Daniel waited for the man to speak once more, but nothing was offered. He realized the next move was his. “If I believed you…then tell me, how do you know me? And from where?”
“Ve crossed—” The Count was silent for a moment, as if deliberating his choice of words “—paths once. More than that, I cannot say.”
“What did I do for this professor that warrants a reward?”
“You were born,” said Dahlgren.
“I say again, you must be mad.”
“And I say again…board ship and go to England with me. I vill pay all. Do you haff a travel bag and clothing?”
“I’m not going to England with you,” Daniel said. “Leave my wife? No.”
“Then let it tear you apart, young sir.”
Daniel frowned. “Let what tear me apart?”
“Not ever knowing who you really are.” The Count shrugged. “Small pieces, you may remember. Things may come back to you. But years, it may take…and I say it vill tear you apart.”
Daniel said nothing. He stared off into the dark, which seemed to go on forever.
“It is tearing at you even now,” said Dahlgren. “Ah! I think…yah, I’ve caught another!”
“Goodnight, sir,” Daniel told him, and began walking away.
“In the morning,” the Count said as he took another silver fish off his hook, “I vill bring you some of my catch. Ve should be good friends, yah?”
Daniel didn’t answer. The planks creaked under him, the frogs croaked, and the swamp seethed with life. Why then, had the cobble-stoned streets of a large town flashed through his mind for just an instant…an image of coaches and carriages and the signs of shops he was unable to read? The image was gone just as quickly.
London? Had that been London? His real home, possibly?
Or…rather…the real home of Matthew Corbett?
If that was true…then was Quinn out of her mind, as the Count had said? And if he was not the first Daniel Tate…what had happened to the first one?
Let it tear you apart, young sir.
He feared he had already begun to be torn apart, that he was possessed of two minds, two hearts and perhaps two souls. One might wish to remain here, as husband to a loving and beautiful wife and a teacher of reading and writing when he got back to that, the other…
Your life is out there, Count Dahlgren had said.
He walked on, following the lantern’s spear of light, his head down and his shoulders burdened as if with a crushing weight.
Twenty-Three
The sun was barely up. It was going to be a hot day, the hummers and buzzers already singing out in the woods.
Quinn was cooking breakfast of eggs and corncakes at the hearth and singing quietly as she worked. She was wearing an apron over an ankle-length pale blue shift, and he wore the slightly-oversized yellow nightshirt that hung to his knees, taken from the trunk of men’s clothing that he did not remember ever wearing before.
He sat at the pinewood table, drinking from a cup of tea, and watched his wife with appreciation. She was so beautiful and so lively. There was to be a dance this coming Friday night, in the meetinghouse, and she was very excited to go. Daniel had agreed, though he’d said he might need help to get through some of the more complicated steps, for he could not recall if he was a very able dancer or not and he wished to bring no shame on the Tate name.
Yet as he sipped at his tea he also watched her with questions in his mind that he could not answer. Only she might answer, and though the need to know pressed at him he felt that asking these questions might cast a shadow upon their happy home, and in the deepest part of his soul he was weary of shadows. He felt he already carried a darkness within himself, something he could not shake, and yet…the need to know—the desire to discover—was so strong in him it was nearly a sickness.
“Are you happy?” he asked her.
She stopped in reaching for the skillet in which the corncakes were browning over the low flames. “Yes, of course I am!” she said, with a smile. “Why do you ask such a question?”
“Because I am happy,” he replied, “and I want to be sure that you are, as well.”
“You can be assured, then.”
He nodded. “I look forward to starting my teaching again. I feel worthless sometimes, watching the other men go out to hunt, but—”
“Hush,” Quinn said, and crossed the room to put a finger against his lips. “We have gone over this road before. Everyone has his or her place. Besides, the hunts are dangerous. I don’t want you out there.”
He put the cup aside and looked at his hands again. They were unmarked and unscarred, very different from the gnarled hands of the men who went out and trapped the alligators. Had he ever done physical labor in his life? he wondered. How had he even gotten to this place? Where and when had he been born? A question came out of him before he could stop it. “Have you ever heard the name…Matthew Corbett?”
Quinn continued to work at the hearth, but perhaps her face did tighten. She didn’t look at him. “No,” she said lightly. “Who is it?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“From…” He decided not to bring the Prussian into this. “From my head. I’m wondering…if it’s someone I know.”
“It could be, but I don’t know the name.”
“Well,” he said, and took another sip of tea, “there’s much I need to remember. Maybe, in time, it will all come back.”
“Some of it may not, ever.” She turned from the hearth to face him, and gave him a determined stare. “Daniel, you just have to trust me. You do, don’t you?”
“Am I really Daniel Tate?” he asked, and he saw her wince just a fraction. “Or was there a Daniel Tate before me?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean…everything before I woke up is so dark. I only get pieces of pictures, and they fly away so quickly. This name…Corbett…haunts me. I saw in my head the image of a large town, with coaches and carriages upon the streets. It startled me, because I think I know that place. I think…somehow…it’s important.”
“It’s Charles Town,” she said, and now in her voice there was a faint quaver. “Some memory you have of Charles Town.”
“Maybe it is,” he replied. “I should like to go there, to see if I recognize anything.”
“We shall, then.” She straightened up from her work, rubbed her hands on her apron, and came over to perch herself upon his lap. “I love you, Daniel,” she said, with her lips close to his. “I want you to know that I’m goin’ to help you come back, as you should be. As you used to be. Everythin’ will be fine, as long as we’re together. As long as we have our love between us. Like we were, before.”
“Before?” he asked.
“Before the accident,” she said. “Before you left me for a little while.”
There came a knock at the door. They never had visitors, so Quinn said, “Who?” as she stood up. She unlatched the door and peeked out, and through the crack Daniel caught sight of Count Dahlgren.
“What is it?” Quinn asked sharply. “What are you wantin’?”
“I’ve brought fish.” Dahlgren lifted the bucket he held. “This heat…they von’t last var’ long. I saw your smoke. I thought you vould like to clean and cook these.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Thank you, but—”
“Daniel knows,” Dahlgren said, and he pushed his way in. He was still wearing his dirty tan-colored breeches with the patched knees, but he wore a gray shirt that was already damp with sweat. The shaggy blond hair was lank and oily. His smile never wavered. “About the fish, I am meaning,” he added. “Good morning, Daniel.”