by Wilma Counts
“I’d rather be a boy.”
“I quite like you as a little girl.”
“It’s easier for boys to climb trees.”
“You seemed to do all right climbing up that apple tree last week. Davey said he rescued you from a very high limb.”
“But I couldn’t get down ʼcause of my dress—it kept getting caught—an’ ʼcause I had to hold onto Bitsy. She was real scared.”
“I’m sure she was.” Hero squeezed the little hand Annabelle had tucked into hers while the other arm held the errant Bitsy. “But next time you must get someone to help you. What if you had fallen and broken an arm or a leg?”
“You could fix me. I know you could.”
Hero smiled at this expression of blind faith, but she gave the hand a shake. “Next time, you call for help. All right?”
“Uh-huh. I will.”
They rounded the corner of the house to see Adam in the Bath chair on the terrace outside his new chamber. He had a book in his lap.
“Hello there,” he called.
As they came closer, Annabelle said, “Oh, look, Auntie H’ro. It’s the sleeping prince.”
“Would you ladies care to join me?” he asked with a gesture at a pitcher of lemonade on a small tray with glasses and a plate of Cook’s ginger biscuits.
Annabelle giggled at being so included, but she looked up at Hero to ask, “Can we, Auntie H’ro? Please?”
“May we,” Hero corrected automatically. “If we are not disturbing you,” she said to Adam. “Allow me to introduce one of my favorite people. This young lady is Annabelle. Annabelle, this gentleman is Mr. Wainwright.”
Hero felt a touch of what could only be described as motherly pride when Annabelle gave him a very proper “How do you do?” and executed an equally proper curtsy.
“I am pleased to make the acquaintance of such a pretty girl,” he said, gesturing to padded wicker chairs at the glass-topped wicker table.
Annabelle handed Bitsy to Hero and clambered onto the chair nearest Adam, then reached for the kitten again, and settled it in her lap. “You and Tootie can sit across from us,” she announced officiously to Hero.
“Why, thank you,” Hero said, exchanging a smile with Adam.
Hero poured glasses of lemonade for herself and Annabelle and topped off Adam’s glass while Annabelle continued to chatter.
“You’re not asleep today. You was asleep afore.”
“No. I am quite awake now.”
Annabelle turned to Hero. “Did you kiss him?”
Hero nearly dropped the glass she was handing to Annabelle and felt warmth suffuse her face. “Annabelle!” she said aloud and muttered under her breath, “Oh, my heavens.” She looked at Adam to see him struggling not to laugh aloud.
Annabelle drank from her glass and set it down very precisely. “Well—did you? That’s how it happened in the story. Only it was a princess,” she explained seriously to Adam.
Hero could barely bring herself to look at Adam, but she had to say something to Annabelle. “Sweetheart, I told you that what happens in our stories is not necessarily the way things happen in real life.”
“Oh.” Annabelle was quiet for a moment. “I guess I forgotted. Tootie forgot too. Can I—may I have a biscuit, please?”
Glad for the diversion, Hero handed Annabelle a ginger biscuit and said to Adam, “‘Sleeping Beauty’ is one of her favorite stories.”
“Ah, I see,” he said.
Adam was very quiet and seemed lost in thought. Hero felt a moment of panic. Oh, good Lord. Did he remember that kiss? After all, his eyes did open briefly. No. Don’t be silly. He was unconscious!
“It’s a really good story,” Annabelle assured him.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed.
Hero was sure Annabelle would have launched into a detailed retelling of the story, but at that moment Clara Henson approached from the rear of the house.
“There you are,” she said. “Miss Hero, it is time for someone’s N-A-P. Shall I take her?”
“I know what that means,” Annabelle declared. “An’ I don’t want a nap. I want to talk with Mr. Ainrye.”
“Annabelle,” Hero said sternly. “You must have your nap. See there—Bitsy is already asleep.”
Annabelle’s expression turned mutinous for a moment, but then she heaved a dramatic sigh and said, “All right. But I want a new story later. And another biscuit now.” She hopped off her chair and curtsied to Adam again. “Mr. Ainrye, we shall talk again.”
“Oh, I do hope so, Miss Annabelle.”
Annabelle went around the table to kiss Hero’s cheek, grabbed the biscuit she had demanded, and skipped off beside Nurse Henson, uttering an admonishing “Come along, Tootie.”
Alex simply gazed at Hero for a moment. He moved his chair to close the distance between them and said, “Tootie? Did I miss something?”
“Annabelle’s imaginary friend. A fairly new addition to the family.”
“I assume Annabelle is the child Mr. Teague referred to yesterday.”
Hero’s guard arose instantly. “Yes, she is.”
“She is a charmer. But she is not your daughter.”
She noted that it was a statement, not a question. “Not by blood. Not legally. But I am the closest thing she has to a mother.” She began to twist the corner of a serviette that had accompanied the lemonade to the terrace. She knew she probably appeared both nervous and slightly defensive as she explained briefly the circumstances of Annabelle’s birth, ending with, “So you see, she is, as far as the world is concerned, mine. Ours. Annabelle is a Whitby in all but name. Certain elements of English society find it easy to ignore abandoned children.”
* * * *
Alex had listened with interest to this account of Annabelle’s history with the Whitbys. He had known of such places as Sally Knowlton’s establishment, but never before had he come face-to-face, even indirectly, with the plight of society’s discarded children.
Not in England.
“Orphans are not merely an English phenomenon,” he said. The image of a small boy of perhaps three years flashed into his mind. It had been after the Third Siege of Badajoz, where there had been hundreds of civilian deaths. Alex was charged with the task of gathering the remnants of the drunken, marauding English soldiers who had finally taken the city. The army was moving out the next morning. He remembered many hungry children of all ages on the streets of the city that had been under siege by the allies three times in two years. He could not say why, but the image of that one child had seared itself on his soul: a small boy in rags, dirty blond hair, dirty bare legs and feet, tears cutting light streaks down his cheeks. Other children ignored him as he toddled from group to group with his little hands out. Alex was sure he was hungry—that they were all hungry. Even then he had wished he could just sweep them up and carry them off, but caught in the tide of war, he had simply pressed on. Nevertheless, that image of one child on a dirty, war-torn street, had haunted him ever since.
“I know it is not confined to England,” Hero said softly, apparently responding to something she saw in his eyes. “But, as my father tells me repeatedly, we do what we can. We can do no more.”
They were both lost in their own thoughts for a few moments, but it was a shared silence of mutual empathy.
Hero perked up. “Now—tell me about this return of your memory.”
“Ah, I thought you would get around to that.”
“So. Who are you? Why are you here in Weyburn?” She leaned forward eagerly.
“Who I am is of little significance at the moment. I would prefer to remain Adam Wainwright for the nonce.” He smiled. “Or, in certain quarters, ‘Mr. Ainrye.’ I hope you will accept that.” He held his breath for her response. Yes, it would serve his purpose as owner of the Abbey to hide his identity, but he also wanted to prove himself
to her, to show her he was not the heartless scoundrel she thought him to be. Just why, he could not have articulated at the moment. Lord Alexander Sterne had rarely before felt a need to prove himself to anyone. And certainly not to a woman in whom he had developed a passing interest.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I can deal with Adam Wainwright for a while yet. But why?”
“Because I am here—in Weyburn—on a mission of sorts, but now, with this infernal leg, I need more time to complete it.” Well, it is not exactly a lie, is it?
She held his gaze, then looked away. She seemed to be struggling with this idea. She jerked her gaze back to his. “Oh! I think I understand. Lord Alexander Sterne cannot tear himself away from the pleasures of London to answer the pleas of folks dependent on him, so he sent you instead to investigate. Years later—years!—he sees fit to take an interest. Better late than never, I suppose.”
“Yes, you might say that,” he agreed. Good job, Sterne. At this rate her opinion will be going ever lower instead of in the direction you’d like.
“I am sorry that you too have had to suffer for his negligence.” Her lips—those kissable lips—tightened into a grimace. “I do believe your being in that wheeled chair may be laid at his doorstep.”
Ignoring her sympathy—and how kissable her lips were—he honed in on something she had said. “What did you mean by ‘answer the pleas of folks’?”
“Just that. For the last five years or so, Mr. Teague has requested that his lordship concern himself—or assign a surrogate to deal with certain major problems. Some people—my sister, for one—have written him directly, but got no response.”
“Let us hope there is some explanation for that,” he said, thinking he sounded rather pompous. But he knew for a certainty that neither he nor the solicitor, Montague, had received direct communication from the steward or anyone else regarding the estate in Cornwall. He shifted the subject slightly. “You do not think much of one Alexander Sterne, do you?”
“No, I do not.” She emphasized the last word. “Men of his ilk take advantage of their positions with little regard for others. They take whatever they want at the moment and—and leave devastation in their wake.”
“I…uh…see,” he said, confused by the vehemence of her response. “Um—have you ever met him?”
“No,” she admitted. “I was away at school when he last visited the Abbey some years before Sir Benjamin died. Later we heard he had joined the army and was fighting the French.” Her expression brightened. “Perhaps you knew him in the army.”
“Uh—the army is a huge entity. I believe he was a staff officer for General Beresford.” He hoped that sounded vague enough.
“Then how did you come to be involved with him?”
He had been expecting this question, so he was ready. “One of my friends is a Bow Street Runner. We were corresponding officers—spies, if you will—for Wellington. Sterne knew Bow Street to have capable investigators.” At least all of this was true.
“And this friend asked you to help with Lord Alexander’s Cornwall problem. Was that it?” She leaned forward, her breasts resting against one arm folded on the table in front of her; the other hand lay near her glass of lemonade. Alex found himself treated to a disconcerting view of delectable cleavage, but he doubted she was aware of that.
“You might say that.”
He shifted uncomfortably in the Bath chair, causing the wicker to produce an audible squeak.
Again, they sat quietly for a while, both staring out to the distant sea.
Finally, Alex broke the silence. “Will you keep my secret—allow me to remain Adam Wainwright for a while?”
She nodded. “I think so. For a while.”
“There’s more.” She merely held his gaze, waiting, so he went on. “According to the good Dr. Whitby, it will be a few weeks until I am truly able to get around with ease on my own. I promise not to impose on you inordinately, but I wonder if I might persuade you to help me in my investigation?”
“Go around with you in a carriage, you mean?”
“Yes. And—well—show me things I need to see in order to have a complete picture for my—uh—report. You know the area and the people far better than I…” He let this observation hang between them as he tried to assuage his nitpicking conscience. It is all true, he told himself. Just not the whole truth.
“Yes, I will help you, but…” She paused and looked out to the sea again, then back at him. She seemed embarrassed. “Adam, these are country people. If—if we are seen often in each other’s company, they will assume—”
“That I am courting you!” he interjected. “But that is perfect! An excellent cover for what I am really about.”
“And when you leave?”
“I am sure you will be able to explain that you simply found me totally unsuitable.” He reached across the table to grasp her free hand. “I promise you this: I will not compromise you in front of your friends and neighbors.”
She briefly returned the pressure of his grip. “As to that, Weyburn folks have long since accepted me as an oddity. But I am reluctant to fan that flame overmuch.” She reached for the pitcher to refill their glasses.
He lifted his glass in a salute. “To our working together.”
She touched her glass to his, nodded, and held his gaze. “To success.”
* * * *
Hero watched as Adam drank deeply and set his glass aside, his large, capable-looking hands a distinct contrast to the delicate crystal. She was feeling a little overwhelmed by all that had passed between them: She was grateful for his trust, but somewhat mystified by what he had not revealed.
He cast a sly glance at her and grinned. “Now—about this other matter…”
“What other matter?”
“Did you or did you not kiss me as I lay unconscious, helpless, and at your mercy?”
Hero fidgeted with the serviette again. She did not want to lie to him, but she certainly did not want to admit the truth!
So, she equivocated.
“Why on earth would you think that?” She tried to summon up genuine outrage, but her innate sense of humor caused her to smile. “Surely you do not take seriously a child’s chattering about a fairy tale.”
His eyes—his oh-so-blue eyes—twinkled at her. “You are not answering my question, Miss Whitby. And I noticed earlier that you did not give Annabelle a direct answer either.”
She looked away, then back at him. She sat straight and squared her shoulders. “The topic you mention is not one that a gentleman would pursue.” She knew she sounded insufferably prim.
He laughed outright, then winced and put his hand to his chest and emitted a controlled cough. “Still not a direct answer. But allow me to tell you a tale.” His voice became very serious. “As I lay on that bed, I was vaguely aware of things going on around me. I was in a very dark place. Dark, but somehow the darkness was familiar. Acceptable. If I just welcomed it, there would be no more pain—of any kind. No more physical pain. No more guilt. No more sorrow. No more loss. It would just be gone. All of it. I was very tempted. I thought if I could only grasp the comfort, the beckoning warmth of that darkness—It was so real, almost tangible…”
Hero sucked in her breath. “No. Please—no,” she whispered.
He seemed unaware of her interjection and continued in the same solemn tone. “I wanted that darkness. Oh, how I longed for it! But suddenly an angel kissed me. Perhaps I was hallucinating. I don’t know. But there she was—an angel surrounded by light with hundreds of bright stars all about her—and she kissed me! Immediately, I wanted that light, that brightness.”
“Oh, my heavens.” Hero again whispered.
He went on, his tone now only slightly lighter. “I am not one for taking stock in hallucinations. I think you kissed me. I think you brought me back from the brink—and for that I can
only be grateful.”
“I—I did kiss you,” she confessed, looking at him directly but apologetically.
“Aha!” He smiled his satisfaction, his eyes twinkling again.
“However,” she hurried on, “I have no doubt it was your own strong will that brought you back.”
“You have your truth, I have mine,” he said. “But I assure you, Miss Hero Whitby, next time there will be no question as to its being a hallucination.”
She felt herself blushing, but she liked the implied promise in that comment. Embarrassed, she mumbled something about seeing to her other patients and beat a hasty retreat.
A soft chuckle followed her.
Chapter 9
Over the next weeks, Alex found himself gaining strength. Laughing and just breathing deeply were less painful. Hero removed the stitches from his leg and his head, and her father not only saw to a simpler splint and bandage, but he also presented “Adam” with a set of crutches. Essentially shaped like an elongated T, the upper part that fit under the arm was padded with an old towel, as was a handle set perpendicular to the main shaft. There had been much discussion among the doctor, Stewart, and Mrs. Hutchins as the details of this new device were worked out and proper measurements ensured. Nor had Hero and Nellie Matson hesitated to offer their observations. At first, using the crutches was tiring and Alex resorted to the Bath chair to relieve his shoulders and tender underarms. Gradually, his hands and arms toughened and he delighted in the freedom the crutches gave him.
Hero had asked for and received his permission to share with her father much about the return of his memory and his “mission” to investigate the goings-on at the Abbey. By tacit agreement, neither of them mentioned the “courtship.” The doctor readily accepted the idea that their guest would continue to be addressed as Adam Wainwright. All was going as well as might be expected, given that a key actor in this drama could not move about with total ease—even with the help of the crutches.
Aware now of Adam’s purpose in coming to Weyburn, the doctor actually aided him by continuing to invite Adam to share discussions when callers visited Whitby Manor. Soon enough Adam had met a number of the area’s most prominent citizens. He discussed crops and breeding farm animals with the farmers, religion and providing for the poor with the vicar, and local legal issues with the magistrate. The smugglers, Harrison and Jenkins, had been removed to the town jail, awaiting the next session of the assize court. Alex was aware of Hero’s worry about the fate of these two, but, as Adam Wainwright, there was little he could do about the situation. He had, however, made a point of visiting them before their removal to the jail. He thought it decidedly unfortunate that Willard Teague had visited them first, for that probably explained their reluctance to discuss anything but the weather with Adam.
