The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,30
closely, as if his pedigree must be written on his forehead. “Indeed. Impressive.”
He wasn’t sure if it was Abigail’s praise or the lady’s change of heart, but every appointment for the remainder of the afternoon was filled, and he had six more scheduled for the next day.
“How does Jesslyn manage it?” Mrs. Howland, who had insisted he call her Eva, asked as Abigail saw the last guest out that afternoon. “I could sleep for a week!”
“I had a splendid time,” Abigail told her, returning to their sides by the welcome desk. “Perhaps tomorrow, you could ask Mrs. Tully to come play. The music should be soothing.”
“She plays the harpsichord?” Linus asked, glancing at the lacquered instrument in the corner, which had remained silent since he’d arrived.
“Very well,” Eva assured him. “And I will request that she not play a dirge.”
Linus raised his brows.
Abigail glanced around. “Is there anything else we should do before closing?”
“No,” Linus said. “I’ll collect a few case notes to review tonight, then lock up. You two go. And know that you take my thanks with you. You have my everlasting gratitude for your help.”
Eva smiled, but Abigail’s look would stay with him a while.
“I’ll let Ethan know you’re on your way,” she said. “See you shortly.”
He could hardly wait.
Why did he keep fighting the notion? Something about her invigorated him. She was a talented artist, inspiring others with her work. By the way she cared for and encouraged Ethan and had come to rescue the spa while Mrs. Denby was gone, she had a kind heart. She knew how to champion what she believed in, regardless of the arguments arrayed against her. None of that meant he had to enter a courtship. He could enjoy her company, her engaging conversations, yes, even their spirited disagreements, without falling in love.
Still, he moved swiftly through his remaining tasks. He shut off the fountain, made sure the water drained from the basin. It wouldn’t do for guests to arrive in the morning to a cloudy pool or specks of sediment. He hadn’t had to light any lamps, but he made sure they were all out nonetheless. Finally, he gathered the case files for the morning patients, added fresh supplies to his medical bag, and went to shut and lock the door, juggling both bag and files in the process.
His solitary walk home with Ethan beckoned. Perhaps he could pay for dinner for Abigail and her mother instead. He could imagine him and Abigail sitting around the dining table, laughing over the day’s events, talking to Ethan and Mrs. Archer about their activities. His son always seemed more relaxed around Abigail and her mother. He could see why. They both exuded a warmth and energy that beckoned people closer.
He was turning from the door when someone grabbed him from behind and shoved a sack over his head.
Chapter Ten
“How did it go?” her mother asked when Abigail walked in the door that evening. Book open on his lap as he sat beside her mother on the sofa, Ethan looked up with a smile.
“Very well,” Abigail told them both. “I am in even more awe of Jesslyn’s skills, though. It took Eva and me both to replace her, and I’m certain we still missed a few things.”
“I’m sure Doctor Bennett is grateful for your help,” her mother said.
“He was very nice about it.” Abigail turned to Ethan. “And he’ll be right behind me, so you should probably gather your things.”
“Yes, Miss Archer.” He slid off the sofa and began to collect his books and drawings.
Abigail watched him a moment, then beckoned to her mother, who rose and joined her closer to the door. “I don’t suppose you used those swords recently?”
“No,” her mother admitted. “We’ve kept mainly indoors before the wedding and today. But I’m so enjoying having someone around the house again.”
“I’m sure you are,” Abigail allowed. “But Ethan deserves to have something more to do than study with the vicar and draw.”
She was glad to see her mother nod. “The youngest Lawrence boy is taking lessons with him. I imagine they might be friends. I’ll speak to Sadie about the two spending time together outside of lessons.”
“The Greers’ youngest daughter should be about their age,” Abigail murmured. “Perhaps we could include her too.”
Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Girls and boys have little in common at this age.”
“You forget,” Abigail said. “Jess and I joined with several of the young lads our age to romp about the village. At nine, we