And the date niggled at his brain like fish at bait.
He wished he knew why.
At first, the villagers had thought him a fisherman because of his rough clothes and calloused hands but a single morn on the waters had scuppered that as he’d not the faintest notion of what to do with nets and baskets, and besides, his limp had been a liability.
And no one had known what to make of his ability to read.
The family, indeed the village, had no longer been able to look after him – they’d barely crumbs enough for the rats, the coast and crops ravaged by the bitter weather this year – and the Poor House had loomed. He could have attempted to seek work elsewhere as a teacher or scribe, as he appeared to know some maths and geography, but with no references or experience or past, it was improbable.
Then…
He’d been sitting on the pebbled beach, staring out to sea and willing his mind to remember, when he’d spied Mr MacNamara’s wide-open doors, wood dust sprinkling the air like grains of sand in a squall.
The man had lost his carpenter to better wages in the city and with repairs to finish was frantically sanding, but in his rush was flattening out the curve and so John had halted his hand to guide…
And that’s when they’d all known.
Of course. He was a carpenter. Of boats. And Mr MacNamara had hired him on the spot.
This piece in his hands was for a flash gent who’d ordered a craft for leisure, and John inwardly sneered. Imagine sailing not for food or coin but for the sheer pleasure of it.
John had been fortunate, he knew, was thankful for his new life, yet when Mr MacNamara had introduced his maiden daughter with a nudge, something had scrunched in his gut.
How could he contemplate marrying when he knew not his own name? His past… Perhaps somewhere he had a wife…
“Come, Mr Hughes. Come see our fine workmanship,” Mr MacNamara was jabbering, and John scowled, considered hiding. He loathed meeting customers, his voice a poor shabby pretence.
A Welsh accent responded in the affirmative and John cursed. How long would it take to disappear behind the hull with a dragging leg?
The workshop door opened.
Bugger.
“All you can see here is handmade, so it is,” Mr MacNamara was explaining. “None of that modern new-fangled machine nonsense.”
“I was recommended you by a colleague in Dublin,” intoned the Welsh gent. “If all is in order, I would hope to recommend you to my business acquaintances in Wales.”
John could almost hear Mr MacNamara rubbing his hands in glee. “I thank you, kind sir. Let me introduce you to our head carpenter.”
Only carpenter, John amended with a scowl.
Nevertheless, he dredged up some semblance of a smile and twisted.
The gent stared. Wearing a brown greatcoat, he resembled a dumbstruck monk.
John coughed and rasped a bare, “Good morning.”
The gent blinked.
Was he addled?
Finally the gent’s brow scrunched. “But… But I don’t understand…” He shook his head. “No, ’tisn’t possible… For I was with him yester-week.”
Frowning, John removed his spectacles.
The gent’s skin fell ashen, mouth agape and… “Lord Tristan? No, it cannot be!” The gent stalked forward, slapped a hand to John’s shoulder, stared at his face and his cringe at their closeness. “By heaven, you’re alive!”
John’s heart sped then slowed to a bare thud, and, as though a dense fog had parted them, he heard the gent tell that he was a duke’s twin brother thought dead these past sixteen months.
