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Elizabeth placed her hands on her hips indignantly. “No strawberries?” William’s eyes widened with near panic until Elizabeth ruined the effect by laughing.
A slow smile broke out over William’s face. “I should have known that even a blow to the head and lung fever would not quell your mischievous sense of humor.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “At this moment I would happily trade it for a lifetime’s memories.”
Her husband’s expression darkened. “Do not say so. I would not alter one thing about you.”
She suppressed a shudder. Such sentiments were disconcerting when spoken by someone who essentially was a stranger. Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Would you pour me some water?”
“Of course.” William poured a glass from which she drank greedily. “Have you remembered anything at all?”
“No.” Trying to remember anything was like visiting a house that should be full of people and activity, only to find nothing but empty echoing chambers. Something of what she was feeling must have shown on her face. William took the glass gently from her hand. “It is early yet. You have barely started to recover.”
Elizabeth wished she shared his optimism. William poured more water into the glass. “The doctor wishes you to drink. You have not drunk nearly enough over the past days.”
Finding she was quite thirsty, Elizabeth eagerly drank and then held out her glass for more “Would you like some soup?” William asked. “You have not eaten a proper meal in days.”
At the mention of food, Elizabeth’s stomach rumbled. “I believe that is your answer,” she said with a smile. “Soup would be welcome—and bread if they have it. And tea. Tea would be lovely.” She could focus her attention on food and forget the agitation over her missing memories.
He left the room briefly to speak with the maid. Upon his return he hovered about the bed, observing her intently. “What else do you need?”
“I do not require such scrutiny, sir. I suspect my most interesting activity today will be falling asleep. And I am unlikely to injure myself doing so.”
He shook his head. “You can always make me laugh at myself.”
Was she indeed this sort of person? How strange not to even be aware of her own nature. William knew her better than she knew herself. A tight panicked feeling fluttered in her chest. What would she do if she never recovered those memories? Would she be trapped forever in a foreign country with a man who called himself her husband?
The room seemed suddenly too small, too close, with not nearly enough air. Sweat trickled from her temples as she tried to slow her breathing, but she c
ould hear it come in harsh gasps.
“Elizabeth.” William hastily clasped one of her hands. “I am here, and I will care for you. Do not fear.”
How shameful that he recognized her fear! “It is only…the situation is so odd. I am a stranger to myself. You are a stranger to me.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You may trust me, Elizabeth.”
Her breathing evened out. Of course, she could trust him; he was her husband. He cared about her. “Perhaps you could answer some questions?” Any information would feel like an anchor, preventing her from drifting in a vast sea of nothingness.
“Of course.”
A timid scratch at the door announced the arrival of the maid with a tray of food. As she set Elizabeth’s soup and tea before her, William opened the windows, allowing a fresh breeze to waft in. The soup—thick and creamy—smelled wonderful, and Elizabeth swallowed several spoonfuls as she considered what to ask.
William rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a muscular forearm, tanned from days in the sun. She knew nothing of his profession or family—or hers for that matter. His clothing was not the best quality; the weave was rather rough, and the trousers fit him loosely. He must be a farmer or other kind of worker. Perhaps she should be disappointed he did not command a greater fortune, but he had watched her with such earnest concern. Such caring was its own kind of wealth.
Thoughts of wealth gave her pause. She was unlikely to have a higher station in life than her husband, so they must be struggling. How were they in France? She bit her lip. Where would they have obtained the money for such an expensive voyage? She longed to know, but it did not seem an auspicious first question.
Instead she asked one of the first questions that had occurred to her. “Why are we in France?”
His eyebrows rose. “Figured that out, did you? You were on a ship which…met with an accident. Somehow, by divine providence, you washed up on shore here.”
“And you came to France in search of me?”
He hesitated a moment. “Yes.” There is something he is not telling me. But she had far too many other questions to linger over one inconsistency.
“Where in France are we?”
“Brittany. The town of Saint-Malo.”
