Jack snorted. "A tradesman looking to have his bill paid, more like."
Mary Jane lifted her chin. "He was a prince. Dressed all in gold and draped with jewels. Isn't that so, Abby?"
"Exactly so," I began.
"Mary Jane," called a shrill voice from the house, "stop spouting nonsense this instant and come finish your chores. The potatoes aren't going to peel themselves, are they—and with an extra mouth to feed tonight as well."
My cheeks flamed at the mention of the "extra mouth."
"Sorry, Mum." Mary Jane winked at me. "You'll tell me the story again, won't you, Abby? Later tonight, when everyone's asleep?"
I shifted my boots. "Perhaps your mother would prefer—"
"Mary Jane Simon!"
"Coming, Mum!" Getting on tip-toe, the girl whispered hurriedly in my ear, "I almost forgot what I was saying earlier. Jack's got another speriment. He'll show it to us tonight, after everyone's asleep."
Then she was off. Jack and I watched as she scampered into the house.
"Reckon she's half imp." Jack scrubbed a hand through his wheat-colored hair. "Other half's monkey."
"She's a sweet girl," I mumbled.
I was already dreading entering that cozy cottage where I did not belong. During the month I had stayed here on weekends, I'd picked up on a certain animosity from Mrs. Simon; she did not like me, try as I might to win her favor. I wished I knew what offended her so that I might remedy it. With a sigh, I lifted my satchel and headed toward the house. Dawdling when there was work to be done was certain not to gain her approval.
Jack followed behind me. "Abigail?"
"Yes?" I was wondering if Mrs. Simon might be won over if I tidied the house tomorrow whilst her youngest, one-year-old Tommy, took his nap.
"I was wondering, Abby ..."
If Tommy slept long enough, I could make use of the washboard as well. That might placate her. I thought longingly of the de-mangler in the scullery at Hope End—but of course, everyday folk like the Simons did not have such modern luxuries as machines to help with chores. 'Twas no matter. I was used to doing things the old-fashioned way. Aunt Agnes and I had done everything by hand.
"... have you ever been to London?"
I stopped at the front step and turned to look at Jack. Though his eyes were bright with excitement, his tanned face had an earnest cast about it.
"London?" I echoed, puzzled. "No."
"Han't you ever wanted to?"
The City rose before me, a nebulous world of fog and soot and inhuman faces. I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter. "No, never."
"Well, I do," he said fervently. "There's to be an exhibition next month, one to celebrate the most recent scientific advancements. They'll be showcasing all sorts of inventions. Everything from rock blasting to—"
The front door banged open. From the pinched look on her long, thin face to the firm cross of her arms, Mrs. Simon appeared none too pleased.
"Ma'am," I said, making a hasty curtsy.
"Miss Jones," she replied, her gaze flicking between Jack and me. "So you've come to grace our humble abode."
Not knowing how to reply, I said nothing.
"Well, come in then. I'm just getting supper on the table." She tucked a limp ginger-colored strand back under her cap. "And Jack, you best get yourself cleaned up afore we eat. All that chatter won't fill your stomach. Idleness is the devil's work, you know."
"Yes, Mum."
I felt Jack's glance slide to me, but I dared not look at him. He loped off toward the washhouse, whistling as he went. Which left me alone with his mother, whose faded green eyes raked over me with disdain. Her gaze lingered at my satchel, and belatedly I saw the bits of leaves and dry grasses clinging to its sides.
"See you clean that up before you step in." Her lip curled. "The Good Lord knows I've got enough to take care of without dragging the dirty baggage in."
*****
Supper with the Simon family was a noisy affair. Though I was used to the hubbub of the servants' table, I found the constant flow of conversation and the never-ending rotation of plates and cups a challenge to keep up with. There were a dozen Simons in all, varying in age and size. The oldest was Widow Simon, Mr. Simon's mother, and the youngest one-year-old Tommy, whose small feet I glimpsed disappearing under the table. No one else seemed to take notice of him or mind.
I occupied an end of a bench, with Mary Jane beside me and Mrs. Simon in a chair adjacent. I supposed Mrs. Simon liked to keep her eye on me. I took a scant spoonful of the creamed peas and an even smaller helping of the mutton stew, though it smelled heavenly. Apparently satisfied, Mrs. Simon turned her gaze to the other end of the table where her husband sat and the boys were busily attacking their food—and each other.
"Mr. Simon," she said loudly, "I should like to share some very exciting news."
Mr. Simon looked up from his plate of food. He had the broad, weathered face of a farmer and the quiet manner of a man more at ease with crops than people.
"I was in the village today," his wife continued, "and who did I chance to encounter but Mrs. Castlebury herself."
She waited for a response to her grand announcement; there was none. Not unless one counted fourteen-year-old George poking at Jack with the stick he wielded with clandestine expertise beneath the table. Jack growled a warning; George grinned.
"As you'll recall," Mrs. Simon said, with a glare at the two, which somehow got transferred to me, "Mrs. Castlebury is the wife of the Mayor. Like myself, she is also related to nobility; an uncle on the mother's side is a viscount, I believe. Very good people, the Castleburys."
I nodded politely. "Good people" were one of Mrs. Simon's favorite topics. I often wondered why she, who claimed a distant connection to a baron, had deigned to marry the prosperous but unassuming farmer at the other end of the table. Mrs. Beecher had mentioned something about Mrs. Simon's family coming "down in the world."
Never mind her complaints, Abigail, the housekeeper had said with a snort. Stella Simon sleeps in a bed of her own making—and a fruitful one at that.
"What's so exciting about that, Mum?" George asked. "You see Mrs. Castlebury all the time."
"The proper address is Mama, George. How many times must I remind you?" Mrs. Simon gave her son a reproving look. "The difference is that this time Mrs. Castlebury has invited me to be on the St. Alban's Parish Ladies' Planning Committee."
"Planning? For what?" George asked.
"There is to be a spring assembly." Mrs. Simon's eyes lit up with triumph.
The news elicited gasps and excited chatter around the table. Only Mr. Simon stayed quiet, continuing to cut away at his roasted joint without looking up.
"Oh, Mama, will there be dancing?" This came from Sally, Mrs. Simon's eldest daughter, who was near my age.
"It will be sponsored by the Church, so it will be a very decent affair. Perhaps a few country dances," Mrs. Simon allowed. "I will be amongst those in charge of preparations—deciding upon decorations, refreshments and, most importantly, who shall receive invitations."
"Not everyone will be invited?" George asked.
"Of course not. What would be the point? The list is to be exclusive, limited to those with good standing in the community."
Mrs. Simon's gaze landed on me, and I felt myself flushing. I told myself it did not matter. The last place I would want to go was a public gathering. I had no liking for strangers or strange situations, and I did not even know how to dance.
"Given the connections of the Planning Committee, there is like to be more than a few titles in attendance as well," Mrs. Simon continued. "We will have to put our best foot forward—new dresses will need to be made up for Sally and Charlotte and shirts and neck-cloths for the boys."
"Oh, Mama!" her daughters exclaimed. Her sons responded with a good deal less enthusiasm.
I felt an elbow nudge my side.
"Do you think the earl will come, Abby?" Mary Jane asked around a mouthful of bread.
A chill silence descended upon our end of the table.
"Mary Jane," her mother said in a pleasant way that had my nape tingling, "you must remember this will be a gathering of good society. Decent people. I am sure his lordship would find it not at all to his taste. Don't you agree, Abigail?"
For some reason, the set down issued to my employer set my teeth on edge. Mayhap it was the fact that he had promoted me to secretary, making me an ambassador to his good name. Or mayhap it was that he was not here to defend himself (not, I admitted, that he would have given a damn). Most likely, my irritation had to do with the fact that his lordship had shown faith in me when most others would not have. What right had Mrs. Simon to judge a man she did not even know?
"I am sure I don't know the earl's inclinations," I said.
"That would not be your place, of course, being a servant," Mrs. Simon agreed. "Yet I do regret to mention that his inclinations are a matter of public knowledge. I should not repeat what has been said amongst the good people of St. Alban—gossip being so vulgar—except to note that his lordship has not once stepped foot in the village chapel. Not in all the five years he has lived at Hope End."
Sally and Charlotte looked at each other and tittered.
"Perhaps he has not had the time," I heard myself saying, "being a gentleman of diverse interests and responsibilities."
Mrs. Simon's eyebrows jumped, as if upon a golden opportunity. "A responsibility greater than to God, Miss Jones? The very idea is blasphemous."
Biting my tongue, I looked down at my plate. Do not argue with her. I smashed peas beneath my fork. It will only stir her hostility further.
Jack's voice came clearly from the other end of the table. "Actually, 'tis not blasphemy but scientific progress which posits an alternative to God."
There was an instant of silence, like the eye of a storm. Then ...
"I'll have none of that talk at my table, Jack Simon," Mrs. Simon screeched.
Sally and Charlotte gasped. Even Mary Jane looked a little scared. George was drawing his finger across his throat and shaking his head at his brother.
But Jack continued in calm tones, "According to Mr. Darwin's research—"
"How many times have I said never to mention that sinner's name in this house!" Mrs. Simon's chair squealed back from the table.
"Seven," mumbled Widow Simon, whom I had thought asleep.
"I'm merely trying to share the latest intellectual advancements," Jack insisted.
"First thing tomorrow, I am taking you to Father Richards," Mrs. Simon said. "I'll not have a son of mine going to hell for heathen beliefs."
A stubborn furrow formed between Jack's brows. "I'm not going to waste time with that jackanapes. Last time I saw him, he tried to convince me that the sun revolves around the earth." Jack rolled his eyes. "And he told me to pray to God for higher thoughts."
"You'll do well to listen to your betters," his mother retorted, "and to do a lot less thinking of your own."
"Enough."
We all jumped as Mr. Simon's fist pounded the table and set the dishes clattering.
Holding onto her teetering glass, Mrs. Simon said, "But Mr. Simon—"
"I said let it be. Jack's a man now, and a man's got a right to his own mind." Mr. Simon's thick brows lowered. At that ominous sign, even his wife quieted. "A man's also got a right to have his supper in peace."
Thankfully, the conversation returned to topics of less epic proportions. As Sally chattered on about the newest hair ribbon she'd seen in a shop, I caught Jack's eye. He still looked disgruntled, as if he couldn't understand why no one experienced the world as he did. Understanding, I risked giving him a small smile. After a moment, his lips curved ruefully. It was a quick and furtive exchange, the comfort shared by vagabonds passing in the night.
SIX
After the others had fallen asleep, I followed Mary Jane on tiptoe through the house. A floorboard groaned suddenly beneath my step. Mary Jane's gaze flew to mine; I saw my own horror mirrored in her expression. But no sudden lights or angry voices greeted us. Several heartbeats later, we continued on our way. We did not speak until we had exited the front door and were headed out back toward the barn.
Mary Jane wiped her brow in an exaggerated motion. "That was close, Abby. 'Tis getting more difficult to sneak out these days, what with Sally staying up forever writing in her diary. It's all boring nonsense, too—who cares what side Henry Wilkinson parts his hair on?"
"Mary Jane," I chided, "you oughtn't be reading your sister's private journal."
"Now that I know there's nothing interesting it there, I shan't bother," she said impishly. "Oh, I'm glad you're here, Abby! I miss you during the week. We're bosom companions, aren't we?"
Looking at the small, earnest girl trotting beside me, I felt my throat tighten. I answered her honestly. "I don't rightly know, Mary Jane. I've never had a bosom companion before. At least, not one that lasted."
When I was twelve, there had been a girl. I could still see her in my mind's eye. Miranda, the baker's daughter with vivacious hazel eyes and a rose-cheeked countenance. Though her hair had been brown like my own, her mother turned her out in bouncy, fashionable ringlets whilst my aunt twisted me into plain plaits. One day, Miranda had come round when my aunt was at work. I'd never entertained another my age before. But she'd coaxed her way in, enticing me with her new miniature tea set and infectious giggles.
Over a pretend picnic, she'd said if we were to be true confidantes, I would have to tell her my biggest secret. Something I'd never shared with another soul.
Disarmed, eager, I had.
The rumors had frothed immediately. She's possessed by the devil's madness. She should be locked up with the other lunatics and kept away from our children. Once friendly eyes had turned stony with suspicion; they followed my aunt and I everywhere, as did the whispers, the growing hatred. Soon thereafter, Aunt Agnes had been summarily dismissed from her post at the school—with no explanation. In the end, we'd had to leave that county and start anew in another. Though my aunt had never blamed me, I'd learned my lesson.
Never again had I exposed my true self. My abominable secret. To do so, I knew, would bring nothing but pain and rejection.
"Well, I'll be your first friend, then," Mary Jane said cheerfully. "Don't worry, I'm good at it. I've got loads of experience."
I gave her a tight-lipped smile.
Jack was waiting for us by the open barn door. Being the eldest, he had the privilege of living in the spacious loft above the stalls. He held the lamp up as we approached.
"What took you so long?" he asked. "I almost had to start without you."
"Sally," came his sister's succinct reply.
Obviously, that was explanation enough. As he led the way past the stalls of curious animals and into the sweet hay-smelling interior, Jack shook his head.
"Girls," he muttered. "What could the silly chit possibly see in Hank Wilkinson? The fellow's daft as a brush."
"That explains it, then. Sally adores anything related to hair." Mary Jane's precocious wit drifted down to us as she clambered up the wooden ladder.
"Do you need a hand, Abigail?" Jack asked.
I looked at the broad, calloused hand he held out, and for some reason I blushed. "No, thank you," I said. "I can manage on my own."
Jack's loft ran most of the barn's length, giving him almost as much space to himself as shared by the entire family in the house. I thought the arrangement a wise compromise for all parties involved. For if Mrs. Simon ever saw her way up here, I was certain she would expire from shock. If, as she claimed, cleanliness was next to Godliness, I feared her son destined for hotter climes.
Oddities of every kind cluttered Jack's quarters. Springs of all sizes spilled from the dresser drawers; spools of wire coiled over the floor. A menagerie of half-finished wood-and- metal forms lay in wait. Along the far wall, a shelf held rows of lidded glass jars, their insides murky with floating, globular forms. I remembered Mary Jane's desc
ription of her brother's brief obsession with galvanism, and my stomach gave a queasy surge. Thank heavens that phase had passed before my arrival.
According to Mary Jane, her brother had come down with scientific fever ever since discovering a dog-eared prospectus of the Grand Exhibition. Jack loved modern ideas and especially new-fangled inventions. His newest project appeared to be comprised of two large wooden boxes. They were placed upon stools at both ends of the room, with a length of wire running between. Taking care to avoid the nails and assorted instruments littering the ground, I navigated my way to stand behind Mary Jane.
"Is this it?" The girl asked, her small hands on her hips. "Doesn't look like much, does it Abby?"
"What is it?" I asked.
"My own electric telegraph," Jack announced, a hint of pride in his voice. "Like the one used on the railway. I've been experimenting to see if I can make it faster with a stronger battery source."
I was not familiar with such a contraption. "What does it do?"
"It allows for messages to be transmitted without the physical transport of letters," Jack said. "You can communicate in short phrases of, say, under thirty words. It works best if you leave out unnecessary words like the and, well ... and."
I wondered why anyone would wish to communicate in broken up sentences of thirty words or less.
"How does it work?" I asked.
"You just enter the message on this end ..."—Jack fiddled with various keys—"and the signal is transmitted through electrical waves to the other box. The electromagnet there pulls on a pencil I've attached, which will draw out whatever code was sent. Then all one has to do is decipher it."
"Oh, do let me try!" Mary Jane begged.
After Jack taught his sister how to manipulate the keys, he went to the other side of the room to receive the message. As Mary Jane worked the controls, I smelled a faint caustic scent, like acid or wood burning.
Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) Page 5