Anne Herries - A Stranger's Touch

‘I have helped others in similar circumstances, sir. I am glad to have been of service to you.’

‘Yet I should go,’ he said. ‘I must not be a burden on you. Pray turn your back, Mistress Morgan. Preferably leave the room. I need to relieve myself.’

‘Lie still and I shall bring you the chamberpot, sir.’

‘Turn away for your modesty.’ He put his legs over the side of the bed, touched the floor with his feet, then moaned and fell back. ‘Damn it, I’m as weak as a kitten.’

‘You have been shipwrecked, sir, and your head bled from the blow you received. You will feel dizzy at first. Lie back and I’ll give you the pot.’

Morwenna reached beneath the bed and brought out the chamberpot. She handed it to him and retreated to the other side of the room to gaze out of the window. The sun was coming up over the sea, turning it pink and orange; this morning it would be as if the storm had never been except for the wreckage on the beach and the man in her bed.

‘Have it your own way.’

The sounds of him using the pot kept Morwenna looking out to sea until he had done. She turned as she heard him place it on the chest beside the bed with a grunt, then returned to take it by the handle.

‘I am used to nursing my brothers, sir. Please do not be embarrassed. Someone will need to care for you while you are forced to stay in bed.’

His gaze narrowed. ‘Have you no servants to do the menial tasks?’

‘How do you know I am not a servant here?’ she challenged.

‘You spoke of living here with your brothers—besides, you are too proud a wench to be in service, methinks.’

Morwenna laughed. ‘At least then I should be paid for my work. My mother was a lady and my father called himself gentry, though he had rough country ways. However, they are both dead and we have little money. I do have one servant. Bess was our nurse and she helps me now that we have no other servants.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To empty this, sir. If you wish for it, I could bring you something to eat. There is a tisane by your bed. It must be cold now, but it will still taste good. I shall return soon with food and more drink.’

‘It is not fitting that you should wait on me or do these things for me. Send your servant instead, Mistress Morgan.’

‘Bess is asleep and I shall not wake her.’

‘I am grateful for all you have done, Mistress Morgan, but I feel it wrong that a young woman of your breeding should do such things for me.’

‘You are no different to me than my brothers,’ Morwenna lied. ‘As soon as you feel able to leave your bed you would do best to leave us, sir—but until then I shall help you as best I can.’

She went out before he could answer her, pride and temper carrying her down the stairs. Who did he imagine he was to tell her what was right and proper? She was accustomed to doing much as she pleased, for even Michael did not interfere unless it suited his purpose.

It was awkward that the stranger had lost his memory. Michael would want to know who he was and why he was here—he suspected any stranger that came to their village. Morwenna would not have him mistreating the stranger. She must find a way to keep him safe until he was well enough to leave them.

It might be best to tell her brothers that he was an artist—and if necessary she could invent a name for him. Better that than leave Michael suspecting the worst about the stranger in their midst.

The stranger smiled as the door closed with a little snap. The fire in Morwenna’s eyes as he’d told her it was not fitting that a woman of her breeding should care for him had amused him. She was proud and beautiful and it seemed that she had compassion, for she’d taken him in without knowing who he was or where he came from. His smile faded as he tried to remember who he was and why he was here in Cornwall.

The token in his bag suggested he’d once been in London. Why had he left town to come to a part of the country that most thought of as God-forsaken?

Someone had said that recently. At least, the phrase had come easily to his mind. He seemed to recall that he found the Cornish coast rugged but beautiful—that he had either painted it before or was looking forward to painting it in the future.

Perhaps that was his reason for being here. If this bag belonged to him, he must be an artist. Was he a successful one? Did he have money—more than the few gold coins lying on the bed by his side?

Something was not quite right. He felt that there was more to his life than that of an itinerant artist, moving from place to place to earn a living as best he could.

Was he a gambler down on his luck? Did he have a family and where did he belong?

Something told him that he was not married. He had a feeling that he was a lonely person and that there was an empty place inside him.

Now why did he feel that? For a moment a feeling of panic swept over him. Why could he not recall even his name? Supposing he never did?

Fighting his panic, he focused on the girl who had just left the room. She was right to suggest that he must seek his identity in London. Whatever his reason for being here, he must return to town and try to discover his name and family.

Once again a smile touched his mouth as he thought of Morwenna. She and her brother had carried him to their house and the girl had nursed him through the night. He dimly recalled feeling very ill and crying out as he tossed and turned, but whatever had haunted him then had gone, lost in the mists of amnesia. When he’d woken he’d seen the girl sitting in her chair near the bed. She was laughing to herself … at her own thoughts. The look on her face had intrigued him. What was she thinking? She might almost have been dreaming of her lover.

Something in him had rebelled at the thought of her with a lover. Perhaps he’d spoken out of turn, telling her that it was not fitting for her to do what she’d done. Had she left him on the beach he might have been killed, though the villagers would find little profit in robbing him for he wore no jewellery—at least he wore none now. Could the girl or her brother have taken it?

No, that was an unworthy thought! Had she been a thief she would have taken the money from his bag. If he wore no jewellery, he could not be anyone in particular—a gentleman often wore a signet ring with a crest, but he did not.

Yet instinctively he knew he was of gentle birth. Perhaps he came from an impoverished family and had chosen to make his living from his talent, if he had talent? He was still not certain that the bag belonged to him. Other men would have been on the ship that went down.

One of the first things he must do when he felt able to get up was to find something to draw on and then he might discover if he could be a painter. Until then he could only surmise that he was an artist.

He would have liked to get up, but for the moment he felt too ill. He must just lie here until his strength returned. Since he had nothing more to occupy his mind, he would think of Morwenna and that look in her eyes …

‘Will you take this tray up to him?’ Morwenna asked when Bess entered the kitchen. She had prepared a plate of hot crispy bacon with eggs and bread fried in the fat, also a mug of grog made from ale spiced with cinnamon and a dash of brandy. ‘He was awake and he may be hungry or thirsty.’

‘This is food for a hearty appetite,’ Bess observed. ‘If he is sick he needs porridge or gruel to ease his hunger.’

‘I think he would throw it at you. He cannot yet leave his bed for he is dizzy, but there is little wrong with him—though he claims he does not know his own name or from whence he came.’

‘You think he lies?’

‘I don’t know. Michael mustn’t suspect it or you know what will happen—but he ought to leave this house as soon as he is able to walk.’