by Regina Scott
She inclined her head as she rose from the table. “It was a worthwhile proposal. I’m glad the others agreed.”
“Because of your championship,” Linus assured her. “I want you to know I value that about you, Abigail.”
She eyed him as the others filed out. “Be careful, Doctor Bennett. I might think you were encouraging me to take risks.”
“Appropriate risks,” he hedged. “Risks that don’t put you in danger.”
“I am afraid we disagree on that,” she said as they turned for the door. “There is always a degree of danger when you put the needs of others before your own. It may not be a risk to your life, but to opportunities, your peace of mind. Yet I would live no other way.”
And how could he ask her to live any other way? He too believed in putting others first.
“There is also a risk to those we love,” he tried. “We may take a chance, but our failing may mean sacrifice for them.”
She paused in the doorway, face troubled. “What sacrifice do you see in attempting to learn the identity of our French spies? Surely there are only benefits to the entire village.”
“If you were successful in keeping out of their reach. If you were not successful, you could have been killed, Abigail. Think how that would affect the families who rely on your shop. Think how it would affect those who love you.”
He dared not say more on the matter. Already she was staring at him as if in wonder.
“I can only admire your determination,” he said. “I also admire your artistic eye. Perhaps you’d be willing to advise me on how to furnish this larger house.”
It was a peace offering. He had no idea if she would accept it. But oh, how he wanted her to accept it.
She cocked her head as if giving the matter due consideration, and he held his breath.
“Very well,” she said. “I would be glad to help. For the good of the village, of course.”
Linus bowed. “Of course.”
And he left the room feeling lighter than he had in days.
Chapter Seventeen
He escorted her home, as if they were courting. His bodyguard for the day, Mr. Truant of the Swan, trailed respectfully behind. True, he had to fetch Ethan anyway, but when his fingers brushed hers, she allowed her hand to slip into his. For a moment, that was all she needed.
Their conversation after the meeting could not help but give her pause. She hadn’t thought how her actions might frighten him, particularly after his experiences with his late wife. Perhaps he didn’t fault her for her independence after all. Surely if he found her unsuitable, he would never had asked her help in setting up his new house. Indeed, some might consider such a request as a prelude to a proposal. Best not to mention the matter to her mother or Jess.
They found out anyway.
“Perhaps one of Mrs. Catchpole’s pretty pots for his dressing table,” her mother suggested when she came through the shop the next day. “He could store cravat pins in it.”
“Who, Mother?” Abigail asked, moving toward the display of painted clay pots the employment agency owner crafted in the evenings.
“Why, Doctor Bennett, dear. Ethan says you’ll be helping decorate their new house.”
Abigail jerked to a stop. “I didn’t agree to help with the idea of selling him things from the shop. And I have never seen him use a cravat pin.”
Her mother looked thoughtful. “Then perhaps we should furnish him with some of those too. I’ll ask Mr. Lawrence what he thinks.” She trotted out before Abigail could respond.
Jesslyn was more pointed. “I understand you’ll be helping Doctor Bennett set up his house in the village,” she said when Abigail ventured up to the spa to assist her with Regatta planning late in the day. “I can tell you what Father preferred.”
Abigail shook her head. “Who told you?”
She nodded across the Grand Pump Room, which was as crowded as ever today. “Doctor Bennett, of course. He seems inordinately pleased by the fact.”
Abigail looked to where Linus was speaking with Doctor Owens. He glanced up and met her gaze, then excused himself and strode to her side. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, her face. Her heart.
“Abigail,” he greeted her with all politeness even though she caught Jess’s pleased smile at the use of her first name. “I know you and Mrs. Denby must have work on the Regatta. Would you have a few moments to talk?”
“Of course.” She excused herself from her friend and followed him toward the bronze wall clock. Mrs. Harding, seated in her usual spot by the windows, nodded her approval as they passed.
He leaned closer, and she caught a whiff of mint. “I signed the lease on the house this morning. Mrs. Kirby says I may move in whenever we like. I have only a few furnishings from London—my desk and chair, Ethan’s bookcase, and a small table my mother favored.”
She had to force her mind to focus. “Mrs. Catchpole will know who’s available to help move. The house has beds, a dining table and chairs, glass hutch, and settee, if I recall. What else would you like? Mrs. Kirby keeps catalogs from all the major furniture manufacturers and cabinet makers in Dorset and London. We can order what we need and have it delivered. What’s your budget?”
He grimaced. “Seeing as how I just took a cut in pay, not as much as I’d like. Besides the basic necessities, which we appear to have covered, there are the table and cabinets for the examining room.”
“I’ll speak to Jesslyn about those,” Abigail said. “I believe she put some of her father’s things up in the attic when she and Lark moved into Shell Cottage. I’m sure she’d rather they went to good use.”
He nodded. “There is one other item,” he said, so hesitantly she could not imagine what it could be. “I’d like a painting for over the hearth in the withdrawing room. One of your paintings.”
Warmth pulsed through her. “I’d be honored.”
His smile had her leaning closer before she thought better of it. He was moving to meet her.
Then his head snapped up so fast she felt the rush of air. “Was there something you needed, sir?” he asked.
Abigail turned to find Doctor Owens standing beside them, smile amused. “Miss Archer, Doctor Bennett. Forgive the interruption, but a rumor has been brought to my attention, and I thought to track it to its source.”
Had he too heard she was helping Linus with his new home? Her cheeks heated, but he looked to Linus first.
“Is it true you were abducted by French agents?”
Abigail blew out a breath even as Linus put on a smile.
“Two gentlemen were rather insistent on my help,” he told the other physician. “We believe they may be French.”
“Some say they come through the castle on the headland,” Owens confided. “Secret caves, I believe the story goes.”
Only a few knew the French had been using the caves beneath the castle as a way to sneak ashore without anyone seeing them. Who had mentioned the matter to a Newcomer?
“Not much of a secret if rumors are flying,” Abigail told him.
“And I have had no further trouble,” Linus added. “I can only hope they have left the area, perhaps with willing smugglers or a crossing in the night.”
Doctor Owens nodded. “Then there’s to be no action by the militia.”
“No, worse luck,” Abigail said. “Though the soldiers at West Creech did make a search, I understand. Never fear, Doctor. We will not allow a French victory in Grace-by-the-Sea.”
Linus merely nodded, but he was regarding her again as if he very much feared she was about to take a risk too big for her, and him.
~~~
A few miles away, across the Downs, a caravan of coaches rolled along the road to Grace-by-the-Sea. Drake, the newly belted Earl of Howland, had driven this way many a time over his thirty years, but never with so much riding on his shoulders. His late father had been a man well known throughout the realm and feared no little by those who’d understood him best. Three of them sat in th
e carriage with him now.
“How much longer, Father?” Miranda asked, swaying back and forth in her seat as she tried to catch a glimpse of their new home out the window.
“Will you please stop asking that question?” her grandmother fretted, face the same shade of white as the hair that peeked out of her tall, feathered bonnet. “We will reach the castle when we reach it.”
“That was the turning from West Creech just a few moments ago,” his aunt Marjorie assured Miranda far more kindly. “Not long now.”
He had been treated to a full examination of his family tree as the College of Heralds confirmed his right to succeed his father, so he knew the older lady with her grey hair and warm brown eyes was actually his cousin once removed, but he had been calling her aunt since he could remember. Of course, he’d gone by Thorgood, for his father’s lesser title, for all that time too. Surprisingly difficult to remember he was Howland now.
Miranda stiffened, eyes widening, and she pointed out the window. “There it is!”
Even his mother pressed her patrician nose to the glass then.
Castle How, the hunting lodge where he’d spent part of every summer, stood tall on its headland, as if it truly guarded the way from the Channel to the Downs. His mother and Aunt Marjorie knew the visit would be of much longer duration this time. When one faced penury, one stayed where one could.
“I want the blue suite,” his nine-year-old daughter declared to all and sundry. “The one looking out over the Channel. That way I can keep watch for the French.”
His mother shuddered. “The French will not be coming over the water, Miranda. I have the king’s word on that.”
King George might offer as many promises as he liked. Drake had a feeling Napoleon would do whatever pleased him. The best they could do was pray for unfavorable winds for crossing for the foreseeable future.
“You can watch the Regatta from there too, if you like,” he suggested to his daughter as the coach and its two companions, carrying the servants and luggage, trundled down the graveled drive for the wide front doors. “I understand it’s only a week away now.”
“I’d nearly forgotten,” Aunt Marjorie exclaimed. “Now, that’s a wonderful time to be in Grace-by-the-Sea.”
His mother sniffed. “If there is a good time. The crowds, the noise. And entirely too much celebration.” She shuddered again.
“I love it,” Miranda said. “I don’t want to watch it from the castle this year, Father. Will you take me to the shore?”
Much as he hated to agree with his mother’s pessimistic outlook, the Regatta was favored by people his sheltered daughter might never meet otherwise. “I would prefer you stayed at the castle.”
Her face darkened under her shiny blond curls even as her jaw hardened, and he readied himself to withstand the storm that was building. His late wife, Felicity, had doted on her daughter, caring for her herself. When she’d died, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to hand Miranda over to a governess. But that was when his father had insisted on managing everything about their holdings, leaving Drake with little to do except teach and support his daughter. Now they had far fewer holdings, but he had responsibilities nonetheless. Yet what governess could withstand his daughter’s outbursts? Even his aristocratic mother quailed before them.
Aunt Marjorie was no more immune. “Now, then,” she said soothingly. “Your father will be expected to open the festivities this year, as earl. I’m sure James will build a fine grandstand on the headland. The four of us, James, and his new wife, Eva, can all sit there.”
Miranda’s color faded, and she smiled benignly at her great-aunt. “What a splendid suggestion. I can hardly wait.”
~~~
Linus could only be thankful the next few days passed uneventfully, for him and Abigail, and for the spa. Some Newcomers and Irregulars left, but many more took their places, all coming for the annual Regatta. Every room at the Swan and the Mermaid was full, and Mrs. Kirby told him every house had been let, if only for the next fortnight.
“I’m very glad you took your house when you did, or I wouldn’t have been able to let you in until September,” she confided.
The difference in the village was appreciable. As he walked Ethan from the Archers up the street to their new house, others strolled in the same direction. Lines formed at the baker’s and the grocer’s. Mr. Carroll’s shop was more stuffed with people than curiosities for once, and Abigail kept her shop open longer hours.
“Though I may have to close if we continue selling as we have,” she told him when he stopped to get Ethan one evening.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You have excellent wares, and our guests are taking notice.”
“But I still have something for you,” she said, crooking her finger at him. He followed her to her studio.
They had had little time together since she’d helped him finish the house, a fact he found more frustrating than he’d expected, but somehow, she’d made time to work on a new canvas. The vista looked out from the cove, headlands embracing the calm blue water. Beyond them, the Channel disappeared into the distance. She had yet to finish the foreground, but already the piece called to him.
“Magnificent,” he said.
Her cheeks were turning pink, and he had to fist his hands to keep from reaching out to touch them. “Thank you,” she said. “Will it do for over the hearth?”
“It would do for hanging in Hampton Court for the royal family to enjoy,” he assured her. “Thank you, Abigail.”
She looked up at him, gaze wistful, and it was the work of a moment to bend his head and brush his lips against hers.
He should have known his Abigail would never be content with so small a gesture. As if she had been missing him as much, she wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back. When she released him, he had only enough wits about him to catalog his symptoms. Pounding pulse. Blood rushing to his face. A slight dizziness.
Euphoria.
Love?
No, that he wasn’t ready to diagnose, even if he recognized the other symptoms: an admiration, a desire to cherish, protect. A hope to be at her side forever. Some part of him demanded he offer her his heart, his life. He settled on something far safer.
“Will you and your mother do me the honor of attending the Regatta with me and Ethan?” he asked.
She peered up at him as if she had hoped for another kind of invitation as well. “We’d be delighted, sir. I already purchased four seats on the eastern grandstand. Will those suffice?”
Linus started laughing. “I should have known you’d be one step ahead of me. I didn’t even know there were grandstands.”
Indeed there were. The scaffolding became evident the very next day as fishermen, carters, and farmers worked to build the wooden frames. Below the castle, on the rocky arm enclosing the eastern portion of the cove, stacked benches four high held seats for fifty people. Across the cove, on the opposite headland, another set of benches welcomed fifty more. That didn’t count those who sat on blankets or the rocks along the cliffs to the east and west or those watching from pleasure craft anchored at either end of the mile-long course that stretched from the castle to where he had been told Lord Peverell’s Lodge lay among the trees.
“Either Lord Howland or Lord Peverell opens the race,” Abigail explained as she, her mother, he, and Ethan ventured out onto the headland with the others making the trek the morning of the event. Flags flew from every shop, and a red or blue pennant snapped from the upper corners of the grandstands. “This year, Lord Howland has the honor.”
“His first time as the new earl,” her mother put in with a glance up the hill toward the castle, where a special covered stand had been built.
“Look at all the boats, Father!” Ethan cried, pointing with his free hand. Mrs. Archer held firmly to the other.
It was an impressive sight. So many masts poked up they might have been looking out at a winter forest. Already sailors scrambled from deck to rigging and back, whi
le others worked at raising anchors.
Abigail climbed to the third row of the stand and squeezed past Mr. Lawrence and his family to four vacant spots with numbers painted on the spaces. Ethan was fairly wiggling as he sat. From along the shore came calls from villagers selling sweet pickles, meat pies, and various biscuits and pastries.
“See there?” Abigail asked Ethan, nodding to where two boats stood with tall pennants below the castle. “That is the starting line. There will be three fleets of six boats each. They sail down and back again. The two fastest of each fleet will meet again for a final race to determine the winner.”
“And the winner gets a fancy silver cup,” her mother put in, “big enough to hold a gallon of cider.”
Ethan’s eyes widened.
“There, see the sails going up?” Abigail continued, nodding toward the east. “Those will be the first six.”
At the cliffside closest to the starting line, James Howland stepped forward, a man who looked very like him at his side. The magistrate held up a speaking trumpet, aiming the bell out over the water.
“Attention! If I may have your attention, good sirs and madams.”
Voices grew quiet. Ethan stared up at him. Abigail grinned at Linus and took his hand. The day felt finer.
“I have the pleasure of introducing you to my esteemed cousin, Lord Howland.” He handed the other man the speaking trumpet with a bow.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his cousin, the new earl, called out, voice echoing across the water. “Allow me to welcome you to the thirtieth annual Grace-by-the-Sea Regatta.”
Cheers and applause echoed from both headlands, with yells of support from the vessels at sea.
“This year,” he went on when things had quieted a little, “we have a very fine showing of eighteen vessels from Dorset, Devonshire, Cornwall, and as far away as Kent.”
More cheers erupted.
“May the best captain, the fastest ship, win.”
He bowed and offered the speaking trumpet back to his cousin, then went to take his seat on the shaded grandstand beside a little girl, two older women, Eva, and Mrs. Tully.