Oh, my! What if she'd just committed adultery, lying with another woman's husband? God would certainly smite her for such wanton behavior. Perhaps the spanking from Mr. Smith was part of God's plan, giving her a painful way to pay for her sin. In any case, the sooner they parted company, the less likely she'd be to tell him another embarrassing untruth and have another spanking administered. Also the less likely she'd be to get uncomfortably close to him. To fall in love with a possible outlaw, a possible married man, a possible womanizer, would be just her luck, too.
It was contrary of her, and she realized it, but it grated on her nerves that he could be so ungentlemanly as to ruin her and not immediately offer a proposal of marriage. It could be contingent on his finding out he had no other wife. She'd understand that. One couldn't have two wives.
Of course, she'd say no. Of course she would.
The whole confusing relationship was more than she could bear. It had to stop before she lost her mind.
* * *
Looking away from him, fussing with the spectacles she'd left on the bedside table, with her back poker straight and stiff, she'd never seemed more vulnerable and entirely female. Smith remembered her soft body on top of him, the way she made little mewling noises when she was enjoying their joining. He would never forget the startling and disturbing discovery of her virginity. It made him mad, sorrowful, guilty, and pleased all at once. A passel of confusing emotions to be sure. And he knew enough about himself to know that he was not often emotional or confused. But that knowledge didn't tell him if he was married, a randy bachelor, or a thief or murderer. There were too many situations in which he and Verity could not be together. It was much too dangerous for her to be associated with him.
What if it happened again? He hadn't been able to resist her this time, so what if their close proximity brought on another regrettable incident? No. She was right; it was best for him to move on.
To do that, he needed to be up on his feet and independent.
"Perhaps, for the sake of my quicker recovery, I should make that trip to the parlor and back. If you'll show me where it is."
She sniffed. Was she crying? He wished he could see her face.
"You're right, of course, Mr. Smith. You need exercise to find your feet again. Let us put all this behind us. It is lamentable, I think, but not impossible to forget."
That kind of stung. He'd never forget those moments. Perhaps this was another prevarication on her part. If so, he'd let it pass. One spanking in a day was enough. And the circumstances were fraught, her words spurred on more by emotion than logic.
She turned back toward him and gave him a weak smile.
"I'm sorry," he told her, for he was sorry. He'd taken something she could never have back. His moment of bad judgment was deplorable. He had to get out of there before things got worse.
He smiled back at her, though he felt far from jovial. "If you'll hand me my crutches, I will follow you to the parlor."
"Of course." She got the crutches and handed them to him. "Do you need help rising?"
"No. I've got it." He rose unsteadily, but soon found his balance.
"If you'll follow me, Mr. Smith, it's this way."
The hallway outside the room which had been his world this past week, was clean and attractive. A staircase began nearly in front of his bedroom door, and rose, brown and polished with a carpet runner of indeterminate pattern, down the middle. There were framed oils of people along the walls of the hallway they traversed near the stairs, and an occasional table with a big vase of flowers in an alcove. The walls, wainscoted with shining, rich walnut, were set off by a flowery wallpaper of yellow and green. There was one closed door on the right side toward the end of the hallway, under the height of the stairs. Another door was located at the end of the hallway directly in front of them. This had a crystal door knob, which Verity turned gently.
Beyond the door was a large room, where four people sat. Settees and chairs dotted the room in little pockets of conversation areas. The modern furniture seemed to be in good repair, the various fabrics all sporting the yellow and green theme he'd seen in the hallway. A cheery fire burned in a large fireplace directly across from the door he'd entered. If the occupants of the room had been talking before, they all stopped as he came in, staring at him with various states of surprise.
He hopped in and stood at the entrance.
"This," Verity told the four women, "is Mr. Smith." She directed the next words at him. "Please let me introduce my sisters. Seated on the left is Charity."
The young woman, dressed all in cream ruffles with pink bows, looked a bit younger than Verity. Her smile was gentle and warm and her blue eyes were friendly. "Mr. Smith. We've heard so much about you. I feel I know you already."
"Miss Charity," he returned, "it is my pleasure to meet you. You are as gracious as Miss Verity has led me to believe." Actually, that was a bit of an exaggeration. Verity had barely discussed her sisters. Smith had no idea what they were like. They could be harridans for all he knew. Mostly what Verity had said was that she had four sisters, all younger than she, and she'd told him their names. He wondered why she'd neglected the topic. Jealousy, perhaps? Because the women in the room were lovely, especially Charity, whose long, blonde, thick braid laying upon her shoulder, framed her face and made a most elegant picture to behold. She held some fabric in a frame in her lap and some threads lay nearby on the settee. A sudden memory caused him to blurt, "My mother used to embroider." Everyone gasped, even him.
Verity gave him a shocked expression. "Mr. Smith! Are you remembering who you are?"
"I don't know where that came from," he told them.
"Perhaps there is greater hope for your memory returning," Charity said with a soft smile.
Another person, a girl of about eighteen, sitting next to her identical twin, said, "You must be greatly discomfited by your predicament." She was also blonde, but her eyes had a greenish tint—perhaps hazel?—and her nose was a bit pointed. She sat with her twin on the second settee, a ball of string and a tiny hook in her hand. They were dressed in different colors. The one who had spoken wore pastel blue, and the quiet one wore a pale yellow dress. She was holding a clock in her hands, the back open, the mechanism exposed. In her lap were several metal objects that looked like small tools. Her attention drifted back to her clock, and she appeared to lose interest in the introductions taking place.
"My sisters Hope and Mercy. Faith is off with her students, I expect."
"I'm Hope," said the one who'd spoken before. She nudged her twin.
"Hm?" asked the pre-occupied girl. When Hope nodded at him, the girl got the message. "Oh! I'm Mercy."
"I am delighted to meet you both," he said with a smile.
"And this lovely lady," Verity said, indicating an elderly woman seated in a wingback chair in the sunniest corner of the room, "is Granny. Mrs. Sutton is my mother's mother."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith. Verity, where is my book?"
"Um…it's in your lap, Granny."
The older woman looked down at her hands, firmly holding a book. "Oh, silly me. Yes, here it is. Thank you, dear."
Clearly, even though the woman was attractive for her age, she was a bit forgetful. Still, he was happy to meet her and he said so. She nodded and smiled, then went back to reading. He couldn't quite tell, but he thought the book was upside down.
At the moment, though, he was getting a bit tired and balancing on one foot was becoming painful. "Would you ladies mind if I sit down?"
"No, of course not, Mr. Smith," Charity said, patting the settee next to her. "Please sit here."
He glanced over at Verity, who looked rather wooden-faced. She made no effort to help him when he tottered over to the green settee and sat down heavily. "Much better," he said with a smile.
"Are you in much pain?" Hope asked, her eyes concerned.
"No. None at all." Actually, the pain had become a dull ache over the last few days, instead of the st
abbing pain he'd had to endure before. "Verity is an excellent nurse."
"Oh, yes," agreed Charity. "She is a doctor, you know."
It was Verity's turn to make a sound. She snorted. "Hardly. I never finished medical school, Mr. Smith."
"Well," added Charity, "you're close to being a doctor."
"Yes," Verity answered. "I suppose I am close." She walked to a chair near the fireplace and sat down, perching on the chair like a bird about to take flight. Her posture spoke of raw nerves. Considering the episode in the bedroom just before their sojourn to the parlor, it was not surprising. His nerves were a bit frayed as well.
"I think it's very interesting that my embroidery spurred a memory," Charity said. "Don't you think so, Mr. Smith?"
He nodded. "Yes. The things I remember are odd."
"Tell them what you said to Mrs. Perkins when you beheld your face in the hand mirror, Mr. Smith," Verity suggested.
He smiled, feeling a big embarrassed. Being without his memory put him in a vulnerable position. It went counter to his thoughts of himself. "I said I thought he looked like my brother."
"You still say 'he', Mr. Smith," Hope said. "You do not believe the reflection was yourself?"
He shrugged. "Yes, of course. The mirror would not lie. But I feel disassociated with the character I saw. I can't explain it better than that."
"Poor man," Charity said, patting his hand.
"Pitiful, isn't it?" Verity said, a bit of a sharpness in her voice.
Was she jealous of Charity's attention to him? Was she reminded painfully of their conflict? How little he really knew about her. How little he would ever know.
"Truly," Charity agreed. "Mr. Smith, do you remember your mother?"
"Not really," he answered.
"But you remember her embroidering," Hope added.
"I recall her hands on the frame, pulling the needle and thread through the fabric. I know those were my mother's hands, but I can't remember anything else about her."
"I can't imagine," said Hope.
"It is a bit disconcerting," he said.
"You speak like a gentleman," Mercy said, never looking up from her manipulations of the clock in her lap. Apparently she was listening, even while she seemed to pay no attention.
Verity had an answer. "He speaks well, but then so do many men when they are around females."
All of the women stared at her. Her remark had been rather leading, and a bit insulting, as though he would put on airs for some nefarious reason. Of course, it might be his habit to be two-faced, showing one side to the women he was trying to captivate and another side to everyone else. He didn't know who he was, true enough, but he thought he was being genuine. It felt like his true nature to be kind and gentle to women.
"My background remains a mystery, I'm afraid," he said, drawing their attention back to him and relieving the awkward moment.
"Would you care for some tea?" asked Charity.
"I—"
"We must get Mr. Smith back to his bed," Verity said with a small cringe. He thought perhaps she was remembering their experience in his bed. He was, too. "I mean, he should rest. Coming to the parlor must have taxed his reserves."
He didn't want to leave the parlor and the company of the charming young women, but he did feel a little weary and his head was pounding. "Right," he agreed, levering himself up to his crutches. "It was a joy to meet you all, ladies. I hope we might meet again soon."
"Of course," Charity said quickly. "Perhaps we might visit you while you convalesce? Verity has been keeping you isolated so that you could recover without distraction."
Verity herself had been a big distraction, but he didn't say so. "Please do. I shall also come to the parlor, if I may."
"I hope you do," said Hope, smiling.
"I apologize for my improper attire," he said, feeling a bit embarrassed. These were not his family, and strangers seeing him a nightshirt—especially women strangers—put him at a disadvantage. "But alas—"
"Don't give it another thought," Charity said with some enthusiasm. "I'm ashamed I didn't think of it before. We have a charity box at church. There is bound to be some clothing that will fit you. Although you are rather tall, Mr. Smith."
"Anything would be helpful, Miss Charity. I'm not too proud to take what I can get."
"Consider it done. I'll have something to you by tomorrow."
"Thank you kindly," he said, quite grateful.
He turned to limp away toward where Verity hovered near the door.
"Good day, Mr. Smith," Mercy said, her voice strong and a bit hard. "Do recover quickly." He sensed an undercurrent of hostility. Why?
"Thank you, Miss Mercy. I'm sure I shall."
There was no response, so he continued hopping out the door, following Verity back to his little room where the open windows let in the fragrant air.
Chapter Five
The next day, he awoke to find Verity sitting nearby reading once again. He could see the title; it was a Nick Carter Weekly, one of his favorite magazines. He loved the mysteries and crime stories, and following Nick through his adventures. It surprised him that Verity also had a fondness for the publication. It appeared they had more in common than a letch for each other.
She was beautiful sitting there so peacefully, her little spectacles sitting on her nose, and her plump lips relaxed and rosy pink. His body reacted to her as if lit on fire.
"Where is Nick off to today?" he asked to open the conversation. Squirming, he levered himself up on the bed to rest against the headboard, and pulled the comforter into a bit of a wrinkled heap, covering the bulge in his lap as effectively as possible.
"Oh! Mr. Smith, you've awakened. You startled me."
"My apologies, ma'am." There was a pause while she stared at him, and she appeared to expect him to say more. "I enjoy that magazine as well."
"It's a favorite of mine. I am quite addicted. Nick is in New York this week. Well…last week, as we do not have the current issue immediately, being this far west."
"I understand completely. Mine are older as well."
"They are? You remembered again."
A moment of realization startled him. Yes, he remembered reading an issue of the magazine, and recalled it in detail. It was also telling that he knew what his favorite one was. Apparently, he read well enough to follow the stories. That was good news. Being illiterate made getting along in the world impossible. "Yes, I remembered. I remember many of the stories from that magazine, though I cannot tell you where I was reading them, or under what circumstances."
"Perhaps you were in jail."
"Never say so."
"I was just joshing!"
Like a lightning bolt, memory fired. "Josh! That's my name!"
She stood, visibly excited. "Oh, angels will rejoice with us! How amazing and wonderful. You are Josh. Or is it Joshua?"
He closed his eyes, hearing his name spoken by a woman whom he felt was his mother. "Joshua," his mother said, "I've told you a thousand times to wipe your feet before coming indoors. Now look at my freshly cleaned floor!" The memory brought on a smile.
"It's Joshua. I recall my mother calling me that name," he told Verity.
She clapped, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Joshua! I am so pleased to meet you, Joshua."
He laughed. "It is a pleasure to introduce myself to you."
"What is your surname?"
Once again, he wracked his brain. This time, nothing manifested itself. "I'm afraid that remains murky."
Her enthusiasm dipped, though she retained a friendly smile. Much friendlier than when they'd parted the night before.
"It is no matter for now. It is enough that you are Joshua. What a lovely name."
"Thank you."
"Do you remember anything else?"
"Not really. I remember my mother's voice calling me Joshua." He replayed the memory of her chastising him a few times. His sense was that although she'd been irritated with him, he was well-loved and not about to b
e punished. It was pleasant and he wanted to dwell on that time and place.
Verity strode to the chest of drawers near the tall armoire. Her back was to him, but within moments she turned and in her arms were folded items.
"Clothing," she said.
"For me?" He could hardly believe it. Getting out of the nightshirt would be like being released from prison.
She nodded and came to him. "Charity brought them this morning. Some of them are certain to fit. There are several choices for each item."
He was skeptical about the fit. He knew he was broad-shouldered and had bulky arms and a tall frame. But it was definitely worth a try.
Verity put the neatly stacked pile on the foot of the bed. "I'll get Mrs. Perkins to help you dress."
"You've seen me in my altogether, Verity," he reminded her with a wry smile, immediately regretting it when her face flamed and her lips got pinched.
"Few people know that, Mr.—I mean, Joshua. I don't see any benefit in giving the secret away to everyone."
No, there was no advantage to it. And they couldn't go back there again. "Very true, ma'am. Please call Mrs. Perkins."
"I shall immediately." Her smile looked forced.
She exited and only a few minutes later, Mrs. Perkins appeared. She had attended to Joshua's cleanliness until quite recently. Verity's father was protective of his girls, which was as it should be, and Mrs. Perkins, a widow, was familiar with men and matter-of-fact about his needs. And he liked Mrs. Perkins. She was both friendly and efficient. Her graying brown hair and gentle brown eyes reminded him of someone, though he was unable to figure out who.
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