by Regina Scott
Linus stared at her.
“Then, please, allow me to see you home,” Greer begged.
She came around the desk to lean on his offered arm. “You are too kind. And perhaps we might discuss the finances of the spa on the way. I’m certain we could find the funds to support Mrs. Tully as well.”
“Now, see here,” Greer started, but Abigail moaned, and her knees buckled.
Linus caught her before she fell. “Abigail! What’s wrong?”
She bravely pulled herself upright and out of his arms, then drew a deep breath as if marshalling every ounce of energy. “I will survive, Doctor Bennett.” She leaned closer, and her green gaze brushed his. “You owe me,” she whispered, before she obliged Greer to lead her out.
~~~
Abigail managed to extract herself from Mr. Greer’s company at the door of her shop, but not before he’d promised to fund Jesslyn’s salary without pilfering from Linus’s and consider paying Jesslyn’s aunt to work part time. Thoroughly pleased, she let herself into the shop.
Silence greeted her.
The spa might be crowded with guests, the other shops with visitors. But here no customers marveled over the pottery Mrs. Catchpole created from clay banks down the shore. No gentleman debated which of Mr. Josephs’ wrought-iron work to purchase. And no lady fingered Mrs. Mance’s tatted collars and asked about the price.
Which also meant no one was getting paid.
Unacceptable. She had started this shop to make a difference, for her and her mother and for the other families in the village for whom income wasn’t always reliable. She would not fail them now. She propped open the door with one of Mr. Josephs’ shoe stands and set about dusting and sweeping.
The first customers wandered inside within a quarter hour. She recognized the dark-haired fellow from the spa. He’d arrived just before the fracas at the castle. Like the others, he moved from display table to display table, picking up this, considering that. But he stood before the paintings the longest. Abigail finally went over to check on him.
“Do you prefer landscapes or sailing ships?” she asked him with her best shopkeeper’s smile.
He spared her a quick glance before returning his gaze to one of her more recent pieces, showing the castle on the headland with the waves pounding the cliffs below. “In truth, I’m not certain,” he admitted. “I was thinking about what I’d heard recently. Is it true there are caves under Castle How?”
“Quite true,” Abigail told him. “I hinted of the entrance there, where those two boulders part the waves. The area is called the Dragon’s Maw for those teeth-like boulders as well as the roar the waves make when they strike the cliff.”
“Fascinating.” He continued studying the piece a moment. “And you can access the castle from those caves, then?”
A chill ran up her spine. Why would he care? Eva had asked her to be alert to any strangers in the village. Mr. Donner—or was it Mr. George? The two were usually joined at the hip—had arrived a little sooner than she might have thought the French agents to appear, but perhaps Eva and the magistrate had mistaken their dates.
“I believe the access from the caves to the castle is well guarded these days,” she said, keeping her smile in place. “Are you interested in sailing, Mr. Donner?”
He didn’t correct the use of his name, so she must have guessed correctly. “I suppose I’ll need to be,” he said, turning at last from the painting. “I understand there will be a fine regatta here in the next month. I wouldn’t want to miss that.”
“Then you intend to stay in Grace-by-the-Sea so long?” she pressed.
His smile looked equally contrived. “For the foreseeable future. I find it a most welcoming place and well-suited to my purposes. Now, forgive me for monopolizing your time, Miss Archer. I know you have other customers eager to speak to you.” He inclined his head and sauntered out the door.
And she vowed to keep an eye on him.
But he was right, and she had others she must attend to at the moment. She kept busy answering questions and taking payments until she saw Mr. Carroll across the street locking his door. Then she ushered out the last shoppers and started for the back of the space, where a curtained doorway led to her studio and the flat beyond. Her paintings whispered to her, but she didn’t dare answer. Like it or not, she wasn’t ready to lift a paintbrush. And if she thought about losing the ability to paint, she would go mad.
She came into the flat to find her mother in a chair by the window, embroidery hoop in her lap and silken thread sliding off one edge.
“Where’s Ethan?” she asked.
“I sent him to the Mermaid to ask about dinner,” her mother answered. “He should be back shortly. How was your visit with Doctor Bennett?”
“I didn’t go to the spa to visit Doctor Bennett,” Abigail told her, coming to join her. “I went to prove I’m recovered. And I returned quite a while ago. I was working in the shop. Nearly one hundred pounds worth of product went out the door this afternoon. I’ll send word to pick up the disbursements by the end of the week.”
Her mother took another stitch. “That’s good news. I know the other families will be very pleased.” She glanced up, then frowned. “Though Mrs. Howland may have something to say when she learns you managed to dirty her pretty gown.”
Abigail looked down. The front of the dress was spotless, the skirts as full and rich as they had been when she’d first donned them. The left sleeve was fine. The right sleeve…
Was speckled a rusty brown.
“Oh,” she said, plopping down on the chair beside her mother’s. “I seem to have opened the wound.”
Her mother set aside her sewing. “I’ll fetch Doctor Bennett.”
“No,” Abigail said. “Don’t. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Help me. We must clean this up before Ethan returns.”
Chapter Six
She was back in bed, smiling brightly, when Linus arrived that evening.
“Your excursions took their toll, I see,” he observed, coming around the bed to set his case on the table.
“I merely thought it wise to rest while I could,” Abigail replied. “I feel fine.”
“No pain?” he asked, regarding her.
She refused to blush. “None. And I wish you’d stop asking. I begin to feel abnormal because I don’t have pain.”
“I can safely say there is little normal about you, madam.”
“I beg your pardon,” Abigail sputtered.
He held up both hands. “I meant no offense. You are in every way an exemplary model of health, intelligence, and talent.”
Hard to be annoyed with him after such a statement. “Then you are satisfied I’m sufficiently healed to attend Jesslyn’s wedding?”
He pulled back her sleeve, then frowned. “This isn’t the bandage I put on this morning.”
“Oh?” she said, finding the bed suddenly harder than she remembered.
“No. The Misses Pierce have ordered the material I prefer, but I’ve been using my own supply until it arrives. This isn’t as absorbent, and the weave is loose enough that pieces could stick to the wound.”
Abigail sighed. “You’re right. I bled a little. Mother changed the bandage for me.”
Immediately he was all action, unwrapping the wound as he spoke. “Does it itch, sting?”
“No,” Abigail admitted. “And I don’t feel the least feverish.”
“We’ll check that in a moment.”
He was so concerned her own worries multiplied. The last layer stuck to the stitches, and she winced as he eased it free.
“I’ll leave your mother another length of proper bandage, in case it’s needed when I’m unavailable,” he said. He peered at her arm, and Abigail craned her neck to see as well. Two of the stitches stuck out like the thread on a girl’s first embroidery sampler, and the edges of the trough were definitely redder than they had been that morning. She bit her lip waiting for his diagnosis.
“You’ve put a strain on it, n
o doubt,” he said. That grey gaze rose to meet hers, and something shot through her, nearly as sharp as the bullet. She couldn’t look away.
He lay a hand on her forehead as if claiming her for his own. Even as the thought made her shiver, he yanked back his hand as if the touch had scalded him.
His tone, however, was its usual calm. “You don’t appear feverish, though I don’t like the chill that went through you.”
Neither did she.
“Have your mother stay with you tonight and send word if there’s any change,” he ordered, dropping his hand. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”
That seemed a long time away. Abigail made herself nod. She kept her mouth closed and counted to three hundred in her mind as he rebandaged the wound. That didn’t stop her from noticing how the candlelight brushed his hair with gold.
Her mother came in after he’d left with Ethan.
“I take it you need watching,” she said, eyeing Abigail as if she might suddenly fly up out of the bed and through the roof.
“I’m fine,” Abigail assured her. “I’ll call if I need help.”
Her mother shook her head. “No, you won’t. I’ve been waiting for that call for nearly ten years, and it’s never come.”
Abigail leaned back against the headboard. “You sound as if you would have preferred it if I was weak.”
“No, dear, not weak,” she said, dropping her gaze and shifting on her feet so that her saffron-colored skirts brushed the hardwood floor. “Just…willing to accept that others need to be needed sometimes.”
Abigail sighed. “If I’ve ever run roughshod over your feelings, I apologize. But someone had to take charge when Father died. Did you like being the village charity case?”
“The previous vicar was kind,” she allowed.
“From pity,” Abigail argued. “We had one room, one bed, and all our food and clothing were donated. Now we have a flat, a business, respect. We don’t have to wait in hope that others will support us.”
“Yes,” her mother acknowledged. “And I rarely see you.”
Frustration nipped at her. Abigail rubbed her forehead and prayed for patience. “I have also apologized for that. But I must paint, I must see to the shop. I was not born to be a lady who sits about all day doing embroidery.”
Her mother slumped, and too late Abigail remembered how she filled her days.
“And embroidery, alas, is all I appear to be good at,” her mother muttered.
“Never.” Abigail threw back the covers, climbed from the bed, and went to enfold her mother in a one-armed hug. “You gave me life, kept me safe from Father, instilled in me a purpose. You know Gideon adored you.”
She sniffed. “I miss your brother so. I wish he would write and let us know how he fares.”
They had not heard from Gideon for nearly six months now. He was serving with Wellesley in India, and Abigail couldn’t help fearing for his safety even as she deplored the cruel war there that decimated its people.
“I know, Mother,” she murmured. “But I’m here. Now, what did Mr. Hornswag have to say about dinner?”
Her mother brightened as she pulled back. “A nice ham and pea soup. I have a loaf from Mr. Ellison. Shall I bring you some?”
“I’ll join you in the dining room,” Abigail said.
“But Doctor Bennett…” her mother started.
“Will have to accustom himself to disappointment,” Abigail said, going to fetch her bed jacket and determined to put the handsome physician from her thoughts, at least for the moment.
~~~
Linus walked his son home down High Street. Ethan’s silence continued to concern him, though, at the moment, it was a blessing. His mind offered noise enough.
He knew his role as physician. He’d taken an oath to abstain from every voluntary act of mischief and corruption, to refuse to dole out poison when asked. Indeed, he worked to give his patients only the best—his attention, his knowledge, his experience, his time. It didn’t matter their gender, age, prestige, or wealth. Disease and infirmity knew no prejudice. He focused on healing, improving conditions, easing suffering.
But this evening, when he’d looked into Abigail’s eyes, he hadn’t seen a patient needing his care. He’d seen a woman—beautiful, vibrant, vital.
And that scared him.
He did not have a wealth of experience with women. He’d been studying for his profession since he’d been a youth, first under his father and then at the college in Edinburgh. He’d known what he wanted, where he was going. And then, he’d met Catriona, and all his carefully made plans had fluttered away like parchment caught in the wind. That experience had proven he knew little about love and marriage, and he had no plans to try again.
Surely he was wiser now. Surely his youthful passions had cooled. Abigail might intrigue him with her fiery hair and attitude to match, but he could admire without embroiling himself further.
Couldn’t he?
~~~
After a difficult night, Linus was certain he had mastered whatever maggot had entered his brain the previous evening. He dropped Ethan off and checked Abigail’s wound. He was congratulating himself on his professional approach when he caught himself inhaling the scent of peaches that clung to her. He made himself lean back.
“I am satisfied yesterday did not give you a setback,” he said, depositing the used bandage in his bag.
“Excellent,” she said. “Then I can attend Jesslyn at her wedding.”
“Let’s see how the next day or so goes,” he suggested.
He glanced up in time to see her face puckering. “You must make a decision, sir, and I pray it is the right one. You cannot deny me the opportunity to celebrate my dearest friend’s wedding.”
He would if he thought it would endanger her health, but he decided not to argue the point now. “Perhaps a few more sedentary pursuits in the meantime.”
That didn’t seem to make her any happier. She wiggled on the bed. “What about going to watch the militia practice with Mother and Ethan?”
“I thought they only met Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” he said. “Today is Saturday, if I recall.”
“It is,” she allowed. “But Mr. Carroll came by last evening to let us know they were conducting a special drill today. Everyone else is going.”
“And you think this will be a particularly edifying sight,” he said, turning for his bag again.
“Oh, the last few drills have been highly entertaining,” she assured him. “And I understand they hope to start with muskets today.”
The snap of his case closing sounded as if a musket had gone off in the room instead. Every muscle in his body tensed. “That may not be wise.”
She frowned. “Why not? Surely they must fire away from onlookers.”
“And one of them shot you,” he reminded her. “I cannot advise repeating that event.”
Her chin came up. “You cannot advise anything entertaining, it seems.”
All at once he heard Catriona’s voice again. I rode hard, drove fast, and danced late before I was married and had a child. You even joined me, sir. Why should any of that change now?
He’d argued and lost, and she’d lost her life in the process.
“If you are determined to go,” he told Abigail, “I’ll accompany you. I’m sure Miss Chance will want our guests to attend such a stirring spectacle.”
Abigail inclined her head. “Then we will see you there.”
Her friend was just as eager, Linus discovered when he reached the spa a short time later. All their guests were discussing the upcoming drill as if they were about to view the king’s victory parade. Even Mrs. Rand cancelled her appointment with him to join them.
“Such a thrilling event, all those gentlemen,” she enthused. Her companion, Miss Turnpeth, nodded agreement.
“Are you certain you wish to attend?” Linus felt compelled to ask. “I understand there will be some gunfire.”
Her gaze slid to the left, where some of the ge
ntlemen were reminiscing about their time in the military. “Then I will be sure to stand very close to Lord Featherstone.”
Linus hid a smile.
“Surely you don’t find this fascinating,” he said to Doctor Owens, who was walking beside him as they all set off up the hill. The day was warm and cloudless, and a breeze that smelled of brine set the grass to rippling.
“I have seen far better,” his older colleague agreed, tugging his top hat down on his head. “But I came to experience all Grace-by-the-Sea has to offer, and this appears to be quite the event.”
Linus still doubted.
At the top of the hill, approximately thirty men, less than a third of whom had any sort of uniform, were milling about in the center of the field. All along the edges, others sat on blankets or stood in groups. A few had carried up chairs and now reclined on them. He spotted Abigail, her mother, and Ethan with Mrs. Howland and an older woman dressed in deepest purple and excused himself from Doctor Owens to join them.
“Will they have cannons?” Ethan was asking Mrs. Archer.
“I’m afraid not,” Abigail answered for her. “As it is, this is the first time they’ve tried firing muskets on command as a group.”
“Guns, bah,” the older woman declared. “They’d do better to enlist the aid of the trolls. Now, there’s a troop that knows how to brawl.”
Linus shook his head, sure he must have misheard her. Or perhaps the village called the soldiers from a neighboring militia unit trolls.
“But they aren’t as good at sailing as the mermaids,” Mrs. Howland allowed with a nod to him.
Even as he returned her nod of greeting, the older woman drew herself up, only bringing the top of her head to his breastbone. “Mermaids don’t sail. What would they do with their tails?”
Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Not to mention the smell under such close quarters.”
Had he somehow wandered into another realm? He glanced at Ethan, who was watching the women avidly, then to Abigail, who grinned at him. She’d donned the gown with the slashed sleeves again and put a green patterned wool shawl about her shoulders. One side was slipping, and he had to fist his hands to keep from reaching out to drape it more securely about her slender frame.
