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She edged back and half nodded. “Yes. Very much.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She half nodded again. “Thank you.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Were you and he ever in Paris? Is that where I may know you from?”
She glanced up at him. Her and Raymond in Paris? Oh, now she’d heard it all. Raymond hated the French about as much as he hated the mayor and his politics. Whilst she? She only knew about Paris from Raymond. About all the gardens the Parisians had, the rows of palaces that once belonged to kings, the way they cobbled their streets and even had churches that were almost as old as God himself. “Raymond had been in Paris on business in his younger years when he still had money. As for me, I’ve never once lived a breath outside of New York. I was born here, and though I’m tryin’ to move west, I’ll most likely die here and be buried with a wooden marker that’ll rot away and make everyone forget I was born a redhead.”
He averted his gaze. “You are far too young to be speaking in such gray tones.”
“Where I live, gray is about the only color one sees. But one gets used to it, especially if it’s all they know.” She focused once again on his waistcoat. “Now hold still.”
She leaned in, working the blade against the threads behind each button. She quickly detached all the buttons, catching them in her palm one by one, until his waistcoat hung open, exposing the whitest and brightest linen shirt she’d ever glimpsed. It was as if it had been snatched right off the tailor’s bench.
She released him, shoving all six buttons into the stitched pocket just beneath her left arm. “There.”
Gathering her calico skirts back up, she slid the blade securely back into the holster and let her skirts drop. She paused, sensing he was staring. Having been surrounded by men since she was nine, shortly after the death of her mum, she’d lost all sense of modesty around those who were used to seeing limbs being bared and rarely stared. But this man made her aware of just how important modesty was. It kept a girl out of trouble when it counted most.
She awkwardly glanced toward him. “You didn’t have to look.”
“I couldn’t very well help it.” His jaw tightened as he met her gaze. “Do you lift your skirts for all the boys?”
She pursed her lips, attempting not to be entirely insulted. “Only the ones I intend to gut. So I suggest you mind your tongue.”
“Don’t you worry. I intend to mind my tongue and my eyes.” He glanced away, jerking his now-open waistcoat against his linen shirt and abdomen. “I must say, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”
She paused. “The prodi-what?”
“Prodigal,” he provided.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Wasteful. Prodigal means wasteful.”
“Oh, does it, now? Well, I never heard of the word.”
“And whose fault is that? Not mine, to be sure. Buy yourself a dictionary, my dear.”
She glared at him for being so rude. “If I could afford one, I would. Though I really wouldn’t be surprised if you just made that word up in some pathetic attempt to impress me.”
He raked a gaze down the length of her and smirked. “I can think of a dozen other ways to go about impressing you, Mrs. Milton, and making up words doesn’t readily come to mind.”
She squinted. “You mean it really is a word?”
“Yes, of course it is a word.”
“Huh.” She eyed him. “I’m confused.”
“About what? The word?”
“No.” She waved toward him. “How is it you remember prodi-whatever but can’t remember much else?”
He paused. “That I don’t know.” He shrugged, averting his gaze. “I just remember words, that is all. I see them. I hear them. I cannot readily explain why, but I do. And as I said, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”
She lowered her chin. “Before your tears flood this room and the city, I ought to point out that a silver button can be pawned for as much as seventy-five cents apiece over at the local junk dealer. Over four dollars was dangling off your chest for the world to see. Never give anyone a reason to fleece you, I say, or they will.” Stepping back, she eyed his appearance again. “You still aren’t rough enough. You shouldn’t have shaved.”
She bit her lip and glanced around, wondering what she could do without altogether ripping the seams of his outfit apart. She supposed she could soil it, but with what?
She paused. Coffee. How fitting.
Glancing toward Dr. Carter’s desk, she plucked up the porcelain cup of coffee he’d left on the desk and dipped her finger into it to ensure it wasn’t hot. It wasn’t. “I don’t think Dr. Carter will mind. Hold still. Here’s a toast to what should have been.” Turning back to him, she flung the entire contents of the dark, gritty liquid onto the front of his linen shirt and open waistcoat.
He sucked in a breath and jumped back, his hands popping up into the air. He frantically swiped at his wet, stained clothing and glared at her, his dark hair falling from its neat, brushed state. “Damn you thrice into the pits of hell, woman.” He gestured rigidly toward himself, his face taut and his eyes ablaze. “Why did you think it necessary to ruin a perfectly fine linen shirt?”
He was certainly prim for a man who thought he was a pirate. He couldn’t even swear right. “We’re improvisin’, is all. No one’s linen shirts look that snowy white where I live.”
He gave her a withering look. “Forgive me for having a clean shirt. Shall I rip the seams a bit for you?”
She heaved out a breath. “If you can’t survive bein’ stripped by a woman and havin’ coffee thrown at you, you most certainly won’t survive where I’m takin’ you. You’re over six feet tall. Act like every inch counts, will you? Be a man.”
He released his shirt and stalked toward her, veering in tauntingly close. “’Tis damn well hard to be a man around you. Damn. Well. Hard.”
She rolled her eyes and huffed on her way out of the office.
Men. They were all so self-righteous no matter what their upbringing or how hard you hit them on the head.
CHAPTER FOUR
Of old there was nothing, nor sand, nor sea, nor
cool waves. No earth, no heaven above. Only the
yawning chasm.
—Saemundar Edda, Codex Regius (early fourteenth century)
ROBINSON INTENTLY WATCHED the shadows of wood buildings as they bobbed and rolled by through the small dirt-streaked window at his elbow, waiting to recognize just one thing. And yet he didn’t. Not the buildings. Not the streets. Not the omni he rode in. Not even the night itself. It was as if he were looking out upon a chasm that meant nothing to him. How much longer would he have to live feeling as if he were seeing everything for the first time?
He tightened his jaw and glanced toward the young woman sitting beside him on the bench. Georgia. Like the state. Who the hell named their daughter after a state? It would be like naming one’s daughter after Paris. It bespoke of too much grandeur with very little to show.
Her sloppily gathered strawberry locks quivered within her frayed, beribboned bonnet with each strong sway of the omni that sent her shoulder bumping into his shoulder. Despite the sways that forced their bodies to touch, she indifferently stared out across the narrow space toward the bench opposite their own, which had long been emptied of passengers.
Something about her was so achingly familiar, but for some reason, it didn’t match any of the erotic images she evoked in his head. He could vividly see pale, freckled limbs and cascading long red hair similar to hers splayed out against linen, but there simply wasn’t a face associated with it. Who was the naked woman in his head if it wasn’t this Georgia? Was it a wife he couldn’t remember? Or a…mistress?
God help him either way.
He dragged in a breath. “What do you know about me?” he eventually inquired above the clattering of the wood wheels.
Georgia shifted toward him. Her seductive eyes met his through the dim light of the lantern that swayed above the closed omni door, shifting shadows. “I know as much about you as you know about yourself.”
“Are you certain I never mentioned having a wife?”
“You told me you had no wife.”
“Oh.” Had he lied to her? No. He wasn’t that sort of man. Or rather, he could sense he wasn’t that sort of man. He shifted closer to her on the bench, his thigh bumping hers. “And how do we know each other again?”
“We met on Broadway. You affixed one of the ribbons on my bonnet when it came loose and it led to a bit of conversation.”
“Ah. And was I at least courteous and respectable toward you during our initial interaction?”
She eyed him. “Courteous, you most certainly were. Respectable? Mmm. No. Not really. Not given the way you insisted I join you for coffee. You wouldn’t leave me alone.”
He cleared his throat. “There isn’t anything wrong with a gentleman insisting on mere coffee, is there?”
“If the coffee is at his hotel, I’d say there is.”
He lowered his chin. “I propositioned you?”
“Right there on the street.” She waggled her brows and nudged him. “You practically poured coffee down my throat.”
What breed of a bastard ambushed a woman on the street and tried to drag her over to his hotel under the pretense of coffee? If he ever did remember being that sort of man, he’d up and fist himself. “I can only apologize for my behavior.”
“Apology much appreciated and accepted.”
Scanning her full lips, Robinson tried to conjure a memory of what might have been. He would have remembered making love to a mouth like that, wouldn’t he? But then again, he really couldn’t remember making love to any mouth. It was alarming to know all about what went on between a man and a woman and yet not remember doing any of it aside from some random flash of nakedness belonging to God knows whom. “So what happened between us? Did you and I ever…?”
Her brows rose. “What sort of woman do you take me for? I said no and sent you on your way, is what. You were the one followin’ me like a dog.”
He leaned toward her. “If nothing happened between us, and you know as much about me as I know about myself, why are you taking me home with you? Aren’t you at all worried I might be deranged or how this might affect your reputation? I don’t quite understand your reasoning.”
She clasped her bare hands, bringing them to the lap of her calico gown. “Don’t complicate this, Brit. I’m only doin’ this because I’ve got guilt as deep as the Hudson and you’ve got money to see us both through. I also wasn’t about to let you aimlessly wander the city in your condition.”
He shrugged. “I would have managed.”
“Yes. The way you managed that day on the street and ended up where you are now, completely oblivious to yourself and the world.”
Robinson lapsed into agitated silence, trying to recapture what he could remember. He remembered the hospital and all of the brass beds that lined the hall. He remembered the oatmeallike plaster ceiling that peeled in sections above his bed. He remembered the endless conversations he’d shared with Dr. Carter, who had patiently assisted him in doing things he already knew how to do but oddly couldn’t remember doing. Like how to shave, tie a cravat and read from a book of poems by Robert Burns. “Dr. Carter mentioned an omni being responsible for my condition, but refused to share any details pertaining to the incident. What happened?”
“’Twas sad,” she admitted quietly. “Some pignut slit the strings on my reticule and you chased him in an effort to retrieve it. That’s when the omni swiped you.”
It was so odd to hear about himself doing things he didn’t remember doing. “Rather heroic of me.”
“Actually, here in New York, we call that stupid. A reticule isn’t worth one’s life. For pity’s sake, you tried to dash past a movin’ omni, and, well…those maggots drive like a priest on the way to confession. They never stop. In one short breath—” She leaned in and smacked her hands together. “Bam!”
He lowered his chin. “Bam. I see. And that is when I awoke in the hospital, yes?”
“No. You were conscious thereafter, though not for very long. I knew somethin’ wasn’t right. You could hardly move or talk. I stayed with you the whole while after I delivered you into Dr. Carter’s care. I even tried visitin’ your bed when you regained consciousness, but Dr. Carter wouldn’t let me, seein’ you and most of the men in the hall were half-naked. So I just called on Dr. Carter’s office when I could to ensure you were doin’ well.”
He searched her face. “What made you repeatedly inquire about me?”
“Hospitals aren’t known for their care, Brit, as much as their morgues. I was worried.”
“Yes, the care most certainly was lacking. Some patients slept in their own vomit and were rarely cleaned. I assisted them and others whenever I could. Aside from the stench, I couldn’t bear watching grown men choking on what little was left of their pride.”
She observed him. “How much did Dr. Carter tell you about your condition? Did he talk to you about it at all?”
He shrugged. “Somewhat. He seems to think that when I was flung to the ground, it jarred my brain and affected my ability to recall events.”
“Did he mention that Robinson Crusoe isn’t really your name?”
He glanced at her, his throat tightening. “No. That he did not.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand his so-called medical advice. How are you supposed to assimilate if you aren’t given the means to decipher what is and isn’t real?”
He set his trembling hands on his knees. Why would Dr. Carter have maliciously allowed him to believe otherwise? “How does he know it isn’t my name? It could be. I sense that it is.”
“Not accordin’ to him. He claims that some of the events you speak of, includin’ the name itself, all came out of the pages of a book about a shipwrecked sailor.”
September 30, 1659. I, unhappy Robinson Crusoe, having suffered shipwreck, was driven on this desolate island, which I named the Desolate Island of Despair, the rest being swallowed up in the tempestuous sea.
Pushing out an uneasy breath, he tried to force away those misplaced words that never seemed to stop. “What year is it? I never did ask Dr. Carter.”
She eyed him. “July of 1830.”
Oh, God. He pressed his fingers against his temple, wishing he could shove reality back into it. When would this damnable haze lift? “I cannot be this Robinson. Not given that the year in my head is September of 1659. What in blazes is wrong with me? Why do I have some—some…book burned in my head but nothing else? It doesn’t make any sense.”
She grabbed his hand and shook it. “Try not to rile yourself over it. Give it time. I’ve no doubt your family will settle you back into your way of life when they come.”
He gently clasped his other hand over her small one, basking in its unexpected warmth and comfort. “What if I don’t have a family? What will become of me then?”
“Oh, hush. Everyone always has someone in their life. Be it family or not.” She slipped her hand from his, patting his forearm before setting it back onto her lap. “More than enough time has passed to ensure people are lookin’ for you. And if they’re lookin’, you’d best believe they’ll see the newspapers when it goes to print. They’ll come for you. I know they will.”
Robinson nodded, hoping she was right, because he didn’t want to live like this anymore. He felt like a ghost without a gravestone to refer to. “I appreciate you taking me in.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I’m only puttin’ a roof over your head and feedin’ you. Anyone can do that for a nickel and a dime.”
Money. She would need money, and given her worn boots and frayed bonnet it didn’t appear as if she had very much of it to begin with. He pressed a hand against the satchel weighing his inner coat pocket. “I’m willing to give you half of everything I have in return for your generosity.”
“I’m not about to take half.” She lowered her gaze to his shoulder and leaned in. “But if you’d be willin’ to give me six dollars,” she bargained, “I’ll see to it that all of your food and rent is paid for out of my own pocket. I know six is a lot to ask for, but it would help me fill the last of my box. I earn more than enough from laundry to cover basic expenses, give or take a quarter. We won’t be eatin’ mutton or chops, but porridge, oysters, yams and the likes I can easily fit on the menu.”
Sensing that she wasn’t accustomed to asking for anything, he gently offered, “If you require more than six dollars, so that we may eat better and fill your box, I should hope you will ask for it.”
She smiled, her features brightening. She leaned back against the wooden bench. “You’re beautifully kind, Robinson, but six dollars is all this woman needs to buy herself a new life.”
He blinked. “You intend to buy yourself a new life? For six dollars? Is that even possible?”
“Of course it’s possible.” She lowered her voice. “I’m movin’ out west, you see. To Ohio. I’ve a good friend who used to be a neighbor of mine—Agnes Meehan, who moved out that way with her father shortly after my husband died. She wrote me sayin’ there’s cheap land to be had, and if I could find my way out there with fifty dollars, I could invest in half an acre and work my way toward a better life. So I’ve been savin’ for that half acre ever since, and six dollars is about the last of what I need. That’ll put me at sixty. Five for the stagecoach, five for food and the rest for the land.”
