by Wilma Counts
Fragments. Only fragments. But fragments from a distant past. Someone else’s distant past. Months—even years ago. Why—why—can I not remember here and now? Three days? I’ve been trussed up like a Christmas goose for three days? That was what the woman said, was it not? The woman with cool, soothing hands and smelling of lilacs. And the other woman—older—had referred to him as “his lordship.” How is it that I have no such recollection? Surely one could recall being a lord! Why…why can I not conjure up a name? My own name, for God’s sake!
She said not to worry. It is all right. It will come back. But it is not coming back.
He ticked off letters of the alphabet, trying to find one—even one—that might trigger a name. Nothing. He did it again. Still nothing.
Not to worry indeed. Easy enough for her to say.
As though he had conjured her up, suddenly there she was, carrying a heavily laden bed tray.
“Good! You are awake. I thought you might be. Good morning. I have brought you some breakfast. Real food: buttered eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee.”
He gazed at her, really seeing her for the first time. Earlier impressions had come through a haze of pain. He noted dark brown hair with light streaks of reddish gold, braided and coiled into a crown. She had hazel eyes, a profusion of freckles, and a cheerful demeanor as evidenced by an engaging smile that showed slightly uneven teeth, which he thought added to her charm.
“I may be able to do justice to such fare this morning,” he said.
She set the tray on a table. “I’ll remove the strap keeping your injured leg stable, then perhaps you can pull yourself to a sitting position. Use the rails on the side of the bed.”
This task, accomplished with a great deal of pain in his chest and his leg, was not easy, but he managed it without crying out. She placed extra pillows behind his back, set the tray carefully across his legs, and lifted the cover from the plate of food. The smell alone set his mouth to watering.
“I’ll be back soon to get these things.” She gestured at the tray. Then she was gone, taking with her some of the sunniness of the morning. He ate in solitude, noting familiar tastes and textures in the food. I remember these well enough. Why can I not grasp my own name and why—or how—I came to be in…ah, yes…Cornwall, bordering Devon. I must have had a reason…
Twenty minutes later she returned as promised, but she was not alone. Two men accompanied her. She removed the tray and set it aside, then introduced her companions. The older man was her father, Dr. Charles Whitby, who must once have been a tall man but was now stooped by age. His gray hair was tied back with a leather thong. The other man, with dark brown hair, was half the age of the doctor; Miss Whitby introduced him as “Mr. Stewart, our butler, our chief of sundry other duties, and our friend.”
The patient thought this was a decidedly unusual introduction of a servant, but who was he to judge customs in the countryside of Cornwall? Stewart carried two steaming buckets of water.
“Well, lad,” the doctor said affably, “my daughter tells me you are having a bit of a memory problem.”
“Yes, sir. Some things I recall well enough, but—”
“Temporary memory loss is not unusual with a severe blow to the head. Give yourself a few days to get back to normal.”
“But meanwhile,” Miss Whitby said, “what shall we call you? We cannot continue to call you ‘the patient’ or ‘the man’—both those are too indifferent.”
“Hmm. Last night the lady referred to me as ‘his lordship.’ Did she know something I am not remembering?”
“No,” Miss Whitby replied. “Mrs. Hutchins was merely judging by the fine workmanship of your clothing and your riding boots. They look expensive.”
“I see.” He tried to recall what he had been wearing, but came up with nothing.
“Sir,” she prompted, “what shall we call you other than ‘the injured man’?”
He thought for a moment. “How about Adam? Does it not mean ‘man’?”
She smiled and clapped her hands. “Of course it does. Perfect! And a surname?”
Again, he took time to think about it. “Perhaps Wainwright?” Where on earth had that come from?
“Adam Wainwright.” She paused in thought. “Adam Wainwright sounds fine to me. Papa?”
The doctor nodded. “Adam Wainwright. Seems adequate.” He paused and gazed at each of the others in turn. “But I think we’d best put it out that that is his name, that he woke up and that’s who he is—not just something we’re calling him.”
The man in the bed nodded his immediate understanding of the doctor’s reasoning, but the daughter asked, “Why?”
Her father explained. “Because the fellows who did this to him might not have picked a random traveler. Might be they knew—or thought they knew—who they were dealing with.”
“That’s a bit frightening,” she said. “You’re suggesting they might try again.”
“They could. But not likely, if they think they got the wrong man the first time.” Dr. Whitby addressed his patient. “Now that you are fully awake, Mr. Wainwright, I assume you can be of some assistance in protecting yourself. I also assume that you have some expertise in the use of firearms.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“I shall bring you one of my pistols. Keep it under your pillow, just in case.”
“Thank you, sir. I had not got that far in my thinking. Still trying to deal with more basic issues.” Adam paused, then said, “So. I think I have not yet been properly introduced to you, Miss Whitby.”
“Hero,” her father said. “Hero Gwendolyn Whitby. My daughter did most of the patchwork on you, lad.”
“Hero.” Adam turned the name over, tasting the two syllables. “I would venture to say that her efforts were, indeed, heroic, but I doubt that is the explanation for such an unusual name.”
Dr. Whitby chuckled. “No. It is not. Her mother—bless her heart—was a great enthusiast of the Greeks.”
“Ah,” Adam said, “Hero and Leander. Faith and love.”
Miss Whitby immediately picked up on that. “You remember the story, then? Can you recall the circumstances under which you might have heard it?”
He closed his eyes, muttering the names Hero and Leander. He felt the answer was there—just beyond the edge, but he could not grasp it. Finally, he admitted, “Sorry. I just cannot do it.”
“Never mind, lad—Adam,” the doctor said. “Don’t work at it too hard, and one day—soon, I hope—it will come tumbling back. For now, I want to look at that wound on your leg, then Stewart and I will set about giving you a bath.”
“A bath?” Adam squeaked, with a glance at Miss Whitby.
“Not to worry. We will chase her away, but she needs to see that wound. The stitchery is her handiwork,” the doctor said, removing the sheet carefully from the injured leg. He untied the bandage and Adam felt cold air on the wound. He flinched as the doctor pressed swollen flesh around the cut, which, even to Adam’s untrained eye, was beginning to mend.
“Mm…mm,” the doctor muttered. “Looks good, eh, Hero? Little danger of infection now.”
She merely nodded and handed the doctor a wad of cotton soaked in what Adam assumed from the smell to be an alcohol compound. He felt the cold liquid, then a stinging sensation as the wound was cleansed. Somewhat to Adam’s surprise, it was the daughter who put the new bandage in place, tying the end strips with expertise obviously born of practice. Well, well, he thought, but he was glad when she picked up the breakfast tray and, saying, “I shall return,” started to leave the room.
“Wait!” he called. “You forgot to remove the binding on my ribs last night.”
She flashed him a grin. “I did not forget. Perhaps you can discuss it with my father.”
“Saucy female,” Adam muttered under his breath, but he did discuss it with her father, and the doctor relu
ctantly agreed to leave that restrictive irritation off after he and Stewart had given their patient a thorough wash and a shave. They then dressed him in what Adam assumed to be one of the doctor’s nightshirts. The whole process necessitated a good deal of their rolling him about on the bed, but he readily admitted it felt good to be really clean again. By the time they were finished, both his leg and his head were throbbing and every breath was painful. He welcomed a second dose of laudanum and the healing sleep it offered.
Adam. Hero liked thinking of him as Adam. The primeval man. The name suggested something earthy and fundamental. From the very beginning she had felt some elemental attraction to this man. Now he had a name that justified her wild musings. You are being decidedly silly, she chastised herself.
She went to the nursery to spend time with Annabelle—always a great way to escape dealing with any issue in her life that she wanted to avoid facing head-on. The little girl was learning her numbers and letters—still getting them mixed up, but Hero was sure she would have them mastered within a week or so.
During the next three days, her life returned to some semblance of normal. As with any long-term patient of the clinic, she checked on Adam at least twice a day. A clean-shaven Adam was remarkably attractive—and he was personable too. He had a cheerful demeanor and a smile that revealed deep laugh lines in his cheeks and around his eyes. Sapphire-blue eyes that suggested a layer of amusement at the world around him and often at himself. She liked a man who could laugh at himself. She knew he was often in pain, but he tended to ignore it, rarely asking for the pain-relieving laudanum.
“That stuff is dangerous,” he said.
“Yes, it can be,” she replied, “but I think you are in little danger of becoming addicted—yet!”
“Still…”
Assured that he was on the mend, and eating properly, she accompanied her father on house calls, but Adam was the patient who dominated her thoughts. She fervently wanted to help him recover his memory. To this end, she pored through her brother’s up-to-date medical books and her father’s more dated tomes, but she found little to help her. She did not ignore the issue—at least not deliberately—but she found herself caught up in other problems: The Wellman twins had contracted chicken pox and spread it to their playmates; old Mrs. Petersen’s rheumatism was acting up; a stable boy at the coaching inn sprained his ankle; and so on and on…
One afternoon, she visited Knowlton House on her own. Sally had only two pregnant young women residing there at the moment and neither of them was close to term. Hero examined each of them and gave them her standard pep talk: “Eat your vegetables and exercise.”
When she had finished, she and Sally sat in Sally’s small office to compare notes. The room was barely large enough for Sally’s rolltop desk, two chairs, and a chest-high bookcase that contained more loose papers than books. As midwives, the two women were more or less equal, balancing each other’s expertise and readily sharing new insights. A woman in her midfifties, with gray streaks in her raven-black hair, Sally could not remember precisely how many babies she had helped usher into this world.
“Probably enough to populate the whole parish,” she often said with a laugh.
Hero, on the other hand, read voraciously and often mentioned some new—or old—technique she had come across, and she and Sally would discuss the practicalities of such. Sally’s big news today was that she had received an inquiry about yet another young woman who needed their help.
“I thought you were going to cut back some,” Hero said.
“I am.” Sally sounded defensive. “I can handle three well enough. You know I once had six girls here.”
“Yes, I do know. But you’ve hardly the room, let alone the resources, for that many. And you work yourself to a frazzle over each and every one of your girls.”
“It’s just that the need is so great. And I do have help. Weyburn people help when they can. Mostly. You and your ‘H’ friends have been invaluable to us.” Sally referred to Hero and her former school friends, Henrietta and Harriet, who had readily answered Hero’s call to help women and girls whom society would gladly assign to a trash heap.
“I’ve had another letter that you will certainly find interesting,” Sally went on.
“Not another one, Sally. Really, three is all you can handle comfortably.”
“No. No. Nothing like that. This came from a solicitor in Lancashire.” She rifled through a stack of correspondence on her desk. “Ah, here it is. He refuses to name his client, but insists he represents someone who is very interested in whether Barbara Gaylord, who is said to have died of influenza in 1812, was ever a guest of mine.”
Hero felt a chill of apprehension. No. All these years later—No. It cannot be. “Have you answered him?”
“Not yet. I wanted to consult you first.”
“The timing is right,” Hero admitted, “but Barbara is a rather common name. I do not remember our Barbara ever using a family name.”
“No. She did not. But then they rarely do—at least, not a real one.” Sally’s tone hardened. “Why would someone suddenly care now? I remember her arrival so clearly. A post chaise drove up the driveway, the coachman got down and rapped on my door. Asked me if this was the Knowlton House. When I said yes, he nodded at the carriage; the door opened from the inside and Barbara climbed down with a small valise. I felt so sorry for her. She was so alone.”
“I do not recall her ever talking about her family,” Hero said, “but I did not see her every day as you did.”
“No. Never mentioned them. Talked of her school days and a few balls she had attended, but not her family. I received compensation for her stay here from a London law office. When she died, that office merely instructed that she be buried locally.”
“How cold.”
“Yes, well…” Sally spread her hands in a what-can-one-say sort of gesture, then added, “I think she was happy here—content at least. She got on well with me and the other girls. Shared a room with a former governess. She did say once that her babe’s father was killed in one of those sea battles leading up to the war with America.”
Hero read the solicitor’s letter in its rather stilted legalese and passed it back to Sally. “How will you respond to this?”
“With the truth. I never knew of a Barbara Gaylord, but the name Barbara is quite common. Let his unnamed client take it from there—if they care to—which I doubt.”
Hero agreed with this plan and the sentiment, but she could not shake a nagging worry. That night after the bedtime story and prayers, she hugged Annabelle ever so tightly. Oh my God! What if I ever had to give her up?
* * * *
For his part, Adam welcomed Hero’s visits to the clinic. Other members of the Whitby household checked on him from time to time, servants brought him meals three times a day, and both Mr. Stewart and Mrs. Hutchins seemed to take a warm interest in his welfare. Outside visitors were often invited to stop by his bedside briefly. There were a surprising number of these, but the doctor had reasoned that perhaps one of the neighbors would recognize the patient—or trigger a memory response from the man himself. But it was Hero’s smile he looked forward to most.
Anxious to learn anything he could of his own identity and his possible reason for being in this area of southern England, he encouraged all his visitors to talk. Most were eager to do so. In this way, he gained a good deal of information about the town and its inhabitants as well as those in the surrounding area. The principal holding in the area was Weyburn Abbey, which controlled several thousand acres of farmland as well as a copper mine.
“All that farmland and a mine? Must require an army of workers to keep it up,” Adam commented.
“Used ta do,” replied Stewart, the caretaker-visitor of the moment. “Lots of ’em been let go since Sir Benjamin died seven, eight years ago. He was the last owner. Fine man he were too. Took care of his pe
ople and his property. Not like now.”
“Who owns it now?” Adam asked, shifting his seat in the bed with a sharp intake of breath as he moved the injured leg too abruptly.
“Some nob name o’ Sterne. Sir Benjamin’s godson. But he ain’t seen fit to even visit his holding. Can ye believe that? A duke’s son. Got no sense of responsibility if you ask me.”
“There must be somebody in charge, though.”
“There’s a steward named Teague. But he don’t seem overly innerested in the Abbey an’ its concerns. My brother’s a foreman in the mine. He’s real worried about safety there. But Teague jus’ told ʼim to tend to his own business an’ carry on.”
The next afternoon, Dr. Whitby ushered in two men in fishermen’s garb. “Thought you’d like to meet these fellows, since they likely saved your life. The Jacobses—father and son.” Whitby gestured at each in turn.
Adam sat up straighter and reached—not without a sharp protest from his chest—to shake their hands. “I am most pleased to meet you. How can I ever repay you?”
“No need o’ that,” the older Jacobs said. “We was jus’ wonderin’ how ye was a-doin’—heard you’d finally come to.”
At Dr. Whitby’s prodding, they reiterated the story of their finding him.
“Whoever done it likely got innerrupted,” the younger man said. “We looked around. Lots of signs of a scuffle. I think they was two, maybe three of ’em. Ye musta fought ’em real hard. But we didn’t find anything else.”
“Nevertheless, I appreciate your rescuing me. When this is all sorted out, perhaps I will be able to thank you properly.” Still standing at his bedside, they shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed, so Adam changed the subject. “How goes your fishing?”
