“Yes,” Emily said, though her thoughts were already elsewhere. “But for now, we must do our best to care for him.”
With the fire blazing and the stranger settled, Mrs. Thatcher moved to pull the blankets higher around his shoulders. “Shall we leave him to rest, my lady?”
Emily nodded. “Indeed. Marks, Willy—one of you must remain with him at all times. Should he wake, inform me immediately.”
Both footmen bowed, replying in unison, “Yes, my lady.”
Hours later, Emily sat before the fire in her bedchamber as the snow outside intensified, rattling the windows with a fury she had not expected. Yet, it was not just the weather that unsettled her.
Who was the man in her guest room? And why did he stir a strange sense of recognition deep within her?
She moved to the window, her breath fogging the glass as she stared into the endless swirl of snow. The world beyond the manor had disappeared, buried beneath the storm’s relentless grip. She sighed as she turned from the window.
The storm did not just bring snow to her door—it brought change.
And change, she knew, could bring dangers far greater than any storm.
Three
The pale winter sun filtered through the drawn curtains, casting a soft glow across the stranger’s feverish face. Emily stood at his bedside, brow furrowed with concern. Two days had passed since they found him unconscious in the snow. Though the fever had not worsened, it had yet to break. His features, still sharp and undeniably handsome, were marred by the fever’s flush, his dark hair tousled against the pillow from the restless thrashing of the previous night.
Emily had spent countless hours caring for him and urging him to wake as the storm raged outside. This morning Marks informed her the roads were blanketed in knee deep snow. Willy added some drifts were waist high. Though the snow had stopped falling, they were well and truly snowed-in.
“Penny,” Emily called softly, turning to her maid. “Fetch fresh linens and cool water. We must continue to do everything in our power to make our patient comfortable.”
“Yes, my lady.” Penny offered a quick curtsy before leaving the room.
Her gaze returned to the man lying so still, a persistent sense of familiarity tugging at her. She was sure they had crossed paths before, though the details eluded her. There was something about his face—his strong jawline, the dark sweep of hair across his brow—that tugged at her memory. She was almost certain they had met before, though where or when escaped her entirely.
Gently, she reached out and laid her hand upon his forehead. His skin was still burning, though mercifully no hotter than it had been. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The fever had held steady, and for now, that was enough. Still, as her hand rested there, she felt an unsettling sensation—a quiet awareness of the softness of his skin, the steady pulse beneath, and the faint scent of bay rum that clung to him despite his condition.
Her breath caught, and she quickly withdrew her hand, disconcerted by the flutter of emotion that stirred within her.
“You must wake soon, sir,” she said. “There are many questions I should like to ask.”
For a fleeting moment, his eyelids fluttered at the sound of her voice, though they did not open. His body remained as still as before, his chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. Emily settled into the chair beside the bed, her gaze never leaving his face.
It was improper, of course, to sit here alone with a man, a stranger no less, but propriety had always been a distant second to compassion in her mind.
She wondered what kind of man he was. His fine clothing suggested he was a gentleman, though there was something about him—something decidedly unrefined—that did not sit neatly with the image of a polished aristocrat. And then there was the matter of his being found in a snowstorm, alone, near her estate. It made no sense. If he were from the local gentry, she would have known him. But she did not.
Or did she?
A faint knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and Penny returned, her arms laden with fresh linens. Behind her, Marks followed with a basin of cool water.
“Thank you, Penny,” Emily said, rising from her seat. “I will check his wound after you have finished. I have faith that, with care, he will recover.”
Penny curtsied again, her face tight with concentration as she set about changing the linens. Marks worked silently beside her. The room filled with the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional crackle from the fire.
As they worked, Emily’s thoughts drifted back to the previous days. The storm had been fierce, relentless, and when the footmen had brought this man into her home, she had not hesitated. It was her duty, her instinct, to care for those in need. But now, after two days of waiting, the uncertainty of his identity gnawed at her.
“Marks,” she said as the footman finished his task. “That will do for now. Thank you.”
Marks bowed slightly before backing from the room, his heavy footsteps fading down the corridor. Emily turned to Penny, her gaze thoughtful.
“Penny, I had hoped we might not need to resort to such measures, but I believe the time has come.” Her voice was steady but laced with concern. “Please search his coat pockets. He has been unconscious for too long, and we must know who he is. If there is anything to identify him, we must find it.”
Penny hesitated for a moment, her brow furrowing, but then she hastened to the chair where the stranger’s belongings were laid. She rifled through the pockets of his coat, her fingers deft but respectful. A moment later, she produced a small collection of items: a silver pocket watch, a few coins, and a folded letter.
