The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,26

room. If I find any changed, I will ask the magistrate to confiscate your paints.”

“The magistrate,” she snapped, “is out of town.”

“Miss Chance’s betrothed, the Riding Surveyor, then. He sounds like the sensible sort. And he would not want to see his bride’s dearest friend harmed.”

“You are the most opinionated, hard-hearted fellow I know,” she fumed.

“Guilty, madam,” he said with a bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get to the spa.” He straightened and left.

She was considerably less friendly when he had her mother show him the shop and studio the next day, but at least she’d heeded him at last, for he saw no progress on her work.

And then it was the big day. So many people would be attending, in fact, that the usual Wednesday night assembly had been cancelled in favor of the party to follow. Ethan dressed in his Sunday clothes—navy breeches, navy coat, tan waistcoat, and a short-collared shirt—and ran a wet comb through his hair.

“Very distinguished,” Linus assured his son when he turned for his inspection.

“You too, Father,” he said with equal solemnity. Linus could only hope his black coat and breeches would look elegant and not funereal.

As they started up High Street for Church Street, others joined them: Mr. Carroll in a blue velvet coat that made his eyes brighter behind his spectacles; Mrs. Rinehart, the milliner, with a hat covered in peacock feathers; the Misses Pierce in frilly muslin gowns they’d no doubt sewn for the occasion. He and Ethan took a pew near the back of the church. There wasn’t room anywhere else.

Ahead of them, he recognized the members of the Spa Corporation board; shopkeepers like Mr. Treacle, the tailor; and innkeepers like Mr. and Mrs. Truant of the Swan. They and all the spa guests crowded into the little walnut box pews, light coming through the stained-glass windows making jeweled patterns on their fine coats and gowns. The tall fellow at the altar near the vicar must be Larkin Denby. His attendant looked enough like Miss Chance to be her brother.

Everyone stilled as she entered from the nave to stop at the foot of the aisle, and Mr. Denby’s face lit. Linus shook his head. Had he looked so besotted when Catriona had come to take his arm? How blind he’d been to the future, so certain that his love would help her change, grow, even as her love made him a better man.

Or a bitter one.

“She’s very pretty,” Ethan whispered.

He followed his son’s gaze only to find himself staring. Abigail stood next to Miss Chance, wearing a high-waisted, long-sleeved gown of soft rose, a ginger sash tied under her bosom. Her hair was piled up and fixed in place with pearl-headed pins. Draped across one arm and tied at her waist was a shawl with a paisley pattern, rose and teal and purple mixing. Miss Chance might be all the sweetness and light of springtime, but Abigail was the blaze of a summer sun, offering warmth, energy.

Hope.

He’d worried this wedding might endanger her recovery, but he’d overlooked a far greater danger.

To his heart.

Chapter Nine

Jess and Lark’s wedding was everything Abigail could have hoped. The love on Lark’s face as he took his sweetheart’s hand to say their vows brought tears to her eyes. What woman wouldn’t want such a look aimed her way?

As she turned to follow them back down the aisle at the end of the service, more than a hundred gazes watched. One caught hers.

Linus Bennett, eyes soft and face wistful, as if he too hoped for such a love.

Blushing, Abigail hurried from the church.

More people waited outside. Voices rang with wishes for good health, good fortune, large families. The progress of the wedding party through the churchyard was interrupted a dozen times as women pressed flowers into Jesslyn’s arms and men shook Lark’s hand while offering words of wisdom. Abigail joined the others waving as the flower-decked carriage, on loan from Mrs. Harding, whisked the happy couple, Mrs. Tully, and Lark’s mother to the assembly rooms for the feast and festivities to follow. Then Abigail moved into the grand procession walking down Church Street and up to the assembly rooms.

“When you get married,” her mother said, strolling beside her in her best church dress of cerulean blue silk, “I hope for such a turnout.”

“I doubt anyone in Grace-by-the-Sea could match this,” Abigail told her, adjusting her sling to keep her arm from bumping the people around them. “Even James and Eva Howland’s wedding wasn’t