by Regina Scott
Mrs. Howland took pity on him. “We’re delighted you could join us, Doctor. We just made the acquaintance of your charming son. I understand he hopes to be an architect.”
He did? He looked again to Ethan, who squirmed and dropped his gaze as if he were guilty of some misdeed.
The older woman was eyeing Linus up and down. “I see nothing wrong. Have you warts on your toes? Pocks on your chest?”
Linus kept a neutral face with difficulty. “No, thank you for asking.”
She shook her head. “Then I cannot see why Abby would take you in such dislike.”
Abigail pressed her lips together a moment as if trying to hold back laughter. “Perhaps if you were to spend a little time in his company, Mrs. Tully,” she managed, voice choked.
Minx. But he could only conclude that this little lady was Jesslyn Chance’s aunt. They looked nothing alike. This lady had grey curls clustered tightly about her round face and a sharp, assessing light in her eyes. Nor did they act alike. At least, he hadn’t noticed Miss Chance discussing the probable habits of trolls and mermaids.
“Troop, assemble!”
Greer’s command echoed across the field, and all the spectators turned to watch the men of the Grace-by-the-Sea militia sort themselves out in a long, uneven line. Ethan moved closer to Linus, body stiff.
Greer, in a red coat with white facings edged in silver braid any captain might envy, strode down the line, nudging this one forward, that one back. Then he positioned himself in front of them.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, voice carrying. “Your village appreciates all you do to keep us safe.”
“Better than being conscripted or picked off by the press gang,” someone called, and others nodded.
“Be that as it may,” Greer continued with a stern look up and down the line, “there have been rumors of strangers in the area—clothing and blankets being taken off the line, produce being plucked from gardens.” He thrust a finger into the air. “We must be vigilant, valiant, in doing our duty.”
“Are we going to shoot?” another of the men called, as if he had better ways to spend his time.
Greer dropped his hand. “As we discussed yesterday, we will be adding the rudiments of firearms to our drills while our magistrate is in London.”
“Takes that far to be safe from them, does it?” Abigail murmured to Mrs. Howland, who giggled.
Ethan shifted on his feet.
“Who’s teaching us, then?” someone asked.
Greer stood taller. “I will be your instructor for now.”
“Why?” someone else asked. “You’ve already proven you can go off half-cocked.”
Greer flamed as snickers sounded.
“Well, if he can hit Miss Archer in twilight, maybe he could hit a French soldier in broad daylight,” another teased.
So, Greer had been the one to shoot Abigail. Small wonder he’d quailed yesterday at the spa when reminded of her injury. Linus glanced at her and saw merriment in those green eyes. They shared a smile that made the day feel oddly warmer.
“Attention!” Greer barked, and even Linus’s gaze snapped forward. The laughter snuffed out as would-be soldiers straightened their shoulders.
“Right face,” Greer commanded.
Beside him, Abigail sucked in a breath, and Mrs. Tully clasped her hands as if praying.
To a man, they pivoted on their heels.
“Forward, march!” Greer ordered.
The youngest of them, drum slung about his narrow chest, set the beat, and they tramped across the field.
“Left face!” Greer called.
Again, they turned.
“Ooo,” Mrs. Howland enthused. “Right and left. James will be pleased.”
Some of the others went so far as to applaud. Ethan mimicked them. Again, Linus felt as if he had missed something.
Greer had them march a while longer, then lined them up again. But his audience was growing restless. Ethan had crouched on the grass and appeared to be studying it as if he suspected it of hiding pirate treasure. Abigail, her mother, and Mrs. Howland were chatting, while Mrs. Tully continued to regard Linus as if trying to find hidden flaws. He could have told her he had any number. He looked toward the spa group, where Mrs. Harding was fluttering her lashes at Doctor Owens while Mr. Crabapple’s face bunched as if he were about to burst into tears. Mrs. Rand was leaning so heavily on Lord Featherstone’s arm that the baron stood lopsidedly, and the Admiral had closed his eyes and begun snoring, while Mr. George attempted to keep him upright. Only Mr. Donner showed any interest in the activities.
“The Hound of the Headland came this way once,” Mrs. Tully said to no one in particular.
Linus focused his attention on the troop.
“The commands for firing are simple,” Greer was saying. “You already know shoulder arms. The next is present arms.”
Two of the company moved forward and offered him their guns.
“No, no,” Greer told them, waving them back into line. “Present arms means to hold the weapons out in front of you vertically.”
“Like we was going to shoot you?” someone asked, and Linus couldn’t tell if the fellow was eager to try or concerned about the prospect.
“Like this,” Greer said, drawing his side pistol and holding it out.
Eight muskets, two dueling pistols, and an assortment of knives, swords, and a pitchfork stuck out at him in return.
Greer lowered his pistol. “Where are your guns?”
“Most of us don’t own one,” Mr. Lawrence, the Spa Corporation treasurer, told him. “And it isn’t as if Grace-by-the-Sea has an armory.”
“Well,” Abigail said, “that is going to be a problem. What will they do if the French arrive?”
“Spit in their eye,” Mrs. Tully said darkly.
Ethan stood. “I think they’re very brave. Perhaps I’ll be a soldier when I am old enough.”
“Absolutely not.”
The words left Linus’ mouth before he could stop them, and he found himself the focus of all gazes. At least Abigail appeared to understand why he feared for his son, as her eyes dipped down with her mouth. Mrs. Howland and Mrs. Tully looked disappointed in him. Mrs. Archer seemed to be more shocked at his unpatriotic declaration.
And Ethan curled in on himself as if Linus had struck him.
Chapter Seven
Abigail knew the hurt spreading across Ethan’s face, the tightness pressing his shoulders in. Likely it hurt to draw breath. How many times had she slunk away from her father’s temper?
But Linus Bennett wasn’t a man like her father. Her father had never listened to anyone’s concerns the way Linus did. When she or Gideon had been hurt or sick, he’d left all care to his wife. Still, the important thing right now was Ethan.
She slipped her good arm about the boy’s shoulders. “Soldiers are fine fellows. My brother is one. But architects are fine fellows too. There are even soldier architects. Plenty of time to decide which way you want to go. And whatever you decide, I’m sure your father will be proud of you.”
She glanced up and met Linus’ gaze, determined to make him agree with her. But his face mirrored a similar pain.
“I am always proud of my son,” he said.
Ethan’s head came up, eyes wide in hope.
A dozen questions crowded her mind, but now was no time to ask, not with her mother watching her that way and Mrs. Tully narrowing her eyes. Keeping Ethan close, she turned to watch the militia.
Unfortunately, Mr. Greer must have realized the drill was going against him, for he dismissed the troop a short time later. Their audience began packing up to leave as well.
“Never could abide beatings,” Mrs. Tully said with a scowl to Linus. “By rod or by word. Men have been haunted for less.”
Mrs. Howland linked her arm with the lady’s. “I feel the need to refresh myself with our marvelous mineral waters. Let’s visit the spa. We might even ask Doctor Owens to join us.” She nodded to where his col
league stood watching the Grace-by-the-Sea militia shamble past.
“He may be a troll,” Mrs. Tully confided in Linus before suffering herself to be led away.
As her mother beckoned Ethan to her side, Linus stepped closer to Abigail. “Has Mrs. Tully always been this way?” he asked, clearly bewildered.
“From before I was born,” Abigail told him. “She married a sailor, who was lost at sea, and she retreated to a fantastical world for comfort.”
She waited for him to begin diagnosing illness and prescribing cure, but he merely nodded. “If that brings her solace and no one else harm, then I can only applaud her. Others have found far more deleterious methods of dealing with such pain.” His gaze moved to his son.
“May we go now?” Ethan asked her mother.
She took his hand and gave him a smile. “Of course. But I think we should stop by Mr. Ellison’s before we go home.”
Ethan’s eyes brightened, then he glanced at his father and some of the joy leaked away. “I’m not supposed to have treats.”
Her mother deflated, but Linus flinched.
“Mrs. Archer’s offer is very generous,” he told his son. “Make sure you thank her when you accept it.”
“Yes, sir! Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He hurried along beside her mother toward the village.
“Please thank your mother for me as well,” Linus said, watching them. “It’s been a while since anyone took such an interest in him.”
He’d opened a door, and she didn’t hesitate to walk through. “Has his mother been gone long, then?”
He started moving, and she fell into step beside him. Jess and the spa guests were just ahead, but Abigail felt as if it were only her and Linus on the wind-swept Downs.
“She died eight months ago,” he said, gaze on the dusty track before them. “It was a carriage accident. Ethan was ill at the same time. He was insensible for three weeks. I couldn’t even tell him. We weren’t sure he would survive.”
“How horrible.” She had to touch him. Her fingers wrapped around his arm and held tight. “I’m so glad he’s all right now.”
“For which I will be forever grateful.”
He didn’t pull away, but his gaze had gone to the distance, as if he saw Ethan even now, on a bed from which he might never rise.
“Small wonder you do not want him to become a soldier,” she said, “traveling far from you.”
His gaze speared back to her. “It isn’t the distance that concerns me. My father was an Army surgeon. He took me and my mother with him as he served in India and the American colonies. When he deemed me old enough, he had me assist in his work. I know the dangers soldiers face—disease and injury and battery. I still see their faces in my dreams. You will forgive me if I hope my son doesn’t have to endure any of that.”
Was pain contagious? She felt as if his pierced her heart. “Certainly, sir,” she agreed. “I pray my brother, who is serving in India now, doesn’t have to endure any of that either. But I am thankful for his courage and valor as well as the courage and valor of those who serve with him. I can only hope the Grace-by-the-Sea militia can attain such heights.”
He cocked his head as if studying the men, who were heading down into the village. “They have much to learn.”
“As do we all,” Abigail assured him.
They were nearly at the spa. Jess and most of the others had already entered, as had Eva, Mrs. Tully, and Doctor Owens. Mrs. Rand was clinging to Lord Featherstone’s arm as if she would never let go. Abigail knew the feeling.
She tugged Linus to a halt. “Before you go in, I must repeat my request to attend Jesslyn’s wedding. You can see I’m fine.”
He gazed down at her, and Abigail gave him her best smile, hoping she looked the picture of health. “I’ll think on the matter and let you know this evening.”
He could not know how hard it was to maintain her smile as he took his leave of her.
She caught up with her mother and Ethan as they were coming out of Mr. Ellison’s bakery with a plump cinnamon bun to share and accompanied them back to the house. Ethan chatted with her mother, face open and eager, and she could only be glad he’d recovered from his father’s outburst.
Still, he had no sooner finished his treat before he was back at his drawings.
“He needs more to occupy his time,” Abigail told her mother, who was gathering her embroidery things. “At his age, he should be out playing pirates or chasing butterflies on the Downs.”
“He is nine, dear,” her mother said with a fond look his way. “Many boys his age are off at school. And you heard his father: he has no desire to have Ethan anywhere near any sort of weapon, very likely even the wooden swords Gideon used.”
“It wasn’t just Gideon,” Abigail reminded her. “Jess and I used them whenever we could steal them away from him.”
Her mother sniffed. “I remember. I still have them.”
Abigail grinned. “Go find them. Ethan and I can have a go.”
It took more than she’d expected to convince her mother to allow her the use of the old toy swords and then even more time to convince Ethan it was perfectly fine to try them. They had no yard at the shop, but the tide was out, so she took him down to the shore. A few of the fishermen were darning their nets. They smiled as Abigail passed, sword up and at the ready.
“Been a few years now, Miss Abby,” one called.
“Far too long,” Abigail assured him.
Her mother followed, a blanket and bandages up in her arms, as if she fully expected casualties.
“We’re not going to strike each other,” Abigail told her and Ethan as they made their way out onto the pebbled shore. “We’re merely going to practice the forms. Now, then, young sir, stand like so.” Mindful of her injured arm, she clasped the hilt with her left hand and turned her body sideways.
Across from her, Ethan took up a similar stance, sword in his right hand.
“You see how you present a smaller target this way?” Abigail asked. “Now, bring up the blade like so.”
“It’s actually wood,” he reminded her, but he brought up the sword at the angle she’d used.
“True,” Abigail allowed. “And very good stance, by the way. Now, attempt to strike me, between the shoulders and the hips, if you please.”
Ethan’s blade dipped with his frown. “But you said we wouldn’t strike each other.”
“And so we won’t. I merely ask you to attempt it. I’ll parry. Watch.”
Face still tight with obvious doubt, Ethan gave a half-hearted swing, and she knocked the blow aside.
“See? Now, my turn.”
She jabbed toward him, and he scrambled back.
“Escape is always wise,” she said, pursuing him, “but you may have to fight at some point. Try striking me again.”
He lunged, as fast as a wasp, and she barely managed to parry in time. “Oh, well done!”
Even as Ethan grinned, a voice from the shore shouted, “What do you think you’re doing!”
~~~
Linus stormed down the beach, unable to believe what he’d just seen. Was she intent on maiming herself or his son?
Ethan lowered his sword and backed away, even as Mrs. Archer hurried up to put her arms protectively around him. Abigail brandished the weapon at Linus.
“It’s only a game,” she informed him, tone turning icy again. “No harm done.”
“No harm done?” He skidded to a stop on the pebbles to stare at her. “Have you lost your senses entirely? What about your arm?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Why do you think I’m fighting with my left hand?”
“I did suggest this might not be wise,” her mother put in.
“So you don’t listen to her either,” Linus said.
Abigail glared at him, chest heaving. “I listen. I simply choose to take a different path.”
He could almost hear Catriona’s voice instead of hers. Why couldn’t he get through to her? She’d come far from her injury
, but she must understand she wasn’t out of danger yet.
But if she wouldn’t listen to words, perhaps she would heed action.
Linus held out his hand. “Ethan, give me that sword.”
His son edged warily forward and handed him the weapon. Wood. Painted silver and nicked any number of times over the years. As he’d been coming down the hill, he’d been certain they were metal, and his fears had propelled him to their sides. Still, wood could bruise, and the right strike could break open her wound.
“I wouldn’t have hurt her, Father,” Ethan said, brows tight together.
Linus nodded. “I believe you, Ethan. But accidents happen.”
His son washed white, and Linus only wanted to call back the words. Ethan knew more than most what harm an accident could do. Before Linus could respond, his son scurried to the safety of Mrs. Archer’s arms. Her generous mouth was a tight line as she too glared at him.
Well, he was used to playing the villain. It was a small price to pay to keep his patients safe and healthy.
He turned to Abigail. “Here’s my proposal: you defeat me in a sword fight, and I will allow you to attend Miss Chance’s wedding. I defeat you, and you stay at home and put away these things for the foreseeable future.”
“You are not my father, sir,” she retorted. “You have no authority over me.”
He inclined his head. “Only that of a physician caring for his patient.” He brought up the sword. “Of course, if you think me too likely to win…”
“Never.” She brought up her own sword and saluted him with it. “Lay on, sir.”
He had barely assumed the stance before she drove at him.
He shoved the sword away, circled out of reach, but still she came, like a storm sweeping across the Channel. How she managed not to tangle her feet in her skirts was beyond him. Right, left, lunge, swing. If these had been real, he might have feared for his life with such ferocity.
