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.”
She faced the bench opposite them again, staring out before herself with a dreamy smile still touching her lips. “I intend to farm that half acre and set a one-room cabin on it. It won’t be much, barely a few logs slapped together on a scrap of land, but it’ll be more than enough for me. And just beyond that pile of logs, I’ll plant a row of apple trees that’ll blossom every spring and bear barrels of fruit. Apples, flowers and freshly overturned earth will scent the air durin’ the day, and at night I’ll stand outside on my land,
