Adoring abigail, p.18
Adoring Abigail, page 18
“I . . .” My lips trembled, and my heart shattered. “Please . . .”
“Dear girl,” Robert said. Then he pulled me into his arms. “What has happened?”
I realized then that he was the first to ask the question. Grandmother always seemed to accept Mr. Mead’s iteration of events. Truth proved to be a funny thing; it could be altered and manipulated to fit a scheme. Which version would Mr. Wilkins prefer? The thought touched my conscience, and I knew the answer. He would want the whole of it. But in revealing the events in their entirety, I risked the exact fate I hoped to avoid. Mr. Mead should not have imposed himself on me. I’d escaped before he could kiss me. But if it were found out that I’d been secluded with him, he would be forced to make it right. He could abandon me to the gossips or take me as his wife. Mr. Mead had made his desires known, and in doing so, he had ensured my compliance. Either way, I was bound to him. It seemed the only decision left to make was how much of a lie to tell the handsome man standing before me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mr. Robert Wilkins
How Abigail had come to be running through the meadow in the middle of a deluge she would not say. Neither could I coax the truth from her. She held to the tale that she’d been walking and was caught in the storm. But if that were true, why would she not return to Fern Cottage? Cattersley was a much greater distance. Beyond that, the look on her face when I’d intercepted her was not worry over having to re-pin her wet hair. It was pure, undiluted fear. I’d seen that look in the eyes of too many soldiers on their first day of battle. From what battle had Abigail fled?
I considered that perhaps her grandmother had upset her, or maybe something in the forest had frightened her. While I would continue to wonder at the cause of her flight, I found great relief in knowing her path had intersected with mine. She shivered from cold and fright, and I could not help but pull her into my arms.
Upon our return to Cattersley, Mrs. Sommers had ordered the fire in the west library to be stoked before she called for Hazel, Mother, and a fresh pot of tea, as well as blankets and dry clothing for Abigail, whom I left to the care of my mother and Hazel. I returned to my chamber, where Graham assisted in pulling off my wet boots. I quickly changed into dry clothing before returning to the library.
Abigail now sat near the fire, swaddled in blankets. With her cup in hand, she tried to affect a convincing smile. “See? All is well. I was simply chilled and not in my right mind.” She took another sip of her tea.
I was not convinced.
“Shall I get you another blanket?” Hazel asked.
Abigail forced a laugh. “You have proven more than hospitable.” Her eyes flashed to mine. “All of you.” She inhaled and turned toward the fire. “It is far better than I deserve.”
“Nonsense,” Hazel said and moved to sit beside her. “You are a dear friend. I am grateful Robert found you and brought you here.”
Abigail set her teacup aside. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Wilkins.” I raised my eyebrows, and she gave a small smile. “Robert,” she said before ducking her head.
“Tell me again how you came to be in the meadow,” Hazel said as she pulled Abigail’s hand into her own. I once again envied my sister.
Abigail pressed her eyes closed. It was only a moment before she opened them again, but when she answered, her words did not contain her usual contentment. “I have not been able to call on Mr. Tucker for quite some time and hoped to do so. I did not realize the clouds threatened such a lashing, or I would never have ventured out.”
Her account did not explain her tears. And I could not dismiss them.
“Why not return to Fern Cottage?” Mother let the question dangle.
“I thought I could outrun the storm.” Abigail pushed a wet piece of hair behind her ear. “I suppose I am foolish for thinking so.”
Manning stepped into the room. “There’s a young man here asking after Miss Rutherford.”
I looked at Abigail. She pulled her hand from Hazel’s and pressed her fists into her lap.
“His name is Craven, sir,” Manning said. “He’s been sent from Fern Cottage to inquire after her.”
Abigail’s eyes lit with recognition at the mention of the young
man’s name.
“Please have him join us,” I said. “Thank you, Manning.”
Abigail pulled the quilt from her lap. “Grandmother must be furious,” she said softly and moved to stand.
“Please sit down, Miss Rutherford.” My stern words halted her movement. “You must remain here until the storm has passed. Craven may tell Mrs. Baker you are well, or he may remain with you and I shall send one of the stable hands to inform your grandmother of your whereabouts.”
“I can’t—”
“Nonsense.” Hazel placed her hand again over Abigail’s. “Robert is right. The storm has gotten worse. You cannot travel even so short a distance, until the skies have cleared.”
Manning cleared his throat, and I turned to see a healthy lad standing in the doorway. He clutched his hat in his hands. “Hello, sir.” He bobbed his head several times. “I’m James Craven.”
“Hello, Craven. Mrs. Baker sent you?” He nodded at my question. “Please come warm yourself by the fire.” I motioned to a place next to the hearth.
The boy glanced around the room, but he made no attempt to move until Abigail addressed him. “You are soaking, Craven. I’m sorry to make you come out in the storm.” This time Hazel did not stop Abigail when she stood and coaxed the young man to the fire. “Let me take your jacket.” She pulled it from his shoulders.
“’Tis only a little water, miss.” Craven let her remove his coat, and Abigail arranged it near the crackling flame to dry.
“Is Grandmother very upset?” she asked quietly.
Craven shrugged. “She returned home just as the storm hit. Mrs. Bearsly assured her you would return soon, and she seemed appeased until Mr. Mead came—”
“Oh yes. His daily call.” Abigail waved a dismissive hand and tried to appear unaffected, but her lips pinched in a forced smile.
Craven’s eyes narrowed. “But he’d come by earlier, miss. Mrs. Bearsly sent him away, so she was rather surprised when he returned. He insisted upon seeing Mrs. Baker and was ranting something about you—”
“That’s quite enough,” Abigail snapped. She bent low and rearranged the sleeves on Craven’s coat.
Craven tucked his head low and stepped back against the wall without uttering another peep. Hazel, Mother, and I subtly exchanged questioning glances.
Abigail stood from her task. “Naturally, I came to Cattersley and have been welcomed warmly. Grandmother should not make such a fuss.” She inhaled a heavy breath. When her shoulders fell and she turned around, she produced an almost believable smile. Her eyes betrayed her, for they were still lined in red from the tears she’d shed. I determined I would figure out the remainder of the tale.
I’d observed her far too often not to notice something was amiss. Through her difficulties, Abigail had shone with determination. She knew her mind. She possessed a sharp intellect. She was beautiful, and nothing could compromise that. Yet it could not be denied that something, or someone, had stolen her brightness, and I had every intention to discover the root of her gloomy spirits.
Craven and Abigail returned to Fern Cottage once the rain lightened. They refused my offer to escort them; however, they did agree to take my carriage. After their departure, Mother and Hazel spoke of Abigail’s odd behavior and the curious circumstances surrounding her appearance in the meadow. I listened mostly in silence, only speaking to confirm my part in her rescue.
The next morning I asked Hazel to pay call with me to Fern Cottage. She was happy to do so, and we arrived to find Abigail recovered from the previous day’s events, though the heaviness shrouding her light still hung aloft. Mrs. Baker thanked me for my attentions and scolded Abigail for her recklessness.
“The poor vicar was beside himself when he could not discover you in the woods.” Mrs. Baker shook a finger at Abigail. “He searched for nearly an hour and was soaked through.” The older woman tsked. “Running to Cattersley rather than returning home. It is no wonder he could not discover you.”
“Please, Grandmother. Everything turned out. Let’s discuss it no further,” Abigail said.
“I suppose you are correct.” Mrs. Baker rang a bell and asked Mrs. Bearsly to bring some refreshment.
“Is Craven present?” I asked. “I’d like to thank him again for escorting Miss Rutherford home.
Mrs. Baker smiled at the mention of the man’s name. “Young Craven is a fine lad indeed. Always reliable, that one is, and quick to do as he’s told. Thorough too. He comes to Fern Cottage twice a week. Works for Mr. Hart the remaining days. He’ll return tomorrow. I’d be pleased to pass on your gratitude.”
“Thank you,” I said. I was disappointed I could not speak with Craven immediately but grateful I knew where to find him. I did want to thank him, but I also hoped to unveil a bit more of the circumstances of the day prior.
We discussed everything mundane until Hazel and I took our leave. I returned my sister to Cattersley and rode to Mr. Hart’s home, hoping to speak to Craven. Unfortunately, Craven had left on an errand for the man. Hart and I visited briefly, and I returned home discouraged.
Estate business did not allow me to return to Fern Cottage to question Craven, thus it wasn’t until church the following Sunday that I learned more of the situation. Hazel remained home with a headache. Mother and I claimed our regular pew and listened to Mr. Mead’s lecture on honesty. The vicar’s impassioned sermon elicited head nods of agreement throughout the congregation. Mr. Mead spoke well on the subject, and I agreed with his admonition as he began with the commandment listed in Exodus and quoted numerous other scriptures on the subject.
After the benediction Mother visited with Mr. Poppy and Mrs. Christiansen. As I waited for my mother, I saw Abigail. She sat in her pew, her posture and pallor resembling a statue. Her eyes focused forward, and her knuckles, clasped in her lap, were as white as the near-translucent skipping stones I had collected as a lad.
I leaned close to Mother. “I shall meet you outside.” She looked at me for a moment, then gave a small nod before continuing in conversation with her friends.
“Miss Rutherford.” I maneuvered over to her bench. “I hope the remainder of your week has been pleasant.”
She turned cautious eyes to me. “Mr. Wilkins,” she said simply.
“May I?” I indicated the empty space on the bench next to her. She glanced around the parish. Mrs. Baker stood near the door visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Lane. “Do you need to join your grandmother?” I asked.
She shook her head and blinked her eyes clear. “Is Miss Wilkins unwell?”
“Not to worry. Hazel only suffers from a headache. I anticipate a day of rest will cure her ailment.” Although I hadn’t received permission, I sat on the bench.
“I am glad to hear it. Will you pass along my sympathies?” Abigail’s eyes met my own for a moment.
“Of course.” Surrounding conversation blended with the air wafting through the open door. Abigail’s breathing evened, and her shoulders relaxed, if only slightly. “Might you tell me more about your siblings?” I asked. I wished to prolong our time together, and this seemed a safe topic.
“Louisa is happy in her employment. I do long to see her, but I am grateful Mother found her a respectable position.” Abigail smoothed her hands over her skirts.
“And your brother?” I asked.
“Benjamin?” The simple mention of his name brought a smile to her lips.
“You miss him.”
“Very much. I know there are many opportunities for him in America. He’s a hard worker, and I’ve no doubt he will find success. I only wish I could know of his adventures. Perhaps even join him.”
Her words crashed into me like an anchor. She wanted to go to America? I tried to mask my disappointment. “You still have no word from him?”
Abigail nodded. “I only know that he sailed on a ship named Guinevere’s Hope, but beyond that I know not how to find him. Louisa and I write to one another. She, too, has tried to locate Benjamin, but neither of us has met with success.” Abigail gave me a sad smile.
Here was something I could do. I would fight, and beg if necessary, for Abigail to remain in England, but I might at least provide a means for her to communicate with her brother. “Would you like me to make some inquiries? I have several contacts who might be able to locate him.”
Her eyes lit, as if touched with the new rays of dawn. “Truly?”
“It would be my pleasure.” I hoped I was not raising false hopes. “I will reach out to some acquaintances.”
Abigail moved her hand to my arm. “Thank you, Robert.”
My heart warmed at her touch and the joy now flooding her face. We both stood. “May I escort you home?” I asked.
Her excitement evaporated as easily as it had appeared. “I . . . I thank you, but no.” She glanced again around the room. “Mr. Mead will be seeing Grandmother and me home today.”
“Mead?” I asked.
She dipped her head. “Please excuse me, Mr. Wilkins.” I missed her calling me Robert, but I stepped aside. “And do give Hazel my love,” Abigail said as she moved past me.
I stood in a haze as she hurried to where her grandmother stood. Mead joined them shortly thereafter. The trio exited the building, and understanding nagged at my gut. The vicar was a pivotal piece of the puzzle I hoped to solve, for every time a concern arose, his name was involved.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Miss Abigail Rutherford
I listened halfheartedly to Mr. Mead’s ceaseless blather. Robert had promised to try to locate Benjamin. The hope his promise gave me took root, and my thoughts swirled around possibilities. Life in Henwick had been decent. Until recently. Grandmother had allowed me to wander through the country. I’d found a true friend in Miss Wilkins, and Grandmother’s belittling had merely mirrored Mother’s. I had become accustomed to the corrections and scolding, but if I could locate Benjamin, perhaps I could join him in his new life and escape a future with Mr. Mead.
Grandmother persisted in pushing the vicar and me together. Mr. Mead continued to call every day. He mentioned nothing of what had happened in the woods, but he did not need to. He meant to claim me as his. I waited in petrified fear, not knowing how to extricate myself from his schemes. Grandmother remained oblivious to it all. Mr. Mead easily fooled her with his false flattery, his pretended concern for my wellbeing, and his patronizing looks of sympathy shared with Grandmother every time my tongue tangled.
Grandmother believed he would fix me. If the vicar could accept me as a wife, then Society would accept Mrs. Josephine Baker despite her dumb granddaughter. I had wanted to speak to Grandmother the day I’d been caught in the storm. Instead she’d scolded me upon my return home, and I had not gathered the courage to broach the subject. Yet I knew it must be done, for it was the only way to convince her of Mr. Mead’s true nature. Watching her rapture with the man as he prattled on about the blessings of paying a plentiful tithe, I doubted I could break the spell Mr. Mead had cast. He never misbehaved in Grandmother’s presence. Her near-constant company was my saving grace.
We neared Fern Cottage, and the topic turned to the upcoming ball at Cattersley. “I received my invitation yesterday,” Mr. Mead said. Then he turned to me. “Might I speak with Miss Rutherford alone, Mrs. Baker?”
Grandmother beamed in excitement. “Certainly.”
My stomach plunged to my toes.
“I’ll be just inside.” Grandmother pointed to the door. She looked back over her shoulder no fewer than three times as she made her way across the threshold.
I clasped my hands together and prayed for strength.
“Abigail,” Mr. Mead began. I flinched but said nothing. Mr. Mead’s usually flowing tongue paused as if he carefully considered his words. “I wish to discuss the upcoming ball with you. It would be my honor to escort you to Cattersley. Mrs. Baker has agreed, and of course, she will join us.”
“Is that all, Mr. Mead?” I longed to join Grandmother inside.
“On the contrary. I wish you to know so you might be prepared to dance the first set with me.”
I had no desire to be near Mr. Mead. I looked him directly in the eye and spoke with perfect conciseness. “Are you asking me, sir, or informing me?”
His lips twisted, and he gave a mirthless chuckle. “You are a willful little minx.” He reached forward, but I stepped back. His expression soured, and his hand fell to his side. “Your grandmother has given her permission, Abigail. There is no use fighting our union. I shall expect your hand in the first dance, and I shall expect your acceptance of my offer at the ball as well.”
He leaned near. “Do not think I’ve forgotten your antics from the other day. Running away to Cattersley. You cannot trust the Wilkinses. Why, Wilkins himself has designs on you, but he will not give you marriage. Not as I am offering you, Abigail. Wilkins would never desire a wife such as you. He sees your pretty face and only wishes for a night or two of pleasure. His wealth, his grand estate, are tempting. I can forgive you for your covetous nature, but make no mistake; he will ruin you.” Mr. Mead grabbed my hand, and I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Be warned, Abigail. Do not cross me again.”
The warning trickled through me—a slow burn, like a creeping fog.
Mr. Mead pulled my hand to his lips. “’Til tomorrow, my dearest.”
He released me, and I could not retreat to the house quickly enough.
Grandmother did not cease talking for the duration of our evening meal. How she cleared the food from her plate I had no idea. She spoke of my union with Mr. Mead as if it were already decided and would be the most glorious occasion conceivable.
