The room erupted in conversation, everyone talking over each other, all speculating on whether Percival would purchase Leigh Hall, and if Abbie had liked it, while asserting how wonderful to stay so close to home and family when they worried he would whisk her off to London. Abbie sat in silence, her palms glued to her cheeks, her stomach in knots. Percival, the wretched bounder, grinned at her like a hound to a fox.
Mr. Sullivan, a curate and her eldest sister’s husband, was the only one who appeared to recognize her discomfort, likely mistaking it for bridal nerves. He made an excuse for the gentlemen to retire into the study, and shortly thereafter, the neighbors removed to their own homes, taking their children with them. Fanny went to the nursery for a nap. From chaos to quiet, Abbie soon found herself in the parlor alone with her sisters.
Bonnie and Pru both clasped Abbie’s hands.
“He’s as taken with you as any man I’ve ever seen,” Bonnie said, squeezing her hand with the reserved but heartfelt support she was known to offer.
“Don’t be silly,” Abbie protested before she recalled she was supposed to be a blushing bride deeply in love.
“No modesty. You’re with us now and can speak honestly.” Bonnie nodded to Pru for affirmation.
Releasing Abbie’s hand to grab her mending, something she always hid at the bottom of her embroidery basket when guests were around, Pru said, “He’s been stealing glances at you since you first arrived. Besotted, just as Mrs. Brisby said—she’s always observant about such things, didn’t I say so, Bonnie? And oh, so attentive is Mr. Randall!”
“We couldn’t be happier for you. It’s about time you did something for yourself, Abigail.”
Pru touched Bonnie’s arm before returning her attention to the repairs of a shirt sleeve. “You said so the other day. You said Abbie is the most selfless person you know, never doing anything for herself and only living for everyone else’s happiness. And I said how well spotted that was for I can’t remember a time when Abbie did anything for herself—didn’t I say that?”
Smoothing the already tidy hair behind her ears, Abbie said, “You needn’t discuss me as though I’m not here. I’m touched by your perception, but that’s not at all true. I see to my happiness every day. I would also like to point out that marriage does not guarantee happiness.”
Her sisters exchanged meaningful glances.
“And your visits to Lady Dunley?” Bonnie asked, threading her needle for the embroidery Pru had given her to busy her hands.
Abbie’s jaw slackened. “She’s a lonely woman whose son neglects her. I wanted to bring a bit of happiness into her life, just as I do with a great many other parishioners. I hardly see my visits as material.”
“But that’s the point,” Bonnie said. “You spend all your time helping others. When’s the last time you did anything for yourself?”
“I—but I—Well, the literary society. My writing. Those are for me. Who’s to say visiting my neighbors for charity isn’t for myself, as well? It brings me happiness to see them happy, to know they had sunshine in an otherwise lonely day.”
“All we’re saying,” Pru offered, “is how happy we are to see you taking your own happiness seriously. You can’t carry on with literary societies and charities forever and think that’s all you need from life. This engagement means so much to us! Papa wouldn’t dare say it to you, but he’s ecstatic. He’s written every other day since Mr. Randall arrived to Sidvale, and though he was skeptical at first, he’s quite taken with the man; we all are! He, too, sees it’s a love match. He also quite agrees it is time you do something for yourself.”
“Papa said all that?” Alarm speared through Abbie’s chest.
She had hoped he would remain dubious so that when the engagement ended, he could share in the relief that nothing came of it. Together, they could resume life as normal. Did he not want her to remain with him at the vicarage?
“He wrote just yesterday how much he hopes Mr. Randall will choose to live close because he desires more time with his future son-in-law. He quite likes the man’s company. Not that I would say this to Mr. Rockford, but I’m under the impression Papa likes Mr. Randall far better than my husband. For, you see, Mr. Randall’s presence reminds him of your happiness, while Mr. Rockford’s presence reminds him—and this is merely my opinion—of Mama’s passing since Taylor was Mama’s attending physician. Now, he’s never said so, and they’re good friends, but I suspect that might be the case—don’t you agree, Bonnie?”
Of all the contributions Abbie could make to the conversation, she chose to allow Prudence and Bonnie to carry on without her, which they did without prompting, moving to the topic of the wedding breakfast they hoped to plan and hinting at hosting a betrothal supper at the vicarage.
What could Abbie say? She nodded and smiled, embroiled in her own thoughts.
While she could confide in her friends, she could not bring herself to confide in her sisters, and certainly not when the truth would crush their spirits. So happy for her were they, she was nearly caught up in it. If she ignored the melancholy of carrying on a deception with the people who loved her most, she could feel their elation, absorb the joy, and believe it all to be real.
Percy’s words from earlier mingled with her sister’s words. What did she want her life to look like in five years? What was the ideal image of life? She had resigned herself to spinsterhood some time ago, not needing a man to define her, not wanting the limitations marriage could bring to her writing or other aspects of her life. There were not many advantages to marriage for someone like her. Her sisters, yes, but not her. Her father’s wages, while not enough to support four daughters indefinitely, were enough to support Abbie and himself. Should Abbie publish, she could contribute.
Some women, she knew, had no choice but to marry, for their families could not or would not support them. Others found self-worth from someone else’s opinion, believing they were only fulfilled by someone else’s presence, regardless if the marriage was loveless. From Abbie’s point of view, it was better to be a spinster than trapped in an unhappy marriage. She had far too much self-respect to throw away her life for the sake of society’s perceptions of her worth as a woman. There was nothing in her world she wished to escape, no funds she needed, no alliance desired, no part of herself that could only be resolved by allying to someone.
As such, she had never imagined herself as an advantageous bride. She had never imagined herself as a wife or mother. Did she want a knight in shining armor? Did she deserve a knight in shining armor? Would such a knight find her…desirable?
Her thoughts settled on the churchyard. The kiss. Percival’s words. How easy it would be to convince him that by continuing the engagement he would meet the requirements of his father’s ultimatum. She could keep him. But what a gamble! He had made it clear after kissing her that his only attraction to her was the threat of being cut off by his father if he did not marry. He had no interest in her, no…desire. He was not a man besotted.
The gamble was too great.
He would be back to his old ways before the honeymoon ended. However convenient the situation, however much her family adored him, she could only marry someone who knew what he wanted from life and saw her as part of it. Some flighty Londoner who would forget her in a fortnight was not the man for her.
Chapter 13
Percy was not prone to introspection. If someone inquired of his friends at White’s, the answer would be that Mr. Percival Randall had never had an introspective thought in his life. Either his friends did not know him well or the country was casting a spell.
Since returning from Sidbury, there was little Percy had done except introspect. He mused over supper. He mulled over life from bed. He minded possibilities over morning coffee. As he waited for the literary society ladies to arrive at The Tangled Fleece, he pondered further. There was no end to his contemplation. The crux of it all was where h
e saw his life in the next year, two years, or even five years, as he had put to Abigail. No, on second thought, that was not the crux. The crux was what the devil he would do about his growing attraction to Abigail considering where he saw his life heading.
There was no denying it. He was attracted to her, and he had been for some time. The way the sun shone through her eyes, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when the locks were already tidy, the way her smile warmed him to his toes, the way her voice sent his heart pounding—blarg! Percy growled. He was besotted by the vicar’s daughter.
Oh, it was worse. He was besotted by the family, the villagers, the country, the mill, the deuced dusty hall. How he was to cure himself of this illness, he was uncertain, but he would need to find an apothecary soon: Dear sir, do you have an herb that will restore my senses and return me to London?
“Are you ready to read?” asked the dulcet tones of the recipient of his affection.
He turned, taking in her petite frame, governess’ hair, and plain dress with its shade of dreadful fog grey—had it once been blue but seen too many winters? All he saw was the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance. The slope of her neck, the twist of her knot, the freckles across her nose, the blush on her cheeks… Good heavens. He was lost to her.
Gulping his feelings, he said, “Is it my turn already? I thought it was Miss Clint’s. I’ve nothing to share, I’m afraid.” Who could write nonsense prose when Miss Abigail Walsley haunted one’s dreams? He was more apt to pen romantic poetry.
“She won’t be joining us today. I hope all is well.” Abbie tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth, her brow puckered. “This is the third time she’s canceled plans this week. I’ll call on her tomorrow.” Her smile returning, she added, “I’m positive Isobel and Leila will have something to share. If not, I do. I wrote three chapters last night! You’ll be shocked that I’ve added a moral to this adventure, as you suggested.”
A witty remark stalled on his tongue. He had lost his train of thought somewhere between the natural rose of her lips and the two crinkles around her eyes when she smiled.
With Percy’s attention trained on Abbie’s profile, the literary meeting passed lightning fast. His escort from the inn to the vicarage flew by faster, his focus on her laughter about her excitable sisters. Somewhere between now and tonight’s supper, when he would be dining with the Walsleys, he had to pull himself together.
Declaring his best point combination, Percy looked across the table at Abbie.
With a cheeky smirk, she studied her cards before saying, “Not good.”
Narrowing his eyes with a returning smirk, he declared the best sequence.
Her smirk dipped. The twitch was imperceptible except to someone with a trained eye, and Percy had spent far too many nights at the tables not to see it. His smirk deepened in response.
There was nothing more romantic than a game of piquet after supper. Mr. Walsley had sequestered himself by the hearth, a book in hand, spectacles perched on his nose, leaving the pair to entertain themselves over cards and tea.
Percival laid the ace of clubs on the table, waggling his eyebrows.
Abbie frowned. After some thought, she laid down an eight of spades.
Percival won the trick.
He accepted the win with grace and dignity—a whistle, a whoop, a seated jig.
Whoever said a gentleman must allow a lady to win at cards had never played against Miss Abigail Walsley. Percival had a score to settle. He was already down two full games. This game, he was determined to win. Now that he knew her hand’s weakness, he felt self-assured. He laid another club card and watched her sweat it out as she followed with a ten of diamonds. Flicking his ace of diamonds, he accepted this trick’s win. Abbie began shifting in her seat, her smirk fallen.
“What is Sir Bartholomew up to today?” Percy asked, distracting her.
She blinked rapidly, her attention shifting from her cards to him. “Let’s see… I left him in the middle of a field, about to help Granny M retrieve her stolen sheep from the clutches of the Swine Brothers.”
Absently, she set down a card.
Chuckling at the ease of his strategy, he collected another win. “Have you thought on my comments from the meeting about the moral revision?”
Although her hand tilted, attention on her cards waning, it was the pinkening of her cheeks that excited him more. “I hadn’t thought you would like it. I was nervous to read it aloud to you, if I’m being honest. Your suggestions on strengthening it have been helpful. More than helpful. In fact…no, that would be silly. Never mind.” She placed another card without consideration.
He collected the win.
“Go on. Tell me. Nothing you say is silly.”
The blush blossomed, and she dipped her head to look at her hand. “I was wondering if you might consider reading everything I have so far, beginning to end. To see if there’s continuity, a steady arc, character development, that sort of thing. I’ve reworked several scenes to help add more depth to the hero, but I…I’d value your opinion.”
Now was Percy’s turn to be distracted. His opinion was of value to her? She wanted him to read the whole novel? Good heavens. He felt honored beyond words.
Tossing a card in the center of the table, he proposed, “What if you read it to me? I daren’t take it with me, and how unnerving for you to watch me read. I’d much rather hear it in your voice, just as we do at the literary meetings. We could start tonight. Now. Dash this game.”
Abbie’s smirk returned as she won the hand.
Minx!
His feet propped against the edge of a chair, ankles crossed, Percy lounged on the parlor rug, a pillow beneath his head and his fingers laced over his midsection. The clock on the mantel read a quarter after eleven. The air filled with the soft snores of Mr. Walsley, his spectacles askew on his face, his book folded over his chest.
“‘The widow looked up at Sir Bartholomew. She puckered her lips and leaned in to reward the knight for his deeds.’” Abbie paused reading to tap the paper. “Right here. I’m not sure how this should go. He’s going to reject her, obviously, but would she be so forward? Would he know what she was about?”
Percy looked over to Abbie who sat with her back to the escritoire, her stockinged feet tucked beneath her. His favorite ink smudges were back. One graced her bottom lip, the other across her cheek where she had swept her finger behind her ear.
“He would definitely know what she was about,” Percy said. “And yes, some women are that forward. I think, however, she would try to lure him inside first. Offer him something to drink. Get him inside the cottage. It’s up to you if you want him to be gullible enough or tempted enough to go inside before rejecting her. Unless he’s thick, any man would know what the invitation entails. From the chapters we’ve covered so far, I wouldn’t say he’s thick. Benefit of the doubt. Trusting. Only seeing the good in people. That sort of thing. But not thick.”
“So… strike through the puckered lips? Instead, she invites him in for a drink? He’ll sound rude not to accept the drink. I can’t see how readers will understand her intentions from a simple drink invitation.”
“Hmm. You’re right.” Percy thought for a moment, flicking his waistcoat buttons with his thumbs. “Have her give him a ‘knowing’ look. Or how about a gaze from beneath half-lidded eyes. That’ll get the point across.”
“A what?” Abbie laughed, incredulous.
“You know. The sleepy look.”
“No idea what you’re talking about, Percy. I hardly see how her appearing exhausted or tired is going to show the reader or Sir Bartholomew how she intends to reward him.”
Tutting, Percival raised onto his forearms. “Look at me. No, not a quick glance. Put down the paper. Now, watch me.”
When he had her full attention, he awarded her his most seductive gaze: half-lidded eyes, coy smile, dim
ples.
“Oh.” She averted her eyes to stare down at her paper.
A delectable rash of red started at the bosom’s edge of her supper dress and worked its way up her neck and onto her cheeks. Victory! Flopping back onto the floor and lacing his fingers behind his head, he stared at the coffered ceiling, tongue in cheek.
“Describe that look,” he instructed. “With that look, he’ll know, and so will your readers. Nothing but trouble awaits behind the door. She probably won’t even offer him a drink once the door closes.”
He stole another glance to find Abbie’s blush had deepened to a dark crimson.
Without looking up, she said in a soft stutter, “But…but she invited him for a…a drink.” Her hands fidgeted with the corners of the paper. “Wouldn’t she offer the…the drink first? Work her way to…” She swallowed audibly. “You know.”
“To seduction?” Percy rolled onto his side and propped himself onto his forearm. “The look is enough. The look says everything. If he walks into the house, they both know there’s a different sort of thirst to be quenched.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Abbie exhaled from her cheeks with a huff and turned back to the escritoire.
Rewetting the quill, she drew a long line across the paper. Back and forth the quill worked from inkwell to paper in a furious blur of movement. This evening was more fun than he could ever have found at White’s, her blush more satisfying than any kiss from a mistress.
The vicar sputtered a snore, his book sliding down his chest until it caught in a waistcoat button.
The situation was tricky. Not being in a room with Abbie in the presence of her father. No, the whole of the situation, Percy’s admiration for her, the engagement, all of it. There were more ifs than answers. If he moved too fast, Abbie would flee. If she suspected he was trying to trick her into continuing the engagement, she would flee. If he confessed his ardor, she would mistake his intention and flee. If he purchased the estate as a demonstration of his affection, she would feel pressured and flee. All ifs led to her fleeing.
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 12