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S imon had never expected to enjoy an outing with Marjorie Clawson.

He expected cold silence and deathly stares from her.

But she chattered happily on the short walk to the village, pointing out flowers and birds she found interesting.

She didn’t always remember their names, but when she did, he held his breath, wondering what other knowledge her locked brain would allow to escape.

The village was about a mile from the cottage, across a rocky expanse covered with waving grass this time of year.

They walked along the carriage path, moving aside when a cart passed.

The man driving it waved at them. The village was set on a C-shaped cove.

The houses and businesses lined the white beaches and sat amid the rocks and boulders.

Marjorie gasped as soon as the village came into sight.

“The water,” she said. “It’s so lovely.”

The color was nothing short of breathtaking.

He’d never seen that shade of blue anywhere else in England.

The white houses and colorful fishing boats bobbing in the cove made for a charming picture.

The scene was completely different than the view of foggy streets and coal-blackened stone he saw every day in London.

“I thought the view from the bed chamber was pretty, but this...” She gestured to the scene before them, her words seeming to escape her. He rather liked her childlike wonder and could not imagine the Marjorie Clawson of two days ago expressing such full-throated appreciation.

“The walk has made me hungry,” he said. “Shall we find a public house?”

“I’d love that.” She smiled up at him, and he wished such simple gestures like that wouldn’t make his heart tighten in his chest as though she’d caught hold of it and squeezed.

They entered the village and were greeted by everyone they passed with a smile or a welcome.

A woman swept the stoop of a white-washed home with pink flowers in the window box.

A blue sign hung above another white building with the word Bookshoppe in white letters.

“Oh, a bookshop!” Marjorie’s hand tightened on his arm. “Let’s go inside.”

Simon opened the door for her and followed her into a dark shop that smelled of ancient books, lemon furniture polish, and candlewax.

The walls were lined with shelves of books so high the ladders on either side would be needed to reach the uppermost. At the back of the shop, a white-haired man in spectacles lowered the book he’d been reading and looked up.

“Good morning” he said and began to rise. “What may I help you find?”

“Please don’t stand on my account, sir,” Marjorie said. “We just came in to browse.”

“I see.” He settled back in his chair. “There’s no better way to spend a morning. I just brewed some tea. Would you like a cup?”

“None for me. And you, dear?”

Simon knew this was just an act. He was not really married to her, but when she smiled up at him, he almost wished she were his wife in truth. “No, thank you, sir. Actually, I was interested in seeing some maps. Do you have any for sale?”

“I carry a few maps of the area, walking paths and some of the coastline. To go with those, we have quite a selection of books on pirate lore and the Cornwall flora and fauna,” he said.

“Visitors tend to like those books.” He pointed to an area in the front of the store, and Marjorie headed that way.

Simon followed, though he had little interest in stories of the Barbary pirates who used to terrorize this coast. A map of this area wouldn’t be particularly helpful either, but any map might trigger her memory.

When Marjorie picked up an illustrated book of local plants, Simon pulled a book about smugglers from the shelf.

The first chapter seemed to tell the stories of several famous smugglers from the area.

Might be good reading if he had to spend another long night on watch.

Anything was better than forcing himself not to stare at Marjorie while she slept just a few feet away.

He found a small selection of maps and held one out to her. She opened it, turned it this way and that then shook her head. He gave her another but she simply shrugged her shoulders. Simon sighed. The plan didn’t seem to be working.

They browsed for a while longer, Simon still holding the book on smugglers. Marjorie picked up this and that. At one point she whispered to him, “I have no idea if I’ve read any of these books or what I even like. I must enjoy reading, though. I was unexpectedly excited when I saw this shop.”

“I have seen you with a book more than once,” he said, “but I don’t think I ever noted the titles.”

“Too bad. Perhaps it would have been helpful to see if reading something I have already read jogs my memory.”

“Good idea. Everyone has read the Bible. We might try reading some of the more familiar passages back at the cottage. There’s a copy on the shelf in the sitting room.”

“I’d like that.” Her gaze flicked down to his book. “Will you purchase that?”

“I think I will.” He brought the book to the bookseller who glanced at it and nodded.

When Simon had paid for the volume, he tucked it in the pocket of his coat and escorted Marjorie back outside.

They walked a little further and came upon a small group of children standing before a painted wooden board with a square cut out of the top to make a crude stage.

A hand puppet dressed in a dark gown and a white cap gripped a small stick and beat another puppet dressed in a red suit, crying “Fool! Fool! Fool!”

The children burst into laughter as the female puppet pounded the male puppet over the head.

“What is this?” Marjorie asked, pausing to watch.

“Punch and Judy,” he said. “It’s a puppet show.”

“How could you forget the baby?” the female puppet screeched. Obviously, the actor hiding behind the painted stage was a man pretending to be a woman.

“I remember now, woman!” Punch answered, grabbing her stick and tossing it away. “I promise this time I will not lose the baby while you’re away.”

The female puppet addressed the audience. “Now, children, I need your help. I have asked Mr. Punch to watch the baby while I’m away, but I want you to watch Mr. Punch and report back to me if he misbehaves. Can you do that?”

The children cried, “Yes!” Simon smiled when Marjorie answered as well.

Judy brought a small doll dressed as a baby out and much hilarity ensued as the baby clearly preferred her to Mr. Punch and cried every time she tried to hand him the baby.

Then Judy departed, leaving Punch with the baby, and he was as inept as always.

He tossed the baby in the air and dropped the baby, and the children laughed and laughed.

Simon had seen this sort of play too many times to count, but it seemed new to Marjorie.

He found himself laughing along with her, enjoying the way her eyes sparkled when Judy returned and the children told on Mr. Punch.

“Oh, no!” Marjorie cried when Judy went behind the curtain and returned with the long stick again. She grabbed Simon’s arm as she laughed at the way Judy beat Punch.

Then the play was over, and she was still chuckling as Simon led her across the square to a public house.

“I had no idea you were such a lover of theater,” he said.

“That was hardly theater,” she said as they entered the busy establishment and found an empty table near the window.

“You prefer Shakespeare then.” He said it casually, hoping it might spur some memory.

She shrugged. “I don’t know what I prefer. I have a feeling I wasn’t the sort of person who often went to the theater.”

“I couldn’t say.” He ordered them coffee and two plates when the server passed by. When he looked back at her, she was staring out the window.

“What is it?”

“I haven’t recalled anything yet. Surely, I’ve been in a public house before, but nothing at all seems familiar. Not the smells or the sounds.”

“The food will arrive in a few minutes. Perhaps that will taste familiar.”

She looked dubious. “What was the book you purchased at the bookshop? Something about smugglers?”

He pulled it from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “I thought I might read it while on watch tonight. Something to pass the time.”

She turned it over and opened a page and then looked up at the sound of a violin. Simon turned his head. “Ah, looks like they’ll have some music,” he said. “This is excellent. Music is a powerful conveyor of memory.”

A man took a seat on a stool before a drum and nodded to the woman who finished tuning her violin.

Another man joined them, and he held a fife.

A fourth carried a tambourine and he stood in the middle and counted.

Suddenly, the group launched into “Early One Morning” with the tambourine player singing.

The song was quiet and pretty and required no tambourine.

Many of the house’s patrons turned to watch and a few sang along.

Simon glanced at Marjorie. She looked intrigued by the song but wasn’t singing.

“Have you heard this?” he asked. “Thank you,” he told the serving maid as she set down their coffee and what looked like some sort of hearty soup and a crust of bread.

“It’s a very pretty song, and it seems familiar.” Marjorie was still watching the musicians. “Oh, don’t deceive me. Oh, never leave me,” she sang along.

“You do know it.”