by Wilma Counts
“Fine—when we ain’t chased off the water by either smugglers or the militia takin’ us to be smugglin’,” the older man said.
“Now, Pa…” his son admonished.
“Sorry, Ronnie, but I’m tired o’ bein’ mealymouthed about it. We’re losin’ money we can’t afford to lose.”
At the son’s urging, the fishermen expressed their pleasure at finding Adam recovering so nicely, and left.
Dr. Whitby took the bedside chair and asked, “Did their account trigger any memory of the incident?”
“Afraid not, Doc. It’s almost as though it happened to someone else. Except when I move!”
“Don’t try to rush it, son.”
They sat in silence for a few moments; then Adam said, “Smuggling? Has that not decreased appreciably with the end of the French embargo?” He did not bother at the moment to wonder where that thought came from.
“Some,” Whitby replied. “Government turned a blind eye to it during the war. Token enforcement only. Now, Westminster needs all that tax money. Increased the local militia, but it—the militia—is ‘taxed’ to its utmost—if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“Are you suggesting the militia cannot handle the problem?”
“I do not honestly know. I think much of the problem is that militias are often made up, at least partly, of local men who are reluctant to see friends and family members fired upon—or arrested and transported—for trying to put food on the table.”
Adam merely nodded his understanding.
“I am sure it will get worse before it gets better.” The doctor sighed and changed the subject. “Are you a chess player?”
“Chess? Hmm. Yes, I think I am, though it has probably been a while…”
“Good. I’ll bring the board next time.”
The next afternoon, Dr. Whitby arrived with the chess set and board under his arm. He was accompanied by the footman named Davey, who was half pushing, half carrying a rather strange piece of furniture.
The doctor announced, “Since you are likely to be here a good while—takes at least six weeks for broken ribs to mend, and even longer for that leg to heal—this should help you get around until you become proficient with crutches.”
“What is it?” Adam asked before he had a clear view of the contraption.
“It’s called a Bath chair. Lots of invalids in Bath, you know. The wheels give patients mobility. My daughter got this one for me when my gout was at its worst.”
Now Adam saw it quite clearly: a wicker armchair with a padded seat and a platform for one’s feet. It was set on two large wheels, with a small third wheel in front to steer by.
“Davey here will help push you around until you feel you can handle it on your own. Just ring the bell for him.” With that, the doctor pushed the chair near the bed, and he and Davey, a strapping lad in his teens, helped Adam transfer to the chair.
They pushed him out to a terrace just outside the side door of the room. Facing the sea, the terrace, one of three on the northwest side of the building, was paved with granite slabs and had a wooden bench, a table, and three chairs. Adam noted planters displaying colorful spring flowers—daffodils, wild irises, and tulips. He turned his face up to the sun, luxuriating in just being outdoors. Dr. Whitby tossed him a small blanket for his legs, set the chess game on the table, and wheeled Adam closer before taking a seat at the table himself.
“Any progress on the memory?” the doctor asked.
“Not much regarding recent weeks. I am remembering certain scenes of Waterloo—not such as one would discuss in a drawing room, mind you!—and I am getting a better grip on my time in the Peninsula.”
“Nothing about family? Schooling? Friends? Somebody somewhere must be concerned about you.”
Adam shrugged—and winced as he felt the action in his ribs. “I suppose so.”
“As I’ve said before, it will all come back to you. Something is sure to trigger a memory and everything will come rushing back.”
“I hope so. I do hope so. For one thing, I am mindful of my obligations to you and Miss Whitby.”
“We shall deal with that in due time,” the doctor said. “Meanwhile, concentrate on getting well. And playing well,” he added, dumping the box of chessmen on the board.
Chapter 5
He was gaining strength every day, but Adam had not yet built up any endurance. He felt a distinct sense of frustration at not being able to remember even his own name, though he was schooling himself to be this person called Adam. And he deplored the fact that he really needed his afternoon naps.
On a warm spring day he had just awakened from one of these, and was considering ringing for someone to help him out of bed and into the Bath chair when he became aware of voices on the terrace. Both the window and the outside door had been left open to “air the room out,” as Mrs. Hutchins had put it when she came for his lunch tray. She did that most days instead of sending a maid for it, and she usually chatted with him for a few minutes. He found her a veritable fountain of information.
But why ring when he could just yell at someone on the terrace who would see that he had help? He hesitated when he failed to recognize the male voice he heard first.
“Ah, Miss Whitby. Your father told me I might find you out here.” The voice moved as the speaker was apparently coming from around the corner of the building.
“Mr. Teague.” Her voice sounded guarded to Adam. “Is there something particular you wanted of me?”
“No. Just thought I’d drop by and see how your long-term patient was doing. Mind if I sit with you for a while?”
“No. Of course not. Do have a seat.” Again Adam perceived hesitancy in her voice—which surprised him, for in Adam’s experience she had never been anything but open and friendly with others. He heard the sound of a chair scraping across the slate floor of the terrace.
“Wellman tells me your patient has regained consciousness,” the male voice said.
“Yes, he has. Mr. Wainwright awoke four days ago.”
“Wainwright? That’s his name, eh?”
“Adam Wainwright.”
“You sure that’s who he is?”
“I am as sure as one can be about anyone one happens to meet.”
“Know anything else about him?”
“He has been a soldier and he curses in three languages.” Adam heard amusement in her voice.
“Soldier, eh? How can you know that?” The man was skeptical.
“He has battle scars older than this recent beating. Before regaining consciousness, he mumbled incoherently about a military encounter.”
“Nothing else?” The man was persistent.
“Not yet. Mr. Teague, the man suffered a thorough beating. The blow to his head could have killed him. We are not pressing him to remember.”
“Well, when he does remember, I’d like to be kept informed.” Now the man sounded pompous to Adam.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you wish to be informed? Your interest seems rather unusual. You have never before concerned yourself about any of our patients.”
“Ah, but I generally know Weyburn folks, don’t I? As the man in charge of Weyburn Abbey and all its concerns, I am quite naturally interested in any stranger to the area.” Definitely pompous, Adam thought.
“I assure you that as soon as Mr. Wainwright regains his…uh…faculties, my father and I will notify his family, or whomever he tells us needs to be informed.”
“Hmpf,” the man grunted. There was silence for a moment, then Teague went on in a much warmer tone. “I have given you several days to think over that matter I mentioned to your father—”
“Mr. Teague, I…uh—”
“Willard. Call me Willard, Hero.”
“I am not comfortable doing that, Mr. Teague.” She sounded disti
nctly uncomfortable to Adam.
“That is quite all right, my dear.” Teague was affable now. “I know many wives who address their husbands only by their surnames.”
Wives? Miss Whitby was going to marry this man, Teague? A man about whom Adam had heard little to recommend him, though others tended to be guarded in discussing him with a stranger. Just why the possibility of Miss Whitby’s marrying him was such a shocking idea, Adam could not immediately say, but it seemed wrong somehow. Come now. You’ve not even met the man, he told himself. He knew he should call out, let them know he was an unwilling party to their discussion, but why embarrass them? Miss Whitby’s next words cheered him.
“Mr. Teague, I am afraid you are jumping to an impossible conclusion. I am mindful of the honor you do me, but—”
Aha! She is refusing him.
“You need not act the coy miss with me,” Teague said, his voice harsher now. “We both know that at your age you are not likely to get a better offer. Truth to tell, who’s to say I won’t be getting damaged goods, eh? What’s more, I am not only willing to marry you, but I’ll take that bastard child you’re so fond of as part of the bargain. What’s one more brat anyway, eh?”
“Mr. Teague!” Indignation, Adam noted to himself. There was the sound of scraping chairs; Adam assumed they were both standing now. In a tone that sounded as though she were trying for control, she continued, “As I say, Mr. Teague, I am sure others would find your offer most flattering, but it is not one I can consider.”
“So. You want to be wooed. Is that it? Well, I can do that, but you have to keep me interested, you know.”
“Mr. Teague!” Her voice rose in something like a yelp.
“Ah, come on. One little kiss is not going to kill you.”
“Mr. Teague.” Controlled anger now.
Adam had had enough. He wished he could charge out and plant a facer on this Teague person. But—hell and damnation!—he needed help just to get into and out of bed. He reached for the ceramic water pitcher on the nightstand and sent it crashing to the floor. “Damn!” he said loud enough for them to hear.
Miss Whitby rushed through the open door. “Mr. Wainwright. Are you all right?”
He tried to sound as though he had just awakened. “T-tried to get a drink of water.”
“I will help you with that,” she said, either ignoring or not seeing a half-filled glass on the nightstand. She reached for the bellpull above his head.
Teague loomed in the doorway and gave Adam a suspicious look. Adam noted he was tall, blond, and dressed as a country gentleman with a well-fitted dark green coat over a gray silk waistcoat, dark gray trousers, and an intricately tied neckcloth. Not exactly working attire, Adam thought. Miss Whitby introduced them and Adam offered his hand, noting that Teague had an intensely firm grip.
“Hero tells me you are having trouble remembering things,” Teague said. Adam thought his brazen use of Miss Whitby’s given name was deliberate—an attempt to establish possession or to intimidate.
“Yes. I am, but Miss Whitby assures me the problem is likely to be temporary, and I have confidence in her expertise.” He deliberately emphasized the correct form of her name and noted the other man’s lips tighten.
“Well, if you do remember why you came to Weyburn, I stand ready to help you about your business,” Teague said.
“Thank you, but as you can see, it will be a while before I am ‘about’ anything.”
Teague turned to Miss Whitby. “We’ll continue our discussion another time, Hero.”
Again Adam resented the man’s making free use of her name, but mentally chastised himself as having absolutely no right to his resentment.
“I do not think that will be necessary, Mr. Teague,” she said.
“But I do,” he said emphatically and left.
She sighed and began to pick up the pieces of the broken pitcher.
“I’m sorry,” Adam said, and was about to go on when the maid Dorcas appeared at the inner door.
“Oh! Miss Whitby. I thought Mr. Wainwright needed something.” She gave Adam a brilliant smile.
“He does,” Miss Whitby said. “Please have Davey bring him a pitcher of fresh water and he can help Mr. Wainwright out of bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Adam shared a knowing glance of amusement with Miss Whitby, who did not seem fully recovered from her talk with Teague.
“How much of that did you hear?” she demanded, with a gesture at the open side door.
“Most of it,” he admitted. “I apologize for eavesdropping.”
“You should have let me know you were awake.”
“Yes. I should have. I—I did not want to interrupt, to embarrass—er—any of us.”
She continued to pick up bits of the broken pitcher and consign them to a wastebasket. Finally she stood and looked at him. “Mr. Teague has four young children for whom he needs a mother.”
“I somehow doubt that is his only interest,” Adam said.
She did not respond to this, but her blush told him she had understood the implied compliment.
Davey’s arrival forestalled further discussion.
* * * *
Embarrassed that Adam had overheard that discussion with Mr. Teague, Hero deliberately avoided her most intriguing patient for the rest of that day. Her father, however, was becoming quite fond of the man, spending time with him just chatting or playing chess. It came as no surprise to her when, after putting Annabelle down for the evening, she entered the library to find that her father had wheeled the man into the library.
Over his own newly mended shirt, Adam wore a dark blue dressing gown that Hero recognized as belonging to her brother Michael. The color enhanced the blue of Adam’s eyes. A blanket covered his legs, the good one bent at the knee in a natural, relaxed position, but the other one—held in place by splints and bandaging—thrust rigidly to the side and rested on the foot stand of the Bath chair. The position looked uncomfortable.
“I’m becoming quite proficient with this chair,” he announced. “But I still need some help getting into and out of the bed.”
“I’ve noticed,” the doctor said. “I’ll wager your arms are getting a monstrous workout.”
“Oh, yes,” the patient responded ruefully. “I did not realize arm muscles were quite such complex mechanisms. Every little part makes itself known.”
“We’ve some liniment that will help,” Hero said from her place on a beige leather couch. She rose and rang for the tea tray.
“I’d appreciate that,” Adam said. “And I must say, troublesome as it is, I am thankful for this chair. Just being upright for a good portion of the day is a boon.”
“That wound on your leg should be healed enough to get you on crutches in a day or two,” the older man said, pushing the chair into position near a small table on which the chess board had already been placed.
“Wonderful,” Adam said. “A whole new set of muscles to discover.”
Stewart entered with the tea tray and Hero welcomed having something to do; she set about preparing each man’s tea as he liked it, then handed it to him. At first she had feared that her father or Adam might bring up the subject of Mr. Teague’s visit, but when neither of them did so, she relaxed into her book and listened only intermittently as they discussed their game and items they had read in the most recent London newspapers: the Prince Regent’s angering his Whig opposition with his newfound interest in the reign of the Stuarts; fear in aristocratic circles of a French-like revolution; popular unrest as the once booming wartime economy stagnated.
“The situation is likely to get worse before it gets better,” she heard her father say.
“Why?” Adam asked.
“Why?” her father repeated rhetorically. “As I see it, mainly because people like his noble lordship of Weyburn Abbey are content to ignore peopl
e who depend on them for leadership. They leave things in the hands of surrogates like Teague, who cannot—or will not—do right by folks. The owners are content so long as the money keeps coming in. Weyburn people are not desperate yet, but those workers in the Midlands are really hurting. The paper talks of a resurgence of the Luddites.”
Hero glanced up from her book to see Adam’s brow wrinkle in consternation. “Luddites? Luddites? Ah. Smashing machinery in textile mills.”
“You remember that, do you?” the doctor asked eagerly.
“Only vaguely.” He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, then shook his head sadly. “I have an image of a group of officers in a mess tent sharing mail and news from home.”
“Officers,” the doctor said. “Do you remember any of their names?”
“Ollie. Fitz. Oliver Windham. Fitzgerald Williamson. Charlton Stirling. There were others….” His voice trailed off.
Seeing that her father would have pursued the discussion and that their patient was either tired or emotionally drained at even that much memory, Hero interrupted. “Don’t press him, Papa. Let it come as it will.” She stood and added brightly, “How about a bit of cognac to top off our day?”
“Splendid idea, my dear,” her father said, accepting her putting an end to the evening.
Hero went to a sideboard and poured three glasses of the amber liquid. She handed one to each of the men, returned to her own seat, and raised her glass in a salute. “To your progress,” she said, gazing into Adam’s deep blue eyes.
“Hear! Hear!” her father said.
“Thank you.” Adam held her gaze for a long moment before taking a swallow of his drink.
The two men finished their game, but Hero thought Adam’s heart was not in it now.
“Checkmate,” her father said. Adam nodded and laid down his king. Her father drained his glass and stood. “It has been a long day. I am off to bed. Hero, will you ring for Stewart to see Wainwright here to his bed as well?”
“Of course, Papa. Sleep well.”
To reach the bellpull, she had to walk around Adam’s wheeled chair. As she did so, he reached out to grasp her hand.