The Secret Life of Miss Anna Marsh by Ella Quinn Read Free Book Online Page B

happening.” Kev rubbed his chin. “Not like when Mr. Harry was around, kickin’ up larks.”
    â€œThere was no one who could get things going better than Mr. Harry.” Another man said and nodded.
    â€œLet’s have a toast then to Harry Marsh.” Kev raised his mug, and the rest followed. “Here’s to Harry, who led a merry life and had a quick death.”
    â€œTo Harry,” the rest of the table toasted.
    November 3rd, 1814
    On the Isle of Guernsey, a young man of thirty-one years wept beside the grave of his wife and small child, buried together. He was tall, with broad shoulders, chestnut brown hair, and deep blue eyes. An older man stood next to him, his hand on the other man’s shoulder.
    The younger man tried to keep his tears from falling. “Why did it have to happen?” A question he’d asked almost every day for the past eleven months.
    â€œThere was naught you could have done, and it was no fault of yours, Harry, me boy. The Good Lord gives and takes as He pleases,” his father-in-law, Mr. Marest, said. “She loved you, lad, and she wouldn’t have wanted to see you mourn overlong for her.”
    He patted Harry’s back affectionately. “It’s been almost a year. You know you can stay here as long as you like. But do you want to, now that you know who you are?”
    He glanced at his father-in-law. “I don’t know. I still don’t have all my memory back. There are large holes.”
    â€œThat’s true,” Marest replied. “But you know your last name and from where you hail. You don’t know if your family thinks you’re dead, or are still looking for you. They could be worried about you.”
    Harry nodded and gave his attention to the twin graves of his wife, Marcella, and his infant daughter. He’d loved Marcella with all his heart. After her death, in his grief, his memory had begun to come back, and, with it, the image of a young woman with dark curls and laughing blue eyes. He should know her.
    His heart ached when he thought of the woman. He wished he could remember why he cared so much for her, and who she was.
    â€œIf you’re going to go, you’d best do it soon, or you’ll not get off the Isle until spring. You still have the money?”
    â€œYes.”
    When the Marest family had found Harry washed up on to the beach, he’d had a large pouch of gold coins with him. Not knowing whose they were, Harry had used them sparingly.
    His rescuers had brought him, half dead, to their large old farmhouse. Marcella, the middle daughter, had sat with him and nursed him through the worst of it. She’d fed him when he’d been too weak to hold a spoon. When she finally got around to asking his name, the only one he could remember was “Harry.” The rest had been a mystery.
    He’d remembered nothing about his life or where he was from, but he’d known how to sail, and quite a bit about farming. Marcella had turned it into a guessing game to try to bring back his memory. He had a lot of money, yet his clothes weren’t expensive. His manners and speech marked him as a gentleman. He could recite poetry, though most of it was either erotic or romantic, which made Marcella laugh.
    Harry had fallen deeply in love with her, but wouldn’t ask her to marry him. How could he? He didn’t know what he had to give her or who he really was. Then one night she came to him. They married two weeks later. He took Marcella’s last name, Marest, French for marsh, which seemed vaguely right. She would have thought it a good joke if she had known it really was his own last name.
    Harry glanced at his father-in-law. “You’re right. I should go.”
    â€œI’ll make arrangements for a ship to take you to Weymouth. It’s the best route this time of year.” Mr. Marest squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “We’ll miss you, son, but you know you