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.”
She set her hands on her hips. “I’m bein’ quite serious and I wish to Joseph you’d be, too. I’ve seen far too much to question what is or isn’t rational. Men are never rational, sir. They only pretend to be and I’m rather worried I may end up swimmin’ in my own blood.”
His features sagged. “I cannot predict what he will or will not do, but the man is genuinely compassionate and protective of others. Throughout his entire stay, he’s done nothing but lecture us on our inability to tend to patients and is always getting out of bed to assist others in the hall, despite having orders that he rest. If that assurance isn’t enough, I suggest you let him walk out into the world, Mrs. Milton. For he is neither your responsibility nor mine. So what will you have me do? The choice is yours.”
Oh, now, that just wasn’t fair. She sighed. “I’ll find a means to board him,” she grouched, waving toward the parchment. “The name is Mrs. Georgia Emily Milton and the tenement is 28 Orange Street. Orange. Like the bastard who destroyed Ireland.”
Dr. Carter paused, leaned over the parchment and sloppily scribed her name and address. “Thank you.”
This was going to be a mess. She’d probably have to hover over this Brit like a hen over a cracked egg. But then again, if there was anyone who understood cracked,
