since he’d known her, he’d come to like her extremely. She’d even managed to make him laugh on more than one occasion, something he suspected he hadn’t been capable of doing for years.
“Perhaps you are fattening me up like the Christmas goose?”
“As we’re planning on feeding the entire village with it, I’d rather hoped you’d be the size of a pig by now.”
He found himself grinning at her. “A pig, Mrs. Smith? I do have some feelings you know, and I believe they are hurt.”
She placed the clothing on the bed and straightened the covers, a smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. “If you are determined to get up today, you will need your clothes.” She shook out his coat. “Your waistcoat and breeches have been cleaned, you have new stockings, underclothes and a cravat.”
“Thank you.” He walked over to stand beside her and touched the neatly laid-out clothes. “I only wish I had some means to repay you for all your work.”
“There are plenty of tasks for idle hands in my kitchen, Marco. I’m sure we can find something for you to do.” She glanced up at his face. “If you don’t consider manual work beneath you.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You sound like a gentleman.”
He opened his hands and showed her his scarred palms. “These aren’t the hands of an idle man. Whatever I once was, I am more than willing to do anything you ask of me, Mrs. Smith.”
“Thank you.”
He touched the sleeve of the fine linen shirt that lay next to his breeches. “Did you make this?”
“With Aunt Betty’s help.” Her smile was a little forced. “I had the pieces already cut when Matthew died, so it was an easy matter to alter the dimensions and sew the shirt seams up.”
“He was bigger than me?”
“He was bigger than most people. His fellow soldiers called him the Man Mountain.”
“Then you must have had to cut down the shirt considerably to fit my scrawny frame.” Marco shook the folds of the shirt free. “It was very good of you.” He hesitated. “I should imagine that was hard to remake something for another man.”
She moved away from him and drew the curtains back. “It would’ve been a shame to have wasted the linen. I’m glad I found a good use for it.” She nodded briskly. “When you are dressed come down the stairs to the kitchen, and join us for breakfast.”
He opened the door for her, and she swept out, her head held high, her manner that of a woman used to commanding respect. She might wonder at his origins, but hers fascinated him just as much. Despite their long talks, he’d found out next to nothing about his hostess who seemed far too grand to be living in a small cottage in a remote village on the south coast of England.
He’d met many women who followed the drum and several sergeants’ wives, and none of them had been quite like Mrs. Amelia Smith. She certainly had the wit and practicality of the breed, but there the similarities ended. He could never imagine her brawling over a man or cheerfully sharing her billet and her body with any soldier in need of comfort. She was far too much of a lady.
The sound of the hens clucking to be fed in the back garden made him hurry to discard his nightshirt, wash in the now cold water Dotty had brought up to him earlier and don his clothes. His new shirt fitted him well and his breeches looked far better than they had in years. The only mirror was small and set rather low, so he tied his cravat from memory. When he put on his battered red coat, it felt as familiar as his own skin.
There was no sign of his boots, so he pulled on his new wool stockings and padded down the stairs. The cottage wasn’t very large, and the smell of ham and coffee guided him straight to the kitchen where Mrs. Smith, her Aunt Betty and Dotty already sat at the table. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to address the older lady other than by “Aunt”.
“Good morning, Marco.” Aunt Betty patted the seat beside her. “Come and sit down. We don’t stand on ceremony here. How is your head feeling this fine morning?”
“Remarkably well thanks to your medicines, ma’am.” He surveyed the feast spread out before him and marveled yet again at his good fortune.
“Help yourself to some ham,” Aunt Betty urged him. “There is porridge in the pot if you want some, too.”
“Thank you.” He speared two pieces of ham and a thick slice of bread and then looked up at Mrs. Smith who was sipping her tea. “It seems you already slaughtered your pig, Mrs. Smith.”
“Which is why we need another one, sir.”
Dotty cleared her throat. “It ain’t our pig, Mr. Marco. We don’t have space for one. This piece came from the vicarage in exchange for some of our honey.”
“You have hives?”
“Yes, we do,” Mrs. Smith answered him. “My aunt has a way with bees.”
“I’ve told you before, Amelia, if you take the time to go and speak to them every day, they’ll never harm you and give you all the honey you could ever need.”
“They certainly do that. We are indeed blessed.”
Aunt Betty handed Marcus a jar of yellow pickle. “Have some of this with your ham. It is quite excellent.”
After he enjoyed a second cup of coffee, Marco looked across the table to Mrs. Smith. “How may I help you today, ma’am? I noticed from my window that there is a woodpile. Do you need wood for the fires?”
She worried her lower lip and studied him carefully. “Are you quite certain that you wish to engage in such a physical task at this point, sir? I am concerned that you will make yourself ill again.”
He tried not to let her concern bother him. “If the task proves beyond me I can always stop and do something more restful.”
“That is true, but I find that most men will not admit defeat even when it is obvious that they cannot complete a task.”
He met her gaze. “I have no desire to end up back in bed again, Mrs. Smith. You have done quite enough for me already. I swear I will be prudent and stop if I feel tired.”
“Then after breakfast Dotty will show you where we keep the saw and axe.” She stood up and pushed in her chair. “I have to go into the village and speak to Mrs. Sherringham about the flowers for the church on Sunday.”
She wore a simple patterned muslin gown in blue and her brown hair was braided into a coronet on the back of her head, which made her neck look long and elegant. She wasn’t the sort of woman to attract much notice in a crowd, but her smile was warm, and the intelligence of her gaze made him want to keep looking at her.
Dotty started clearing the breakfast table. Marco got up to help while Aunt Betty chattered away about all the tasks she intended to accomplish that morning. It was such a peaceful scene that he wanted to pinch himself to see if he was still dreaming. Mrs. Smith returned wearing her straw bonnet and shawl. She carried a large basket over her arm.
“I won’t be long. Is there anything we need in the village, Dotty?”
“I don’t think so, ma’am. The girl from the squire’s dairy is bringing us fresh butter and milk later, and I’ll go and search for some eggs.”
“Do you not require an escort, Mrs. Smith?” Marco asked.