The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,38

be a Newcomer. Eva and I are merely making sure of their innocence.”

“And possibly endangering yourselves in the process,” he said, brows coming down. “Besides, Mrs. Denby and I already reviewed all the recent guests. None seemed suspicious.”

“Perhaps you aren’t as suspicious as I am,” Abigail countered.

Just then, a gentleman strode into the spa. She’d seen him in St. Andrew’s in recent months. One of the fishermen? He apparently recognized her as well, for he hurried to her side. “Miss Archer. Can you point me to the new physician?”

“I’m the physician,” Linus said. “Doctor Bennett, at your service, sir.”

He grabbed Linus’s arm, and Abigail bristled.

“Come with me,” he told Linus. “Please. My wife’s having our baby, and her sister says all she can see is the buttocks. It’s stuck. You have to help us.”

“I’ll get my bag,” Linus said.

“And I’ll come with you,” Abigail added.

Chapter Twelve

Linus didn’t have time to argue with her. Eva must have overheard their conversation, for she came running with his medical bag. He was just thankful he’d already restocked it that morning. He followed the man from the spa, Abigail by his side.

“This is our third,” the fellow was saying as they hurried down High Street for the cove, his worn brown coat flapping. “The first two were so easy we thought we could do it with only her sister to help. But something went wrong.”

“The fact that your wife brought two children into the world stands in her favor,” Linus told him. “But a baby in the wrong position is never easy.”

“You’re Mr. Evans, aren’t you?” Abigail asked the father as they passed Mr. Carroll’s.

He nodded, brown hair beginning to stick out around his narrow face. “That’s right, miss. Came here two months ago to stay with my wife’s sister, Ruthie Jannesy. She kept writing us and writing us about how good it is to live in this village.” His hopeful smile faded as quickly as it had come.

“It is a good village,” Abigail promised him. “You’ll see. Are you along the cove, then?”

“Yes, miss. This way.”

They came out along the shore and turned for the east, Mr. Evans’s legs eating up the rocky path. Abigail scurried along beside Linus. While he appreciated her trying to help, he could not like her pallor. The ginger of her hair stood out around a white face, and she kept her injured arm close, as if it pained her. He could only hope she would stay outside when they reached the little stone cottage on the opposite side of the cove from his.

She came in right behind him.

Unlike his cabin, this one had a single room, though a wooden ladder near the hearth led up to what was no doubt a loft. Normally, the family would likely have slept there, but Mrs. Evans was lying on a pallet against the white-washed back wall, blankets piled around her. Her dark hair hung limply around a face drenched in sweat. The younger woman holding her hand must have been her sister. Their eyes were nearly as wide as those of the two young children, perhaps six and four, huddled against the adjacent wall, one with her fist shoved in her mouth as if holding back her fears.

“Right,” Abigail said to the children, moving around him as he headed for the mother. “I’m Miss Archer, and I know a secret. It involves cinnamon buns. Follow me, and I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

The two little girls edged closer to her, and she shepherded them out the door.

Clever woman.

Linus knelt beside the mother. Her sister had draped the covers around her as if protecting her modesty, but he could see the mound of her belly, the hand that pressed against the pain.

“I’m Doctor Bennett,” he told her with a smile. “Let’s see what we can do for your newest little one, shall we?”

~~~

He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but the sun didn’t seem to have moved much when he stepped out of the cottage again. The sea breeze cooled the perspiration on his forehead and his bare arms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. Abigail was at the shore below the cottage, tossing rocks into the water with the children. He wouldn’t have thought that would hold such fascination, until she cocked her good arm and threw. The stone skipped across the waves three, four, five times before it sank. The youngest clapped her hands with delight.

Mr. Evans came out of the cottage, bundle in his arms. “Sally, Mary,