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“Forgive me.” She swept to the commode and poured a glass of water. Passing it to him, she said, “The cool water from our well should soothe your throat. Sip it slowly so you do not upset your stomach further.”
He almost sighed aloud as the sweet water eased the acrid burning.
Sweeping his gaze over her face as he drank, he recognized the few small scars on her cheeks for what they were: pockmarks.
Not a lot and not severe, but noticeable regardless.
Pity filled him.
The world did not look kindly upon the flawed or imperfect in form, figure, or appearance.
He had firsthand experience in that regard.
How often had people gawked, or children shrank away in fear, at his eyepatch?
A rustling in the corridor alerted them to another’s presence.
Before he finished drinking the blessedly cool water, a small, mouse-like elderly woman wearing spectacles and a gaudy knitted red shawl draped around her narrow shoulders over her nightdress, entered beside a tall, lanky young man who, from his disheveled appearance, had hastily donned his trousers and shirt.
Not only was his shirt inside out, but he held his trousers up with one bony hand.
“Ah, you are awake, at last. Excellent. I am Doctor Charles Montrose.”
Surely not.
He squinted at the newcomer.
The fellow did not look old enough to have completed university, let alone medical studies.
Did he even boast whiskers yet?
The man peered harder.
Yes. There.
The merest shadow topped the doctor’s upper lip, but those sparse hairs scarcely counted.
He had seen women with more impressive mustaches.
I have?
Not European women.
That must mean he had traveled somewhere exotic.
He tucked that tidbit into a corner to examine later.
Who knew what little detail might prove useful in jogging his memory?
The good doctor strode forward, seemingly not the least disturbed or concerned about his unkempt appearance. Or that his trousers were in danger of slipping off his skinny bum.
“You gave us quite a fright, I tell you.” His free hand on his hip, eyes narrowed, and mouth taut, the doctor gave a slow nod of approval. “I believe the worst is behind us, though you still have quite a recovery ahead of you. A less stalwart chap would not have survived, I dare say.”
A smile teased the corners of his mouth when he took in the awful nightshirt.
Not his, then.
“I shall put the kettle on now. The children will be about soon enough, in any event.” The elderly woman produced a cheerful smile, revealing several missing teeth. Her keen gaze bored into him. “A bit of gruel too, I should think. Nothing too robust though. Your stomach cannot handle solid food just yet.”
