Maribel?” Jean-Luc managed through lips that refused to cooperate. “You?” was all he could add.

But it was enough, for the woman with the red curls stumbled to her feet, tucking her hair beneath a scarf as she hurried to him. “Hello, Mr. Valmont,” she said as she knelt beside the bed. “Can you hear me?”

He reached to grasp her hand and then struggled to sit up as the room spun around him. He was weak, so weak. “I thought you were lost.”

“Hush now,” she said. “I’ve been with you all the while. I will just go and fetch your father. He asked to be alerted if you were to awaken.”

“No, don’t go,” he said, but his grip was too weak to make her stay. His legs refused all demands to follow, and his eyes continued to be unreliable when commanded to remain open.

Finally, he awakened and found the room flooded with sunshine. There was the red-haired girl again, back in the chair by the fireplace after chasing him through the fog of his dreams.

Abigail was there too, her hands deftly working knitting needles as she created some object of clothing that would be far too warm for the New Orleans winter. The itch of last year’s Christmas gift, a sweater made from wool taken from her family home, had been a source of much jesting between Jean-Luc and his younger brother Quinton.

“I sincerely hope that sweater is not for me.”

“You are teasing me, Jean-Luc,” Abigail said. “I refuse to jump and run to your bidding.”

With that one comment, Jean-Luc knew he was fine. Knew he would live.

For as fiercely protective as Abigail was of him and his family, she would not make light of his situation unless she knew him to be safe. Though he wished to allow tears at the knowledge he was not being taken to heaven just yet, instead, he matched her humor with teasing of his own.

He shook his head and instantly regretted the action, all the while keeping his attention on the woman holding the yarn for Abigail. “Have I been much trouble?”

His father’s wife laughed, a pleasant sound that reminded him of good days and smiles shared with this family of his. “A bit,” she said, “although as the months went by, we did despair of hearing your complaints ever again. I am very happy to be wrong about this.”

The red-haired woman looked away as if she might be uncomfortable with him watching her. Clearly the situation had been reversed for some time, because he could see now that the woman was obviously in the employ of Abigail, possibly as a companion or nursemaid.

No, that could not be right. The twins, Michel and Gabrielle, were beyond the age of needing that sort of supervision.

“Who are you?” he finally asked the woman before turning his attention back to Abigail. “Why is she here?”

“Back to your charming self, I see. I wonder if you will remember this conversation. You and I have had many these past months, but you rarely seem to recall them.”

“In fact, I recall none,” he said. “Not because what you say isn’t worth recollection. I think there might have been some other trouble that caused me to be less than attentive.”

“Yes, quite.” She folded her knitting into the basket at her feet and cast a sideways glance at the woman beside her. “This is Kitty. She has been invaluable to us during your inconvenience.”

“Kitty,” he said as his gaze went back to the woman who now returned his smile. “Then I must offer you my most sincere thanks and an apology that I have not been able to fully appreciate your beauty until now.”

She looked at Abigail. “Is he always like this?”

“No, dear,” she said with a laugh. “Sometimes he is worse.”

Jean-Luc almost managed a chuckle, though the effort pained him through his chest. “I don’t know if I ought to be offended or not.”

“You ought to be thankful that this lovely young lady gave up a good portion of her time over these past months to see to you. She was trained at the Hospital St. Louis in Paris. You could get no better care than in her hands.”

Red hair, green eyes, and a smile that lit her face. Despite his current situation, Jean-Luc was intrigued. “I was fortunate to be visiting when this need was made known to me.”

“Months?” he said as he tried to remember the last time he had been on his own two feet. Though he failed miserably, he somehow knew that when he did remember, he would not like what he recalled.

Her voice was heavily accented with her native French tone, but the words were beautifully spoken. “Indeed I do thank you for your care,” he said in French.

“De rien,” she responded easily as she looked away, a coquette in nurse’s attire.

“Come,” Abigail said abruptly, “and let’s send up his butler to handle his needs. You and I are no longer needed here.”

She sent Kitty out first and then lingered until the young woman was no longer nearby. “You’ve given us quite a start, Jean-Luc Valmont,” she said, her mock scolding light but her meaning clear as she grasped his hand and held it tight. “First, know that I am more grateful to God than I knew was possible that He chose to spare you.”

“As am I,” he said.

She released his hand to kneel at his side. “Then I will have two promises from you.”

He leaned back on his elbows and offered what he hoped was a charming smile despite cracked lips and who knew what else. “And what would those be?”

“First,” she said as her eyes held his, “you will never put your father in this position again.”

Not knowing exactly what had been discovered regarding his last weeks at sea, Jean-Luc decided to let Abigail tell him exactly what she referred to rather than offering anything of his own. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Held prisoner by a wanted man and then nearly dying aboard a French Navy vessel?” Abigail shook her head. “I fail to see how you managed any of that. You are a lawyer, for goodness’ sake. You manage your father’s business interests in the territory and see to the details of trade agreements. How in the world does that translate to putting yourself in such danger?”

“I wish I had an answer for you,” he said. “I do not.”

“You do not remember or you do not want to tell me?” She held up her hand. “No, do not respond. Just understand I will not have you upsetting your father needlessly in his condition. Should you ever come back to my home battered and bleeding again, you had best have a good reason for it.”

“I promise.”

“I am not finished, Jean-Luc. Your father adores you, and I love you like my own flesh and blood. It was pure torture to watch you move between life and death for months on end. Your fever broke and you will live, but I do not want your father to have to endure this again. Do you understand?”

He stifled a smile. Though Abigail was barely older than him by a decade, she had taken to mothering him quite well. She also knew how to get her point across so that he comprehended clearly. And then there were the tears shimmering in her eyes. Indeed he must have frightened them all greatly.

“I do understand,” he said, “and I shall endeavor to keep this promise.”

“Don’t you endeavor me, Jean-Luc Valmont. I am not some woman you can fool. I know whatever you were doing that landed you in this fix is likely something you will do again.”

He let out a long breath. Sadly, she was right.

“But I will not do it in the same way,” he said. “On that you have my word.”

She gave him an even look and then nodded as she swiped at her damp eyes. “I will accept that as a promise and move to my next point, but not before I give you this book. It was a gift left on our doorstep some months ago.”

“Thank you,” he said as he lowered himself back to his pillow to look at the thin volume of Homer’s Odyssey. As expected, inside there was a message from Israel letting him know he survived and where he would be waiting.

“How long ago did this arrive?”

She shrugged. “Not long after you were brought to us,” she said. “So several months ago.”

Several months. He let out a long breath. Israel could be anywhere by now. But what of the others?

“This doctoring that was done,” he said. “Do I have Evan Connor to thank?”

She looked away and then rose. Trouble etched her beautiful features. “No,” she said gently.

“Then he …”

Jean-Luc could not complete the question. Stupid, for he already knew the answer. Any man who did not step aboard the French vessel alive went down with the ship. Grief compounded with guilt coursed through him.

“Though I cannot blame you for this, Abigail,” he said, all good humor gone, “my head is beginning to hurt again.”

“No doubt you’d like me to call for your nurse,” she said. “And that brings me to my second point. Do not toy with that girl’s affections.”

He looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“A woman knows things, Jean-Luc, and she has been by your side for months. You may not be aware of this time passing together with her; she has been acutely aware of it. You are all she has known for months, and because of this I believe she has formed a bond with you.”

Jean-Luc shook his head. “Yes, of course. I will proceed with caution.”

“You will proceed with the intention of marrying her or keeping your relationship on a completely platonic level. I have promised her mother and father I would look after her, and that is what I will do.”

He looked down at his broken body and then back up at Abigail. “I doubt she wants a weak man with the scars I bear. So your nurse is safe from me, I promise.”

This was a promise he should never have made.

Four months later, with all weakness gone, he had fallen hopelessly in love and married the red-haired nurse whose care had brought him back from the grave. Eleven months after that, Kitty and his unborn son were buried in the same grave.

He was beyond inconsolable. When he finally realized the Lord had not meant him to die alongside them, he retrieved the book from the shelf where it had been hidden all those months ago and found Israel again.

With that reunion came news that others had survived, which made him grateful but could do nothing for the guilt he bore.

If he could not find happiness of his own, then he would turn back to the life he led before. The promise he made to Abigail would be kept, for this time he planned to do the same thing in a different way.

It took Maribel the better part of three years to realize the secretive man who sometimes did work for Mother Superior was the same man who once sat in a cell and played draughts with her. The carpenter kept to himself and never allowed anyone near while he was working, and no one considered it odd.

Then came the day when she was reading in the guango tree and he passed beneath it in conversation with Mother Superior. “As always, we at the orphanage appreciate your help in this matter, Mr. Rao. We’ve despaired of how to repair the trouble with our window in the chapel, so you’ve arrived at just the right time.”

Mr. Rao.

Maribel was a young lady of almost fifteen now, and running to hug a man of Mr. Rao’s age was not considered appropriate. Neither was plopping down from the guango tree to chase Mother Superior and her guest.

So she waited until the pair had parted ways, and then she edged up to him as he was repairing the window in the chapel. “Excuse me,” Maribel called from the other side of the chapel. “Might I have a minute of your time?”

“Sure, miss. Something else that needs fixing?” He looked up from his work as she approached, and then froze.

“Hello, Mr. Rao,” she said. “Do you remember me? I’m Maribel.”

The mallet fell from his hand and barely missed landing on his foot. Mr. Rao dipped down to retrieve the tool and then took his time straightening again.

“What is this?”

Maribel jumped at the familiar sound and knew from her tone of voice that Mother Superior was displeased. Children were expressly forbidden from interacting with any adults other than the nuns, so she knew she was in deep trouble.

Slowly she turned to face the nun. As expected, Mother Superior wore an expression of irritation. “You know you should not be here. I will insist you leave at once.”

“But Mother Superior, you see, I have a very good reason for being here.”

She shook her head. “I will not hear excuses made when rules are broken. Go directly to your classroom, and I will come and get you once I have decided what your punishment will be.”

“But I was just …” She had no good explanation other than the truth. “I am not excusing my behavior, and I will accept any punishment I have been assigned. However, I believe I know this man.”

“What man?”

Maribel turned back around to see that Mr. Rao and his tools were gone. All that remained to show he had been in the chapel was the fresh repair to the chapel window.

“But Mr. Rao was here.” She ran to the window to look out onto the grounds of the orphanage but saw no one fitting his description. “I know he was just here.”

Mother Superior came to stand beside her and then lightly wrapped her arm around her shoulder. “Miss Cordoba, it is obvious we’ve had a carpenter on the island working on the chapel, so of course he was here.”

“But he just left.” Tears began to swim in her eyes, but she refused to cry in front of Mother Superior. “He didn’t answer me and he didn’t even say good-bye. But I know it was him. It just had to be him because nobody else smiles like he does, and he was so nice to me when I was on the boat. Did you know he built my own room for me? And Mr. Piper used a sail and made a hammock.”

Mother Superior led Maribel out of the chapel and into the courtyard. “Collect yourself and go back to your classroom. And please exercise more control next time.”

“But he didn’t remember me,” she said, hating how her words came out sounding so pitiful. “I remembered him and he didn’t remember me.”

“Miss Cordoba,” she said gently, “you are assuming the man you saw was the man you believe him to be. You do not know this for certain. If this man was your old friend, then he certainly would not have left without acknowledging you.”

She shrugged. “I suppose. So you think it wasn’t him?”

“I think he is not the man you wish him to be,” she said. “And I think you are now late for your class and likely earning an extra punishment from your teacher in addition to whatever I decide to assign you.”

Several protests arose, but she kept them to herself as Mother Superior walked away. Abruptly, the nun stopped and turned around once more. “Miss Cordoba?”

“Yes?”

“Have you been having those dreams again?”

Maribel was reluctant to reply. Indeed she had experienced recollections of her days on the ship and the time leading up to her arrival on the island many times over the past few years. However, she had stopped asking questions of Mother Superior regarding their authenticity because her answer was always the same: it was a dream.

“No, Reverend Mother,” she told her, “I have not had any more dreams.”

Because they aren’t dreams. They’re memories.