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The process was painful. Darcy gritted his teeth, hoping the doctor would be quick. Martin gave him a sympathetic smile. “Where are you from, my friend? Your accent is difficult to place.”
The man was trying to distract him from the pain but unknowingly provoked greater anxiety. Fortunately, Darcy was prepared for such questions. “Near Dunkirk.” He winced as the doctor tugged on the stitches.
“What brings you to Saint-Malo?” his wife asked, her smile bright and curious.
“I am seeking work. I came to visit a friend who said he might be able to help me, but he is not at home.”
“Yes, many young men find it advantageous to be away from home these days,” the doctor murmured, his eyes focused on his work. There seemed to be a hidden meaning in the words, but it eluded Darcy. However, there was no suspicion in the doctor’s eyes.
“What kind of work do you seek?” his wife asked. “We may be in a position to help you.”
“That is very kind, madame,” Darcy responded. “I will do anything. I had worked on a farm before.”
“Hmm.” The doctor frowned, and Darcy resisted the urge to flinch. Did the man suspect something? But Martin merely stood after tying the end of the thread. The row of neat stitches had closed the gash completely, and the bleeding had ceased. “I am finished, but I should inspect it again tomorrow. We must be careful of infection.” The man wound a clean cloth around Darcy’s hand and tied it tightly.
“Thank you, sir. What do I owe you?”
Martin named a price; however, when Darcy rose to retrieve the coins from his waist pouch, the world blurred and darkened around the edges of his vision. His head seemed ready to detach itself from his shoulders. Darcy quickly dropped back into the chair. What was wrong with him? He had been injured before, but he never had swooned like some maiden in a novel!
Mrs. Martin gave her husband a meaningful look. “Have you eaten yet today?” the doctor asked.
“No, I— It is still early.”
Martin nodded sympathetically. No doubt he thought Darcy was husbanding his money. “Blood loss with an empty stomach will make you lightheaded. Why do you not join us for breakfast?”
Darcy hated to take advantage of the man’s hospitality when he was completely capable of paying for his own meals. “That is not necessary.”
Martin waved his hand in the air. “You will be doing us a favor, friend. We do not often travel from Saint-Malo. You may tell us stories about the rest of the world, hmm?”
It was an appealing offer. Darcy knew not when he would have another opportunity for a good meal, and he could ask the Martins for clues about the Black Cobra. “Very well, if it is not an imposition.”
Husband and wife smiled as if he had given them a great gift. “I will get the breakfast parlor ready,” his wife said as she hurried out of the door. The doctor stowed supplies in various drawers, chatting idly about the weather.
Breakfast was delicious. Over thick slices of bread and cheese, eggs and fruit, the Martins questioned him about his “home” in Dunkirk and his family. Darcy answered vaguely, inventing some details. But he quickly turned the conversation to recent events in Saint-Malo. After some roundabout questioning, they revealed no knowledge of strangers recently arriving in the town by rowing boat. Darcy sighed inwardly, hoping Dreyfus would have better news for him that afternoon.
At the end of the meal, Mrs. Martin excused herself, but the doctor invited Darcy to linger over coffee as he discussed possible places where Darcy might find work.
His attention wandering, Darcy’s eye was caught by a bookcase opposite his chair. There were several volumes of poetry, plays of Shakespeare’s, and books about English history. The doctor and his wife were well read.
The doctor’s eye followed Darcy’s. “You read English?” he asked. Only then did Darcy realize that every title on the bookshelf was in English. He flinched. I am a truly terrible spy.
Martin chuckled softly. “Do not worry, my friend. Many of us have studied English, even if it is not fashionable these days.”
Darcy covered his confusion with a sip of coffee. What could he possibly say in response? A simple laborer like Guillaume D’Arcy should not be able to read English. Many men of that class would not read at all. Richard would laugh at Darcy’s ineptitude.
“My mother was English,” he mumbled. That was true enough.
“I say, do you speak English?” Martin’s eyes widened.
Nothing to do but continue the charade. “Yes,” he admitted.
“I have a patient who speaks only English, and I cannot understand her. I read English well, but my conversation leaves much to be desired.”
Darcy hesitated. Revealing anything more about himself was dangerous, and he should return to Dreyfus’s house, but the doctor had been very hospitable. Darcy could spare a few minutes to repay the man’s kindness.
“I would be glad to be of assistance.” Only belatedly did the request strike him as odd. “How did you acquire a patient who speaks only English?”
“She is a bit of a mystery. She washed up on the beach some time ago, half drowned. She has been quite ill, and we have been unable to communicate with her. We do not even have her name.”
