Eventually, Mrs. Smith stood up and they were both escorted to the door. He winced and shaded his eyes when his headache started up again as they came out into the sunlight.
“Do you wish to return to Dove Cottage?” Mrs. Smith put her hand on his arm, her expression concerned.
“There’s no need to fuss. Let’s go into the village and post Aunt Betty’s letter.”
The swift withdrawal of her hand and tilt of her chin told him that he must have snapped at her rather rudely. She turned toward the village and started walking without waiting for him. He caught up with her, his longer stride easily eating up the distance between them.
“I apologize, Mrs. Smith.”
“Accepted.”
She didn’t look at him, and he couldn’t see her face clearly within the shadow of her bonnet. The walk was mercifully short. Choosing to wait outside the post office and general store, he leaned against the wall and surveyed the quiet street. He had no recollection of the village itself, despite being told that he’d been found face down at the side of the road running through it. He wondered if anyone might recognize
him,
but time passed and no one seemed to know him.
When Mrs. Smith appeared, he straightened up and offered her his arm. This time, she looped her reticule over her elbow and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. They walked back in silence, but he didn’t mind. It allowed him to appreciate the beauty of the afternoon sky, the calls of the birds and the low murmur of the sea below the cliffs.
It was Cook’s half day, and when they entered the kitchen, only Dotty was there laying the table.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Smith, Mr. Marco. Cook left us rabbit pie, and a dish of stewed apples are in the pantry with the cream the dairy sent down.
Mrs. Smith took off her bonnet. “That sounds lovely, Dotty.”
“Would you like some tea, ma’am? I was going to make Mrs. Betty a cup.”
“Yes please.” She rummaged in her reticule and brought out two letters, holding one out to Dotty. “Please give this to my aunt.” She handed the other to Marco. “This one is for you.”
“How can that be?”
“It’s from Mr. Stultz.”
“It’s addressed to you.”
“And what it contains is none of my business.” She smiled at him. “Why don’t you sit down and have a cup of tea while you read your letter? I’m just going upstairs to change.”
“Jonathan and his wife are coming for a visit, Amelia!” Aunt Betty passed the letter across the table, barely avoiding the toast rack. “Do you think they intend to turn me out?”
Amelia read through the letter and then raised her gaze to her aunt’s. She was far more interested in the contents of
Marco’s
letter but he hadn’t mentioned it in two days. Not that Aunt Betty had offered either of them the opportunity to speak more than a few words yet, so great was her consternation. “I don’t think that is their intention, but if you are worried, perhaps you might suggest you meet them somewhere more neutral like the vicarage or your solicitor’s office?”
“But then they might be offended! And where in heavens name are they thinking they can stay here? With Marco occupying the spare bedroom we have nowhere to put them.”
“Which is another good reason why you might suggest that they stay at the inn or seek refuge at the vicarage.” Amelia said patiently.
“I’ll move out of my room. I don’t wish to intrude on this private family matter.” Marco said.
Amelia glanced over at Marco who had been silently eating his porridge. “That’s very kind of you to offer, but the point is—”
He held up his hand. “The point is that I have overstayed my welcome. I should’ve been on my way a week ago.”
“Your way to where?” Amelia locked gazes with him. “You still don’t know who you are, or where you came from.”
“I have a clue.” He took the letter from Stultz out of his pocket and started to read out loud. “‘Mr. Stultz regrets that he cannot disclose personal information of that nature to any casual inquirer, but can confirm that there is no one patronizing his business with the first or last name of Marco. Yours, Mr, Algernon Brown. Secretary’.”
“Then we are right back where we started from,” Amelia commented.
Marco continued reading as if she hadn’t spoken. “We do however count several clients on our list with names that are similar to Marco. If your gentleman wishes to do us the honor of calling at our establishment, we might be able to recognize him, or find his name on our customer rolls.”
“So you intend to go up to London to see if Mr. Stultz recognizes you when you walk through his door?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you believe you haven’t frequented these shores for many years and that you have changed considerably.”
He put down the letter. “Mrs. Smith, why are you making this so difficult? I assumed you would be delighted to be rid of me.”
“Then you were quite wrong.” She practically glared at him across the table.
“Amelia, dear, you are giving me indigestion. Can we return to the matter at hand and decide what we should do about Jonathan?” Aunty Betty’s voice was trembling, and Amelia immediately felt terrible.
“There is nothing to worry about my dear Aunt Betty.” Marco turned to her aunt and patted her hand. “You can invite them to stay here. I am going to London to see Mr. Stultz.”
“And how do you intend to accomplish that with no money to pay your coach fare?” Amelia persisted and was rewarded by a glint of exasperation in Marco’s blue eyes.
“Jem Harris has agreed to take me up in his cart when he goes to the brewery in London tomorrow. I’ll help him load and unload the barrels.”
“Then you’ll need to leave very early.” Unwilling to concede defeat, Amelia turned away. “What time is Jonathan arriving, Aunt?”
“At midday, I believe. He’s bringing that new solicitor with him, which doesn’t bode well for our future, does it?”
Amelia forced a calm smile. “I’m sure all will be well. Please don’t worry too much.”
She excused herself from the table and went up the stairs, pausing at Marco’s open bedroom door to observe how neatly he kept everything.
“Mrs. Smith.”
He’d come up behind her, his breath warm on her neck. She turned and found him far closer than she’d anticipated and backed into the doorjamb.
“What?”
“Please don’t be angry with me.” He studied her for a long moment. “I have to find out who I am.”
“I understand.”
He cupped her chin. “But you worry for me. I don’t deserve that.” His gaze softened. “You care too much about everyone.”
“You are mistaken.”
His thumb traced a line along her cheekbone. “No, I am not. I only wish I was worthy of your care.”
“Finding out who you are, doesn’t change you, Marco.” She forced a smile. “I already know you are a good man.”
He leaned in and lightly kissed her forehead. “You don’t know that, but I appreciate your confidence in me.” He drew back. “When I find out who I am you might not wish to know me again.”
“I doubt it.”
“I could be a thief, or a deserter—someone your late husband would have spat on and left to rot at the side of the road.”
“I cannot believe that, sir.” She paused. “If you truly were a bad man, I suspect you would have reverted to your villainous ways by now. A leopard cannot change its spots.”
“I still can’t remember enough to agree or disagree with you about that.” He grimaced. “But you would think one would know the essential nature of one’s own self. All I see is evidence of a man who has lived a violent past.”
“As have all soldiers who have defended their sovereign nation.”
“Thank you for that.” He exhaled very slowly. “You really are a remarkable woman, Mrs. Smith.”
“I am merely a pragmatist.”
“Which I appreciate greatly in my current unanchored state.”
She hesitated. “You will come back, won’t you?”
“Tomorrow?” At her nod he smiled. “Yes, of course. After that?” He shrugged. “Well that depends on what I discover, doesn’t it?”
“It is rather small, Jonathan, my love.” Mrs. Smith’s voice rose higher as the tour of Dove Cottage she had requested after the solicitor left was concluded.
Aunt Betty made a stifled sound into her handkerchief and looked despairingly at Amelia.
“We can always add to the house, dear. There is plenty of space around it.” Jonathan tapped one of the beams in a proprietary manner.
“Would you care for some tea, Mrs. Smith?” Amelia asked.
“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Jonathan.”
“Yes, my dear.”
Amelia’s brother-in-law smiled and sat down beside his wife, his gaze assessing the size of the room and the quality of the furnishings. Or that was how it felt to Amelia. He looked nothing like her deceased husband, being a foot shorter, dark haired and of a much less sunny disposition. He’d chosen to stay in England with his father when his older brother had followed their mother back to Pennsylvania. As a result, Matthew hadn’t known him very well, but he’d never had anything bad to say about him.
With a stifled sound, Betty disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Amelia in the silence. Jonathan cleared his throat.
“I’m surprised to find you still here, Amelia. I assumed you would have returned to your own family by now.”
“My family doesn’t speak to me, Jonathan, and Betty begged me to stay and keep her company. Her pension and mine just about pay the bills.”
“Surely if your family knew of Matthew’s death they would be willing to offer you a home?”
Jonathan’s shrewd gaze settled on her, and she raised her chin.
“I thought I had a home here with Aunt Betty.”
He sighed, “Amelia, my dear, the cottage was supposedly left to you and Betty in rather peculiar circumstances which were misinterpreted by the family solicitor. I don’t wish to drag the matter through the courts, but the ownership of Dove Cottage was actually split between Matthew and myself. Matthew never altered his will and left his share to Betty, not to you, so legally half the cottage now belongs to me and half to Betty.”
“And we have a large family, Amelia.” Muriel Smith placed her hand on her stomach. “And another on the way.”
“So you wish to turn me and Betty out?”
“Oh no! We wish Betty to stay here with us.”
“But not me.” Amelia felt a sinking sensation in the region of her stomach.
Jonathan held her gaze, his voice kind. “You do have other options, Amelia.”
“And what guarantee do I have that if I leave you won’t abandon Betty?”
“I will formalize the agreement with my solicitor that Betty may reside here until she dies. My father’s will states that when Betty passes, the ownership of the cottage will revert back to me.” He sat back. “There is no need to make the decision today, my dear. The rent on our cottage in Greenwood is paid until the next quarter day, so we will not be able to move until then.”
That gave her about four weeks to find somewhere else to live… She nodded as if she was grateful. “Thank you.” She rose from her seat. “If you will excuse me, I’ll go and see what has happened to that tea.”
“I’ll need you again at four.” Jem slapped Marco on the back and handed him a coin. “Go and get yourself a pint and something to eat.”
“I’ll do that.” Marco hesitated as he surveyed the crowded streets. “Do you by any chance know how I would get to Clifford Street?”
Five minutes later, he was walking through the streets toward his destination. As he got closer, the roads widened and became paved again and the quality of horseflesh and humankind improved dramatically. He had a vague sense that he knew these streets quite well. He turned onto Clifford Street and walked along it, aware that the fashionable gentleman were giving him a wide berth and eying him suspiciously.
It seemed that a badly dressed soldier no longer received the respect one might have imagined after defeating a French emperor. In truth, half the men he’d seen on the streets begging had the look of ex-military men, which in his somewhat biased opinion, was shameful.
He located Stultz’s place of business and, taking off his borrowed hat, stepped into the shop. The bell on the door rang, and an immaculately dressed young man came toward him.
“Deliveries are round the back.”
“I’m not delivering anything.”
The salesman sneered. “We’re not giving the likes of you work, either, so get out.”
Marco held his ground and stared into the man’s eyes. “I wish to speak to Mr. Brown, Mr. Stultz’s assistant. I have a letter from him.”
“Give it here.”
“I would prefer to give it to him myself.”
Something about Marco’s cool tone finally seemed to unsettle the salesman. “Stay by the door and keep your thieving hands to yourself, you hear me?”
Marco took a step back and smiled. “Thank you.”
He waited patiently, aware of voices in the back of the shop until an older man emerged and came toward him, his expression incredulous.
“Who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t.” Marco shrugged and held out the letter. “I’m not sure who I am. That’s why I’m here.”
The man read the letter through and looked up at Marco again. “You don’t remember who you are, sir?”
“No. Why, do you know me?”
Mr. Brown swallowed hard. “I’m not entirely certain, but I believe I do. We all thought you were dead!”
“Who did you think was dead?”
“Major Marcus Stortford.”
A roaring sensation filled Marco’s ears, and he grabbed hold of the countertop to steady himself. Marco, Marcus… was that really him.
Could
it be?
“Sit down, sir, please,”
A chair was hastily shoved behind his knees, and he collapsed into it, his head in his hands as a thousand images cascaded through his mind like the release of a dam full of water. He caught the smell of brandy as a glass was thrust into his hand and he brought it to his lips.
“Dear God, dear God…” He realized he was speaking out loud and carefully shut his mouth.
“Shall I fetch a doctor, Mr. Brown?” The obnoxious salesman sounded rather frightened and young now.
“No,” Marcus managed to force out the word. If he didn’t gain control of himself they’d be packing him off to Bedlam. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment.”