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PROLOGUE
Spring 1864 – London
I wonder what she looks like?Owen Fernsby thought for the hundredth time. His wife was due to arrive today, but he had no recollection of her. In fact, he remembered nothing prior to the day he’d awoken in a hospital in New Zealand almost five months ago. He knew his name; he was a major in the British Army and had been found wandering around with no memory on an island halfway around the world. Now Owen was back on English soil, along with his comrades, waiting to go home.
A dull throb gnawed at the edges of his mind, a lingering effect from his injury. He rubbed his temples in hopes it would dissipate.
“Another headache?” Marine purser Griffin Bamford asked from the bed next to him. “You’ve been getting them a lot lately.”
“Probably because I am home. I have been trying my hardest to remember something—anything—but it is a blank slate.” Owen plopped his head back on the pillow.
“Don’t worry. Once you see your wife, I’m sure the memories will come flooding back.”
Owen did not share his friend’s faith. He had been told the same thing over and over. Once you see men from your unit, you will remember. When you return to England, you will remember. So far, nothing had jogged his memory. All he knew was what his fellow soldiers had told him during the long journey home.
England was currently at war with one of its territories, New Zealand. The island was on the other side of the globe, but they had needed additional forces to quell the indigenous people who had caused an uprising. After his injury, Owen had been deemed unfit to serve and was sent home. On the ship, he had befriended a group of men, wounded soldiers like himself, who had helped reacquaint him with life.
They were all waiting to be discharged from the military hospital. One of their friends, Royce Davis, had just left yesterday. He had lost his vision during a skirmish, and like Owen, had been suffering headaches. Hopefully, Davis would regain his vision. He was a pleasant chap who had regaled Owen with stories from his childhood growing up in Lincolnshire along the coast.
“Is today the day?” Heath Foster, a Navy master’s mate, sat on the edge of Owen’s bed. He slowly lowered himself, stretching out his injured leg and putting his cane alongside the bed. “Is your wife coming today?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
His exasperated mood must have shown in his expression. “Cheer up, mate.” Foster reassured him. “Consider yourself lucky. Of all of us, you are the only one who actually has someone waiting for you.”
“I thought your mother was coming to collect you.”
“She is, but that’s different. You have a woman who loves you and will be with you always.”
“But I don’t even know her. What if I don’t like her?” Owen had had plenty of time to think about his wife and what she might look like. Then he’d worried if he would find her pleasing. What if he discovered they’d never gotten along well? Where would that leave him?
On top of everything else, a letter had arrived notifying him, upon his return, that he had inherited an earldom from his deceased brother. He didn’t know the first thing about being an earl. The more he thought about everything, the worse the knots in his stomach twisted.
“You worry too much,” came a voice two beds down. Dorian Shaw was propped up in his bed, a sheet over his bottom half to hide the fact that he was missing the bottom part of his left leg. “At least you have someone to go home to.”
Shaw had spoken little during their time together. The only information he had offered was that he had a brother, and they had a family textile business.
“Was there no one before you left?” Bamford asked Shaw.
“I let her go,” Shaw said softly. “She was above my station. I knew nothing could come of it, so I ended it before anything happened.”
“I had someone as well,” Bamford answered. “Her family did not approve of me, so I joined the military. Nothing like grueling days and thousands of miles to take your mind off a woman.”
“Some people you never forget,” Shaw said with a wistful expression.
Whoever the woman was, he must have cared for her very much, Owen thought. Perhaps his friends were right. He should be thankful for his wife. Unlike some of his fellow soldiers, Owen knew his life would not be so hard. He had come from a wealthy family and would return to high society with not a care. In a way, he felt guilty that he had come back to so much, when, in Owen’s opinion, there were others more deserving.
None of the other men Owen had befriended had titles, but he knew titles did not make a man. He had spent enough time with his fellow soldiers to know that each of them was worth their weight in gold.
“What about you, Adwell? Any lucky lady waiting at home?” Foster turned his attention to the man in the bed on the other side of Owen.
Lucien Adwell was covered in bandages. He had suffered more than any of them, having been severely burned in a fire while trying to rescue his comrades. The man barely spoke and, most of the time, was in a foul mood. But who could blame him?
“There was no one when I left, and there will be no one when I return. My only mistress will be my solitude.” Adwell’s words were curt.
Foster turned back to Owen. “So, like I said, consider yourself lucky.”
Owen silently nodded. He watched Foster limp over to another soldier to keep him company. Among them, Bamford and Foster were the heart of the group. They had done their utmost to keep everyone’s spirits high. He probably had not said it enough, but Owen should have thanked them.
