"Hurts." He swallowed. "Tired."

"I know, but the worst is over. What you need now is food and sleep. Are you hungry?"

"No." He watched her add several drops of medicine to a fresh glass of water. She lifted his head so he could drink, then settled him back on the pillow.

"I've given you some laudanum for the pain. It will also help you sleep." She laid a hand on his forehead.

Stephen felt her gentle touch and suddenly remembered why she seemed so familiar. "Angel," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. "Angel."


* * *

Several hours later Hayley joined the family at breakfast.

"I have good news, everyone," she reported to the group, her face beaming a smile. "It appears our patient is going to recover. He awoke earlier for a short spell and we spoke. I checked on him just before I came down. He's sleeping and shows no signs of fever." And his eyes are green. A beautiful mossy green. Like a forest at twilight.

"That's wonderful news, Miss Hayley," Grimsley said, placing a huge platter of scrambled eggs and kippers on the table.

"Yes indeed," piped in fourteen-year-old Andrew. "Do you suppose the bloke knows how to play chess? Nathan's an awful player." Andrew shot his younger brother a withering glance.

"The man's name is Stephen, not 'the bloke,'" Hayley informed her brother with a warning glance. She supposed she should be grateful Andrew didn't call him the scurvy, bloody bloke.

"Do you think he likes tea parties, Hayley?" six-year-old Callie asked, her blue eyes shining bright with hope.

"Of course he doesn't like tea parties," cut in Nathan. He rolled his eyes with all the masculine disgust an eleven year old could muster. "He's a man, not a-"

"That's enough, Nathan," Hayley admonished in a tone that immediately halted the boy's words. She turned to Callie and rumpled the child's dark curls. "I'm sure he loves tea."

Nathan and Andrew grunted. Callie beamed.

Winston entered the room dressed in workman's pants and shirt. At Hayley's insistence, he and Grimsley took their meals in the dining room. No one stood on ceremony at Albright Cottage, and the two men were like members of the family.

She greeted the ex-sailor with a fond smile, forcing herself not to laugh outright at his expression. He looked grumpy. Just like a bear awakened before his hibernation was complete.

"Good morning, Winston. I have good news. The man is awake and his fever is gone."

Winston shook his head and pointed a beefy finger at Hayley. "Chain me to the gunwale and slap me with the sextant! I hope 'e ain't no murderer. We dragged 'im in here, saved 'is miserable life, and now we got to pray he ain't some criminal who'll kill us while we sleep. Looks like a cutthroat to me, he does. I traveled enough voyages with your pa, God rest his soul, to know a blackguard when I sees one. I'll kill 'im with me bare hands. I'll-"

"I'm certain that won't be necessary," Hayley broke in, barely suppressing her urge to laugh. "He looks like a very nice man."

"He looks like a scurvy bum," Winston grumbled.

"Did the man say anything, Hayley?" Pamela asked in an obvious attempt to change the direction of the conversation.

"He only spoke a few words. He was in pain, so I gave him a bit of laudanum. Perhaps he'll feel better later this morning."

Aunt Olivia looked up, her face a study of confusion. "Mourning? Why are we in mourning? Has someone died?"

Hayley bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a giggle. Aunt Olivia, who bore a striking resemblance to Hayley's father, always had her nose buried in a book or her needlework. With her attention fixed on her latest novel or sewing project and being partly deaf, she rarely heard an entire conversation.

"No one is dead and we're not in mourning, Aunt Olivia," Pamela answered for her sister in a loud voice. "We are hoping the man is better this morning."

Aunt Olivia nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Well, I should hope so. Poor Hayley has worked herself to exhaustion caring for that man. A full recovery is the very least he can do. And what a relief that no one is dead. I do so hate funerals. So morbid and depressing." A shudder shook her ample frame.

After breakfast the group cleared the table then set about their chores. Everyone pitched in and helped around the house. With funds tight, they did not employ servants other than a village woman who came once a week to help with the laundry.

Ignoring Andrew's and Nathan's grumbles, Hayley herded her charges about. The boys had to beat the bedroom rugs, a job they hated, declaring it woman's work. Unimpressed, Hayley shooed them outside. It was Pamela's turn to feather-dust, and Aunt Olivia's turn to do the mending. Callie was to gather the eggs from the henhouse while Winston repaired the roof. Hayley would work in the gardens with Grimsley as soon as she checked on Stephen.

She picked up Callie's egg basket. "Have you seen Callie?" she asked Pamela.

"Not for the last few minutes. She's probably already on her way to the henhouse."

"She forgot her basket," Hayley said with a sigh. She headed out the door and struck off across the lawn. When she reached the henhouse, she poked her head inside.

"Callie? Where are you? You forgot your basket." Silence greeted Hayley. She looked all around, but saw no sign of her sister.

Now where in the world can that child be?


* * *

Stephen dragged his eyes open, blinking against the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. He took a silent inventory of his body parts and discovered to his vast relief that he felt better than the last time he'd awakened. His head still hurt and his arm still ached, but the bone-numbing pain that had suffused his entire body was gone.

He turned his head and found himself staring at a small dark-haired girl perched on the settee. He vividly remembered the young woman he'd seen there the last time he awoke, and this child was a miniature duplicate of her. The same shiny curls, the same startling light-blue eyes. They were obviously mother and daughter.

The child clutched a well-worn doll in her chubby arms and studied him, her face alight with avid curiosity. "Hello," she said with a smile. "You're finally awake."

Stephen wet his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. "Hello," he answered in a rasp.

"My name is Callie," the child said, swinging her legs to and fro like a pendulum. "You're Stephen."

Stephen nodded and was relieved that the movement caused only a slight pounding in his head.

She thrust her doll forward. "This is Miss Josephine Chilton-Jones. You may call her Miss Josephine, but you must never call her Josie. She doesn't like that, and we mustn't do things other people don't like."

Stephen, unsure if an answer was expected, merely nodded again. Apparently his response satisfied the child because she once again hugged the doll and continued speaking.

"You were very ill. The grown-ups took turns taking care of you, but I wasn't allowed. Everyone says I'm too young, but that's not true at all." She leaned forward. "I'm six, you know. In fact, I'm very nearly seven." After imparting that bit of news, she leaned back and resumed her leg-swinging.

Based on the child's expectant look, Stephen concluded that she wanted him to respond. He racked his brain for something to say and came up blank. The last time he'd engaged in a conversation with a child, he'd been a child himself.

"Where is your mother?" he finally asked.

"Mama is dead."

"Dead? But I just saw her last night," Stephen whispered, utterly confused.

"That was Hayley. She's my sister, but she takes care of me like a mama. She takes care of all of us. Me, Pamela, Andrew, Nathan, Aunt Olivia, Grimsley, Winston, and even Pierre. Oh, and our dogs and cat too. Mama is dead."

"Where's your father?"

"Papa's dead, too, but we have Hayley. I love Hayley. Everybody loves Hayley. You'll love her too," the child predicted with a solemn nod.

"I see," said Stephen, who didn't see at all. That young woman took care of all those people? The only adult? But no, the child had mentioned an aunt, had she not? "You have an aunt?"

Callie nodded, her bright sable curls bouncing. "Oh, yes. Aunt Olivia. She's Papa's sister who came to live with us after Papa died. She looks like Papa except she doesn't have a beard. Only a very small mustache. You have to sit on her lap to see it. She's quite deaf you know, but she smells like flowers and tells me funny stories."

Without pausing for breath, the child continued, "And then there's my sister Pamela. She's very pretty and comes to almost all of my tea parties. Andrew and Nathan are my brothers." A grimace puckered her face. "I suppose they're nice, but they tease me and I don't like that."

"And who are the others… Winslow? Grimsdale and Pierre?"

She giggled. "Winston Grimsley, and Pierre. They all used to be sailors with Papa but now they live with us. Pierre is our cook. He grumbles a lot, but he bakes yummy sweets. Winston mostly likes things around the house." She leaned closer to Stephen in a distinctly conspiratorial manner. "He has tattoos and very hairy arms and says the naughtiest words. He said 'bloody hell' yesterday and he calls Grimsley a 'pain in the arse.'"

Stephen wasn't quite sure how to reply to that newsy bit of family folklore. Good God, were all children this precocious? He looked at the perfect tiny bow-shaped lips that had just said "bloody hell" and "arse" and felt his own lips twitch. "Who is Grimsley?"

"He's our butler. His knees make creaky noises whenever he moves and he's forever losing his spectacles. He and Winston were with Hayley when she rescued you. They brought you home and Hayley's been taking care of you ever since. You were very ill," she imparted in a voice that sounding distinctively scolding. "I'm glad you're better so now Hayley can rest. She's very tired and she hasn't been able to come to any of my tea parties." She eyed Stephen with a speculative gaze. "Would you like to come to my tea party? Miss Josephine and I serve the best scones."