Remember Me - Regency Brides 03 (6 page)

Despite his confusion, he seemed relaxed and content. . Because of his confession, there was nothing keeping him from hiding his interest in her. There was nothing keeping him from smiling at her and looking at her as though she was the roost important person to him.

But that doesn't make it right,
said a tiny voice, which she knew was the conviction of God nudging at her heart. He deserved to know who he was. His cousins deserved to know that their family member was stil alive and wel .

"Shal we begin again?" he asked, breaking her from her musings. "Perhaps if we three put our heads together, we can figure out how to milk this cow." Laughing, Helen agreed, and so did Josie. Of course, the younger girl was up for anything that kept her from her lessons.

For about an hour, they worked on the poor cow. They final y got some milk out of her, but Helen had a strong suspicion that it was because the animal got tired of their pul ing and prodding!

The difficult part, however, was dodging North's probing questions and her trying to answer without actual y lying. "So Christina is married to a man named Nicholas who is a former soldier?" He repeated what she'd just told him, and Helen could tel that he was trying to see if the names were familiar to him.

"Nicholas and Christina are the Earl and Countess of Kenswick, you know," Josie informed him, much to Helen's dismay. She'd forgotten al about tel ing her of them. She quickly looked at North to see if he recognized any of these names.

North's brow furrowed as he stood up from his seat by the cow. "They're nobility?" he asked curiously, and Helen couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief that his thoughts had taken a different direction from what she imagined he was thinking.

"Yes," Helen affirmed as she walked over to the chickens and finished gathering their eggs. "Christina is only a vicar's daughter, but Nicholas fel in love with her despite the ton's objections."

'~, you tel the story with a wistful sound in your voice," he said with a grin. "I gather you thought the whole affair was sentimental and romantic."

She handed the eggs over to Josie, who ran out of the barn to take them to the house. ' As a matter of fact, I did," she answered with a raised brow, chal enging him to say something against her romanticism.

"I'l bet when the censure came from England's society and his family, it did not feel quite as romantic as they dreamed it would be. Marrying against one's own class can cause a great deal of heartache for al involved." He stopped and blinked. "Wel , I say! I don't know where that little insight came from!" he retorted with a chuckle.

Helen laughed in return, but it was a hol ow gesture. If he felt that way now, he'd stil hold to those convictions once he got his memory back, she realized.

Perhaps North, as a duke, didn't want to shake up his life unnecessarily whether it was for love or not.

"I don't think that particular thing is something we have to worry about, do you?"

he teased, but she could see the interest for her burning in his gaze as he looked at her. How she wished things could always be as they were now.

"We'd better get this milk stored to keep it cold," she said instead of answering his question.

If she thought North would not notice her evasiveness, she was wrong. &, he picked up the bucket of milk, he gave her a long look that let her know she would not be able to avoid his questions forever.

A loud knock awoke North the next morning, and with a jolt, he was sitting up in his bed, scrambling to get his bearings. His bleary eyes scanned the room, and he noticed that it wasn't even light outside yet.

Who in the world would be out at this early hour? Where were his servants, and why weren't they doing something about the loud noise?

Bit by bit, the fog of sleepiness lifted, and he remembered where he was. He remembered
who
he was ...at least he remembered who everyone
told
him he was.

"Hamish Campbel . I am Hamish Campbel , the vicar of this hot, muggy spot of America." He recited this to himself to try to lift the odd confusion that had come over him since he'd awakened. For a moment ...he felt different somehow. Not at al like Hamish Campbel , the humble, poor preacher of Golden Bay.

He remembered thinking that his servants would answer the door. He wondered why he would automatical y think he had servants to see after him. Did he once have them in England and Scotland?

Once again, several loud raps sounded on his door. North grudgingly pul ed himself out of bed and quickly donned his plain, wrinkled clothes.

When he final y opened the door, he was surprised to find a tal , slim, black man dressed in a fine brown suit with a darker brown-and-black-striped vest over a snow-white shirt and expertly tied cravat.

"Bonjour,
Monsieur Campbel ," the man greeted in a crisp, confident tone as he bent in a short bow. "I am Pierre LeMonde, a freedman from New Orleans and currently in the employ of Mr. Robert Baumgartner. I am versed in al manner of household chores and have been at Golden Bay to teach their household staff the correct methods in which to carry out their duties. I not only speak excel ent English but also French, which is my first language."

Slightly bemused by the lengthy, confusing speech, North automatical y responded to his last statement without any thought. "Bonjour, monsieur.

Heureaux pour vous rencontrer,
" he replied in French, tel ing him he was pleased to make his acquaintance.

"Et vous aussi,
"Pierre answered, and North understood him to say that he was pleased to meet him, too.

But he didn't know
how
he knew this.

Would a simple preacher know this? Was this something one learned at seminary or university? "I'm sorry, monsieur, but are you al right?" Pierre asked, bringing North's attention back to the present.

"I think I am a little unclear as to why you are here," he told him bluntly, stil shaken from discovering yet another odd piece of the puzzle that didn't seem to fit in with what he knew of his life.

"Miss Helen Nichols informed her employers you were in need of … how shal I say . . . domestic help." North grinned at the man's. effort at being tactful. "She told you about the fiasco with the cow and chickens, did she not?" Pierre put his hand against his mouth and let out a little cough. ' Uh-hum. Wel yes, monsieur, she did."

North laughed as he stepped back and motioned for the man to come into his smal house. "I wil take help any way I can get it, even if I have to promote my embarrassing moments to get it."

Pierre smiled broadly as he entered the house. He inspected the room and then quickly turned to look at North with the same critical eye. "You are not what I imagined you'd be," he said final y, his deep tone thoughtful.

Intrigued, North cocked his head to one side as he asked, "Why do you say that?"

Pierre shook his head as he shrugged his slim shoulders. "I have been in the employ of some of the richest families of south Louisiana. English, Spanish, and French-it does not matter. They al had the same quality about them, the same air. They spoke differently-they walked differently than the average man or woman." He motioned his hand in a sweeping gesture toward North. "You possess these same qualities."

North scampered to remember what Helen had told him. Did she say his family was or had been wealthy? Oh, yes. She had been very vague as to the exactness of his financial status. So instead he went with his intuition-what he felt deep in his heart. "I am from a wealthy family," he answered, praying it was not a lie.

Pierre lifted an eyebrow as he nodded his head slowly. "Then that explains it.

And you gave up your comfortable life for God's cal ing," he reflected aloud.

"Very noble."

If only he could feel the cal ing, North thought sadly. He must have felt the zeal that had caused missionaries and preachers through the centuries to leave their friends and family to do the work of God. All he felt was scared and uncertain about his ability to minister effectively to these American people.

"I'm just doing the wil of God," he said to Pierre, and as he said it, he knew that statement to be true. Somehow, some way, God had a plan, and North was a big part of it.

"Then you are fortunate," Pierre told him, his face solemn. "There are many of my people here in this country who cannot be free to do work such as yours but

,are bound by the dictates of their masters."

North nodded.
'1t
is indeed a travesty. I would think, however, you are not sitting idly by," he guessed, sensing Pierre would be one who worked behind the scenes, trying to help those slaves whom he could.

Pierre pretended to straighten the cuffs of his sleeves and nonchalantly answered, "} have no idea what you mean, monsieur."

At that moment, North heard his stomach growl, reminding him of his hunger. He started to ask Pierre if his talents extended to knowing how to cook when another knock sounded at the door . Shaking his head, North lamented. "Americans are certainly early risers!"

Pierre smiled as he breezed past North, heading for the door. "Allow me, monsieur." This time there were two men at the door, and both were holding either end of a large trunk. Pierre spoke to them briefly, then turned back to North to inform him that these were men from the New Orleans port.

"Excel ent!" North exclaimed. "Just put it on the table. there." The men did as asked, and Pierre gave them water for the journey home.

After the men had gone, Pierre helped North bring the trunk into his smal room and then, much to North's eternal thankfulness, left him to make breakfast. North didn't open the trunk right away. For a moment, he stood there contemplating what the old, beat-up trunk might hold. Would there be mementos to help him remember? Would the smel . of the cooties or the sound of the trunk's creaking hinges unlock the closed doors of his mind? He put his hands on the scuffed metal that framed the lid and slid them over until they reached the latch. Careful y he lifted the lid and waited for some

thing familiar to wash over him.

It never came. It was a trunk fil ed with clothes that seemed as though they belonged to a stranger. There was nothing vaguely familiar about them. Not even the smel of them gave him the tiniest twinge of remembrance.

Disappointment struck North to his
very
soul as he slumped down on the bed,

.his shoulders bent in defeat. He wiped his hands down his face, then through his hair as he tried to assure himself it did not mean anything, that his mind just hadn't healed sufficiently to get his memory back.

Curiosity, however, soon overpowered his disappointment. North stood again and started sifting through the contents of the chest. Perhaps if he could not remember, he could at least try to piece together certain aspects of his life.

Underneath a smal stack of neatly pressed white shirts, North found four
very
worn books. But when he saw the titles and the authors, he was more confused than ever. The first three were religion-based writings by Jonathan Edwards, an evangelist from the Great Awakening period in America, and John Wesley, the man responsible for starting the Methodist movement in England. Curious, North just stared at the books as he tried to comprehend the greater meaning behind his apparent choices in literature.

Was he a Methodist or part of the Church of England? Or maybe it was Church of Scotland? North could not remember how he obtained the information, but he knew the Methodists in England were a religious people only just tolerated by society. The Church of England would not accept their teaching in their chapels and abbeys, so they would meet elsewhere, constructing their own buildings and often times moving to America, where they could worship without censure.

North understood their ministers spoke passionately when they preached, which caused many to cal them radical, or religious zealots. North was aware, however, he didn't feel this way about them but only" felt a curiosity when he thought about it.

He truly wished he could remember what denomination he was! What if he taught something that this particular congregation did not agree with? It was just one more thing he'd have to ask Helen about and pray that she knew something about it.

Setting those books aside, he then noticed the title of the fourth book, and he immediately smiled. Daniel Defoe's
Robinson Crusoe,
he intuitively knew, was one of his favorite stories. Perhaps it may have been the catalyst to bringing him to America.

A shimmer of shining metal caught the corner of his eye, and he looked down to notice a gold frame peeking out from under a folded pair of britches. North set the Defoe book aside and reached for the frame.

As he got a better look at it, he saw it was a double-oval frame that contained two miniatures of a man and a woman. North concentrated al his energies into the study of the smal portraits as he moved his gaze from the brown-haired man's eyes and smile to the pretty woman's red curls and delicate features.

It struck North right away that neither of them had blond hair. As a matter of fact, neither even looked like him.

North didn't know why this upset him, but it did. In fact, he was more affected by the miniatures than by any of the other disappointments he'd yet encountered.

Agitated, he gripped the frame and began to pace the room. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he focused hard, trying to make his mind remember something...anything!