“It’s not uncommon,” I said, rethreading the needle. “You bled quite a bit and had gone into shock.”
“Yet, I have this one vague recollection, and it doesn’t make any sense at all. It happened when I was lying on the ground while you were kneeling beside me. There was an intense flash of light followed by a sudden rush of warmth into my back where I had been hit. It sounds crazy now,” he laughed softly, shaking his head. “But at the time I thought I had died, and you were an angel come to fetch me home.”
My hand jerked suddenly, jabbing the needle into his back. He jumped and sucked in a hard breath from the pain. “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “You...you were in shock...and...and... the mind, you see...it can play strange tricks when under duress.” My voice wavered to a halt.
He took a few more deep breaths, leaving me to stew in agonizing silence.
“You speak true about the mind, madam,” he said dryly after a minute had passed. “For I’m still very much alive. As for my angel, you are solid flesh and blood and currently in possession of a very sharp needle.”
A shaky laugh escaped me. By good fortune, I stood behind him, keeping my face and wildly shifting emotions from his view.
“I’ve no doubt it was a hallucination of sorts,” he continued. “But never before have I witnessed something so real. Are you sure there aren’t a pair of feathery wings tucked into your gown?” He was jesting, of course, though I failed to find the humor.
“You were rather diverting in the carriage afterwards,” I said, desperate to change the subject.
“Oh, pray tell, madam, what did I say?”
“Well, you told me that you weren’t really Henry Alan.”
His shoulders tensed as he turned to give me a sideways glance. “Did I happen to offer another name?”
“No, just that you weren’t who I thought you were.” He twisted around a little further, and I had to stop working. “If you don’t sit straight, I may end up sewing your elbow to your scapula,” I warned him.
Reluctantly, he obeyed and turned back around. “And what did you think of my confession?” His casual tone did little to hide his real interest.
“That you were in shock and talking nonsense.”
One last stitch closed the wound, and I spread on the salve before wrapping his torso with the strips of linen. His chest was so broad I had to reach my arms around him to properly secure the ends.
“Do you worry that I may have been telling the truth?” he asked.
“Not really.” I stepped back to admire my handiwork. “You are Henry Alan and I am Selah Kilbrid. Nothing more, nothing less.”
*
We slept late the next morning, and didn’t get on the road until the sun had reached high noon. The letter to Henry’s father was given to the proprietress along with a substantial sum of money to ensure it reached Captain Harlow by the following week. Ben had tried to persuade me to also send a formal complaint against Mr. Fletcher, but I refused outright. Such a grievous attack would cause quite a stir in Philadelphia. If either Henry or myself were called to testify, our own crimes would certainly be discovered. Ben reluctantly agreed that with four of Fletcher’s men dead and a good slice across the arm, a more primitive form of justice had already been served, and no further action was necessary.
The glimmer of friendliness I had experienced yesterday while sewing Henry’s wounds had disappeared, and we spoke very little in the carriage, keeping mostly to our own thoughts. I inquired some about his home in England, but received only ambiguous answers in reply. He asked very few questions about Brighmor and Hopewell, opting to spend his time staring out at the passing landscape as though he were trying to commit every tree and stone to memory.
“How far is Boston from Philadelphia?” he asked, out of the blue.
“I’m not sure. Maybe three hundred miles as the crow flies.”
“And if one is not a crow, what is the best way to get there?” He had shifted his gaze from the landscape and was now staring at me intently.
“I’ve never been myself,” I said. “Traveling over land would be difficult—the roads are poor, and past eastern Pennsylvania, the Indians are rumored to be hostile. I believe the best way would be by boat, first into New York and then north along the Atlantic. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” he said, returning his gaze to the window.
If I were more suspicious by nature, I would have been tempted to read motives beyond an interest in Colonial geography into his apparent fascination with the terrain. For the next while I watched him closely, but his thoughts were carefully guarded and I gleaned nothing except that he needed a shave.