by Wilma Counts
So, he equivocated. “I do not seem to have difficulty with war memories,” he said. “Would that I did.”
She gave him a look of sympathy, but said nothing as Stewart returned just then with a flat piece of wood under his arm and a hammer and nails in his hands.
“Thought I’d nail that door shut ’til we can replace the lock,” he said. “No sense inviting trouble again.”
“Well done, Stewart,” the doctor said with a yawn.
“Come, Papa,” Hero said. “We can get an hour or two of sleep yet. We shall talk with you later, Adam.”
The doctor rose and bade Adam “Good night—er—good morning” as he escorted his daughter from the room. Adam smiled to himself as he overheard the doctor say with a chuckle, “Adam, is it?” He did not hear Hero’s response.
* * * *
Alone now with his rejuvenated memory, Adam could no longer sleep. He remembered! He remembered it all: who he was, why he was here, the incident on the road to Weyburn Abbey. Dr. Whitby had been right: Something—even something quite trivial—could trigger the return of memory. In this case, it had been the tension—battlefield tension—as he waited for whoever was trying to unlock that door. His memory had been triggered as soon as he got a clear view of them. He wondered fleetingly if anyone else from his past—a friend or member of his family, say—might have instigated his re-entering his own book of life. It did not matter. He remembered!
This chapter of his life had started in his father’s London residence, Thornleigh House, in the Mayfair district of the city. Napoleon finally and firmly banished from the Continent, the Duke of Thornleigh had taken his bride of forty-plus years on a long-promised tour of the Italian provinces, leaving their third son to rattle around in that mausoleum alone with a mere thirty or more servants to see to his needs. But not for long would he be “alone.” Thornleigh House was on the verge of being invaded by three other of the duke’s children—along with their spouses and assorted children of their own—for the London Season.
Thus it was that the duke’s third son, Lord Alexander Benjamin Sterne—until some months ago, Major Lord Alexander Sterne of His Majesty’s Army—welcomed the escape suggested by a visit from his solicitor, who had handled his lordship’s affairs during the major’s army years.
The solicitor had arrived late one morning as his client was suffering a monumental hangover—one of many following monumental drinking bouts pursued in part to postpone sleep, which inevitably brought dreams of death and destruction and mayhem. Hamlet was right to suspect that supposed balm to the human soul, Alex told himself repeatedly. Sleep was vastly overrated as offering comfort. And no amount of drinking, gambling, and whoring had yet managed to fend off the major’s “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”
When the visitor entered, Alex had roused himself from a reclining position on a couch in the duke’s elegant library to stand and greet the lawyer properly.
“Mr. Montague, your note sounded rather urgent.” He motioned the visitor to a winged chair opposite the couch.
Mr. Cedric Montague, middle-aged and prosperous looking, sat and placed an attaché case at his feet. He said, “Perhaps not urgent, my lord, but certainly serious. I shall get right to the point. Revenues from your properties have declined rather precipitously of late.”
“Is that not quite normal for a post-war economy?”
“Not, I think, to this degree, my lord. Actually, there have been some serious losses dating back some years now. I have tried to keep you informed in my quarterly reports, but…” Montague’s voice trailed off.
“But—occupied elsewhere—I tended to pay them little attention,” Alex filled in for him. “I seemed always to have enough of the wherewithal to suit my needs.”
“Yes, my lord. We saw little problem in the first years after you inherited from Sir Benjamin Harwood. There were few expenditures that one might consider extraordinary. All seemed in order. But last summer I took it upon myself to visit the properties. And I must tell you—something is not quite right there. You have laid out monies for repairs and maintenance that seem not to have been done. I did write up my findings in a report then, but as the Battle of Waterloo had so recently occurred, I quite understand how you may have overlooked it.”
“I think you mean to say I ignored it,” Alex said.
The lawyer reached for his case and extracted some papers. “I would hesitate to put it in exactly those terms, my lord.” He reached across a low table to hand over the documents. “When you have examined these, I think you may want to hire an investigator to determine the true state of affairs at Weyburn Abbey.”
“Or go myself,” Alex muttered.
The next day he had sent a letter to the Abbey’s steward, one Willard Teague, informing him that he would be journeying to Weyburn on thus-and-such a date and he would welcome a full accounting from the man when he arrived.
Alex studied carefully the documents Montague had given him, and over the next several days he afforded the situation a good deal of thought. The lawyer was right: Things were not exactly as they should be at Weyburn Abbey. Ordinarily, Major Sterne’s inclination would have been to charge in, take command, and put everything to rights again. His gut told him that approach did not seem advisable in the civilian world. So he decided to reconnoiter matters first. To this end, he would forego the usual trappings of travel for a member of a duke’s family.
He would journey to Cornwall incognito, leaving Jeremy MacIntosh, his sometime batman, now his valet, in London; employ a post chaise for the first part of the journey; then switch to a rented saddle horse on the last day. Spring rains had slowed the carriage travel, but Alex welcomed fairer weather on that final day. All had gone as planned. He stopped in the town for lunch and, as a ruse to reinforce his traveling incognito, he asked directions to the Abbey. He then rode on, enjoying the fine day and pleasant scenery: a lane lined with trees showing that first green-gold of new foliage and allowing occasional glimpses of a sparkling sea.
Suddenly, his hired hack was startled by something; the horse reared, nearly unseating its rider. Before he could control the animal, three men darted from a copse of willows, shouting and waving their arms, startling the horse further. As they tried to drag Alex from the saddle, he reached for his pistol in a holster attached to the saddle. He managed to get off a wild shot before they succeeded in dragging him from his mount. He recalled hearing a loud crack and landing with his right leg at a horrible angle. He also remembered the mismatched scuffle that followed—with grunts and yelps of pain all around. He was sure he had managed to land a punch or two of his own before a blow to his head—with a rock?—had sent him reeling. He remembered the gritty gravel against his cheek and hands and he felt a couple of kicks to his torso before he lost consciousness.
Now, days later, and after a second attempt on his life, he cursed himself for a fool. He should never have announced his intended visit. Alex had inherited the Abbey from his Uncle Benjamin. His mother’s childless brother had also been Alex’s godfather. Willard Teague had served his uncle as both the Abbey’s land steward and as general manager of the copper mine. Sir Benjamin had trusted the man, so Alex, occupied at the time with one battle after another on the Iberian Peninsula, had readily agreed to the solicitor’s suggestion that the new owner retain the steward so long as said owner was out of the country. In view of this recent visit from Kempf and Prentiss, it was quite clear that the attack on the road to the Abbey had not been a random encounter. Did not think this visit to Cornwall quite through, did you? he grumbled to himself. He also readily admitted—so long as he was chastising himself—that he had simply ignored the Cornwall-Devon property as he wrestled unsuccessfully with the demons plaguing him since his return to England.
That assault on the road to the Abbey might have been passed off as the work of ordinary highwaymen; this most recent one could not. It was clearly directed at
a specific target: the owner of Weyburn Abbey. Had Teague—perhaps innocently—informed others of the intended visit? Surely a visit from a long-absent owner of such a huge holding would have been cause for gossip in the area. Stewart had said the Prentiss boy and Kempf were “part of Teague’s gang.” What did that mean? Why did folks become guarded when Teague’s name was mentioned?
Teague clearly suspected that “Adam Wainwright” was not who he said he was, but Alex knew that, other than timing, there was no way the man could be absolutely sure. Major Lord Alexander Sterne had operated as one of Wellington’s spies often enough that he knew one operated in enemy territory without carrying identity papers. And this certainly seemed to be enemy territory.
But why?
Perhaps Adam Wainwright should continue to reconnoiter for that other fellow, Alexander Sterne.
Chapter 7
When she left the clinic with her father early that morning, Hero fully intended to first, sleep for a while, and then, after breakfast and time with Annabelle, confront Adam about how much of his memory he had regained. Her plan for the day was sabotaged almost immediately. She had scarcely settled into her bed when Stewart was again knocking on her door.
“Sorry, Miss Hero, but there’s some folks needing help down below. Gunshot wounds.”
“Gunshots? Oh, good heavens. How many injured?”
“Three, I think.”
“Wake my father, please, Stewart. Then go and get the most serious case on the surgery table. We will be right there.”
“Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Hutchins is already seeing to hot water.”
“Good.”
She dressed hastily in a worn, loose-fitting day dress, grateful that she need not ring for a maid merely to help her dress. She might not be fashionable, but she could usually dress herself in something presentable. Still, it took her longer than it did her father; he would already be dealing with the first patient by the time she arrived. She dismissed any further musing about her dress; she would be enveloped in a covering apron once she went downstairs. Why do these emergencies always come so early in the morning? Not even six o’clock yet.
In the wide hallway outside the surgery, she found two red-coated militiamen standing over two wounded men. She lifted her lantern for a better look at these two. They were both conscious and both were young—barely in their twenties, she guessed. One, sitting against the wall, wore the militia uniform. He had a blood-soaked rag wrapped about his head and he held his arm carefully in a makeshift sling. The other, dressed in the garb of a local seaman, lay supine on what she took to be a piece of canvas sail. Blood pooled under his right shoulder, and the left leg of his trousers was ripped and bloody. She recognized this one and knelt beside him.
“Billy Jenkins. What happened to you?”
“Caught a bullet in my shoulder and a knife in my leg.” He sucked in a painful breath. “Shoulder hurts. Hurts like fire!”
“I am sure it does. We shall see to both of you just as soon as we can,” she said as she stood up.
The youngest standing militiaman used his boot to nudge Billy Jenkins’s foot. “Yeah. Fix you up good for the hangman’s noose, maybe.”
Jenkins howled, but Hero thought he did so for show—or out of fear—for the militiaman had merely touched what she took to be his uninjured limb.
“Enough, Taylor!” The older militiaman, who wore an officer’s insignia, barked at his subordinate, then bowed to Hero. “Captain Howell. At your service, ma’am. Patrolling the coast, we ran into this gang of smugglers. They were armed and chose to fight. These two”—he pointed at Billy and at the open door to the surgery—“have lived to pay for their deeds.”
“Let us hope the payment does not exceed the magnitude of the deeds,” she said and hurried past him through the door.
“They are smugglers!” he called after her.
She found her father already dealing with the man on the table, assisted by Stewart and a middle-aged maid named Nellie Matson. Nellie, who had worked for the Whitbys for years, had returned only yesterday, having been attending to her dying father for the last month. She was an accomplished nurse—and she was not squeamish.
“Ah, Hero,” her father greeted her. “This one’s serious. Caught a knife across his face and a sword slashed his belly. There is a bullet in his upper thigh—nicked the bone, I think. We need to get that bullet out, and your hand is steadier than mine.”
She accepted the large encompassing apron Stewart held out for her and wrapped the sashes about her to tie it tightly in the front. She noted that Nellie, similarly garbed—as was her father—was gently cleaning the man’s face. Their patient, lying under a sheet already spotted with blood, was Jake Harrison. Hero had attended Sunday school lessons with the Harrisons. She tried not to think about how worried Jake’s wife would be.
He was conscious, obviously apprehensive, and obviously in pain, but his amiable personality was sustaining him. “You be careful of the family jewels there, Doc.” He managed this remark despite the cut on his face that ran from his nose to his jawline.
“Just lie still. My daughter will do her best to see that you are able to add to that long line of Harrisons.”
“I don’t want no woman cuttin’ on me in tender places. ʼTain’t decent.”
“Fine,” Dr. Whitby said. “We shall leave that lead in you, and you will likely die of gangrene. You might anyway. That would deal effectively with the Harrison dynasty.”
“Ah, Doc—”
The patient’s words ended on a high note of pain as the doctor lifted the sheet and moved the injured leg to reveal the wound to Hero. Jake subsided into silence. Hero thought he was gritting his teeth against pain. She saw Nellie give him a folded cloth to bite down on.
She knew her father’s blunt impatience came from his own pain and fatigue. Trying to stay out of Jake’s line of vision, she gently elbowed her father out of the way and began to probe for the bullet. Her father moved to deal with the cut across his midriff.
Finding the intrusive lead proved easier than she had feared, but extracting it required delicate work. No matter how careful she was, the wound was bleeding anew and she was aware of causing Jake excruciating pain. She was glad when he fainted. Once she removed the foreign object, she cleaned the outside of the wound and stitched it shut. She joined her father who, with Nellie’s help, was dealing with a deep diagonal slash across Jake’s belly.
The doctor stood up to ease his own back muscles and said to the now unconscious patient, “Well, son, you are lucky. That saber—or whatever it was—missed any vital organs so far as I can tell.” He turned to Hero. “It nicked the liver. I’ve managed to control the internal bleeding for the moment. Have to just hope he doesn’t manage to get it started again. He’s going to have a sore belly and little appetite for a while.”
“You sit for a few minutes, Papa. I will finish with Jake, then we’ll bring in the other two.”
She steeled herself for more stitchery, telling herself yet again how she hated sewing pieces of human flesh together. She was glad to see that the facial wound, once Nellie had cleaned it, required only three stitches in the fleshiest part of his cheek. But he had wakened from the faint, and winced with each poke of the needle.
“Sorry, Jake,” she murmured. “Stay with me now. Just a little bit more. Then I will give you some laudanum for the pain, and you’ll sleep.”
He said nothing, but his deep brown eyes reflected trust, gratitude, and resignation. She finished and instructed Stewart and Nellie to bring in the second bed from what she now thought of as “Adam’s room.” The two helpers had been busy throughout, exchanging basins of bloody water for clean warm water. They transferred Jake to the bed and Hero and Stewart wheeled it into the other room as Nellie and Dr. Whitby prepared for the next patient.
Hero was not at all surprised to see that Adam was wide awake.
“Busy morning, eh?” Adam watched as Hero and Stewart pushed the second bed into position and set the blocks to stabilize it. The new patient was already drifting into sleep from the laudanum she had given him.
“Yes, and it is far from over,” she replied. “We need your bed.”
“That should not be a problem. I shall just jump right down and give it up. Would you like me to do a jig as well?”
She smiled. “Try not to be such a wiseacre. Stewart will help you into the Bath chair and wheel you into another room. I think you will like it—it is directly across from the library.”
She rang the bellpull for another maid to come and change the bed Adam had been using, then left as Mr. Stewart was helping him out of the bed.
Back in the surgery, she found Billy Jenkins lying on the table and the wounded militiaman sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair. The other two militiamen stood leaning against the wall. The hole in Billy’s shoulder turned out to be merely a flesh wound, but she still had to probe for the bullet and stitch the laceration. Billy was not nearly so stoic about pain as his friend Jake Harrison had been. He loudly sucked in his breath or yelped with each stitch. She dealt with the leg wound, which also required stitches, then left her father and Nellie to deal with Billy’s bandages.
While Hero and her father had dealt with Billy, Nellie had cleaned the militiaman’s face and his wounded arm. She had also correctly deduced that the arm was broken midway between the elbow and wrist and retrieved the necessary splints from a cupboard. Stewart helped Hero set the bone and splint it. She was glad to see that the actual tear in the skin on his arm was superficial and would require no needlework. The man was young and was distinctly embarrassed as he howled in pain when the bone was put back in place and the splints were set to keep it there.