Forever and a Day

She sucked in a breath, scanning the men who were yelling at women to stand back. What—?

The driver of an omnibus, who had already brought his horses to a full halt, untied the calling rope from his ankled boot, hopped down from his box seat and hurried into the crowd as passengers within the omni craned and gaped through the small windows.

“Oh, God.” Her stomach clenched as she scrambled forward.

The Brit had been struck by the omni and was lying motionless there on the street corner of Howard and Broadway.

LIGHT EDGED IN THROUGH the waving darkness and pulsed against his eyelids. Slowly opening his eyes, he squinted against the glaring brightness of the sun that pierced through a cloudless sky. Taking in several jagged breaths, he drifted, unable to lift his head from the dirt-pounded street that dug into his shaven cheek and throbbing temple.

Several booted feet and countless hovering faces blocked his skewed view of painted placards posted on buildings and a blue sky that rose beyond a street he did not recognize. Shouts boomed all around him and the dust-ridden, heat-laced air made it difficult for him to breathe.

A bearded man with a cap slung low against his brow leaned over him. “Good to see you stayed below the clouds, sir. Are you able to get up?”

Why were there so many people gathered around him? What was going on? He rolled onto his back, wincing against the searing, razorlike sensations coiling throughout the length of his body. He staggered to sit up, only to sway and stumble back against the dirt road beneath him. The scuffed imprint of a booted foot that had been pressed deeply into the dirt beside him drew his gaze.

One day it happened that, going to my boat, I saw the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, very evident on the sand, as the toes, heels and every part of it.

He winced, pushing the odd, misplaced voice out of his head. His vision blurred as the acrid taste of blood coated his mouth and tongue. Something trickled down the side of his face, its wet warmth dribbling toward his earlobe. He swiped the moisture away with a trembling hand and glanced toward it. The fingertips of his brown leather glove were smeared with blood.

“Hoist him up,” a female voice insisted from within the blur of surrounding faces. There was a pause. “Oh, saints preserve us.” She sounded more panicked. “We need to get him over to the hospital.”

He swallowed and glanced up toward that lilting female voice that appeared concerned for him. Was he in some strange part of Ireland? Despite trying to find that voice, there only seemed to be an endless blur of male faces floating around him.

Hands slid beneath his morning coat and trouser-clad thighs. A group of men jerked him upward with a unified grunt.

Pain whizzed straight up to his clenched teeth and skull. He gasped, twisting against their pinching grasps. “Gentlemen,” he seethed out between ragged breaths. “Whilst your concern is appreciated, I hardly think a full procession is necessary.”

“Such posh manners for one who is dying,” one of the men carrying him hooted playfully. “One can only wonder what’ll come out of his mouth when he’s dead.”

A quick hand reached out and knocked the cap off the man’s head. “Less tongue, more muscle. Move!”

“Ey!” the man yelled back, stumbling against him and all the others carrying him. “Keep them mammet little hands to yourself, woman. I was only having a bit of fun.”

“You think it fun watchin’ a man bleed? Keep movin’ him, you lout. Lest I make you bleed.” The freckled face of a young woman with the brightest set of green eyes he’d ever seen suddenly peered in from between all of the broad shoulders carrying him. Her rusty arched brows came together as she trotted alongside him, trying to hold his gaze through moving limbs. A loose, soft-looking strand of strawberry-red hair swayed against the wind, having tumbled out of her frayed blue bonnet.

“Where are you stayin’?” She shoved the loose strand of hair back into her bonnet with a bare hand, trying to keep up with the men carrying him. “Close? Far?”

Gritting his teeth, he tried to focus, but couldn’t.

“Are you from around here?” she insisted, still bustling alongside him. “Or are you visitin’ from abroad? You mentioned a hotel. Which hotel are you stayin’ at?”

“Hotel?” he echoed up at her, his throat tightening. “When did I mention a hotel?”

She squinted down at him, searching his face. “Never you mind that. We need to contact your family. Give me a name and address, and after we deliver you to the hospital, I’ll run myself over to them at once.”

Family? He blinked, glancing up at the swaying, hazy blue sky above as he was guided up toward a hackney. Countless names and faces flipped through his mind’s eye like the pages of an endless book whipping past. There were so many names. Strada. Ludovicus. Casparus. Bruyère. Horace. Sloane. Lovelace. Shakespeare. Fielding. Pilkington. La Croix. They couldn’t all be related to him. Or…could they?

I was called Robinson Kreutznaer, which not being easily pronounced in the English tongue, we are commonly known by the name of Crusoe.

Wait. Crusoe. Yes. It was a name he remembered very well. Robinson Crusoe of York. Was that not him? It had to be, and yet he couldn’t remember if it was or it wasn’t. Oh, God. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he remember what was what?

He winced, realizing that he was now being tucked against the leather seat of an enclosed hackney. The firm hands that had been pushing him to sit upright against the seat left his body one by one as all the men turned away and jumped down and out of the hackney, leaving him alone against the seat.

Everything swayed as he slumped against the weight of his heavy limbs. He panicked, unable to control his own body, and fought to remain upright by using his gloved hands against the sides of the hackney.

The woman with the green eyes shoved her way past the others and frantically climbed up into the hackney, slamming the door behind her. “I’m takin’ you in myself. I’ll not leave your side. I promise.”

The vehicle rolled forward as she landed beside him on the seat with a bounce. She leaned toward him. “Come.” Her arms slid around him as she dragged him gently toward herself. She guided his shoulder and head down onto her lap, scooting across the seat to better accommodate his size.

He collapsed against the warmth of her lap, thankful he didn’t have to hold himself up anymore. Wrapping a trembling hand around her knee, he buried it into the folds of her gown, taking comfort that he wasn’t alone. The scent of lye and soap drifted up from the softness of her gown, which grazed his cheek and throbbing temple. He could die here and know eternal peace.

Her hand rubbed his shoulder. “I want you to talk. That way, I’ll know you’re doin’ all right. So go on. Talk.”

He swallowed, wanting to thank her for her compassion and for giving him a breath of hope even though he sensed there was none. Was death nothing more than a long sleep? His hand slowly and heavily slid inch by inch from her knee as he felt his entire world tip.

“Sir?” She leaned down toward him and shook him. “Sir?”

A snowy, rippling haze overtook the last of his vision, and though he fought to stay awake in those heavenly arms, everything faded and he along with it.

CHAPTER TWO

The height of cleverness is to be able to conceal it.

—François de La Rochefoucauld,

Maximes Morales (1678)

Nine days later, early evening

New York Hospital

GEORGIA LET OUT AN EXASPERATED breath and adjusted her bonnet, setting both ankled boots up onto the wicker chair opposite the one she’d been sitting in for the past ten minutes. She leaned forward and shook the bundled length of her brown calico gown to allow cooler air to relieve the heat of the room that would not dissipate.

Falling back into the wicker chair again, she glanced impatiently toward the surgeon who appeared to be far more invested in his desk than in her. “How much longer, sir? I’ve yet to cross back into town before they cease all rides and I really have no desire to walk over fifteen blocks in the dark.”

Dr. Carter casually reached out and gripped the porcelain cup beside him. Lifting the rim to his mustached lip, he took a long swallow of murky coffee, before setting it back onto the saucer beside him with a clink. He leaned over the sizable ledger on his desk and scribed something. “His condition remains the same, Miss Milton. As such, you may go.”

She glared at him. “’Tis Mrs. Milton ’til another man comes along to change it, and I didn’t pay a whole twelve and a half cents for the omni to hear that. Last week you claimed he was fully recovered. I expected him to be gone by now. Why is he still here?”

The tip of his quill kept scratching against the parchment. “Because, Mrs. Milton, I am still conflicted as to how I should proceed.” Wrinkling his brow, he paused and reached toward the inkwell with a poised quill. “His mental state isn’t what it should be. I haven’t disclosed his condition to anyone outside a trusted few out of fear he could be tossed into an asylum.”

Her lips parted. “An asylum? Why would anyone—”

“Since he regained consciousness nine days ago, Mrs. Milton, he has been unable to provide me with a name or any details pertaining to his life. I even had to reacquaint him with the most basic of care, including how he was to shave and knot his own cravat.”

She dropped her legs from the chair and sat up, her heart pounding. “Dearest God. What do you plan to do? What can you do?”

He shrugged. “I intend to dismiss him within the week. He doesn’t belong here any more than he does in an asylum.”

Her eyes widened. “And what of his family, sir? We have to find a way to contact them before you let him wander off. What if he should disappear and they never hear from him again?”

He stared at her, edging back his hand from over the inkwell. “If he hasn’t the means to remember them, I haven’t the means to find them. Do you understand? There is nothing more that I can physically do for him.”

“There is plenty more you can physically do for him!”

“Such as?” His tone was of pained tolerance.

“You can contact the British Consulate about whether or not they’re missin’ a citizen.”

“I have already done that. No one is missing.”

Damn. “Well…isn’t there a way to bring in an artist and acquire a sketch of his face?”

“That has already been done. I mandate profile sketches of all my patients. It allows for extended funding from the government.”

“Good. We’ll be able to make use of it and submit his sketch to every newspaper and hotel across town. Someone is bound to know who he is, given he appears to be of the upper circles. Though I recommend no reward. That would only attract imposters.”

Dr. Carter tossed his quill aside and leaned into the desk, scrunching his gray pin-striped waistcoat and his overcoat in the process. “This is a hospital, Mrs. Milton. Not an investigative branch of the United States government. You clearly have no understanding as to how these things work.”

How typical that she’d be treated like some stupid, scampering rat darting through the legs of society. She managed to refrain from jumping up and smacking him for it. “Last I knew, sir, and correct me if I’m wrong, but the New York Hospital is funded by a contributin’ branch of the United States government. As such, you have an obligation to oversee the well-bein’ of every citizen that passes through these doors, be that citizen a Brit or not. Have the laws somehow changed? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?”

He sighed. “The funding I receive from the government is very limited. It doesn’t provide for these sorts of things.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everythin’ involvin’ our government is very limited. They only give the people just enough to prevent revolution whilst robbin’ every last one of us blind. In my opinion, these politicians ought to be boiled in their own whiskey. They don’t give a spit about anythin’ but their own agenda.”

A tap resounded against the door of the small office.

“Yes?” he called out, lifting his chin toward its direction. “What is it?”

The door swung open and a balding man hurried in, bare hands adjusting a blood-spattered, yellowing apron that had been carelessly tied across his waistcoat and trousers. “Bed sixteen is shaving, despite orders that he remain in bed. He insists on yet another bath and intends to depart within the hour. What am I to do?”

Dr. Carter blew out a breath. “There is nothing we can do. If he insists on departing, I cannot physically hold him. Send him into my office. I’ll ensure he pays the bill and will direct him to one of the local boardinghouses.”

“Yes, Dr. Carter.” The man jogged back out.

Bed sixteen? That was the Brit’s bed. Georgia’s wicker chair screeched against the floorboards as she jumped onto booted feet. “You intend on lettin’ him walk out into the night despite his condition? And plan on layin’ him with a bill, too?” She pointed at him, wishing she had it in her to grab his head and pound it into his own desk. “A thug is what you are. A bedeviled, government-funded thug who ought to be—”

“Mrs. Milton, please. I haven’t the time for this.”

“You’d best make the time, Dr. Carter, as it only involves the poor man’s life. Directin’ him to a local boardin’house is like tellin’ a fox to take up residence with the hounds. At the very least, you ought to turn him over to the state.”

He rubbed his temple. “Mrs. Milton.” He dropped his hand to his side and sat back against his leather chair. “The man is far too old to become a ward of any state.” He swept a grudging hand toward the open window beside him that mirrored a quiet, moonless night. “Given his size and level of intelligence, I doubt he’ll run into any trouble.”

The bastard didn’t even care that the minute that Brit put his polished boots on the wrong street, he’d be dead. She marched toward him, halting before his desk. “Whilst I know the world is full of woes we can’t mend, we sure as hell ought to try. I want you to board him.”

He blinked. “What? Here?”

“No, you dunce. In your home. What better way to care for your patient than givin’ him a room next to your own?”

Dr. Carter threw back his head and puffed out a breath. After staring up at the ceiling for a long moment, he leveled his head and confided in a very impersonal tone, “I cannot take him home with me. My wife would throw a fit if I commenced bringing home all of my patients.”

“Better your wife than me.”

He pointed at her. “I’m asking you to leave before I have you tossed on your goddamn nose. I’ve had enough of this.” He swept a finger to the door. “Get out.”

It was obvious this man wasn’t taking her seriously. Setting both hands atop his piled ledgers, she leaned across the desk toward him and lowered her voice a whole octave to better deliver her threat. “Before you go about tossin’ me out on my nose, Dr. Carter, I want you to think about whether or not your life means anythin’ to you.”

He rose to his feet, towering above her. The broad planes of his aging face tightened as he leaned toward her across the desk. “Are you threatening me?” he rasped, placing both of his hands parallel to her own.

“Nah. ’Tis just a question like…between friends, don’t you see.” Georgia narrowed her gaze to match his. “But supposin’ the Forty Thieves, who provide me with whatever protection I require, were to hear of my distress? What then? I’d be thinkin’ it’d be in your best interest to help this man along. Because if you don’t, I’d reckon that the quality of your life will diminish to the point that the Holy Virgin wouldn’t even be able to help you.”

His eyes held hers, his rigid brow flickering with renewed uncertainty. “I am a servant of the state. No rabble has power or say over me.”

Georgia continued to stare him down. “Toss me on my nose and count all of the men who will show up at your door. I dare you. Go on. Toss me.”

Dr. Carter edged back and away, slowly removing his hands from the desk. Swiping a trembling hand across his face, he sat and shifted in his seat, refusing to look at her. “Might I ask why you are so intent on assisting him? Is he a customer who never fully disclosed his name and owes you money? Is that what this is about?”

Georgia lowered her chin, her pulse roaring in her ears. “How dare you? I sell hot corn on the hour of every summer and scrub clothes for priests in three wards, barely makin’ half of what you eat in an effort to stay respectable.” She snapped a finger toward the open door. “I don’t know who the hell that man is any more than you do! Cursed that I am, I feel guilt for what happened to him. He was hit runnin’ after my reticule. I may not be fobbin’ high society, sir, but how does showin’ an ounce of concern for a man make me a whore?”

Dr. Carter fell back against the chair and sighed. “I simply wanted to know what I was attaching my name to.”

“Well, now you know. I do laundry. Not men.”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you for more than clarifying that.”

“I still don’t understand a spit of any of this. How does a man forget his own name and life?”

Running the tips of his fingers against his mustache, he eyed her. “I’ve actually read about a condition similar to his known as ‘memory loss’ in one of my medical journals. It involved a soldier who was rendered blank after a severe blow to the head during the war. I myself never thought it medically possible, but it’s obvious this man’s memory is for the most part gone. I wanted you to be aware of that given your concern.”

She swallowed, bringing her shaky hands together. This was her fault. She should have never looked at him that day. Perhaps things might have been different. Perhaps he’d still have had a mind. “Don’t you know anythin’ about him? Anythin’ at all?”

“A few things, yes. ’Tis obvious by the clothing he arrived in, his speech and mannerisms, as well as the money that was found on his person, that he appears to be of British affluence.”

She huffed out a breath. “I already knew that. His buttons were made out of silver, sir. Not even bankers can afford silver buttons.”

“Then you know about as much about the man as I do, Mrs. Milton.” He held up a hand, shifting in his seat. “Threats aside, I will agree that assisting him is the right thing to do, but my time is very limited, so I am going to ask for your assistance, in turn. I work as many as twelve hours a day and my wife and six children barely see me. What little time I do have, I spend with them and hope to God you’ll not impose on what I consider to be incredibly precious.”

Georgia blinked, her throat tightening. Now she felt like a bloke of the worst sort, having bullied a family man. “I didn’t mean to toss threats, but I learned a long time ago that generosity and compassion have to be threatened out of people.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. “You are far more impressive in nature than you let on.”

She set her chin. “The frayed gown has a tendency to mislead people into thinkin’ I’m as equally frayed. Now let’s get on with this. What will you have me do? I’ll see to it if it means helpin’ him. That’s all I really care about.”

He sighed. “Find a means to board him until he is claimed.”

She lifted a brow. He wanted her to board him? Impossible. There was only one bed in her low closet and it belonged to her. Even if she did manage to get past sharing it with a man she didn’t know, he’d only end up leeching resources she barely had. “Bein’ a respectable widow, sir, I’ve neither the money nor the means.”

Dr. Carter leaned over and yanked open one of the drawers on the desk, scooping up a stringed, small leather satchel. “I retrieved everything from his pockets when he first arrived to prevent anything from being stolen. The patients here aren’t particularly trustworthy.” He tapped it. “Inside, you’ll find a fob and a pocketbook containing one hundred and thirty-two dollars. It should be more than enough to oversee all of his expenses. I’ll even waive the hospital fee if you promise to board him for however long it takes to locate his family.”

Georgia gawked at the lopsided satchel. “One hundred and thirty-two dollars? Away with you. Who wanders about the city with that much money in one pocket?”

He smirked. “A pirate, I suppose.” He paused and shifted awkwardly in his seat. “I should probably disclose that he claims to be a Salé pirate.”

She gasped. “Whatever do you mean he claims to be?”

He cleared his throat. “If you intend to board him, which I hope you will, I highly recommend you not exasperate his situation. He isn’t in the least bit dangerous, but riling him into questioning his own sanity will only result in pointless paranoia. If he says he is a Salé pirate, he is. Do you understand?”

Heaven preserve her soul. What was she getting herself into? Whilst, yes, she wanted to help, and the man seemed infinitely divine on the street, she didn’t know who this Brit was or what he was capable of. What if he’d already been deranged prior to being clipped by the omni and his so-called “memory loss” was, in fact, who he really was?

“Abide by calling him Robinson Crusoe,” he continued. “He prefers it.”

She blinked. “I thought you had said he didn’t know his name.”

“He doesn’t. He thinks Robinson Crusoe is his name.”

She squinted, not understanding his point. “Beggin’ your pardon, but Robinson Crusoe sounds like a very legitimate name to me.”

He blinked rapidly. “You obviously haven’t read the book.”

Now he really wasn’t making any sense. “What book?”

Dr. Carter leaned toward her, awkwardly refusing to meet her gaze. “Mrs. Milton.”

“Yes?”

“Robinson Crusoe is the name of a character from a book. ’Tis a story decades old and well-known amongst boys and men alike. The main character is a sailor whose ship is overtaken by Salé pirates who force him into becoming a slave. He manages to escape, only to be shipwrecked on an island frequented by cannibals. So you see…our Salé slave and pirate thinks he is this character. He thinks he is Robinson Crusoe.”

Her eyed widened. “That doesn’t sound like memory loss to me. He sounds…deranged.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. But he isn’t.” He shifted toward her. “In trying to understand his most unusual condition, I presented him a map of the world and asked him where we were and where he lived. Imagine my astonishment when he points to France and mentions rue des Francs-Bourgeois in Paris. ’Tis a street I know very well, given my wife’s parents had lived on that same street prior to the Revolution that pushed them out. ’Tis still an impressive area frequented by those of affluence and one Robinson Crusoe would have never frequented. I have written to his address to inquire, but without a name or house number, it may lead nowhere.

“So you see, he may not remember who he is, but he still remembers factual things outside of this Crusoe. Factual things that must pertain to his own life. I have therefore concluded that his condition isn’t one of full-blown fantasy but an inability to decipher between fact and fiction. That doesn’t make him deranged. It only makes him…unreliable. Something to keep in mind whilst you board him.” He plucked up a piece of stationery from his cluttered desk, along with an ink-slathered quill. “I will require your name and address before you depart with him.”

She angled toward him. “Don’t you think that a man who claims to have met cannibals is a walkin’ liability I ought to avoid? Regardless of if he knows life outside of this—this Crusoe? What if he should eat me and all of my neighbors in honor of his cannibal friends? What then, sir?”

Dr. Carter burst into laughter and caught himself against the desk, eyeing her. “He won’t—” He laughed again, shaking his head. “No. He won’t. Not this man.”