by Wilma Counts
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said in near sobs.
“Never mind,” she assured him. “The worst is over now. Let’s see what you are hiding under that bloody cloth on your head.”
As she removed the rag, hard with dried blood, she was dismayed to see the wound begin to bleed again. He looked panicky as blood streamed down his face.
“Not to worry,” she said softly, touching his jaw to turn his head so she could get a better look. “Head wounds always bleed like this. And—it looks as though you are luckier than some. You must have turned your head at just the right moment. It was a bullet, was it not?”
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
She mopped up the fresh blood and cleaned away the old. “The bullet plowed a crease just above your ear. Another quarter of an inch and…” She let her voice trail off and just shook her head. She gave him a small cloth folded several times. “Here. Bite down on this as I stitch that crease together.”
Stewart had helped transfer Billy to the bed Adam had vacated. In a matter of minutes, it was all over but for the mopping up and restoring order to the surgery. Nellie and Stewart would, with whatever help they needed, tend to that.
The senior militiaman took charge and assigned his uninjured subordinate to stand guard over the two injured prisoners. The injured militiaman was to stay there as well until Captain Harrison was ready to leave. Hero saw to it that chairs were available for both of them.
Dr. Whitby said, “Captain Howell, my daughter and I invite you to join us for breakfast. We shall have a tray sent out for your guards and their charges, though I doubt Harrison will wake up to partake—or even feel like doing so.”
The captain bowed slightly. “Thank you, sir. That is most generous.”
Hero returned to her room and rang for a maid to help her change into a more presentable day dress of yellow cotton embroidered with white daisies. She had had the dress made by a London dressmaker over a year ago and thought then that the neckline was scandalously low for day wear. Her friends assured her it was quite fashionable, and privately she thought she looked very well in it. She refused to acknowledge that she had chosen it today with her planned meeting with Adam in mind.
When she entered the dining room, she found not only her father and the militiaman, but Adam Wainwright as well.
“I thought it was time Adam joined us,” her father explained. “Good food should be enjoyed in the company of others.”
“Of course,” she murmured with a smile at Adam. He raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly with what she thought might be approval of her appearance. She was glad she had worn the yellow cotton. She quickly took her seat, and the other two men, having risen when she came in, resumed theirs.
“Every day brings a mite of normality back to my life,” Adam said. “I am remembering more too. I am not fully there yet, but it is coming. Slowly, mind you, but coming.”
He gave Hero a direct look and held her gaze for a moment. She took this to mean he was warning her off talking of his memory return. Well, if that is what he wishes…
The Bath chair was positioned so that, by turning his upper body slightly, Adam could join in the meal almost naturally. Hero sat across from him; the captain was on the same side as Adam in the place of honor at his host’s right. Two footmen entered with trays, and as one removed the covers and served generous plates of sausages, bacon, and scrambled eggs, the other placed a basket of muffins on the table and poured coffee, finally setting the pot near Hero.
“Thank you, Ross. Carter.” The doctor dismissed them, then turned to the militiaman. “Captain Howell, do tell us as much as you can about last night’s adventure.”
Captain Howell drank some coffee and set the cup down. He was a husky man of perhaps forty, with thick sandy hair that showed strands of gray at the temples. He had brown eyes and thick brows darker than his hair. His uniform showed little of the muss and soil Hero had seen in those of his younger companions. He gave her an apologetic look as he began.
“It is not a tale one would ordinarily share with ladies, but Miss Whitby has shown herself to be of sterner stuff, you might say, than most females of her class. Very unusual to find a woman of any class performing as you did this morning, Miss Whitby.”
Hero gave him a smile of encouragement, though she thought he had not quite decided whether he approved of her unwomanly performance.
“Hero does fine work,” her father said, “but we are all keen to hear your story.”
“Yes, sir.” Howell shifted position in his chair, leaning back more casually. “An informant alerted my superior—Colonel Phillips at headquarters in Appledore—that we could expect some illegal activity last night on the beach near Weyburn. As you probably know, we have increased patrolling in coastal areas since the war. We lacked the manpower before, what with so many of our fighting men on the Peninsula or off to America. But, frankly, even with more force now, we cannot be everywhere. England simply has too much coastline. Too many tidal streams. Too many coves that protect nefarious endeavors.”
“So you had an informant,” Dr. Whitby prompted.
“Yes. A French ship would anchor off the coast here; two fishing boats would sail out for the contraband goods and deliver them to that cove below Weyburn Abbey.”
“Did it go as planned?” Hero asked, spreading strawberry jam on a muffin.
Captain Howell nodded. “At first it did. But then one of our new recruits must have lost his nerve. The plan was to wait until both the small boats were beached and being unloaded and then move in for the arrests. This fellow’s weapon went off just as the first boat touched the beach. Two men in the boat returned fire, and the fight was on. Hand-to-hand when my lads rushed the boat. One killed. Two injured. Three escaped. The second boat immediately set sail and ran. They probably have another of these coves they use for such contingencies.”
“Your men actually fired on those in the fishing boat?” Dr. Whitby asked.
“No. I don’t think so. Or, if he did, he missed by a mile.”
“Is there any chance this shot, which obviously warned at least some of the smugglers away, was intended for just that purpose?” Adam asked.
“That possibility has occurred to me. Local militias are often that—local to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the area. As you must know, Dr. Whitby, I am fairly new here. I simply do not know my people well yet.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Adam said. “Makes command difficult, I’m sure.”
“That it does.” Howell gave Adam an assessing look.
Motioning her father and the captain, both of whom could stand, to stay seated, Hero rose to refill coffee cups. As she reached awkwardly across the Bath chair to refill his cup, Adam winked at her. She tried to ignore a slight thrill at the intimacy of this exchange. She returned to her seat and busied herself with refilling her own cup.
Adam seemed to shift the topic of discussion—subtly, but deliberately, Hero thought.
“What do you know of these particular smugglers?” he asked the captain.
“Mostly only what I’ve been told. Last night was my first encounter personally. The general word is that this lot are fast, clever, and hard to catch. The gang is said to number anywhere from eight to twenty, depending upon which incident report one reads.”
“How many incidents?” Adam asked.
“Dozens. The reports on this bunch go back about six years.” Howell was beginning to look uncomfortable.
“And neither the local authorities nor the militia has caught any of them?” Adam shook his head in disbelief.
“Locals on all England’s coasts tend to turn a blind eye,” the doctor interjected. “Too many people depend on—or profit immensely from—that income. They pay attention only when someone is hurt—as happened last night.”
“There have been arrests,” Howell asserted, “especially since P
arliament and Whitehall stepped up efforts to collect those taxes.”
“But there have been no arrests here—in Weyburn—in many months,” Hero said. “And few deaths—ever.” She turned toward her father. “The man killed last night was Bertram Larson. Billy Jenkins whispered that to me when we took him into the other room.”
“Oh, good Lord,” her father said. “The man has—had—a sick wife and seven children,” he explained to Adam and Howell. “One of the Abbey’s tenant farmers. Let’s hope the family is not evicted.” He exchanged a bleak look with his daughter.
“The oldest son is sixteen,” Hero noted.
Howell sat up straighter in his chair and pulled at the neck of his uniform. “I am sincerely sorry about the loss of life, but you do understand that the militia is charged with a certain mission—”
“Yes, of course. We do not blame you personally at all.” The doctor sighed. “And we understand the government’s need to stop this drain on the nation’s economy. We understand—in the abstract. It is just hard to watch one’s flesh-and-blood neighbors suffer from abstractions.”
“Our local situation could be alleviated a great deal—a very great deal—if the owner of Weyburn Abbey—”
“Now, Hero,” her father cautioned amiably, “we deal with what we can.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Adam gave her a questioning look, but after a moment he turned again to the captain to say, “I assume you investigate and interrogate on a regular basis.”
“Interminably. But folks are pretty tight-lipped. And, to be frank, these rascals are good at what they do. Incredibly fast moving—with huge amounts of contraband goods. They often seem to just disappear into thin air. Locals fear and hate the militia. But they fear the leaders of the smugglers even more.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“We have a few names, but no solid proof. Those who supply names have a habit of vanishing—or declaring later that they must have been mistaken.”
Adam reached for his coffee cup and seemed ready to drop the subject. “Yours is a hard job, Captain.”
“’Tis that. And I’d best be about it.” Howell stood. “Thank you, Dr. Whitby, Miss Whitby. For breakfast, and for taking care of my men. With your permission, I will leave Taylor here to guard the prisoners until they can be moved. I shall take Roberts with me—I doubt his broken arm will preclude his riding once we get him mounted.”
The doctor, standing now, nodded his agreement, but Hero cautioned, “Do keep an eye on Mr. Roberts. His head wound could cause dizziness.”
“I shall do that. Thank you, miss.”
When he had gone, the doctor sat back down and passed his cup to Hero for a refill. She lifted the pot in Adam’s direction, but he shook his head. She pushed her plate aside and said, “What a day! And it is not even noon yet!” She looked at Adam across the white expanse of the cloth-covered table. “How do you like your new quarters?”
“That chamber is quite splendid. I cannot believe it was intended as part of your medical facilities.”
She exchanged an amused glance with her father, who chuckled and said, “It was designed for me—when I reach my dotage and can no longer climb the stairs to a bedchamber. Used it when the gout hit me hard last winter, but so long as I can climb the stairs…”
“Planned ahead, did you?”
“Seemed prudent so long as we were adding to the house anyway,” the doctor said.
Hero added, “The main part of this building was once the manor house of a large estate. It is not as old or as grand as the Abbey by any means, but it dates back about a century and a half. My great-grandfather sold some of the land, but we still have the main farm and two others as well.”
* * * *
Knowing that the doctor and his daughter had had little sleep last night, Alex excused himself and managed to wheel himself back to his chamber with only minimal help from the footman Ross, whom he found hovering in the hall, waiting to clear the dining table. Alex was glad to have avoided a discussion of the return of his memory, but he was certain that it had not been avoided—merely postponed.
He marveled anew at the change in his quarters. Whereas the hospital room had been all whitewashed sterility, this room displayed such tasteful grandeur as befitted a man of some wealth and education. It was not merely a bedchamber, but a bed-sitting room. A sliding French door led to a terrace like the one outside the hospital room, and, like that one, this one sported a profusion of potted plants, many abloom with yellow, white, blue, and red spring flowers. This terrace too had furniture that simply invited one to enjoy being outdoors.
The room itself was equally inviting. Drapes and bedcoverings had a pattern of muted blues and grays, with splotches of white. A couch and overstuffed chair were dark gray. Brightly colored pillows and the cushions on the chairs at a small dining table delighted one’s eyes. A screened alcove offered ample room for taking care of personal cleanliness, and there was a large armoire for clothing. Quite as comfortable as any chamber in the duke’s London house, Alex thought.
But for him, the most enticing aspect of the room—apart from that comfortable bed, which he could get into and out of without help, and which cried out to be shared—was a well-stocked bookcase. Alex grunted with pleasure at finding within his reach a copy of one of his favorite works, The Iliad. His pleasure at this find doubled when he discovered it was a translation he had not encountered before. Well, Doc, he mused silently, you will surely be comfortable in what you referred to as your “dotage.” Alex settled back into the Bath chair and opened the book.
Later, after a lunch Davey brought to him on a tray and served at the small table, Alex managed to open the drapes and the French door and wheel himself out onto the terrace. Feeling no small degree of success at that achievement, he reveled in the sun, which had made its way to this side of the house. He immersed himself in the familiar quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon outside the walls of Troy, though he looked out from time to time at the sparkling sea in the distance. Not exactly Homer’s idea of a “wine dark sea,” but it will do. Indeed, it will do very well.
Allowing himself to be distracted from Homer’s tale, he turned his thoughts to that discussion of smugglers earlier. He had little doubt that the attacks on him were somehow connected to the smuggling operations. He suspected—given the caution exercised about talk of Teague—that Teague might well be leading them. Hadn’t he heard Stewart refer to “Teague’s gang”? Suspicions were not proof, however, and any search for evidence would have to wait until he gained more mobility.
Besides the issue of smugglers, for Alex there was the added problem of how the local people regarded the heretofore absent owner of the Abbey. What did you expect? he asked himself. After all, you do remember reading that famous essay written by the Irishman Jonathan Swift, do you not? Are you really so stupid that you think people of modern times would be any more tolerant of landlords who abrogate their responsibilities than Swift was, nearly a hundred years ago?
But I did not know.
You chose not to know.
Even now that I am more aware, I haven’t a clue as to the extent of the neglect.
Then get one. Find out what is going on.
These thoughts were interrupted as he heard voices coming from around the far corner of the house. He recognized Hero’s voice. He did not recognize that of what could only be a small girl child.
Chapter 8
Having treated herself to a short nap, Hero, again wearing the yellow day dress, had lunch with Annabelle in the nursery, thus giving Clara Henson an unexpected break. Afterwards, she watched from the paddock fence as the man in charge of the Whitby stable gave Annabelle a riding lesson. Daniel Perkins, Hero noted yet again, was as gentle and patient in teaching Annabelle as he had once been with a very young Hero and her siblings. Annabelle delighted in showing off her skill to her audience
of one.
Although she would have expected nothing less in her father’s household, Hero was grateful that the Whitby staff members had all readily accepted Annabelle as a member of the family. She knew that what society might view as a “baseborn brat” would not have been so accepted in many a household. She feared that sooner or later Annabelle would be forced by some cruel idiot to recognize her origins. But for now, her “Auntie H’ro” was determined that that day would come later—much later—in the little girl’s life. Moreover, Annabelle would already have learned the truth from those who loved her. Meanwhile, Hero sometimes thought she was overprotective of the child, but so be it.
She and Annabelle—along with Tootie and Bitsy—were returning to the house from the stable with a brief side trip to the clinic so Hero could check on the patients there. Nellie had reported after lunch that all was well; the militia guard was on the job and, to relieve his boredom, he was helping care for the two wounded smugglers. As she and Annabelle strolled along, it occurred to Hero that Annabelle would have to have a proper riding habit, but today the child wore a blue print dress and a white pinafore apron and was, as usual, full of questions and commentary.
Having dealt with continued praise of the pony, Sandy, and why daffodils had yellow flowers but green leaves, Annabelle pulled yet another topic from her fertile, eclectic view of the world.
“Why do I have to wear a dress all the time an’ Freddie gets to wear trousers? If I wore trousers, I wouldn’t have to use that silly sidesaddle, would I?” Freddie, the third child of Hero’s sister, Diana, was a year older than Anabelle and one of her occasional playmates.
“Ladies ride sidesaddle,” Hero answered.
“But why?”
“Just because.” Hero remembered wondering the same thing herself on many occasions.
