“He’s waking, Nick. Go to the other side of the bed so we can hold him steady. I don’t want him to injure himself.”
Nick moved to the other side of the bed as the man they’d rescued opened his eyes. His gaze focused first on her, then shifted to Nick.
“Good evening, sir,” Betsy said with a smile on her face. “I’m glad to see you’ve decided to join us.”
A frown creased his forehead.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Betsy Thomas. And this is my brother Nick.”
The furrows on his forehead deepened.
“We found you several nights ago after you’d been beaten. We brought you to our home.”
The man’s mouth opened as if he knew he should say something. But no words came out and he closed his mouth again.
“You were injured quite severely. But you’re going to be fine now.”
His mouth opened, and this time he was able to speak. “Where am I?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Betsy said. Her smile widened. “My brother and I live on Warrick Lane, off Newgate Street. Nick owns Thomas and Son Tobacco Shop on High Holborn.”
His frown didn’t go away. “How long have I been here?”
“Four days and nights.” Betsy looked at his confused expression. “Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes, please.”
Nick lifted the man enough for him to drink from the glass Betsy held to his lips. That small movement required a great deal of what little strength he had, and when Nick lowered him he took several deep breaths.
“Where did you find me?”
Nick answered him this time. “On the East End of London. On Old Nichol Street.”
He closed his eyes as a frown deepened across his brow. “Do you know what I was doing there?”
Betsy exchanged a questioning look with her brother. “We were hoping you could tell us.”
The stranger sighed. “I’m afraid not.”
“Then perhaps we’ll start with something simpler,” Nick said. “Like your name.”
There was a long pause while the stranger closed his eyes and took several unsteady breaths. He finally spoke.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, either.”
“Can’t?” Nick asked.
“No,” the stranger sighed. “I don’t know who I am.”
CHAPTER 3
Harry.
For some reason, until he remembered who he was, they decided to call him Harry. He knew that wasn’t his real name, but until he remembered who he was, Harry was as good a name as any.
He was sure the bed was comfortable, the mattress soft, and the covers light, but he ached so damned bad it wouldn’t matter if the bed beneath him were a cloud. He lay without moving and tried to remember what he’d been doing in London’s East End. What kind of person was he that he had dealings in London’s East End? In The Old Nichol area? London’s worst slum area.
Other names and places in London sprang to mind, too. Such as the Metropolitan Police Headquarters and Scotland Yard. Did that mean he was a criminal and had a well-founded fear of the law?
He squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to force his mind to remember anything he could about his former life. But he came up blank.
Why couldn’t he remember what kind of person he was? He grabbed the soft covers and clutched them in his fists.
He quickly released them when the door opened, and the young woman called Betsy entered with a tray of tea, toast, and a covered plate he hoped had eggs and some of the bacon he’d smelled cooking earlier.
“Good morning.” She placed the tray on the bedside table. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Like I was run over by a team of eight hauling a dray loaded with beer kegs.”
She laughed.
His breath caught. Her laughter was the most magical sound he’d ever heard.
He studied her as she poured him a cup of tea and spread strawberry jam on his toast. Last night in the candlelight, he hadn’t realized how pretty she was. He’d had other more pressing things to think about, such as who he was. Today, he had time to focus on her features.
She had beautiful hair. The color wasn’t a vibrant red, but the deepest, richest auburn he’d ever seen. It was thick, and lay in heavy waves down her back. She’d pulled it loosely from her face, but little tendrils had sprung free and framed her heart-shaped face.
Her lips were full, and when she smiled, pearly-white teeth glowed with robust perfection. She had a small, delicate nose that turned up at the end. But that wasn’t the first feature one noticed when they looked at her. Her eyes were what drew your attention and refused to release you.
He didn’t remember ever seeing eyes that color before. He knew if he had, he’d remember staring into eyes that vibrant. They were the deepest, richest green he’d ever seen. In the candlelight he hadn’t noticed them like he did in the sunlight.
“Are you ready to sit up?” she asked, stepping beside him and preparing to slide her arm behind his back to help him sit. “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can.”
He took a deep breath. “We might as well get this over. It will be worth the pain to have something to eat. I feel like I haven’t eaten in a week.”
She smiled and his heart did a somersault in his chest.
“It almost has been,” she said. “It’s been five days.”
When she got her arm situated behind his back, he readied himself for the pain he knew would slice through him.
He thought he was prepared, but the second she lifted him, his ribs screamed with a jarring pain that stole his breath. For a moment he thought he might become ill.
She placed pillow after pillow behind his back, supporting him so he was sitting upright enough to eat, yet not so straight that there was a strain on his ribs. When she had the covers situated, she placed the tray on his lap.
“Do you want me to help you eat?” she asked.
The idea of having to be fed embarrassed him. “I think I can do it myself.” He reached for his fork and sucked in a breath when even that slight movement caused a jabbing pain to slice through him. The pain was so severe he dropped his fork and groaned an agonizing moan.
A sheen of perspiration covered his face and Betsy reached for his hand to hold it.
He held his breath and squeezed her fingers until the pain subsided, then released them with a loud groan.
“Just relax for a moment.”
He dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes while his breathing came in ragged gasps. He suddenly felt a cool, damp cloth brush over his forehead and cheeks. It brought heavenly comfort.
It took a long time for his breathing to calm and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach to ease.
“I’ll feed you. Just sit still and don’t move.”
“I think I can handle the sit still and don’t move part.”
She smiled and lifted the tray from his lap, then very gently sat on the edge of the bed. She took a forkful of the eggs and brought it to his mouth.
He thought he would be embarrassed to have someone feed him, but her easy manner, and the conversation she carried on while feeding him made him feel less self-conscious.
“I spoke with Dr. Raines about your inability to remember your name, and where you live.” She cut a crisp piece of bacon and held it to his mouth. “He said that was not uncommon after such severe injuries.”
He swallowed the bite of food, then asked, “Did he say how long it would last?”
She shook her head. “Sometimes it’s known to last a few days. Other times weeks…or even longer.”
He slowed chewing the food in his mouth and closed his eyes as if that would enable him to shut out the thought of not remembering anything about his life for that long.
“Don’t worry, Harry. You’ll remember who you are before that long.”
She placed the cup of tea to his lips and let him drink.
“I know one thing about myself already.”
Th
e expression on her face brightened. “What?”
“My name’s not Harry.”
An eruption of laughter escaped from deep within her, and a warmth traveled through his body even more heated than before.
“No, I’m sure your name isn’t Harry. You’re more of a Sam, or a Max, or a Jack.”
His breath caught as if he’d been jabbed in the gut.
“What? Was it something I said?”
He concentrated as hard as he could, knowing she’d triggered something familiar. But nothing came to mind. He shook his head. Thankfully, she covered his pause by holding a piece of toast to his mouth and letting him take a bite.
“Dr. Raines said that you should take your time. Your memory will return when it wants to. He said the harder you try to force yourself to remember, the longer it might take.”
“That’s comforting.”
She fed him another bite, then held the cup of tea to his lips. She repeated this over and over again until he couldn’t eat anymore.
“That was delicious, but I’ve had enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ve thought of something else we might try.”
His eyes opened wide and he stared at her. “What?”
“I want you to relax and close your eyes.”
She helped him lie down, then placed a pillow beneath his head. He closed his eyes.
“I want you to tell me anything you can think of,” she said.
His eyes opened. “That’s the problem, Miss Thomas. I can’t remember anything.”
“I don’t want you to remember anything. I want you to describe something.”
“Like what?”
“Close your eyes.”
He closed them again.
“This room. Without looking, describe this room.”
“That’s simple,” he said. “It’s a lady’s room. The room is soft, feminine.” He smiled. “Is this your room, Betsy?”
“Yes, Harry. It’s my room. What else can you tell me about my room?”
“The room is done in raspberry, plum, and rich cream.”
“Oh, that sounds delicious. I thought you said you weren’t hungry.”
They laughed again.
“Actually, the colors are burgundy and mauve,” she corrected. “And the cream is called ivory.”
“I’d rather think of it as plum. My mum had a dress that same color and my da always told her she was plum pretty when she wore i—”
His eyes shot open and when he looked at her face, a brilliant smile greeted him.
“Your parents sound like they loved each other a great deal.”
“They did. My brother and sisters and I would catch them kissing every once in a while and my mum’s face would turn as red as a garden beet.”
“You have sisters, then?”
“Yes. Two…I think. But I can’t remember their names.”
“That’s all right. That will come in time.”
He sank back against the bed and tried to rest, but his mind was traveling too fast to relax. “Where did you say you found me?”
“On Old Nichol Street.”
“That’s a pretty rough area, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “One of the worst areas in London.”
“Do you know what I might have been doing there?”
She shook her head again.
“Why were you and your brother there?”
At first he didn’t think she intended to answer him. She sat on the edge of the bed and remained silent for several long moments, then she rose and gathered his breakfast dishes and placed them back on the tray. When everything was cleaned away, she placed the tray on a stand near the door and walked to the window. She lifted the curtain and stared out if she was seeing something or someone who was intently interesting.
“We were looking for my sister.”
With one hand, Betsy held the curtain to the side of the window, while with the other, she absently traced the outer edge of the glass pane.
“There was a fair at Finsbury Square, and Phoebe and I were desperate to go. Phoebe had been seeing a handsome young man and they’d made plans to meet. One of my friends had gone to the fair the night before and a teller of fortunes told her she was going to find the man of her dreams and marry him. I was desperate to have my fortune read too.
“We pleaded with Mother and Father to take us, but Father refused to allow us to go. He’d heard some rumors linked to the unsavory people in the fair.”
Betsy slowly walked to the floral chair near the window and sat. The chair didn’t face the bed, but slanted enough so Betsy’s gaze was focused away from him out the window.
“Of course, Phoebe and I didn’t put any stock in what Papa heard. We were too anxious to go. So we came up with a plan to sneak out of the house and go to the fair without anyone knowing.”
He heard her take a breath that stuttered.
“I remember how pleased we were with ourselves,” she said, “when we’d made our escape without being noticed. We laughed all the way to Finsbury Square.
“When we arrived at the fair, Phoebe’s young man was waiting for her. Phoebe and I made arrangements to meet in front of the fortune teller’s tent at ten o’clock and we went our separate ways.”
Betsy took another shaky breath and clutched her hands in her lap. “Ten o’clock came, and I waited in front of the fortune teller’s tent, but Phoebe never showed up.”
“Did you see the young man she went off with again?”
Betsy shook her head.
“Then what happened?”
“I searched ‘til after midnight, but she wasn’t there. Finally, I had no choice but to go home and tell Mother and Father what we’d done.”
Betsy rose to her feet and paced the area, as if sitting was too confining.
“Father and Nick went to the fair to search for Phoebe, but they didn’t find her either. Father believed she’d either run off with the boy she’d gone there to meet, or she’d been kidnapped.” She didn’t continue for several long seconds.
“Mother went into a decline, and Father was never the same. After Phoebe was gone, Father took little interest in the shop. In fact, he rarely went there. Mother’s health declined and the following spring she died.”
Tears spilled from Betsy’s beautiful green eyes, and she wiped them away with the handkerchief she had in her pocket.
“Father devoted nearly all his time during the next three years to searching for Phoebe. He put out a reward for her and paid anyone who came with any information about her.”
“Did he ever consider that she’d run off with the young man she went there to meet.”
“Oh, yes. In fact, there was no doubt that’s what she’d done. I think she was afraid to face Father until it was too late for him to have the marriage annulled.”
“Would he have, do you think?”
“Annulled the marriage? Oh, yes.” Betsy twisted her hands at her waist. “Father took pride in the fact that he’d become a successful businessman. He intended his children to marry well and improve our standing even more. Maybe even marry someone with a title, albeit a minor one. In Father’s eyes, the young man Phoebe had fallen in love with was far beneath us. He worked with his father delivering casks of ale to the local pubs in the East End. Father would never have allowed Phoebe to marry him. He also thought Phoebe would realize her mistake and want to be found.”
“What about you? Do you think your sister regretted running off with her lover?”
A smile lifted the corners of her mouth and she shook her head. “Her lover’s name was Robbie Corning. If you had seen the way they looked at each other, you’d know Phoebe would never regret making a life with Robbie. But Father refused to believe that.
“Eventually, Father lost interest in everything except searching for Phoebe. He no longer cared for his business. Or Nick. Or me. He was obsessed with finding Phoebe.”
“So you believe your sister�
��s still there? Somewhere in London’s East End?”
Betsy sank down into the chair by the window. “I have to. To think she’s no longer there means she’s no longer alive.”
CHAPTER 4
Betsy carried a tray loaded with food to Harry’s room. It had been a week since he’d regained consciousness. A week since they’d first spoken. And during that week she felt as if she’d gotten to know him better than she knew anyone.
There was something unique about developing a friendship with a person without a past he could remember. Nothing influenced the way he thought, or the assumptions he drew. None of his thoughts or opinions were tarnished by past experiences. Every one of his comments was honest and objective.
She gave a quick rap on the door and entered. “I’ve brought you a light lunch,” she said carrying the tray across the room. “Mrs. Beasley said she was preparing something special for dinner tonight.”
“Your Mrs. Beasley has done nothing since you brought me here except prepare something special for me each evening. Be sure to tell her I think I’m in love with her.”
Betsy couldn’t help but laugh. The man they called Harry had a wonderful sense of humor. Even though she knew he was in pain a great deal of the time, he put on a brave face and suffered in silence.
“Would you like to sit up and eat in bed, or make your way to the chair like you did yesterday?”
“I’d like to move to the chair. I need to build my strength.”
“Dr. Raines said not to do too much.”
“He said to do as much as my body would allow. And my body is telling me to get out of this bed and walk.”
“Very well.” She placed the tray of food on the table close to the chair, then went back to help him to his feet. She pulled back his covers and helped him sit with his feet hanging over the side of the bed.
“Take your time,” she said when he gasped in pain. “Your ribs are far from healed yet.”
“I’d really…like to know what I did…to make the fellows who beat me up…do such a thorough job,” he said between gasps.
Betsy grabbed a damp cloth and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “They were hired to kill you,” she said, rinsing the cloth in fresh water and turning back to wipe his cheeks and neck. Before she could lift the cloth, he reached out and clamped his fingers around her wrist.
Love Unbidden: Tales of the Bedford Street Brigade Page 15
