by Regina Scott
Abigail stiffened, and her arm protested. “Doctor Bennett and I will never suit.”
She sighed. “You say that about all the gentlemen.”
At least, most. She found Captain St. Claire, the retired naval officer recuperating at Dove Cottage up the hill from the spa, to be rather dashing. He’d never been anything less than charming to her, but, then, a handsome face and winning manner could still mask a cruel character. After seeing the damage her father had done to his family and home, she wasn’t about to trust any fellow so easily.
“Be that as it may,” Abigail said, “I would like to get word to Jesslyn.”
“I can’t,” her mother said, turning for the door. “I’m busy.”
“Doing what?” Abigail called after her. “You could at least wave out the shop door at Mr. Carroll. He might be persuaded to help.”
The only answer was a thump from the sitting room, followed by voices.
Voices. Plural. Who was here now?
She ought to leave well enough alone. Her mother had any number of friends—Mrs. Mance, the vicar’s housekeeper; Mrs. Ellison, the wife of the baker; even Jesslyn’s aunt Maudlyn. One or more might have dropped in.
Before eight in the morning?
Something was going on. How could she simply sit in this bed and not find out? She wiggled forward, pushing back the quilt her mother had made from scrap pieces the Misses Pierce, of the linens and trimmings shop, had given her. The movement made her arm protest again. She bent it at the elbow, kept it protectively close to her body, leaned forward, and craned her neck.
Their chintz-covered sofa was empty. She could see all the rose-on-cream pattern from here. Were they in the dining room, then?
She leaned back and studied the floor beside the bed a moment. Doctor Bennett had never said she couldn’t move her legs, just her arm. She swung her feet off the bed and levered herself upright. There. That hadn’t been so bad. She shook her hips to settle her nightgown around her, then padded toward the door. Her mother’s friends might be shocked at the sight of her in her nightclothes, but it would only be for a moment, and at least she would have had the luxury of movement.
But their little flat was silent now. She could see most of it from the doorway. Located behind her shop, between High Street and the hill that led up to the castle on the headland, it had two rooms front and back—sitting room, dining room, and two bedchambers—with a wide central corridor down the middle. The final room behind her bedchamber at the back of the shop she’d reserved for her studio. No use going in there. Her mother would never entertain guests among Abigail’s paintings.
Would she?
Once more her stomach dropped, and she marched down the corridor. That was her space, her refuge. No one entered without her express permission.
But someone was exiting. A boy came out of her studio, arms laden with parchment and her charcoals.
“Ho, there,” Abigail called. “Where do you think you’re going with those?”
He stopped and stared at her. She stared back. Very likely he’d never seen a lady in a lawn nightgown. She’d never seen him. Why not? She knew everyone in the village, from the newborn to the aged. Few of the visitors to the spa brought young children with them.
He was dressed in a simple brown coat and trousers over half-boots. Difficult to guess his age. He was as short and slight as Mrs. Bascom’s seven-year-old daughter, but those brown eyes looked far more knowing, as if the vicar, Mr. Wingate, was intent on examining her. They looked warily out of a narrow face under a crop of brown hair streaked with gold.
“Mrs. Archer said I could draw,” he told Abigail.
So tempting to cross her arms over her chest, but impossible. She shifted on her feet instead. “Did she now? And who might you be?”
“Ethan Bennett. Who are you?”
Abigail frowned. “Mrs. Archer’s daughter. Are you Doctor Bennett’s son?”
He nodded.
“So, my mother must have agreed to watch you while your father is working,” Abigail surmised.
“When I’m not taking lessons from the vicar,” he said.
Well, that was interesting news. A few days ago, her mother had surprised her by answering an advertisement in the local newspaper about a widower seeking someone to care for his son. Her mother had said she had been lonely, and Abigail had felt a bit guilty about that. Between painting and running the shop, she hadn’t had much time to spare. But she’d thought her mother happy with her friends in the village, her work at the church school. When they’d learned the lad in question was Doctor Bennett’s son, Abigail had tried to dissuade her mother from pursuing the position. She’d thought the matter closed.
Well, apparently it was closed, just not the way she had thought.
“And where is my mother now?” she asked.
“She went across the street to see someone,” he said. “She’ll be right back. May I go draw?”
The parchment was already starting to slide from his grip. Abigail stepped aside to let him pass. “Certainly, sir. Forgive me for detaining you.”
He did not smile at her tease but continued down the corridor for the flat. Abigail followed.
He went to the dining room, climbed up onto one of the lute-backed chairs, and dumped his finds on the butter yellow tablecloth. As she watched, he arranged one of the sheets of parchment before him, turning it this way and that as if trying to find the exact right position. Then he selected one of her charcoal pencils and considered the paper so carefully he might have been preparing to compose a symphony.
So like his father—solemn, calm. At his age, she’d been running all over the village with Jesslyn, learning to sail from her friend’s father, doing anything to avoid her own father.
The main door clicked, and her mother hurried in. She caught sight of them through the arched doorway and stopped. “Oh, good. You’ve met.”
“Young Mr. Bennett tells me you are watching him,” Abigail said.
Color rose in her mother’s cheeks as she continued toward them. “When he isn’t taking lessons from the vicar. His father will bring him by every morning before eight and return for him when the spa closes.” She smiled at the boy. “Such a well-mannered young man, just like his father.”
So it seemed. And it also seemed that Abigail would be seeing even more of the physician, whether she wanted to or not.
~~~
Miss Archer was in bed when Linus came to retrieve his son that evening. Her mother was all for disturbing her, but Linus declined. She needed her rest if she was to recover. If he had ever doubted that, he had only to look at his son.
Ethan trudged along beside him as they headed down High Street toward the cove and the cottage the Spa Corporation had given them. The fishing boats bobbed on the waters, rocking with the incoming tide. Until coming here, the only harbors he’d seen had been clogged with massive sailing ships, loud with the sound of stevedores unloading, first mates rallying their crews. Here the only sound was the call of a gull soaring overhead.
“I understand sometimes spa visitors go bathing in the cove,” he told his son as they turned down the path to the little stone cottage tucked into the bank. “Would you like to try it?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Ethan said, gaze on the pebbled path.
Linus bit back a sigh. He’d been just as quiet a child. His mother had found ways to invite him closer, get him to share his thoughts and hopes. He didn’t have the knack. The best he could do right now was give Ethan some stability, some normalcy.
A shame he had not been able to settle on a schedule yet. He was to open the spa every morning except Sunday at eight, but new guests might appear at any time, from mid-morning until late in the afternoon. They arrived in the village by carriage, mail coach, horseback, or ship. Some wanted treatment, even if just a drink of the mineral waters for which the spa was famous. Others came for the society. He did well enough with the former, but entertainment had never been his forte. Unfortunately, without th
e social aspects of the spa, the number of guests had declined precipitously.
Perhaps that was why he could only be relieved when he found another woman with Abigail Archer the next morning.
“As promised,” Miss Archer sang out from her place on the bed, hair about her shoulders in her lawn nightgown. “Jesslyn Chance, allow me to introduce Doctor Bennett.”
The former spa hostess was not what he had expected. From all the comments made about her, he’d thought she might be a dark-haired, more athletic version of Miss Archer—no nonsense, determined, a veritable Amazon. Instead, her fashionable pink muslin gown showed off a slender figure. Her blue eyes seemed too large for her fine-boned face, which was surrounded by blond ringlets.
“Doctor Bennett,” she said in a soft, high voice, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
He could imagine she had. He refused to look at Miss Archer. “And I’ve heard a great deal about you,” he countered. “Allow me to clear up a misperception. I did not request that you leave your position.”
She blinked, lashes fluttering. “I did not think you had.”
“I did,” Miss Archer put in. “But I should have known better than to accept anything Mr. Greer says without looking deeper.”
Mr. Greer was the village apothecary and the Spa Corporation president. Linus wasn’t sure why Miss Archer would not believe his word. He had never struck Linus as anything less than forthright.
“Nevertheless,” Linus said, “I understand from Mr. Lawrence, the corporation treasurer, that the spa has been doing poorly recently.”
Miss Chance nodded. “Since my father passed. Everyone assumed it was the lack of a physician that was keeping people away.”
“Hence the need to hire you, sir,” Miss Archer added.
Linus inclined his head. “Having worked at the spa a sennight now, I can see how medical care is necessary.”
“Of course you would,” Miss Archer muttered, look darkening.
“But I can also see why it isn’t sufficient,” he persisted. “The spa at Grace-by-the-Sea is known as much for its society as it is for its healing.”
“True,” Miss Archer allowed with a glance to her friend.
Miss Chance was watching him. “What are you suggesting, sir?”
“I propose a partnership,” he said. “I will manage the medical aspects. You would manage the social.”
Miss Archer beamed at him. How extraordinary. He felt as if the sun had burst into view on a cold winter’s day. He wanted to bask in the warmth.
“I take it Mr. Greer has approved this arrangement?” Miss Chance asked in her sweet voice.
Linus brought himself back to the conversation with difficulty. “I have not broached the subject, but I believe funds can be made available.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Miss Archer promised. “You must start immediately, Jess. It’s already July, and people will expect the Regatta to go on as planned.”
The very air seemed to shimmer at the word. Linus glanced between them. “Regatta?”
“Grace-by-the-Sea hosts a race every August,” Miss Chance explained. “We have a number of local ships, and guests come from up and down the coast and as far away as London to join us. We would have to check with Mrs. Kirby to see how many have arranged for houses, and Jack Hornswag at the Mermaid will have heard how many have requested moorage.”
“Will you be taking out your father’s boat?” Miss Archer asked eagerly, wiggling on the bed. Linus had to stop himself from moving forward to assist her. She would not welcome it, and he might do more damage to her arm.
“I’ll leave that to Alex this year.” Miss Chance nodded to Linus. “My brother. Though he may prefer to sail with Captain St. Claire instead.”
Miss Archer slumped. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t be much use to you with this arm in any event.”
Surely she didn’t mean she sailed. With her injury, he could not allow it. “Depending on the date of this event,” he told her, “you may still be confined to bed, Miss Archer.”
She straightened. “Now, see here, sir…”
Miss Chance held up her hands, as if she were the one surrendering. “Please, Abby. You must heal. I want you with me when I walk down the aisle next week.” The look she sent Linus dared him to argue.
“Congratulations on your marriage,” Linus said instead. “Forgive me for not realizing it was so soon. Perhaps I should speak to your intended husband about my proposal for you to continue working at the spa.”
Miss Chance’s pretty face remained pleasant, but she seemed to have grown an inch or two. “No need, sir. I am fully capable of determining my future and will explain the matter to Larkin Denby, my betrothed. Now, I should allow you to see to Abigail. You are already late opening the spa.”
He was, and that was a bit of a stumble, but he could not shake the feeling he had stumbled here as well. “Thank you, Miss Chance. Will I see you later at the spa, then?”
“Of course, Doctor Bennett. I merely have to alert our Regulars that it is safe to return.”
He bowed, and she left.
“There, was that so difficult?” Miss Archer asked as he straightened.
“The only difficulty was finding a way to contact her,” he said, moving to her side. “Thank you for making the arrangements.”
“Thank you for seeing to reason,” she replied, leaning back against the headboard. “I hope you will be as reasonable about letting me out of this bed.”
She looked up at him, lashes fluttering as she obviously attempted to mimic her friend’s sweet demeanor. He smiled but made no promises. He was removing the bandage when there was a knock at the open door. He glanced up to find Mrs. Howland in the doorway. The curly-haired brunette had been one of his few friends in the village so far. An heiress, she had married the magistrate a few days ago only to orchestrate the siege of Castle How against French agents.
“Oh, good,” she said, coming into the room, her lavender skirts swirling about her. “You’re both here. I bring news about our French spies.”
Chapter Three
Abigail pulled away from Doctor Bennett’s touch to focus on her friend. “What’s happened?”
Eva moved fully into the room, hugging her rose-patterned shawl close. As she stopped at the foot of the bed, her Saxon-blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “Mr. Denby was able to convince Mr. Harris to confess.”
“Oh, well done,” Abigail said.
Doctor Bennett nodded. “Well done indeed. The spa has been ablaze with gossip since you apprehended him. That was the night Miss Archer was shot.” He looked to her as if she had somehow planned that.
“It certainly was,” Eva agreed with a smile to Abigail. “And what a night! I’m simply glad our valiant Riding Surveyor was able to get through to Mr. Harris. Of course, at first, the miscreant denied any wrongdoing, but he eventually declared that a French invasion is imminent.”
Abigail shivered at the very thought. “That was bravado talking, surely.”
“So we hope,” Eva assured her. “Before we remanded him into the custody of an agent from the War Office, however, he admitted that as many as four French agents may be lurking in the area.”
Abigail stared at her. “But we can identify them.”
Eva made a face. “Unfortunately, no. He never met them in person. He only left messages at the castle. He received his orders that way too. So, we have no idea who they are, what they are doing. That’s why James sent me to find you. We need your help. We must watch for strangers.”
While Eva had been talking, Doctor Bennett had succeeded in unwrapping Abigail’s bandage and now dropped it into his bag. “Easier said than done. Nearly everyone is a stranger to me.”
Much as it pained her to admit it, he was right. “And, on any given day in the summer, the spa may host as many as a dozen Newcomers, more if Jesslyn pulls off the Regatta as planned.”
“That’s what concerns James,” Eva said. “He had
to leave for London this morning to see about his family. All we can do is be vigilant. Question the reason for every fellow to be here.”
That was a tall order. Even with Jesslyn’s help, would Doctor Bennett be able to handle such a task? He might end up treating the very people they wanted captured!
But of course, he didn’t ask for help in such matters. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Now, if I may finish my work, I’ll leave you two to talk.”
Eva stepped back toward the door. Panic pricked Abigail, and she jerked up her free hand to halt her friend. “Stay, please, Eva. My mother is busy, and I would prefer company.”
She didn’t dare say the word chaperone, but her friend seemed to understand, for she returned to her spot at the foot of the bed with a commiserating smile. Doctor Bennett, however, frowned just the slightest, and she couldn’t tell if it was her request or her wound that troubled him.
“Any pain?” he asked, taking her arm in his warm hands and studying the stitches.
So easy to study him in return. Those lashes were more gold than brown and long enough to make the ladies sigh in envy. A depression marked his cheek, less ruddy than the rest of his skin. A scar perhaps? And those lips…
She made herself focus on her wound instead, though she had to crick her neck to see all of it. Was the mark less red than yesterday?
He raised his gaze to hers, and she realized he was waiting for her answer.
“Only a little pain, when I move it,” she allowed.
When his brows went up, she sighed. “Well, I must move it once in a while. Some things require getting out of bed, sir.”
“I can think of nothing more important than your health, madam,” he countered, gaze returning to her wound.
“And how do you suggest I use the chamber pot?” she demanded.
His mouth twitched, as if he was fighting a smile. “I will allow that sort of exception.” He glanced up again. “Have you needed the laudanum?”
She’d almost given in last night when the ache had consumed her. “No.”