It Only Takes a Kiss

by Wilma Counts

  When morning arrived all too soon, she had still been toying with the idea of opting out of accompanying him to the Abbey. Perhaps Stewart could take him. She deliberately went to breakfast early to postpone their meeting again. Then she gave herself a mental shake. That was an act of sheer cowardice. Hero Whitby faced issues in her life head-on. She was in control. Was she not?

  When they met in the stable yard, she was relieved to find him behaving entirely naturally. But, good heavens, why would he not? That he seemed somewhat uncertain about her reaction had bolstered her confidence and made the situation easier. Adam Wainwright was really a rather intriguing human being.

  No. Not Adam Wainwright.

  But who?

  She had accepted his wish to be known by that name. It had even seemed logical; but now, in the midst of this tour of the Abbey and its environs, she was beginning to wonder. His demeanor as a “tourist” seemed—well, perhaps—a little too pat? Was he more familiar with those rooms than he pretended? Had he, in fact, visited Weyburn Abbey before? If so, under what circumstances?

  In the gallery she had noted a certain resemblance between Adam and that portrait of Sir Benjamin, but it was not so pronounced as to be undeniable. He could be a distant relative coerced into performing a disagreeable task for the disinterested owner of the Abbey. Of course, he could be the errant Lord Alexander Sterne, but given what she had always heard of that one, she was inclined to dismiss that possibility. What? He should suddenly give up the dubious attractions of the city to become a responsible landlord? Not likely. Not likely at all.

  Adam’s interest in the Abbey’s cellar and his comments afterwards had caught her attention, but before she could explore that line of thought, they had arrived at the Tamblin farm and then visited two others before going on to the copper mine. Diana and Milton received them politely, and proudly showed off their huge vegetable garden and a prize ram they hoped would be a start to a more splendid herd of sheep. Hero was pleased to see the ease with which Adam discussed such matters with Diana and Milton, and later with the Robertsons and the Carters as well. Nor did he try to avoid discussing matters like needed repairs here and there.

  They drove to the copper mine, but could not get close as its aboveground structures were in a huge loading yard behind a forbidding stone fence topped with shards of broken glass. An iron gate was locked and the gatekeeper, a rather taciturn old man named Watson, refused Hero’s cajoling pleas to allow them to look around.

  “Can’t do it, Miss Whitby,” he said. “Got real strict orders from Mr. Teague. No one—no one—but miners gets through this gate. Ain’t much to see up here anyways.” He returned to his post in a small shack on his side of the fence.

  Nevertheless, she paused the gig at the locked gate for a few minutes. She and Adam gazed at the stone buildings with rusted metal roofing and what appeared, even from a distance, to be cobweb-covered, dirty windows.

  “I am sorry about this,” Hero said. “I should have thought to contact Stewart’s brother, who is a foreman on one of the shifts.”

  “Not to worry,” he assured her. “It’s not like I could actually go down into a mine. Managing those cellar stairs with a crutch was one thing, a mine would be quite another. There should be ledgers that will give a sufficient report.”

  “Do you think Mr. Teague will share those willingly?”

  “Perhaps not willingly. And probably not with one Adam Wainwright, but…” His voice trailed off as he took a last look at the mine buildings.

  They returned to the town where, as Hero had promised, they had lunch at the coaching inn. The lowest portion of the inn, like so many local buildings, was fashioned of stones, but the two upper stories were a later addition of dark wooden beams and whitewashed plaster. The roof was thatched. The main public room boasted a large stone fireplace, wooden walls, and heavy wooden beams on the ceiling. The bar and tables were of dark wood, highly polished by years of use. She introduced Adam to the Barkleys, the innkeeper and his wife, and to three other customers, a farmer named Manson and two of his laborers, Ryan and Spicer.

  Hero and Adam took a round table nestled into the space of a bay window that looked out onto the town’s main street, which had little traffic at this hour of the day. Mrs. Barkley had just set her meal of the day and two glasses of ale in front of them when Jeremy MacIntosh, holding a walking stick in one hand, emerged from a door Hero knew led to bedchambers above. Hero had met Mr. MacIntosh previously and she knew Adam had struck up a friendship with the man, who, like Adam, was a former soldier. Thus she was not surprised when Adam lifted a hand in greeting.

  “MacIntosh. Do join us,” Adam called and gestured to an empty chair at their table.

  “Wainwright. Miss Whitby.” The man bowed to both of them.

  “Yes. Do join us, Mr. MacIntosh,” she said. “We are having a late lunch.”

  He took the offered chair. “I’ve had me lunch, though I might join ye for a wee drink. But, please, miss, you must call me Mac. Ever’one does—even folks in Weyburn now.” He raised a hand to the innkeeper, who promptly brought another glass of ale to the table.

  “Here you go, Mac.”

  Hero smiled and said, “As you wish.” She liked this man. He was friendly and down-to-earth. “Are you finding the sea air as invigorating as you had hoped, Mac?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am. Breathing much easier than when I first got here.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said.

  “I walk out every day,” he said with a glance at Adam. “Even went out on the shore last night.”

  “Is that so?” Adam asked. “At night?”

  “Well, now, it wasn’t quite night when I started, you see. Sort of twilight. But I walked farther than I intended, and got caught in the dark. So I found me a big rock to sit against to wait for the moon to rise. Comin’ on to full last night, you know.”

  “Did you have to wait long for the moon?” Hero asked.

  “Not too long. Half hour, maybe. I had the sound of the surf—almost sang me to sleep, it did. Then I heard voices and I could see dark shapes moving along the edge of the sea. They were meeting a boat coming in. I figured I better just keep quiet and stay put for a while.” He chuckled and took a drink of his ale.

  “But you could see what was going on?” Adam asked.

  “Oh, yeah. I tell you, Wainwright, made me think of San Sebastián when a supply ship was comin’ in. All that hurly-burly.”

  “San Sebastián is a port in northern Spain the British army used,” Adam explained to Hero.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  Adam turned back to Mac. “You want to be careful wandering about at night, Mac. Getting caught between smugglers and militiamen would be like the worst of a battle with Spanish and French partisans.”

  “I ʼspect you’re right, sir, but it was mighty innerresting—an’ I was pretty well hid.”

  “Good.”

  “It were real strange,” Mac went on. “They had some pack animals. Unloaded barrels an’ bags an’ boxes from the boat an’ put ’em on the animals. Drove ’em along the beach a ways, then turned right toward the cliff and—bang!—they was gone! Just disappeared. Strangest thing I ever seen.”

  “Caves,” Adam said.

  “How did you know that?” Hero demanded.

  Adam glanced at Mac, then shrugged. “Just guessed.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I finally figured,” Mac said. “Thought I’d stroll around there this afternoon—in the daylight—see if I was right.”

  “I shouldn’t think that would be necessary,” Adam said. “Might draw attention in the wrong quarters.”

  “Ah. You might be right. Maybe I’ll just go a different way.” Mac drained his glass and rose to leave. “Nice visiting with you.”

  Adam and Hero were just finishing their meal—a tasty shepherd’s pie and an apple tart—w
hen the outer door to the inn opened and Willard Teague entered with Wellman, the owner of the mercantile store. Teague paused abruptly on seeing Hero and Adam. He motioned Wellman off in the direction of the farmer Manson and his laborers. It occurred to Hero that this might not be a chance meeting. Teague approached the table by the window.

  “Well, well, look who’s here,” he said in a loud, genial voice. “Our Miss Whitby. And Wainwright, isn’t it?”

  Adam nodded, and Hero said in a guarded tone, “Hello, Mr. Teague.”

  “Now, Hero. I’ve told you about that ‘Mr. Teague’ stuff. Name’s Willard, though most of my friends call me Will.” He pulled out a chair and sat down at their table without waiting for an invitation. “Showing your patient our town, are you, Hero?”

  Hero did not like his making free with her given name in such a public place, but she did not want to make a scene. “Yes, Mr. Teague. We have just come from visiting the Abbey.”

  Teague looked at Adam. “You should have said something. I would have shown you around myself, though I’d think once you see one of those fancy country houses of the quality, you’ve seen ’em all.”

  “Mrs. Mullins and her husband were kind enough to show us all that they could,” Hero said.

  “That so?” He was obviously waiting for her to elaborate, but she did not do so, not at all sure why it suddenly occurred to her that it might not be a good idea to mention seeing the cellar.

  “Well, what do you think, Wainwright? Gonna trot right back to London and make his lordship an offer?” Teague continued to speak in a loud tone that demanded the attention of everyone in the room.

  Adam leaned back in his seat, his expression hard for Hero to read. “Not tomorrow,” he said, “but I do like the look of this area.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” Teague said, with a leering look at Hero. She blushed at his innuendo, but said nothing.

  Now Adam’s expression was not hard to read at all. His mouth was grim, his eyes a hard cobalt blue as he said, “Miss Whitby has been very kind in helping me become acquainted with Weyburn and I quite appreciated seeing the Abbey. It is rather conveniently situated above the sea, is it not?”

  “That depends.”

  “I assume there is a trail down that cliff?” Adam’s tone, while not as ostentatiously loud as Teague’s, carried to the other table, which suddenly became quiet.

  “Oh, yes, but it is not kept up and can be treacherous after a storm.”

  “I should think part of the upkeep of the estate would be seeing that trail kept in pristine condition to allow access to the beach below,” Adam said casually. Hero forced herself not to smile at this seemingly innocent dig at the Abbey’s steward.

  “Folks at the Abbey now don’t need access,” Teague said brusquely. “Nobody else needs it, either. Trespassing, if they tried it.” Hero thought this was more of a warning than a simple observation.

  Adam shrugged, and after a moment said, “Don’t let us keep you from your friends, Mr. Teague.”

  Teague was clearly furious at being thus dismissed, and again Hero stopped herself from smiling. The steward scowled and rose abruptly. He strode over to the other table, calling loudly for a tankard of ale as he went.

  “Adam,” Hero said quietly, “we should be going. I have a patient I want to visit before we return home.”

  Chapter 13

  The patient Hero wanted to see was Sally Knowlton’s newest charge. The girl, who had turned up on Sally’s doorstep after a long ride on a public coach, could not have had more than fifteen years, and she was slender to the point of emaciation. Her pregnancy, which she estimated to be six months along, hardly showed. She had blond hair, large blue eyes, and an oval face that brought an image of the Madonna to Hero’s mind. Her name, appropriately enough, was Mary.

  “I’m sorry, Adam, but I must ask you to wait here in the gig,” Hero said as she stopped the vehicle in front of Sally’s house. “I will not be long.” She handed him the reins and stepped down.

  “Take your time,” he said. “Gertie and I will get along fine. It’s not too hot today—I may even have a bit of a nap.” Gertie was the name of the horse.

  She smiled up at him. “You do that.”

  She rapped on the door and was not surprised when Sally herself answered the summons. “Thank goodness, you’ve come. I want your thoughts about Mary—as well as that other matter I mentioned in my note. I don’t think her babe is doing as well as it should be. Far too small for the time she’s given us.”

  “You know your girls sometimes miscalculate,” Hero said.

  “Yes. Yes. I have considered that.”

  Hero examined Mary, who seemed totally unconcerned about the health of the child she carried. “I’ll just be glad when it’s over,” she said with a sigh and patted her belly. “When I’m shut of this, I’m off to London.”

  “London?” Hero controlled her reaction. “Surely you are not going to the city alone.”

  “Well, sure I am. Ain’t got nobody wantin’ to go wit’ me. There’s always gents willin’ to help a damsel in distress.”

  “What about your babe?” Hero asked needlessly. She knew the fate of babies like Mary’s: farmed out to be fostered, then off to a workhouse or onto the parish, which often enough dumped them onto the streets of some city to fend for themselves, vulnerable to every conceivable sort of exploitation. It was precisely the fate from which she had saved Annabelle.

  “Miz Knowlton says I needn’t worry overmuch ’til it gets here.” Trust Sally to try to be reassuring, Hero thought.

  While she was here, she briefly examined the other two current residents of the house and gave them her usual admonishments about diet and exercise. Then she looked for Sally and found her in her small office.

  Hero remained standing. “I cannot stay long. Mr. Wainwright waits in the gig.”

  “I saw you drive up,” Sally said. “He’s a handsome man.”

  “Yes. I suppose he is.”

  “You ‘suppose’? Something wrong with your eyes, my girl?”

  “Don’t tease,” Hero said. “You have something for me?”

  Sally’s expression sobered. “Yes. Look at this.” She picked up a letter from her desk and stood to hand it to Hero, who scanned the contents, then drew in a sharp breath. She closed her eyes briefly as though she could thus erase what she had just read. “A Bow Street Runner?” she whispered in awe.

  “Right. He’s come and gone already. I had no idea—but he must have been that man who came about—uh—three weeks ago. Said he was looking for a secluded place for his sister for a few months. You know, the usual story.”

  “Did he ask about Barbara?”

  “He asked me about a Lady Barbara Gaylord. I told him I had never heard of anyone named Gaylord. Then he asked, had I known any Barbaras at all—five years or so ago? I had to admit I had. You know I’m never good at lying about anything. Besides, he could have asked in town and eventually learned that much.”

  “There is no need for you to develop your skill in lying.” Hero handed the letter back. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He asked what happened to her. When I told him she died in childbirth, he asked, ‘Was she buried with her babe?’ I couldn’t tell him she had been, could I?” Sally was clearly distraught, twisting her hands together and rumpling the letter in the process.

  Hero put her arms around the older woman. “Don’t fret, Sally dear.”

  “But what are we to do? I know how fond you are of that child.”

  “We are doing nothing. If he—or anyone else—comes again, send them to me. Just tell whoever asks that I handled the disposition of Barbara’s babe—which I did. Perhaps by then I will have figured out something.”

  “Oh, Hero, I’m so sorry—”

  Hero hugged her. “Not to worry, Sally. I have to go now. You just do what yo
u always do. Take care of our girls.”

  She returned to the gig, climbed into her seat, and said to Adam when he would have turned the reins over to her, “You drive, won’t you? I’m sure that between the two of you, you and Gertie can get us home.”

  He gave her a questioning look. “Something wrong?”

  “I—don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

  “Would you like to share?” he asked as he guided the horse back onto the main thoroughfare.

  She sighed, and since she had previously shared Annabelle’s story with him, she told him about this new development.

  “What will you do?” he asked as they were forced to wait as a herd of sheep crossed the road in front of them.

  “Fight like the hounds of hell to keep her,” she said vehemently.

  He reached to pat her hand, which gripped the edge of the seat between them. “That’s my girl.”

  It was merely a casual gesture of support and kindness, she told herself. Nevertheless, she appreciated it and she felt a shred of relief at sharing. She thought she might be getting used to that little lurch of her heart whenever he touched her.

  * * * *

  Over the next few days, she dealt with a myriad of problems on the Whitby estate and in the clinic. The idea of a confrontation with some unknown faction over Annabelle was never far from her mind. Still, she found herself thinking often of the enigmatic Adam Wainwright. She readily admitted—to herself—her attraction to the man, and that such attraction was totally out of character for the usually self-contained Miss Whitby. She had long ago given up the conventional dream of becoming a wife and mother. To be honest, the idea of being a wife held little allure at all, and she supposed Annabelle fulfilled any latent need to be a mother. Certainly she could not love that child more if she had herself suffered through the pains of childbirth. My God! What will I do if I lose her?