Delilah Marvelle - Forever and a Day

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.