by Regina Scott
She watched him at the spa on Saturday and at services and the spa on Sunday. Militiamen came and went, and the French agents made no more attempt on his person. She and Eva had worked out the details of running the spa, and all went well. Everyone seemed happy, healthy. Four more gentlemen Newcomers arrived, and she or Eva interviewed them closely.
“Distressingly normal,” Eva said with a sigh.
Abigail couldn’t argue. Then again, she couldn’t complain either. She wasn’t afraid to jump into the heat of battle, but peace was nothing to cry over.
She still wondered about Mr. Donner, but he too behaved with distressing normality. While Mr. George slept late Sunday, Mr. Donner attended services and appeared to be a model congregant. The only oddity about him was the length of his stay. Some spent the entire summer or even the year at Grace-by-the-Sea, but most visited between a fortnight and a month. Mr. Donner and his friend were approaching a month now and showed no sign of leaving.
She went so far as to ask Mrs. Kirby about their leases.
“Neither has a lease,” the lady reported as they walked out of the services that Sunday to a trickle of rain. “I believe they are staying at the Swan. Mrs. Truant mentioned she was glad for such accommodating gentlemen. It’s not often she and her husband have such long-term guests. Not many can afford it, and those that can usually lease instead. Of course, Doctor Owens and Mrs. Rand have also extended their stays, I understand.”
Which raised the question of Mr. Donner’s income. He dressed well, but not extravagantly, and wore neither gold fob nor diamond stickpin. Could he have stolen those clothes? From whom? Surely any gentleman in the area missing clothing would have reported it to the magistrate’s house, even if James Howland was out of town at the moment.
“Any news on whether Doctor Bennett will be taking that house?” Mrs. Kirby asked hopefully, glancing to where Linus and Ethan were visiting with the vicar. “I had another inquiry.”
“Perhaps you could hold off on giving an answer,” Abigail said. “I want to bring up compensation at our next board meeting. That may sway the decision one way or the other.”
“Well, I’d certainly prefer to see it go to the doctor,” Mrs. Kirby assured her. “If the income from the spa warrants it, I’m all for increasing his salary so he can take the house.”
With everything so prosaic at the spa, they certainly had the income, at least at the moment. Somehow, she knew Mr. Greer would argue nonetheless.
On Monday morning, Linus removed her stitches.
“The scar will remain, I’m afraid,” he told her as he examined the wound. At least she didn’t have to wear her nightgown in front of him anymore. Eva’s slashed-sleeve gown could also soon be returned to its owner, after a thorough brushing, of course.
“Only to be expected,” Abigail allowed. She caught herself admiring the wave of his hair over his forehead and made herself look at the white pucker of flesh instead.
He leaned back. “I’d give it a few more days before you start painting again. I’ll continue to check it when I stop by for Ethan.”
Once she would have railed at the delay. Now she could only smile and thank him, grateful that their quiet conversations would continue a while longer. She was even a little disappointed when Jess and Lark returned from their honeymoon later that morning, and her friend took up her place at the spa.
“The two of you were wonderful to step in while I was gone,” she told Abigail and Eva as they stood around the welcome book. “Everything looks just as it ought, and everyone seems content. I cannot thank you enough.”
“It was our pleasure,” Eva assured her. “I’ll just take my leave of Doctor Bennett. I want to prepare Butterfly Manor for James. He should return from London by this evening.”
Abigail shifted on her feet as Eva hurried away. She should leave too. Mrs. Truant would want to return to her duties at the Swan instead of staffing All the Colors of the Sea, Abigail’s shop. Yet she felt as if she’d been wrapped in another bandage, one that tied her to the spa.
She glanced across the room to where Eva was speaking to Linus. As always, he leaned slightly toward her, eyes on her face, and nodded as if in understanding and appreciation of what she was saying. She had never met a man so attentive to his patients, his colleagues. Her.
“I wonder, Abby,” Jess said. “I know you must have a great deal to do at the shop, but perhaps you might spare a few hours every day to help me.”
Her gaze snapped back to her friend. “Anything. What do you need?”
“There are a hundred details that must be settled regarding the Regatta. I’m not sure I can manage them and the spa too.”
Her smile was as sweet and engaging as ever, but Abigail had known her friend too many years to miss the light in those big blue eyes.
“You know I’m always delighted to help,” Abigail told her, “but you have managed the spa and events like the Regatta for years. Why is this time any different?”
“Because,” she said, “this time, I have a very important project to manage in addition to those.”
Project? Her friend was entirely able to take on the French army, let alone the three agents hiding among them, but she surely wouldn’t have heard about Linus’s kidnapping so soon.
“Oh?” Abigail asked with a frown. “What would that be?”
Jess’s smile widened. “I must make sure my dearest friend and our good physician live happily ever after. And you’re going to help me with that as well.”
Chapter Fourteen
Guilt pulled on Linus as he walked Ethan to the Archers the next day. He had always prided himself on clear, directive conversations with his patients. Bad news must be given with compassion, an opportunity for healing or comfort. Good news must be tempered with admonitions on how to maintain health. Never had he knowingly lied to a patient.
Until now.
He’d told himself it was from an abundance of caution. He was only considering Abigail’s profession, her willingness to take risks. The truth was that she was healed, and he had only delayed telling her because he didn’t want to stop seeing her.
No more. It wasn’t fair to her, and he was only darkening his character by such behavior. He must think of her first.
Even if he thought of her all the time.
So, he made a show of examining the wound one last time as she perched on the sofa and Ethan and her mother conversed in the dining room. Tiny dots showed where the stitches had been. A white line, like an arrow pointing toward her elbow, marked where the bullet had traveled. Her skin was pink and warm. Healthy. Soft.
He drew in a breath and released her. “Lift your arm for me.”
She did so, palm down.
“Any pain?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted, holding it steady in mid-air. “But it feels heavier than normal.”
“A little weakness is only to be expected,” Linus allowed. “Go easy on it, and the strength will return with time.”
She lowered her arm. “Then it’s done? I can resume my work, my painting?”
Linus leaned back. “I see no reason why not.”
She launched herself at him.
Linus caught her, held her close, breathed in the scent of ripe peaches. The silk of her hair brushed his cheek. Her arms hugged him tight. He didn’t want to move.
“Oh, thank you, Linus,” she said. “I’m so relieved. It’s felt like forever.”
And only a day. He made himself smile as she disengaged. “I’m glad the outcome was what we hoped for.”
Yet, now he found himself hoping for more.
~~~
Abigail couldn’t wait to return to her painting. Besides, Jess was playing matchmaker, and her friend was rather famous for her skills in that area. What was it, more than a dozen marriages in the last four years alone? Well, she was fair and far off this time. She was fully capable of managing the spa this morning, and the Regatta too. After giving her mother the good news, Abigail hurried down the corridor f
or her studio.
The light, the quiet, wrapped around her as she stepped through the door. She could almost feel her darlings crying for her attention. Was that dust gathering on her canvasses? It was not to be borne! She set to cleaning with a will. If her arm protested a little, it was only to be expected.
Her mother found her there later that morning.
“Ethan and I are going to the shore to watch the fishermen come in with their catches,” she announced. “Would you like to join us?”
“Perhaps another time,” Abigail said, studying the painting she’d wanted to give Jess and Lark. “But thank you for asking.”
Her mother left.
Before she’d been shot, she had laid on the expanse of blue for the ocean, but she needed teal and navy and white to bring out the depths and heights of the waves. She set about mixing her paints—Mr. Carroll obligingly ordered them from London for her—to make up the right colors, covering her oblong wooden pallet with blobs of rich shades. She’d lived along the shore her entire life, seen the cove and the Channel beyond on every sort of day, from wind-driven to calm, from balmy to bleak. She knew how many colors there were in the sea.
When her pallet was ready, she approached the canvas, brush in hand. A dab here, a stroke there, and the Channel waters began to come to life in all their glory. But the sky was missing, and she had just the shade. She reached up, started to sweep her brush across.
Her arm balked. Worse, it positively trembled. Fear poked at her. Enough of that. She raised her chin and pushed harder.
Pain shot through her, and the brush clattered to the floor, splattering paint against her leather shoes.
Abigail clamped her arm to her side, bit her lip to keep from crying out. Linus had warned her, again and again. Had she damaged her arm beyond repair?
Fingers shaking, she set down the pallet and removed her smock to drape it over the only chair in the room, then let herself out. Voices murmured from the flat, but she could not face her mother now, confess her fears. Mother would only worry. She was worried enough as it was. She slipped down the corridor and into her bedchamber to fetch the sling she’d worn to Jess’s wedding. The shawl warmed her skin, but not her thoughts.
“Ethan is telling me about the creatures in the ocean,” her mother hailed as she came back through from her bedchamber. “Fascinating. Come listen.”
“I should open the shop,” Abigail said. “Perhaps later.”
Better to think of someone other than herself. Mrs. Truant had done a fine job of managing things, but dust had accumulated in the shop too, so she wielded a cloth with her good arm between helping customers who wandered in.
A few were local. Mrs. Catchpole stopped by for a payment. She was brimming with news of the area.
“They say Doctor Bennett will be taking a house to treat us all,” she told Abigail, eyes wide as if watching for a reaction.
“That’s the hope,” Abigail said, counting out the coin the lady was due.
“And did you hear?” The employment agency owner leaned closer, curls bobbing. “There was a press gang at Ringstead a few days ago. Caused quite a panic. If they came through Scratchy Bottom, they could be here soon.”
“Alert Mr. Greer,” Abigail told her. “We’ll keep our men close if we must and call out the militia if we can’t.”
Most of her customers, though, were from the spa. Having met her there, they seemed more disposed to buy from her now. And share a little gossip. Mr. George, it seemed, had quarreled over some matter with Mr. Donner and the two were sitting at opposite sides of the spa.
“Though I expect they will make up shortly, like gentlemen should,” Miss Turnpeth, Mrs. Rand’s companion, told Abigail as she paid for the tatted collar she’d admired.
“Doctor Bennett tells me your injury is healed,” Doctor Owens said as he brought her a leather wallet he had decided to purchase. “I wanted to add my best wishes for the future.”
That’s right—he cared for patients at a spa too. Perhaps she could speak to him instead of Linus, keep her fears to herself for the time being.
“I understand I will be stiff for a while,” she said, wrapping the wallet in tissue. “I suppose some pain is to be expected.”
She thought he might disabuse her of the notion, but he merely smiled as he handed her the coins to pay for the piece. “Pain is part of life, I find.”
She might have thought that when she was younger. She, her mother, and her brother had borne the pain of her father’s misdeeds. She’d hoped for better news when it came to her arm. “But it should return to full function?” she pressed.
“Very likely,” he said with a benign smile. “And I believe I heard you are helping Miss Chance with the Regatta now. An interesting event for a spa.”
“But a practical one for Grace-by-the-Sea,” Abigail said, returning the parcel to him and trying to fight off resignation. “We’ve had fishermen and boats in the cove since before the Romans arrived. Showing them off comes naturally.”
“And visitors arrive from up and down the coast as well, I believe,” he said. “How do you keep track of them all?”
Abigail leaned against the counter, suddenly as heavy as her arm. “The captains send registrations to Mr. Hornswag at the Mermaid, naming the time they will arrive. Jess records the information and compares it to previous years. She has a ledger going back decades, to when her mother and grandmother were in charge of the event.”
“Another of her books,” he said fondly. “I’d love to see it. It might give me an idea of how to stage such an event in Scarborough.”
Abigail made herself straighten as other customers came through the door, laughing and talking. “But I thought Scarborough had its own Regatta. One of the captains mentioned doing well there last year.”
“Yes, but we can always improve,” he insisted. Tucking the parcel under his arm, he bid her good day and made way for the others.
Abigail worked until she saw Mr. Carroll closing up across the street. Everything had gone so well she might almost think her arm was back to normal. Her studio whispered from behind the curtain separating it from the shop, but she passed it for the flat. Perhaps tomorrow, after she talked with Linus. Whether she liked it or not, he was the only one she truly trusted to address her concerns.
She was watching Ethan sketch when Linus returned that evening. Her mouth feeling dry, she rose to meet him.
“I had a few questions about my injury,” she told him. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” He raised his voice. “I’ll be a few minutes, Ethan.” He looked to Abigail. “How might I be of assistance?”
Abigail caught herself rubbing her arm and dropped her hand. “I tried painting earlier. It didn’t go well.”
“I explained some stiffness is to be expected,” he reminded her.
“Stiffness, certainly. But pain?”
He frowned. “What were you trying to do?”
“Just paint,” she assured him.
“I understand, but what exactly? Perhaps you could show me.”
Abigail stiffened. He’d asked her once before to show him her studio. It had been difficult then; it seemed impossible now. She didn’t share her workspace with anyone. Painting was personal; she put a piece of herself into every picture. It was hard enough to watch her work walk out the door, but at least she knew it was going with someone who admired it. To share its creation? No. It was as if he’d asked her to attend church naked.
“Perhaps I can just mimic the motion,” she said.
“You could,” he allowed, “but the pain might have been caused by the weight or the friction of materials against each other. I could diagnose the problem better if I could see how the action played out.”
So, to make sure she healed, she had to share every part of herself. She’d faced impossibilities before. She could do it again. “Follow me,” she said.
She felt him behind her as she walked down the corridor to the studio. The swish of her muslin skirts
over the wood floor sounded overly loud. Once through the door, she tied on her smock again. She had to scrape the hardened paint off her pallet first, then prepare a fresh batch, only a little, only to demonstrate. It wasn’t as if she was really painting in front of him. Still, she found breath difficult as she rubbed the brush against her pallet, then faced the canvas.
“I was fine so long as I confined myself to a narrow field,” she said, dabbing the cerulean over the base. “But I need to use bolder strokes if I’m to cover the sky.” She forced in a breath and swept across the canvas.
Pain lanced her, and she cried out, jerking to a stop.
Immediately he was at her side. “Easy. Give me the brush.”
It fell from her fingers, and he set it aside. His strong hands cradled her arm. “Relax. Let me move it.”
She tried, but her muscles tensed at his touch. He rotated her arm this way and that, gaze on her face as if looking for the least twitch. She remained still until he stretched out her arm, then she gasped.
He lowered her arm carefully. “I believe it’s merely your muscles protesting being put back into action.” He turned for the brush and offered it to her. “If I may?”
She wasn’t sure what he meant to do, but she accepted the brush. He positioned himself behind her, right arm aligned with hers, then cupped her wrist.
“Any exaggerated movement up or down or right or left will be tricky for a while. Make your movements small for now, like this.” He swept her brush back and forth. Her muscles tightened, but no pain pierced her.
“Better?” he asked against her ear.
Suddenly quite good. “Yes,” she managed.
“Excellent.” He lowered her arm, but he did not release her, and for a moment, she stood in his embrace, his chest against her back, his hand holding hers.
“I’ve never painted in front of anyone,” she murmured. “It’s not something easily shared.”
