“I’ll go out to the stable and procure their best cattle to get us up the road as soon as possible.” He clapped Cullen on the back on his way out to the courtyard and stables. “In the meantime, you see if anyone here knows where this physician lives.”
Cullen shoved away his empty glass and leaned his head into his hands for a few moments to gather his thoughts. He had not yet met Wills as a woman and already she’d turned his life into a whirlpool of uncertainty.
Willa rubbed the nose of a huge gray gelding and whispered calming words before rising on her toes and feeling along the withers for any sign of sores.
A sudden commotion at the entrance to the stables made the young stable boy steadying the gray flinch. “Sorry, Wills. Gotta go see what that bellowing Scotsman wants.”
She stood and took charge of the gray, giving him gentle, sweeping rubs. The nerves at the tips of her fingers prickled. A Scotsman?
After a few moments, the stable boy ran back toward Willa. “Can you help me? The old gentleman needs his rig and four right away. He has to get to Peterfield as soon as possible.”
Willa flinched. A Scotsman in a rush to get to Peterfield? Surely this man had nothing to do with the annoying Scotsman she’d rid herself of on the Arethusa. Dr. MacCloud had no doubt returned by now and was as happy as a fat pony in heather to be rid of his unwanted assistant.
She was safe right where she was until her father’s solicitor notified her of the resolution of her father’s estate. She’d written to let him know that Miss “Willa” Morton could be contacted through the inn. In the meantime, she could billet in the vast second level of the stable with the other grooms. The proprietor had been eager to have someone available to keep his stock healthy so that the coaches could keep to their demanding schedules.
A small bribe to the innkeeper’s wife ensured that Willa’s secret would be safe. She’d been surprised at how little the woman cared that “Wills” was actually “Willa.” She’d merely winked at Wills and pocketed the coins.
Chapter Seven
Cullen’s head throbbed with a dull ache. Captain Still had apologized and wished him luck in finding the elusive Miss Morton. The damned woman was gone. Apparently, she’d not absorbed his previous criticisms very well. Truthfully, he’d considered his comments “advice,” not criticism.
All they now knew was she’d traveled to Peterfield to work as an assistant to an old colleague of her father’s. The captain said she’d been vague about the doctor’s name, and he hadn’t pressed her. But her father had been friends with a Dr. Partlow there.
How many physicians could there be in Peterfield? Probably only one. That was the plus side of the ledger. The negative side? He and Fergus were on the Portsmouth-to-London road again with another set of fresh horses.
They’d pitched in to help the lads hooking up the traces at the inn. The one obstinate swab had kept a hat pulled down over his eyes and mumbled when spoken to. He couldn’t seem to grasp the importance of working side-by-side with Cullen, Fergus, and the other, small lad. He’d kept working the far side of the team, constantly moving and making it impossible for conversation.
They bowled along at a good clip back toward Peterfield, and Fergus, inexplicably, had a broad smile on his face.
“Why are you so happy?”
“We’ve almost finished the quest, laddie. I feel like I’m in one of those gothic novels your aunt hides beneath the pillows in the family sitting room.”
“And just how do you know what’s inside one of those novels you make fun of?”
Fergus ignored the question, and Cullen fought an overwhelming urge to push him off onto the side of the narrow roadway and take over the reins. Instead, when he tapped the older man on the shoulder, he obligingly pulled over. They exchanged seats for the last lap of the tedious trip.
Cullen stood in the busy kitchen of Peterfield’s only physician where a kindly young woman watched him closely, tipping her head slightly as if she were weighing his worth.
Miss Annalise Partlow knew more than she was saying. She had a regular army of stair-stepped siblings, all clad in over-long aprons, lined up at a long, battered wooden table, and peeling potatoes. He’d tried to get an accurate count of the Partlow tribe as he’d been ushered through the house toward Annalise’s domain but gave up after passing about six or seven of the little heathens, all shouting and fighting over one thing or another.
After a few minutes of polite conversation, she seemed to come to a conclusion and motioned for him to follow her into her father’s office. The estimable Dr. Partlow apparently was away on rounds of his patients’ homes which, according to his eldest daughter, would go on indefinitely.
She turned and put her forefinger to her lips to signal a whispered exchange. But devil take him if either of them could talk in any mode of voice that would be heard above the din of the small savages racing about the house.
“She sent me a letter.” Miss Partlow breathed in after the stage whisper. The long silence following that revelation reminded Cullen of wild stag hunts in Scotland. Just when you thought you knew where they were headed, they circled back behind you into the woods. He sensed any signs of impatience on his part would send her skittering back to the infernal kitchen full of small potato peelers.
She leaned over her father’s desk and scrawled an address on the back of a scrap of used paper. She handed it to Cullen. “You will make her happy, won’t you?”
Cullen wrinkled his brow. “Not sure I ken what you mean. How would my showing up make her happy?”
Annalise gave
