by Regina Scott
“Give him what for, Miss Abby!” someone called, and he realized they had an audience. Besides the fishermen, Mr. Ellison and his son had come out of the bakery, and the Misses Pierce and three of the lady spa guests were hurrying out of the linens and trimmings shop to watch the spectacle.
Abigail shot them a grin, and he lunged. She parried in time.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” She returned to the attack.
“How are you fighting left-handed?” he demanded, giving way before her.
“Jesslyn and I learned both ways,” she said, feinting to his right and lunging to his left. “Her father said you never know when you might lose an arm.”
So, she’d listened to the previous doctor, just not to him.
He redoubled his efforts, but she was quicker than a cat, and now they were all cheering for her. He even heard Ethan’s voice among the calls.
It was lowering.
It was exhilarating.
Back and forth they went, up and down the shingle. He’d learned the blade from soldiers serving with his father, done rather well in bouts at Edinburgh. No gambit he tried, no feint he attempted, got under her guard. He was most likely going to lose.
But her blows were becoming softer, less frequent, and he could see the perspiration dotting her forehead. She’d been mostly abed since her injury. If he kept the fight going, he could probably outlast her. But she had won the match and her point.
Along with his admiration.
He put up the sword and held up his other hand. “I concede. Seldom have I had a more skilled opponent. Forgive me for interrupting a master at her work.”
She lowered her weapon as well as she dipped him a curtsey. “I will accept a rematch at any time, Doctor Bennett.”
Applause echoed from the shoreline. She bobbed a curtsey at her devoted audience as well. Then she turned to Linus.
“I assume you had some purpose for coming down the hill besides being drubbed at swordplay.”
He chuckled. “I thought to check on Ethan after this morning. Clearly, he was fine. While I’m here, I will ask Miss Pierce the elder to make you a sling to support your arm during the wedding festivities.”
“A sling!” Abigail raised her sword as if ready to take him on anew. “And how will I look accompanying Jess down the aisle with an ugly great band over my gown?”
“Ask her to make it of material that matches your gown, then,” he countered. “So long as it is lined with lamb’s wool and keeps your arm relatively immobile, I don’t care what it looks like.”
“Oh. Well.” She relaxed. “I suppose that would work. Thank you. Will I see you tonight?”
He inclined his head. “And every day until I am certain you are fully healed.”
She nodded and called to her mother and Ethan. Then she sailed past him, her mother hurrying in her wake.
“That was well done, Father,” Ethan said as he accepted the sword back from Linus. “You almost beat her.” He followed the women up to Hill Street.
Leaving Linus to return to the spa, which he suspected could never hold such enjoyment as time spent with Abigail.
Chapter Eight
He wasn’t so bad after all. Abigail smiled as she walked her mother and Ethan back to the flat. He’d stood his ground on what he believed to be the best course of action, but he’d been willing to concede defeat. A lady could admire a gentleman like that.
“I would be very grateful to learn more about swordplay from you, Miss Archer,” Ethan said as they came back into the flat. He still held one of the two swords and showed no signs of wishing to give it up.
“And I shall be very glad to tutor you,” Abigail assured him. “Perhaps we might find some other lads your age interested in joining us.”
He glanced up at her. “There are boys my age in my class with Mr. Wingate. But they all have brothers or fathers to teach them.”
Once more loneliness seemed to wrap around him like a cloak.
“My father wasn’t much of a teacher,” she said, earning her a frown from her mother. “But you saw your father. He was rather good.”
A grin popped into view, warming her. “He was, wasn’t he?” As quickly as it had come, the smile faded. “But he’s too busy.”
“He has a very demanding occupation,” her mother said, reaching out a hand to pull the sword from Abigail’s grip. “And a great responsibility.”
Ethan sighed. “I know.”
“But the days are long right now,” Abigail reminded him. “Perhaps we can convince your father to spend a little more time having fun.”
“Maybe.” The word held very little hope. He surrendered his sword to her mother.
She should open the shop, but she could not like the set to his shoulders, as if the entire world had suddenly crashed down upon them. “Suppose you show me what you’ve been drawing,” she said.
Light flared in his eyes, and he hurried to bring her his sketchbook.
The drawings were rough, but certainly better than hers at that age. She recognized a number of the buildings in Grace-by-the-Sea—the bakery, Shell Cottage, St. Andrew’s, the spa. And a few fanciful pieces with sea serpents and dragons.
“Very nice,” she said. “I can see you have a keen eye for detail. That bodes well for an architect.”
“And an artist?” he asked hopefully.
Her heart melted. She put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Certainly an artist. When you’re ready, I’d be happy to let you try your hand at something bigger in my studio.”
His eyes widened, and his cheeks turned pink as he beamed at her.
Something uncurled inside her, reached for the light of his smile. She had never thought to be a wife, much less a mother. She had a hard enough time getting along with her own mother. But perhaps the key ingredients were commonsense, encouragement, and love.
Those, she could manage.
~~~
Linus had thought he’d undergone the worst the day could throw at him—the apology to his son, his defeat to Abigail—but Miss Chance had other ideas. He’d just escorted Mrs. Rand to the door when the spa hostess approached.
“Another appointment?” he asked with a smile.
Her smile was much sweeter than anything he’d ever managed. “No, sir. An invitation. I hope I may count on you and your son joining us for our wedding and the festivities afterward.”
He’d already determined that none of the guests were able to refuse her, but he’d thought himself immune. Now the need to agree tugged at him. She had been an enormous help to him at the spa, but a wedding? He wasn’t sure he was ready to attend one. It would only remind him of what he’d lost when all he wanted was to be happy for what she’d found.
“Someone should watch the spa,” he demurred.
She raised her finely shaped brows. “I expect most of the guests will come to the wedding, as will the members of the Spa Corporation board. I’m sure no one would mind if we closed. And you will have to do without me for a few days afterward while Lark and I take our honeymoon trip.”
He had yet to meet her betrothed, but he knew the fellow fortunate indeed. “The Lakes District, perhaps?” he suggested.
“No,” she said without a hint of disappointment to miss the scenic wonders there. “Lyme Regis. I want to compare their shops and assemblies to ours.”
He laughed. “No one could ever claim you aren’t devoted, Miss Chance.”
“To my village and to my groom, sir,” she promised. “Please say you’ll come.
He could not make himself refuse.
Nor could he keep Abigail abed. He continued to check on her every morning and every evening, and she continued to press against any bounds he might suggest. Before the wedding even arrived, she had convinced him she could reopen her shop on a permanent basis and undergo fittings for her gown. But, though he appreciated the truce they’d found, he held his ground on painting.
“I need to finish a canvas as a wedding present for Jess and Lark
,” she protested two days before the wedding as they stood in her sitting room, her mother helping settle Ethan at the dining room table. “It will only take a few hours.”
“Before your injury, I saw you with paint spattered on your cheek and in your hair,” he argued. “Do you know the sorts of chemicals involved? I will not chance them reaching your wound.”
“Very well,” she agreed, dropping her gaze.
That had been too easy. He knew how readily she disobeyed orders the moment he left her. There had to be some way he could protect her.
“Perhaps it would help if I saw where you create your works,” he said.
She blinked. “I don’t usually allow anyone to see the paintings before they’re done, but very well. This way.”
She led him through a door and down a short corridor to a room off the shop. Wide, multipaned windows looked south and let in light muted only by the shade of the building next door. Every wall was eclipsed by massive canvases, leaning here, on easels there. Some were blank, the creamy white waiting for inspiration. Others had charcoal sketches outlining ocean, cliff, trees, and clouds. A few bore the mark of her brush, showing the power of waves, the peace of moonlight.
He’d seen her work for sale in the shop and knew the hold the landscape paintings could take on him and anyone else who viewed them. The one closest to the door drew him even now. The focus was on a choppy sea, with the moon huge on the horizon, the light gilding a path toward the viewer.
“That’s the one I intend to give Jess and Lark,” she said. “I call it A View Forward. It seemed fitting for their marriage.”
“They will be delighted with it,” he assured her. He turned to meet her gaze. “And they will understand when you deliver it late.”
She sucked in a breath, and he held up one finger. “I have seen the pieces in your shop and those in this room. If I find any changed, I will ask the magistrate to confiscate your paints.”
“The magistrate,” she snapped, “is out of town.”
“Miss Chance’s betrothed, the Riding Surveyor, then. He sounds like the sensible sort. And he would not want to see his bride’s dearest friend harmed.”
“You are the most opinionated, hard-hearted fellow I know,” she fumed.
“Guilty, madam,” he said with a bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get to the spa.” He straightened and left.
She was considerably less friendly when he had her mother show him the shop and studio the next day, but at least she’d heeded him at last, for he saw no progress on her work.
And then it was the big day. So many people would be attending, in fact, that the usual Wednesday night assembly had been cancelled in favor of the party to follow. Ethan dressed in his Sunday clothes—navy breeches, navy coat, tan waistcoat, and a short-collared shirt—and ran a wet comb through his hair.
“Very distinguished,” Linus assured his son when he turned for his inspection.
“You too, Father,” he said with equal solemnity. Linus could only hope his black coat and breeches would look elegant and not funereal.
As they started up High Street for Church Street, others joined them: Mr. Carroll in a blue velvet coat that made his eyes brighter behind his spectacles; Mrs. Rinehart, the milliner, with a hat covered in peacock feathers; the Misses Pierce in frilly muslin gowns they’d no doubt sewn for the occasion. He and Ethan took a pew near the back of the church. There wasn’t room anywhere else.
Ahead of them, he recognized the members of the Spa Corporation board; shopkeepers like Mr. Treacle, the tailor; and innkeepers like Mr. and Mrs. Truant of the Swan. They and all the spa guests crowded into the little walnut box pews, light coming through the stained-glass windows making jeweled patterns on their fine coats and gowns. The tall fellow at the altar near the vicar must be Larkin Denby. His attendant looked enough like Miss Chance to be her brother.
Everyone stilled as she entered from the nave to stop at the foot of the aisle, and Mr. Denby’s face lit. Linus shook his head. Had he looked so besotted when Catriona had come to take his arm? How blind he’d been to the future, so certain that his love would help her change, grow, even as her love made him a better man.
Or a bitter one.
“She’s very pretty,” Ethan whispered.
He followed his son’s gaze only to find himself staring. Abigail stood next to Miss Chance, wearing a high-waisted, long-sleeved gown of soft rose, a ginger sash tied under her bosom. Her hair was piled up and fixed in place with pearl-headed pins. Draped across one arm and tied at her waist was a shawl with a paisley pattern, rose and teal and purple mixing. Miss Chance might be all the sweetness and light of springtime, but Abigail was the blaze of a summer sun, offering warmth, energy.
Hope.
He’d worried this wedding might endanger her recovery, but he’d overlooked a far greater danger.
To his heart.
Chapter Nine
Jess and Lark’s wedding was everything Abigail could have hoped. The love on Lark’s face as he took his sweetheart’s hand to say their vows brought tears to her eyes. What woman wouldn’t want such a look aimed her way?
As she turned to follow them back down the aisle at the end of the service, more than a hundred gazes watched. One caught hers.
Linus Bennett, eyes soft and face wistful, as if he too hoped for such a love.
Blushing, Abigail hurried from the church.
More people waited outside. Voices rang with wishes for good health, good fortune, large families. The progress of the wedding party through the churchyard was interrupted a dozen times as women pressed flowers into Jesslyn’s arms and men shook Lark’s hand while offering words of wisdom. Abigail joined the others waving as the flower-decked carriage, on loan from Mrs. Harding, whisked the happy couple, Mrs. Tully, and Lark’s mother to the assembly rooms for the feast and festivities to follow. Then Abigail moved into the grand procession walking down Church Street and up to the assembly rooms.
“When you get married,” her mother said, strolling beside her in her best church dress of cerulean blue silk, “I hope for such a turnout.”
“I doubt anyone in Grace-by-the-Sea could match this,” Abigail told her, adjusting her sling to keep her arm from bumping the people around them. “Even James and Eva Howland’s wedding wasn’t quite so well attended.”
Her mother lifted her chin, setting the silk orchid on her bonnet to bobbing. “They came for the magistrate, and they came for their spa hostess. They’ll come for their physician too.”
“Then perhaps you should be planning Doctor Bennett’s wedding instead of mine,” Abigail joked.
Her mother blinked. “But dear, they are one and the same.”
“Now, Mother,” she started.
“May we join you?” Linus asked as he and Ethan came alongside them in the procession. Ethan looked up her hopefully. She offered him a smile. How mature he looked in his Sunday best. How sad his mother was not here to see it.
“Of course,” her mother said before she could answer. “Don’t you look handsome, Ethan, and you as well, Doctor Bennett. I’m sure Abigail agrees.”
Abigail brightened her smile. “Everyone looks very festive.”
Linus nodded toward her arm. “I see you managed to contrive a sling.”
Abigail touched the shawl draped strategically to protect her injured arm. “Miss Pierce the younger found the perfect complement, and we are negotiating to sell similar items in the shop.”
“And should I then expect to see more arm injuries in the area?” he asked.
He was teasing her. A light shimmered in the grey of his eyes, like sunlight skipping across the waves. Warmth spread through her.
“No arm injuries,” she assured him, “but I hope the fashion will catch hold.”
Her mother offered her hand to Ethan. “Walk with me, sir, and I will tell you all about your village.”
Ethan took her hand, and she went ahead of them, leaving Abigail to walk with Linus.
“
Perhaps I should listen,” he said. “I still feel like a stranger here.”
“Then you have not seen the admiring looks cast your way,” Abigail told him. “You are much respected, sir. Grace-by-the-Sea has needed a physician for some time.”
He grimaced. “Yet there I am, stuck in the spa. Your case is the only one I’ve been asked to consult on in the village.”
Abigail glanced at him. “You want to treat everyone?”
“Certainly. When I became a physician, I vowed to treat all. I assumed there would be more need at the spa, but, most days, my appointments fill up less than half of my time.”
Abigail snapped a nod. “Then we must see you put to better use. Give me a day or two, and I’ll work it out.”
His brows went up. “Very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want you to exert yourself on my behalf.”
“Why not? Jesslyn isn’t the only one good at organizing things. By the way, Eva and I talked. We will come help at the spa while Jess is away.”
“Do you expect me to break the place?” he asked.
Abigail laughed. “Well, it’s been known to happen when one puts a gentleman in charge.”
“And your shop?” he asked.
That had been more difficult to arrange. Who could she trust?
“I decided to enlist the aid of Mrs. Truant at the Swan,” she told him. “She knows something about handling money and keeping things organized from her work at the inn, and she doesn’t supply me with any goods, so she should be an impartial clerk when it comes to selling items to customers.”
They reached the assembly rooms then. He stood in the doorway and blocked anyone else from entering so she had pride of place going through the door. Protecting her arm, of course.
“I must sit with Jess and the wedding party,” she explained as they followed her mother and Ethan into the long, high-ceilinged room, which had been decorated with flowers and crape streamers.
“Then perhaps I’ll see you later,” he said, giving her a bow.
Why was it so hard to walk away? Abigail had to make herself go take her seat. As Jess’s attendant, she warranted a place high on the table. So did Lark’s family, including his mother, sisters Rosemary and Hester, and Hester’s six-year-old daughter, Rebecca. The adults all nodded their greetings as she approached. Rebecca was too busy squirming in her pink satin dress.
