by Wilma Counts
One day a cold rain kept Alex off the terrace. With Hero and her father away all afternoon making house calls, Alex retreated to the library. He had stirred the fire and settled in a comfortable wing chair with a book on the Peloponnesian War when he heard the loud thwacks of the outside door knocker and then muffled voices as a footman answered the door and presumably informed the caller that the doctor and his daughter were not at home. Then the footman—it was Ross this time—rapped softly on the library door and entered at Adam’s bidding.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Wainwright, but Mr. Teague is asking if he might speak with you.”
Alex was surprised, but said, “Show him in.” Using only one crutch, he rose awkwardly to a standing position as Teague strolled into the room.
“Do stay seated, Wainwright. I would not put you to any trouble,” Teague said, plopping himself down on a couch without waiting for an invitation to be seated.
“Thank you.” As he waited for Teague to state his business, Alex noted that the steward was again dressed as a prosperous country gentleman, this time in a maroon coat and buff colored trousers. And why shouldn’t the Abbey’s steward dress to fit his position in the community? Alex asked himself. He forcibly quelled his resentment at having to appear in a hand-me-down coat and a pair of trousers that had been altered drastically to accommodate the splinted leg. Teague merely stared at him for several seconds. Alex thought the stare was meant to intimidate, but he refused to rise to the bait.
Finally, Teague said, “I see you are recovering quite nicely.”
“Yes, I am. I have had excellent care.”
“I hear you’re from London.”
“Most recently, yes.”
“And that you are acquainted with the owner of the Abbey.”
“I have met him.”
“I’ll just bet you have,” Teague said, almost under his breath. In a louder voice, he continued, “Are you planning to return to London?”
“Eventually.”
Alex saw Teague’s lips tighten at this. “I should think you’d want to return as soon as possible. You’ve not had what one would consider a warm welcome to Cornwall.”
“Dr. Whitby and his daughter have been most hospitable. I find others friendly enough, as well.”
Teague made a show of looking around the doctor’s comfortable library. “You seem to have settled in here well enough. And I don’t suppose it hurts to have such a delicious piece as Hero around to take care of one’s needs.”
“Miss Whitby has been all that is polite and proper, and any innuendo to the contrary is merely a slur on a good woman’s name,” Adam said tightly. He wanted to add that any man who would talk so disparagingly of a woman he hoped to marry was a bounder of the worst sort, but he held his tongue.
“Hey! Hey!” Teague made a show of putting up his hands in a mock defensive gesture. “I meant no slur on anybody. Merely remarking that she is a good-looking woman.” He paused. “But I don’t suppose it matters much as you are here for such a short time anyway.”
“Actually, I am considering buying property here.” Alex and Hero had lit on this ruse to explain some of Adam’s questions as he toured the countryside.
“I am not aware of any property for sale in the immediate area,” Teague said discouragingly.
“Are you not?” Alex feigned surprise. “Surely as the steward of Weyburn Abbey, you know that Sterne is considering selling all or part of his holdings here.”
“I am aware of no such thing.” Teague sounded indignant. “And I feel I should tell you that folks around here do not take kindly to ill-founded rumors. Nor do they take kindly to strangers asking a lot of intrusive questions. That sort of thing can get one hurt.”
“Hmm. People with whom I have conversed have been most receptive and tolerant. Not at all suspicious and standoffish. Of course, when I am able to get about more, I may arrive at a different conclusion.”
“Yes. I’m sure you will. And you will surely decide then to look elsewhere for property to buy—if, indeed, that is your purpose in coming here.”
“Why, what else could it be?” Alex ask in a show of innocent wonder.
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Teague gave Alex a pointed look. Then he rose and added, “I have enjoyed our little chat, but I fear I must be off. Things to do, you know.”
“Enlightening,” Alex said. “But don’t let me keep you.”
* * * *
June had brought an occasional cloudy day and an even less occasional rainstorm. These were usually “one day wonders,” as Hero thought of them, but farmers welcomed them—unless they happened to have hay drying in a field. Dreary days were balanced nicely by warm, sunny days during which it seemed Mother Nature was beckoning everyone out of doors.
Hero and her father continued to deal with routine medical issues: a broken arm; two babies born—one in town, one on a farm; more cases of chickenpox, though these seemed on the decrease; a bad burn when a maid’s skirt caught fire as she cleaned a hearth; and death claimed not only the smuggler, Bertram Larson, but also old Mrs. Porter, the blacksmith-mayor’s long-ailing mother, and Mary Beth Lynch a young farm wife who succumbed finally to consumption. But not without a good fight, Hero noted of this last one. The doctor and his daughter rejoiced at the births, encouraged those recovering, and shared the grief of the families suffering losses. After all, these were people they had known for years, their neighbors and often their friends as well.
There was one outstandingly bright spot in these days for Hero: her younger brother, Jonathan, returned from school for the summer holiday. Except for those years when she was herself away at school, Jonathan had always been a shining light in Hero’s life. She was eleven when he was born; she had immediately taken over as an “assistant” to the nursery maid, doting on her new little brother. Michael, who was thirteen then, had little interest in babies, though he and Hero, being nearest in age of the Whitby siblings, were also very close, period. Four years later their mother had died of the same disease that had so recently taken Mary Beth Lynch. Hero had missed Jonathan fiercely when she was herself at school, but when she settled in at home again, he was eight and she became a sort of surrogate mother and mentor to the child. Michael was still in medical school at the time, so the relationship between her and Jonathan strengthened.
At sixteen, Jonathan Whitby was a picture of what would be. He towered over his sister now, but she thought he had yet to feel comfortable in a body that was developing a man’s physique. His hair was lighter than hers, but his freckles just as prominent, and his grin was as engaging as ever—though it seemed to flash more rarely now. Hero thought he might be struggling to find his “persona” as much as getting used to his gangly, changing body.
“I swear this boy has grown a foot since he was here for Christmas,” Mrs. Hutchins said, looking up into Jonathan’s laughing eyes when Hero ushered him into the kitchen to say hello.
“Certainly another inch or two,” Hero agreed with a mock sigh as she and Jonathan sat on a bench on one side of the long worktable that dominated the kitchen. “And he just had new clothes in December!”
“Can’t I go to London for some new ones? I want things more in style. Old Mendel’s stuff is so out of date.”
“You will have to ask Papa,” Hero said. “But you know how he hates traveling. And Mendel has always suited Papa and Michael.”
Jonathan grimaced. “Only because he is the only tailor to be found in hundreds of miles.”
“I think that is a bit of an exaggeration,” Hero said, “but you will have to take up your sartorial problems with Papa.”
“But I know he would let me go to London if you’d only put in a good word for me. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Hutchins?”
“Umm. Possibly, Mr. Jonathan.” Mrs. Hutchins placed a plate of biscuits and glasses of cider in front of them and returned to
kneading her bread dough at the other end of the table.
“Jonathan, Papa is unlikely to want to go to London,” Hero said. “And you mustn’t plague him with doing so.”
“Ah, I missed these!” Jonathan crammed a biscuit into his mouth and took a swallow of cider, then mumbled, “I don’t need a keeper. I could go alone. Take the stage.”
Hero laughed softly. “You know very well Papa would not send a sixteen-year-old to the city alone.”
“You could come with me,” he wheedled. “You have friends in London.”
“Jonathan, I have obligations here in Weyburn. I cannot just ignore them and go traipsing off to London.”
“Well, I don’t want to spend my entire school holiday stuck in boring old Weyburn. There’s nothing to do here.”
Hero rose. “I’m sure you will find something.”
At supper that evening, she introduced him to Adam, and the boy was duly impressed at meeting a man who had fought at Waterloo, but he seemed determined to pursue his London scheme with his father, who was obviously less than enthusiastic about it. Hero sighed inwardly and hoped the summer would not be marked by contention.
Besides being pleased to have Jonathan home, Hero welcomed these weeks in June as they afforded her opportunities to get to know the man calling himself Adam Wainwright. He now took most of his meals with them in the dining room, though after Jonathan’s return, she noted that Adam was careful not to intrude on what he might have viewed as family business. Weather permitting, she often joined him on his terrace in the afternoons. Occasionally her father joined them, or Annabelle insisted she needed to talk with “Mr. Ainrye,” but more often than not, it was just the two of them. She was surprised at how comfortable she was with him. Except for her father and her brother Michael, Hero rarely felt at ease with men. Since her disastrous early teen years, she simply had not trusted her feelings and her judgments about men—especially men of the class in which she suspected Adam Wainwright moved freely.
He readily shared stories of his childhood, his family, and his years at school and university. However, she felt that these accounts were missing important details of names and titles and locations. While this made her a bit uneasy, she did not press him—or examine her own feelings too closely. After all, everyone had secrets, did they not? Adam too was entitled to his privacy.
So she dismissed her reservations because she enjoyed listening to his stories of his past and his years abroad, even when she was not directly involved in the conversation—as often happened of an evening when Adam and her father battled it out over the chessboard and she sat curled up with a book, sometimes only pretending to read. She loved his voice and his laugh. She became intensely aware when he entered a room and conscious of his presence afterwards.
* * * *
Both residual pain and the sheer frustration of an active man forced into inaction plagued Alex, but he was finding ways to ignore the pain, usually without resorting to laudanum. As for action versus inaction, he was working on that too. Action, he told himself, was a matter of mind as well as muscle. Early on, he had discovered that the Whitbys’ library far exceeded what one might expect of a country squire. Its rather marvelous collection held a number of volumes on local history. He began to systematically examine these—and maps of the area.
In doing so, he recognized that his lack of mobility was forcing him, at long last, to face a glaring need in his life: to gain control of it. As the third son of a very rich man, he had always known he could muddle through—neither his father now nor his brother later would turn his back on him. Pride, along with a sense of societal obligation, would dictate their “taking care” of him—even if ties of family love had not existed.
But of course they did.
Alex realized now that in the first two decades of his life he had just sort of drifted. Second and third sons were not reared to take on the responsibilities of the title and all that went with it. With little sense of direction, Alex had enjoyed his days at Winchester, one of England’s most prestigious public schools. University had offered more independence, but he had been diligent in his studies. Because these came to him so easily, he had been equally diligent in raising hell both in Oxford and in London. His father, tired of trying to talk a sense of duty and honor into him, had purchased a commission for his recalcitrant son. At the time Alex had seen this as his father’s merely washing his hands of the problem.
Now, he was not so sure.
The army had provided purpose and direction. He had surprised himself—let alone a few senior officers who knew him only by reputation—when gradually he had evolved into what one general had termed “a damned fine officer” as he awarded Alex yet another medal and a promotion.
Praise, promotions, and other accolades had not been enough to drive away the ghosts and demons that began to haunt him almost as soon as he left army life behind. Though he had not articulated it before, he thought now he might have seen Weyburn Abbey as a chance to regain that sense of purpose and direction—not to mention that hard work might placate some of those ghosts and demons.
But not for a while, damn it. Not for a while.
Impatience, he discovered, could be a powerful motivator. He felt driven to doing all he could to further his physical recovery, to exercise and massage the muscles of his injured leg. His ribs were more or less healed now, and he very rarely resorted to the Bath chair. He found himself devouring information about Weyburn and Weyburn Abbey with a view to living here permanently. Careful to guard against revealing too much, he shared information about himself with the Whitbys and encouraged them to talk about their little corner of Cornwall. But keeping up the pretense was not easy.
At supper one evening when Jonathan was out with his friends, Dr. Whitby brought up a subject he had broached before. “Are you sure there is not someone in your family we should notify of your injury and forced stay here?”
Having anticipated that, sooner or later, this question would come up again, Alex stuck to the truth insofar as possible. “My parents are traveling on the Continent now that it is safe to do so. I am clearly going to recover. I would not want them to cut their journey short. My mother has looked forward to this trip for years.”
“Brothers? Sisters?” the doctor asked, passing a dish of vegetables to his daughter.
“Two of each,” Alex said. “One or another of them would be sure to write my parents and worry them.”
“Surely someone is worrying about you,” Hero said.
“The family is used to not hearing from me for weeks at a time. It has always been the nature of my work.”
This, of course, had been true when he was soldiering, but he would have to get word to them soon or his brother, the Marquis of Finneston and heir to the duke’s title, would have an army of searchers out looking for him. The mail in England was known to be extraordinarily reliable, but given what Hero had told him earlier of people writing to the owner of the Abbey and getting no response, Alex was reluctant to simply write a letter announcing his presence in Cornwall.
As if she had read his mind, Hero said, “Write a letter. I will see to its being mailed when I go into town tomorrow.”
“Into Weyburn?”
“Yes, Weyburn. Really, Adam! Our town is not so remote as to not have mail service. Twice a week we have actual contact with the outside world via the mail coach. Is that not absolutely grand?”
Alex lifted an eyebrow and grinned at her response. “I meant no offense to your sense of civic pride.”
“Wellman, at the mercantile store, handles the mail,” the doctor explained. “Collects our letters at the store and hauls a bag over to the inn when the mail coach arrives. Wellman sorts incoming mail and sends his boy out to deliver it.”
“So Wellman handles all the mail, coming and going?” Alex asked.
“Yes,” Hero said. “Surely you know that is a common prac
tice in country towns and villages.”
Alex drank from his wineglass and set it down. “I am just wondering why neither Sterne nor his solicitor received those missives you told me Teague and your sister and others have sent.”
“I am sure there is a reasonable explanation,” Hero said.
The three of them were quiet as a footman removed the dinner plates and served a strawberry trifle for dessert, which elicited appreciative murmurs.
At last Alex laid down his spoon and said, “Do you think it might be possible to send a letter without anyone in Weyburn having an opportunity to intercept it?”
Hero wore a quizzical frown. “Mr. Wellman is a terrible gossip, but I cannot see him doing what you are suggesting. And, in any case, why would he do such a thing?”
“I have no idea,” Alex said, “but someone did something with those letters—either here or in London. I think we might start here to find out who and what and why. But meanwhile, I should like to keep my correspondence private.”
“He has a point, my dear,” Dr. Whitby said. “We could perhaps send Stewart or Perkins to Bentley to mail something.”
“That is nearly half a day’s ride,” she said.
Her father shrugged. “Well…”
“Hmm.” She sat in thought for a moment. “I could perhaps time my trip to town to arrive just as the post arrives and give a letter directly to the driver with a plea that I was afraid I might have missed him.”