The Artist's Healer

by Regina Scott

  “Then I am all the more honored,” he said.

  His hand trailed up her arm, rested softly on her wound. “Give it time, Abigail. It will heal.”

  She didn’t want him to leave. “And you, Linus? Will you heal as well?”

  “I wasn’t aware I had been injured.”

  She turned in his arms, made herself face him. Those grey eyes were curious, his brow lined as he gazed down at her.

  “You lost your wife,” she said, “the mother of your child. That must leave a mark.”

  His throat constricted as he swallowed. “Even more than I would have imagined.”

  She wanted to know this other woman who had held his heart. “Tell me about her, Ethan’s mother.”

  He sighed, then nodded as if making up his mind.

  “Catriona was bright and beautiful and possessed of boundless enthusiasm. But she also had moments of deepest despair. I think that’s what drove her to be forever mobile. She was trying to outrun the darkness.”

  Sadness slipped over her, like twilight had come to the village. “That must have been a difficult way to live.”

  “It was. I was naïve enough to think love and marriage and then motherhood would change her. They didn’t. She grew ever more frantic. Her father suggested someplace more stimulating than my quiet practice outside Edinburgh. He arranged for me to take over from a physician in London. But moving there only made things worse. I tried modifying our diet, removing all liquors from the house. She did not appreciate my intentions. On one occasion, she threw her perfume bottles at me.”

  Abigail might have reacted as poorly if someone claiming to love her had reordered her life. She reached up and traced the mark on his cheek. “Your scar. Is that how you gained it?”

  He shuddered, as if her touch had gone deeper, to the hurt inside. “A minor injury. My greater mistake was in pressuring her to show more of an interest in our son. She rebelled against the confines of motherhood, so much so that she took up racing her curricle, as if the scandal meant nothing. She overturned it one day taking a turn too fast. She was thrown out and died on impact.”

  Pain and loss echoed in his voice. She’d been right. He hadn’t healed. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “How difficult it must have been for you—to be father to a grieving son while you hurt as well.”

  His shoulders sagged, as if he felt the hurt even now. “I did what I could, but I still doubt it was enough. Surely he should be more lively, more confident, yet what if liveliness is merely the beginnings of his mother’s erratic behavior?”

  “You fear it inherited?” One look at his face confirmed as much. “You forget, sir. Ethan is as much his father as his mother. His quiet nature may be a reflection of you.”

  “And yet I would not wish that for him either. I feel as if I’ve been wrapped in a bandage for months, unable to move, to breathe.”

  She couldn’t stop herself. She gathered him close, held him gently. “You are safe here. Grace-by-the-Sea welcomes everyone.”

  “Even flawed Newcomers?”

  She heard the hope in his voice. “Especially flawed Newcomers. And we do all we can to help them become beloved Regulars.”

  “Beloved,” he murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

  “So do I,” Abigail whispered. She raised her chin, and he lowered his head to meet her. His lips brushed hers, trailed across her cheek to return to her mouth. She trembled with his touch, but she did not step away. This was too perfect, too true.

  At length, he drew back, face so sad she almost reached for him again. “Be patient with me, Abigail. I’m trying.”

  “I am your patient, sir,” she said with a smile. “And I would like to be your physician.”

  He returned her smile. Oh, that was so much better. “What do you prescribe, Doctor Archer?”

  All at once, she knew. “Enjoyment, fresh air, and good food. Preferably all together. In short, sir, I advise you to take a day off tomorrow and go on a picnic with me, my mother, and Ethan.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  She was surprised and delighted when he agreed to the idea of a picnic.

  “You’ll see,” she told him as she walked him back to the flat from her studio. “It will be just the thing.”

  His smile offered hope.

  Ethan and her mother were more enthusiastic.

  “Excellent idea,” her mother proclaimed. “I’ll ask Jack Hornswag to arrange for a hamper. I think I still have your brother’s kite.”

  “Is it difficult to fly a kite?” Ethan asked, eyes shining. “I’d like to try it.”

  “With your perspective on angles, you’ll be brilliant at it,” Abigail assured him. “We’ll see you both tomorrow, say half past noon. That way we miss the muster.”

  “And I have a few moments at the spa,” Linus agreed.

  “Very clever,” her mother said after they’d left. “I’m so glad you’re taking his courting seriously.”

  “Doctor Bennett isn’t courting me, Mother,” Abigail told her, gathering up the last of Ethan’s drawings for the day. One showed a man, woman, and boy, all holding hands. The woman had reddish hair.

  Her mother put her nose in the air. “When a gentleman stops by twice a day to see a lady, I call that courting.”

  “He stopped by twice a day to tend my wound and arrange for Ethan’s care,” Abigail reminded her. “That’s not courting. That’s business.”

  Her mother eyed her. “I see no difference.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I should not encourage you. Jesslyn is bad enough. She is certain Linus and I should make a match.”

  Her mother gave a little bob, skirts rising and falling with her heels. “Excellent. Dear Jesslyn has never failed when she set her hand to matchmaking.”

  Abigail wasn’t so sure of that. Despite Jess’s exemplary record, she had done all to help Mr. Crabapple pursue the Widow Harding, and the lady remained unattached.

  “She will have her hands full this time,” Abigail said. “Linus Bennett isn’t sure of me. Of any lady, I begin to think. His heart has not healed from his wife’s death.”

  Her mother sobered. “Neither has poor Ethan’s. But you can help there.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Abigail told her.

  “And agree to his courting?” her mother nudged, brows up in hope.

  Abigail smiled. “You are incorrigible. But I am becoming accustomed to the idea that he and I might suit.”

  Her mother clasped her hands before her chest. “Oh, wonderful! I can’t wait to hear the banns read in St. Andrew’s.”

  Abigail caught her hands. “Not just yet. Linus and I have a long way to go before agreeing to marry.”

  The picnic proved as much.

  The Bennett men arrived the next day precisely on time. She would not have expected otherwise. Her mother wasn’t quite ready. Also not unexpected.

  “I have the perfect blanket,” she called, head buried in a cupboard beside her bedchamber, spring green skirts swinging as she dug. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

  “We can take the one off my bed,” Abigail offered.

  Her answer was a thud of something falling from a shelf.

  “She did find the kite,” Abigail told Ethan and Linus with a smile. Ethan smiled back. Linus looked a bit nervous, if his darting gaze and hands clasped behind the back of his navy coat were any indication.

  “And we added a fine tail,” Abigail tried. “I’ll show you how to fly it, Ethan, when we reach the castle.”

  She thought Linus might suggest she go easy on her arm, but he merely nodded.

  Ethan’s eyes, however, widened. “We’re going to the castle?”

  He must have seen the Earl of Howland’s hunting lodge. The building had been designed to resemble a medieval castle, complete with rounded towers at each corner. The thing was visible from many spots in Grace-by-the-Sea.

  “We are indeed, or at least the lawns leading up to it.” She nodded to the wicker hamper Mr. Hornswag had s
ent over. “Think you can carry that that far, Doctor Bennett?”

  Linus shook himself, then went to take each leather handle. As he lifted them, his brows went up. “What did you pack?”

  Her mother bustled back into the room, plaid blanket bundled in her arms. “Ham, cheese, rolls, a bottle of lemonade, tin cups, a slicing knife, a cutting board, napkins, Abigail’s sketchbook, Ethan’s sketchbook, sketching supplies, and a book of poetry. Oh, and someone will need to carry Abigail’s parasol.”

  As Linus looked impressed, Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Do I even own a parasol?”

  “You must,” her mother said, folding the blanket. “I found it last night when I was looking for the kite. It might provide shade if we need it.”

  It might at that, Abigail saw when they embarked shortly afterward. The sky was cloudless, the air warming, as they climbed the path leading up to the headland. Linus went first, carrying the hamper and making it look surprisingly easy. Ethan followed, holding the kite protectively close. Her mother came next with the blanket, and Abigail brought up the rear, holding a fringed lime-green parasol she couldn’t remember seeing before.

  The wildflowers had faded since she’d last visited the headland a fortnight ago, but heads of red, pink, blue, and white still poked up among the grass. Ringed by trees and a wide lawn, Castle How stood tall and stately, the pale stones gleaming gold in the sunlight. Beyond it, the Channel stretched endless.

  Abigail stopped to regard it. “That color. That’s what I need to capture for Jess and Lark’s painting. Every shade of blue.”

  “Green, too,” Ethan said beside her. “And brown.”

  She squinted against the light bouncing off the waves. “You’re right. Very observant. And spoken like an artist.”

  Ethan’s cheeks pinked as he smiled at her.

  “There,” her mother said, nodding to a patch of lawn partly shaded by trees. “The perfect spot for our picnic.”

  Linus carried the hamper over, waiting only until she had spread the blanket to her liking before setting it down at one end. Abigail and Ethan came to join them.

  She tilted her head to the sun, and the breeze fanned her cheeks. “West-southwest wind today. That means we’ll need to run in that direction if you want the kite to fly.”

  “Yes, ma’am, please,” Ethan said, clutching the kite closer still. She and her brother had decorated the diamond-shaped piece of parchment with charcoals so that it resembled a mighty falcon. Patches here and there told of collisions with a tree, and, once, her father’s fists. The new rag tail held bright gingham, sprigged muslin, and printed cotton, remnants of gowns others had donated to them during the time they had lived on the village’s charity.

  Linus frowned out over the Channel. “Running west-southwest will bring you to the cliffs. Perhaps another direction would be wiser.”

  Did he not understand the mechanisms for flying a kite? “We’ll avoid the edge,” Abigail promised. “What do you say, Ethan? Shall we give it a go?”

  Ethan nodded eagerly. Feeling Linus’s gaze on them, she led the boy out from under the trees.

  “Do you see where the shadow of the castle crosses the lawn there toward the village?” she asked.

  Ethan glanced that direction. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do not cross beyond that line. That should keep you safely away from the cliffs.” She held out her hands, her arm offering only a whisper of complaint. “I’ll hold the kite. Play out the string, then run as fast as you can toward that shadow.”

  He nodded again, so fast his head might have been the kite bobbing on the breeze. He twirled the ball of string to unwind a sizeable length, then turned his back on her and sprinted away. She watched the line lengthen, grow taut. She released the kite.

  Up it went, into the blue. Her mother started applauding, and Ethan turned to see why.

  His father pointed at the kite. “Well done!”

  Ethan stared at it a moment, mouth falling open.

  Abigail hurried to his side. “Well done indeed. Now, the breeze isn’t strong this morning, so you’ll have to keep an eye on the kite. See, it’s already starting to fall.”

  He tensed, feet shuffling in the grass. “What do I do?”

  “Tug a little on the string. That’s right. See, it’s climbing again. Don’t let it go too high, or you might catch a breeze from a different direction, and who knows what it will do.”

  His gaze clamped onto the kite. “What if it crashes?”

  Fear laced the tone, and she remembered what Linus had said about Ethan’s mother. She lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “Kites sometimes fall, Ethan. Or crash into trees or chimney pots. They can usually be fixed. But even if they can’t, they’re only parchment, twig, and rag. No harm done. Do you understand?”

  This nod was more solemn. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Abigail released him. “See how long you can keep it in the air. I’ll be with my mother and your father on the blanket. Remember about that shadow.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, gaze on the kite.

  She moved back to the others.

  “Such a clever boy,” her mother said. “I knew he’d get the hang of it. Gideon did.”

  Abigail seated herself beside Linus on the blanket. He was up on one elbow, legs stretched out, and he had relaxed enough that he could send her a smile.

  “Your son is serving in India now, I understand,” he said to her mother.

  Her mother sniffed. “He is. I miss him so.”

  “We’ve been hoping for a letter for some time,” Abigail explained.

  He glanced from her to her mother, and she thought he understood why a letter would not have arrived. From what he’d told her, he knew the sorts of danger Gideon faced.

  “Well, I’m glad you could allow Ethan the use of the kite,” he said. “I predict I’ll need to find material for one of his own shortly.”

  “Ask Mr. Inchley for a large enough piece of parchment,” Abigail suggested. “He keeps paper for wrapping fish. And the Misses Pierce keep string and rags available. Jess sponsors a kite-flying competition at the spa. It’s something of a tradition.”

  “We have a great number of traditions in Grace-by-the-Sea,” her mother put in. “Easter celebrations. Christmas festivities. Weddings.”

  As if he was just as eager to nudge her off that topic, Linus sat up. “And a very fine castle. I take it the magistrate approved of us using the earl’s property.”

  Abigail tossed her head. “I didn’t ask Mr. Howland. He wouldn’t refuse in any event. He owes me a favor.”

  He chuckled. “Are you using your injury to gain unfair advantage again?”

  “I must take whatever advantage I’m given,” she informed him.

  Especially if it kept him at her side.

  ~~~

  Linus hadn’t been sure what to expect from their picnic. Once again, his heart had overruled his head, and he’d kissed Abigail there in her studio last evening. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he began to have intentions toward her. But a picnic committed neither of them to anything. It was an opportunity to become even better acquainted. He should not see it as a threat.

  And he could not remember enjoying a day more. The sun was warm, Abigail’s company warmer, and all seemed right with the world. Mrs. Archer opened her hamper and doled out the feast, and Ethan was persuaded to bring the kite safely down and return for some food. They ate, they talked, they laughed.

  As if they were a family.

  At moments, his mother and father had found such joy—beside a river in India, around a campfire in America. He had never quite managed it with Catriona and Ethan. Always her gaze had shied away, her thoughts gone to something she found more exciting. He and Ethan had never been enough for her.

  Yet Abigail seemed content.

  The feeling remained as Mrs. Archer took Ethan back out onto the grass for another try with the kite. Abigail sighed, then leaned back, and the sun picked out the gold in her
lashes.

  “Did you and your family do this often?” he asked.

  She sat up as if suddenly uncomfortable and set about putting the remains of their meal back in the hamper. “On occasion, and usually not with my father. He wasn’t much for family gatherings. He preferred the company of the inn’s public room.”

  Her tone had grown sharper. Given what Jack Hornswag had told him, Linus thought he understood why.

  “My father was sometimes too tired from his day to do more than come home and sleep,” Linus told her. “I never understood why my mother insisted on accompanying him on his travels, but perhaps a little time together was better than none.”

  “I would almost have preferred none, with my father,” she murmured, gaze going to Ethan, who was pelting across the grass as the kite climbed behind him. “He was a carter, carrying goods from the mill in Upper Grace to the cove and back. Perhaps the work grew too difficult, and drink seemed easy entertainment. Perhaps he drank to alleviate physical discomfort. Mr. Hornswag and some of the other men said he was just plain mean. Whatever the reason, he drank to excess and took his frustrations out with his fists—other patrons, the barkeep, acquaintances, even the vicar once. Few attended his funeral, I was told. My brother left us to join the army as soon as he turned fifteen.”

  “You and your mother deserve better,” Linus said. “From your father, certainly. Even from your brother. He might have found a way to return.”

  She sighed. “I cannot blame Gideon. I would have left too, if I had thought I could find employment. Like Ethan, I’d been sketching since I was a child, but Jess’s father encouraged me to paint, and I think even he was surprised when I turned out to be good at it. Still, it took me a while to figure out my paintings could help pay our way, then to convince the members of the Spa Corporation board at the time to allow me to open the shop where others could sell their handicrafts. They thought I was too young, too untried. Jess’s father supported the idea, so the others agreed to give it a try. Now we support ourselves. We need no one’s pity.”

  But perhaps their respect, their admiration. He could see it in the way her gaze went off across the grass, the proud set of her chin. She had every right for pride. She had made a way for herself and her mother.