by Wilma Counts
“I am reluctant to impose on you or your staff,” Alex said.
“It would not be an imposition,” she said. “I can go the next day as easily as tomorrow. As I said, the mail coach comes only twice a week, but it is quite prompt. It arrives at two, changes horses, and leaves ten minutes later. It would be just a matter of timing—and discretion, I suppose.”
“You make it sound easy,” he said.
“It will be. You have all day tomorrow to get your missive written. I will be happy to help you get it on its way.”
She excused herself to go and see to Annabelle’s bedtime routine. Alex and the doctor repaired to the library, where a decanter of cognac and the chessboard awaited them.
Chapter 10
The next day Alex settled into the task of writing a letter to his solicitor, Montague, into which he inserted a letter to his brother and another to his erstwhile batman, now his valet. The letter to his brother was rather terse: The family should not worry; he would contact them again in a month. Mr. Montague was to see immediately to getting necessary funds into the hands of one Jeremy MacIntosh, Alex’s batman throughout the Peninsula campaign, his valet in civilian life. His letter to Mac instructed him to proceed forthwith to the town of Weyburn in Cornwall, where he would find Adam Wainwright, a guest of the local doctor.
Ten days later, Mac, in the guise of a tourist whose London doctor had advised him that a sojourn near the sea would be just the thing to improve his health, arrived in Weyburn with enough luggage for two men and booked a room at the Weyburn Inn. The next morning he set out on a rented horse ostensibly to make the acquaintance of the local doctor.
“Adam, this fellow says he is a friend of yours.” Dr. Whitby, having been forewarned of such a visitor, ushered into the library a man in his midthirties, dressed as gentleman in a black coat and gray trousers. He was short, only a little over five feet, but with a strong physique; his eyes were brown, his head prematurely bald. He carried a small valise.
Alex looked up from a map he had been studying at the long library table. “Mac!” Making no effort to temper his welcome, he stood too abruptly and winced in pain as he put too much pressure on his injured leg. He cursed and plopped back into his chair. “Well,” he said ruefully, “I really am glad to see you. Come and sit with me.” The two shook hands across the table.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a patient waiting,” the doctor said.
The door closed behind Whitby, and Mac, setting the valise on the floor, took a chair opposite Alex. For a moment he simply stared at his employer, then shook his head.
“I might have known you’d got up to something. You had us worried, my lord, when there was no word from you. Your brother was about to send Bow Street Runners looking for you.”
Alex glanced at the door to be sure it was closed. “‘Adam’—not ‘my lord.’ You know me as Adam. It is important that you not make that mistake again.”
“Yes, sir.” Mac reached into an inner pocket of his coat and handed Alex a heavy purse. “Glad to get this off my mind. I never had so much money in hand at one time before in my life!”
“Thanks for doing this, Mac.”
“Got you some of your clothes here too.” Mac pointed at the valise. “If I may be so bold as to ask, what’s happened to you? And why are we here?”
Alex filled him in on his history with Weyburn Abbey—much of which Mac already knew, for he had served Alex from the time he was a lowly ensign through to the more exalted rank of major and on into civilian life. Alex also gave him a detailed account of the attacks on his person and his current status in the Whitby household.
“So—what do you want me to do?” Mac asked, leaning forward across the table.
“For now, continue as you have started—you are here on an extended stay near the sea for your health. Do what I can’t do—yet. Get to know the area. Take long walks about the town and on the beach. Talk to people. Have coffee at the bakery. Buy men drinks at the inn—I’ll stand the ready.” Alex gave him several gold coins. “Don’t act too nosy, but listen for information on matters at the Abbey and about the local smuggling operation.”
“Recon work, eh? Kind of like old times.”
“And just as dangerous. You watch yourself, Mac. You hear?”
He nodded. “In case we should meet, do I know you?”
“We met today. Both patients of Dr. Whitby. We discovered that we had both served in the Peninsula, but not together.”
“But I ask the doc for you by the name you gave me.”
“I will clarify things with the doctor.”
“Got it.”
Alex asked about his family and Mac gave him such news as he was privy to—which was not much, as most of the family members had returned to their country houses. Mac took his leave, promising regular reports as he “visited his new doctor.”
* * * *
By the first week of July, Alex had mastered the use of the crutches to the point that one afternoon he accompanied Hero and Annabelle down to the beach. This journey was about a quarter of a mile through a long, low field of grass between the Whitby Manor and the beach beyond. Besides the ubiquitous Bitsy, their companions included the fantasy child Tootie and a black-and-white border collie named Sparks.
The early summer day offered sun and fluffy white clouds dancing above. The air smelled of the sea and the richness of vegetation beneath their feet. A soft breeze carried the sounds of gulls calling to each other, the child’s delighted laughter, and yips from the excited dog. Trying to maneuver crutches on a sandy path was no easy task for Alex, as the crutches tended to sink into the soil. Hero, with a blanket over one arm, carried in the other hand a basket shaped like a small valise. She matched his slow pace, laughing with him at the antics of the child scampering ahead and, when it was not barking at a gull, the collie’s attempts to herd the child and the kitten.
As they approached the shoreline, Alex was pleased to see several very large pieces of driftwood lying about, including a log half-submerged in the sand.
“Did you know this log was here?” he asked Hero as he sank gratefully onto it and shrugged out of his coat. His still-splinted leg jutted out awkwardly before him.
“Yes, I knew. Had it not been here I would not have allowed you to come with us.”
“Right. Were I sitting directly on the sand, there is no way you and Annabelle could help me to an upright position—even with Tootie’s help.”
They laughed together at this bit of silliness as Hero spread the blanket at his feet and planted her basket and herself on it. She sat with her back against the log, her head near the knee of his uninjured leg. He gazed at her hair, fascinated by the coils of braid and the glints of red caught by the sun. His fingers itched to loosen her hair, run his hand through those richly colored strands, and caress the nape of her neck, which was exposed as she removed her not very stylish straw hat and tossed it aside.
These wanton thoughts were abruptly diverted when she called out, “Annabelle! Do not stray so far away from us. Stay on this side of that great rock.”
Annabelle had picked up a small piece of driftwood, which she tossed and the dog dutifully chased to bring it back to her. “All right,” the little girl called, taking the proffered stick and tossing it more in the direction of where Hero and Alex sat. It landed in the edge of the surf and a wave caught it, but the collie retrieved it and brought it back to its playmate, who had come to sit next to Hero on the edge of the blanket. Annabelle took the stick, but instead of tossing it again, set it down beside her. Seeing the state of affairs, the dog gave itself a vigorous shake—thus treating the three of them to a shower—and plopped itself down next to the child.
“Sparks!” Hero protested.
“Eeek!” Annabelle squealed.
Alex laughed aloud, for he had seen this coming.
“You laugh,”
Hero protested in mock umbrage. “Annabelle and I took the brunt of that.”
“Indeed, you did,” he said, still laughing. “Not very gentlemanly of me, was it?”
“I should think not,” Hero said. “What do you say, Annabelle? Should we share our picnic lunch with him or not?” She reached to pull the basket closer.
“Oh, Miss Annabelle, you would not leave me to starve, would you?” he asked plaintively, his hand on his heart.
“ʼCourse not. Auntie H’ro was jus’ joking.”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “That’s a relief.”
“You little traitor,” Hero muttered, but she gave Annabelle a quick hug before delving into the basket.
“This is not much of a lunch,” Hero said, “but it will do us until supper.” She handed Alex a small knife and two apples wrapped in a small cloth. “You, sir, may make yourself useful by coring and cutting these for us.”
She also produced chicken sandwiches, some wedges of cheese, three lemon tarts, a small oiled canvas bag filled with lemonade, and three tin “glasses” of graduated size so they fit together. She laid all this out on a floral printed cloth, filled the glasses, and put the stopper back on the bag.
“I cannot believe you carried all this feast in that small basket,” Alex marveled as he handed her the apple pieces and tossed the scraps to the gulls.
“Well, it was either this or force Davey or Ross or someone else to carry a larger basket for us.”
“Now you are making me feel truly useless,” he said. She started to protest, but he went on. “Tell me about that bag of lemonade. I saw something like it in Spain, but of leather and for wine.”
She handed him the bag. “It came to us from the men in the Abbey’s copper mine. They carry water in it. It gets beastly warm down those mine shafts, I’m told.”
“I’ve heard that of mining in general,” he said.
“Annabelle,” Hero admonished, “do not give all of your sandwich to Sparks and Bitsy.”
“But they’re hungry too.”
“Nevertheless, you eat the rest of that yourself.”
They all munched quietly for a while, murmuring appreciatively over cook’s lemon tarts. Then Annabelle scooted around to swing her gaze from Hero to Alex, and back to Hero. “Can we—I mean, may we go wading today, Auntie H’ro?”
“You and Sparks may do so, but only in the very edge of the water and right here.” Hero pointed to an area directly in front of where they sat.
“But you must come too, Auntie H’ro. What if I fall? I could get drownded.”
It was apparent to Alex that this was something they had done before and it was his presence that was inhibiting Hero now. “Do go along with her, if you wish to,” he said.
“I—it just seems selfish, since you can only sit and watch. Really, I hadn’t intended—”
“Never mind me. I anticipated something like this. See?” He pulled a small book from a coat pocket.
She held his gaze for a moment. “A man with foresight, I see.”
“C’mon, Auntie H’ro.” Annabelle was already divesting herself of shoes and stockings. Then, with Bitsy in her arms, she stepped nearer Alex. “Mr. Ainrye, is it all right if I leave Bitsy with you? She don’t like the water.”
“Of course. Bitsy and I will keep each other company.” He took the small animal in his large hands and shared an amused glance with Hero.
“Don’t look,” Hero said to Alex as she began to remove her own footgear.
Alex found her shyness charming—and he had not actually promised not to look, had he? Thus he treated himself to a glimpse of a shapely ankle and calf before the two females dashed hand-in-hand for the surf. He watched, entranced, as the woman and the little girl lifted their skirts to their knees and both squealed in delight as the waves washed over their bare feet. The dog yipped at both of them. When they eventually returned to the blanket and him, he pretended to have been reading all the while.
“That was such fun,” Annabelle said, lifting the sleeping kitten from Alex’s lap.
“Yes it was,” Hero said, turning her gaze to Alex. “What are you reading?”
“Your father’s collection of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry.”
“One of his favorites. Mine too. Read me the one about Tinturn Abbey. Please?” she said as she again sat at his knee and Annabelle stretched out, her head in Hero’s lap.
He had read only a few lines when Hero touched his knee and pointed to Annabelle, sound asleep.
“Shall I stop?” he asked softly.
“No. Oh, no. I love that poem.”
When he had finished, she said, “That is so beautiful. It is such a tribute to the comforting power of memory.”
“It is that,” he said. “His images of English countryside are often very like things I remembered on those hot, dusty plains in Spain. But not all memories are comforting.”
She twisted her head to look up at him directly. “You fought a terrible battle when you were unconscious. Are you still having those—uh—visions, for want of a better word? Stewart said he heard you call out one night recently as he was locking up.”
“Yes.” He tore his gaze from hers and stared out to sea. His tone was closed. “I am sorry to have disturbed the household.”
She touched his hand that had been resting on his knee. “You did not disturb anyone. Not at all. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“It might help.”
He took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “No. Nothing will help. It is just something I must live with—for now. Eventually it will go away. I hope.”
“But sometimes—”
He gave her hand a little shake. “Let’s not spoil this beautiful day.”
“All right.” She withdrew her hand. “Read me the sonnet that begins ‘The world is too much with us…’”
He found it and read it, then said, “Somehow I am not surprised that a girl named Hero likes this one with its references to gods of old.”
They spent another lazy half hour with a couple more poems and just talked about whatever came to mind, sometimes inspired by the reading, sometimes not. Then Annabelle awoke and Hero declared it was time to return to the house.
Back in his own chamber that night, it occurred to Alex that he could not remember a more satisfying day. Never had he felt so utterly content as he had out there on the beach with Hero and Annabelle and the sea and the sun.
The next morning he noted that the ghosts and demons had left him alone for one night at least.
* * * *
Hero lay awake long into the night, reveling in this day’s main event. She had felt more comfortable with Adam than she ever remembered being with another man, other than her father and her brother Michael. She had enjoyed such complete rapport with Harriet and Retta, but not with a man. She kept discovering depths to this man called Adam that surprised and delighted her. She would miss him sorely when he returned to his own life.
Two days later her sense of comfort and general satisfaction with the world was shattered by a visit from her sister. Diana arrived in a high state of agitation. Alone and on horseback, she had left her mount in the stable before letting herself in through the back entrance of her childhood home. Hero was working in the stillroom when she was startled by Diana’s unexpected visit.
“Is Papa at home?” Diana asked abruptly, somewhat distractedly.
“No, he is not. And hello to you too.” Hero laughed, then perceived something wrong with Diana.
Diana said, “Good. I actually came to see you, Hero.”
Hero finished tightening the lid on a jar of peppermint oil. “What is it, Diana? You look distraught.”
“I am. Let us go into the library so we can talk.”
“Umm. The drawing room would be better. Adam may be in the
library.” Diana had met the Whitbys’ long-term patient on an earlier, less stressful visit.
The two sisters made their way upstairs to the drawing room on the first floor. Diana sat on a horsehair couch with an elaborately carved back. She removed her riding gloves and her hat, setting them on the seat beside her. Strands of her almost black hair were escaping her usual tight bun; her deep brown eyes were clouded with worry. She was wearing a rather faded cotton day dress, though Hero knew Diana had a riding habit—old, but a proper, if less than stylish, habit. This fact testified to the urgency of whatever was on her mind.
“What is it, Diana?” Hero took a seat opposite her sister in one of two deep red brocade wing chairs.
“It’s—it’s Milton. And Anthony. And Jonathan.” Her voice caught on a sob. Anthony, Diana’s oldest child, was only a few months younger than his Uncle Jonathan. He too had been away at school until the summer holiday. The two boys, so near in age, had been inseparable as childhood playmates and then had gone away to school together.
“Milton and Anthony and Jonathan?” Hero repeated dumbly.
“My husband, my son, and our little brother. Oh, Hero—”
“Oh, dear God.” Hero felt her heart tighten in fear. “Has something happened to them?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I hope not.” Diana seemed on the edge of hysteria.
Hero quickly moved from her chair to shove Diana’s gloves and hat aside and sit beside her sister. She put an arm around Diana. “Now. Take a deep breath and just tell me.”
“S-smugglers.” Diana choked on a sob. “Oh, Hero—Milton and the boys—they—they’ve joined with the smugglers!”
“But why? How? Jonathan too?”
Diana seemed to gain some semblance of control. “Mr. Teague came to visit our farm last month right after Billy Jenkins and Jake Harrison were jailed. He wanted to speak to Milton alone.”
“About that roof, I hope.”
“Sort of. Milton told me later. Teague said he would see to the roof, but only if Milton would help him and his gang transport smuggled goods from the beach to that cave below the Abbey. Said they were short men without Larson and the other two.”