Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1)

by Grace Callaway

  "She is not alone here those other days," Mrs. Beecher said. "There are other staff members present. The rumors likely started because everyone in these parts knows your policy, my lord, and surmised that Abigail was alone with you this weekend. We could chalk that one incident up to her injury—one weekend her reputation could possibly tolerate, but more than that ..."

  Seeing the anxious sheen in the housekeeper's eyes, I felt my throat tighten. I would be ruined in this town—nay, this county. Mrs. Simon's snub would be but a taste of things to come. All my life I had feared becoming a pariah because of my visions—I had not thought to fear other forces which might compromise me. I had not thought anything else more dangerous than madness; looking at Hux's brooding expression, I knew I had been wrong.

  "I cannot stay here," I blurted.

  "You have no other choice." I saw a muscle leap upon Hux's jaw; he was furious, I realized. "Between narrow minds and your injuries you have nowhere else to go. Bloody hell, can you even walk to the door without falling?"

  My chin lifted. "I will think of something."

  "Well you had better think fast—it is midday already, and most of the other servants have left," he said sharply.

  "I will stay here with Abigail to prevent further talk," Mrs. Beecher said. She looked at Hux over her spectacles. "If his lordship permits my presence, that is."

  Beneath his dark lashes, Hux sent her a quelling look, but said nothing.

  I bit my bottom lip. "You are kindness itself, Mrs. Beecher, but I cannot ask it of you. You would have to forgo your visit with your niece, who is expecting you. I know how much you look forward to seeing her, and you have your train ticket already."

  I owed the housekeeper so much already; I did not want to impose upon her further, not with our as yet tenuous reconciliation. Besides, this was a bed of my own making, and I would find a way to sleep in it.

  "Tell me a better idea, then," Mrs. Beecher said, a pucker between her brows.

  I turned to Jack. "Do you know anyone in the village who might have a room to spare? I could pay for the lodging. It won't be much, but I could afford it this weekend, until I can find a more permanent solution."

  Jack gave a nod, his green eyes lit with determination. "I will go right now and ask around for you. With a spot of luck we may be able to find someone—"

  "How 'bout Maggie?" Mary Jane chirped.

  Jack and I both looked at her.

  "I reckon you can't mean Pickled Peg," Jack said, rolling his eyes. That gesture, and the moniker that this Maggie was apparently known by, spoke volumes.

  "She's nice," his sister informed him, "and it's not fair to judge her from that one incident. She told me she didn't know what was in the punch. Anyways, she's smarter than folks give her credit for—why last year, her bonnet-piece took first prize at the fair. Why shouldn't we ask her to help Abby out?"

  "You've got ants in your noggin," Jack said. "Maggie lives at home with her folks and more siblings than I can count. The Littles can't take another in."

  "Not in," Mary Jane said impatiently. "Out. Maggie could come here and keep Abby company. Like Mrs. Beecher was to do, only it wouldn't be no problem for Maggie—she'd do it for free, I'd guess, just to get out of her house." The girl looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "She's got brothers worse than this here lot."

  The solution seemed perfect—well, nearly.

  "Would—would that be acceptable to you, my lord?" I asked. "I would be inviting her, a stranger, into your house ..."

  "Invite whomever you want." Hux flicked an invisible speck off his sleeve. "The Archbishop of Canterbury, if that would spare us further discussion."

  "I am grateful, my lord," I said.

  "Are you, indeed? How exceptional, when it seems your predicament was caused by me in the first place." Beneath his drawling tones, the anger was unmistakable. Who was he angry at—me? Himself? "Nonetheless, if you choose to remain here this weekend, there is a rule which must not be broken. Not by you, Miss Jones, and," his mouth tightened, "certainly not by this Pickled Peg."

  I waited.

  "I will have a guest tonight, and I do not, under any circumstances, wish to be disturbed."

  I saw the feral glimmer in Hux's eyes, felt it as a visceral blow. There was no doubt in my mind that the gender of the visitor would be female. Beautiful and wealthy, too, if the writers of those letters were any indication. Despite knowing better, I felt my insides churn with a foreign emotion.

  "This is your house, my lord," I said stiffly. "Privacy is your right. If you wish me to leave—"

  "God's blood, I've already said you could stay. But in this room, Miss Jones—there'll be no wandering about this evening, or there will bloody hell to pay," he growled. "Do I make myself clear?"

  I felt an immediate resistance, one that bolstered my spine. Why did he think he must issue orders as if I was some imbecile? "Of course. I would not think of intruding on your pursuits."

  "Goddamnit, Abigail—" He looked as if he might say more; he pressed his lips together instead.

  "It's settled then." This from Mrs. Beecher, who was clasping her hands in front of her, a line of worry still worked between her brows. "Jack, best you and Mary Jane head to the village and see if this Maggie can be of help. While you are there, it would do no harm to inquire about lodgings as well. I will stay with Abigail in the meantime."

  Jack did not move. "Will you be alright?" he asked me quietly.

  I tried to ignore the flames, hot and blue, licking over my face. "Yes. Thank you, Jack," I managed, "and Mary Jane, too, for your assistance. Please be sure to offer Maggie two shillings a day for her time. I'd pay as much for a room, and I don't wish to take advantage of her."

  "Not to worry, Abby. I'm sure Maggie will want to come. 'Tis an adventure, after all, just like the ones you told me about!"

  With a gleeful wave, Mary Jane departed with her brother. I was left with Mrs. Beecher and the earl.

  "'Tis kind of you, my lord, to extend your hospitality to Abigail—" the housekeeper began.

  "Kindness has nothing to do with it," he said darkly. "You know that as well as I, Rebecca. But as long as she abides by my condition, she will remain safe this weekend—that I can guarantee." He flicked his gaze to me. "Stay in this room, Miss Jones, or you will regret it."

  With those words, he turned heel and left.

  Mrs. Beecher shook her head and hugged her arms to herself. "Not a man to mince words, is he? But you have the master's promise, which is worth something. Abigail, you must swear to me that you will do as he says and remain in the room."

  "Wild horses couldn't drag me," I vowed.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Simons returned with Maggie Little two hours later. As Mary Jane had predicted, Maggie was more than happy to come stay for the weekend. It was a good thing, too, for the Simons had asked around the village and had found no suitable place for me to stay. I gave Jack and Mary Jane my heartfelt thanks — but they only waved me off and promised to come visit as soon as they had the time. Mrs. Beecher left not long thereafter, leaving me alone with Maggie.

  She was a pleasant girl, mayhap a year or two older than I. Possessed of frizzy hair the color of nutmeg, she regarded the world with a vacuous expression; I suspected this contributed to her sobriquet of Pickled Peg as much as the apparently fabled incident at the St. Alban country dance last year.

  "I drank it all," she confirmed to me. Her left eye had a lazy bent, wandering its own path around the room. "The whole bowl, practically. I was so thirsty from all the dancin', y'see. I didn't know it at the time, but one o' the village lads had laced it with spirits." She laughed, a honking sound that reminded me of a goose. "Well, I was a-whirlin' then, I tell you. Got meself named Pickled Peg e'er since. I don't mind—there's worse to be called, I reckon."

  I admired her breezy tolerance of life's travails. "I can't thank you enough for this favor to me. And I shall have to thank your parents for allowing you to stay."
>
  "Oh, me folks danced a jig to be rid o' me." Opening the doors of the armoire, Maggie poked her head in. Her voice echoed back at me. "Ain't no room fer us all, what with Ma jus' delivered o' the youngest, and Annie—she's the eighth after me—expectin' again. Her third, wouldn't you know. She's hopin' for a girl this time. The boys are drivin' her mad, they are. Oh, what's in 'ere, Miss?"

  She was pointing at the box atop the dresser. Hux had brought it in when he had come earlier; in the fervor of trying to save my reputation, I had forgotten all about it. "Please call me Abigail," I said. "As for the box—would you mind bringing it over?"

  Her expression eager, Maggie placed the flat, rectangular box on the bed. "It's a big 'un, ain't it Miss? What do you reckon's inside?"

  I shrugged, as uncertain as she as to what lay beneath the elegant green and white striped exterior. I lifted the lid to find green tissue tied with a golden cord. I pulled the ribbon free and parted the tissue.

  "Ooooh, Miss," Maggie breathed.

  I felt my own breath catch at the sight of the fine taffeta. The violet fabric was so dark and smooth as to be nearly black.

  "Please, Miss, can't you take it out, let us 'ave a look?" Maggie begged.

  My hands shook slightly as I removed the gown from its paper moorings. With Maggie's help, I lay it flat upon the counterpane. 'Twas undeniably one of the most beautiful dresses I had ever beheld. Its loveliness came from its simplicity; there was not a bow, nor flounce, to mar the perfect plainness of the lines. The neck was high, the bodice gracefully curved in the middle, and the skirt full but not excessively so. It was a day dress, somber in color and design, with nothing but the fine weight of the fabric to betray its extravagance.

  In short, it was a dress fit for a secretary.

  "Oh, look, there's stays an' such as well!" With a squeal of excitement, Maggie upended the box. "You can try it on right now, Miss—oooh, you'll look a treat, you will!"

  I wrestled with temptation. I was tired of the threadbare bombazine which I had worn all week and which, to be frank, required a thorough sponging (and more like a good soaking in lye). I was tired of living in a room not mine, of inhabiting a life marked by uncertainty. Most of all, I was tired of my fraying self, my insignificance, the plainness of demeanor which hid an even uglier secret.

  Yet my aunt's words came to me—a hand in the dark.

  You are who you are, Abigail. No one but God can judge that.

  I felt the blood returning to my hands and feet. The warm pulse of my own flesh. I knew myself, my station—and I knew what could not be. 'Twas my own weakness spread before me: the vanity to aspire to something that I was not. It was the devil's work to spring such a trap, to lure with austerity rather than exorbitance. Bejeweled and bedecked frocks I could have easily refused. But this dress of glowing simplicity, this fashion which embodied what I desired most—respect and worth—well, this required all my willpower to withstand.

  "No, that won't be necessary, Maggie," I said at last. "I am fine as I am."

  "But, Miss—"

  At that moment, my attention drew to the window. Framed by the sweep of the drapes, dusk had deepened, casting the fields in violet shadow against a torrid pink horizon. In the distance, beyond the gates of the Hall, I thought I glimpsed something. Movement, a ball of dust. An approaching carriage.

  Hux ... and his guest.

  My throat dried up. "The earl has returned. You best go to your room, Maggie, and remember what I told you—"

  "No leavin'. Gor'," she said, "as if I'd leave the peace an' quiet of me own room. 'Tis Heaven, Miss, and I thank you for it. Now you sure you won't be needin' anyt'ing else?"

  I looked at the tray of food she had brought up earlier, as well as the stack of books she'd culled from the library. Not able to read, Maggie had made her choices haphazardly: a treatise by Pliny, a book on agricultural management, and, bless her heart, a set of volumes by the sensation novelist Mrs. Radcliffe.

  "No, thank you, Maggie," I said. "You have done wonderfully. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

  She flashed a gap-toothed grin and departed for my old room below stairs, where she would pass the night. About a quarter hour later, I heard the front door opening and voices coming from the atrium below. High-pitched feminine laughter, light and silvery as bells, and Hux's distinctive tones, deep and utterly male. I buried my face in a pillow, pulled another over top. I did not want to hear their flirtatious banter; I did not want to know first-hand the nature of his lordship's exploits.

  While the down muffled my hearing, it could not dull my imagination. Try as I might, I could not banish the images playing in my head. Her beauty, cultivated and exotic, the swish of her richly hued gown against the parquet floor. Her expensive perfume threading around them as they walked together, the perfect couple—he lean and powerful, she lithe as a dancer—up the grand curving staircase. His gaze smoldering as the chandelier set her lustrous hair a-sparkle, his hand tightening at the small of her back, heat seeping into that elegant dip.

  On the first floor now, two corridors away from where I lay, they paused in front of the master suite. A beauty such as hers deserved more than a humble entrance—he swept her off her delicate heels, holding her in his arms as if she weighed less than a feather, as if she mattered more than a priceless jewel. Candlelight, trails of rose petals. And the waiting bed, the sensual embrace of dark satin into which they fell and fell ...

  I stayed that way, buried in down, in dampness, until I was certain there was nothing left to hear. Turning onto my back, I stared at the fretted ceiling for some time. When at last I could stand the company of my thoughts no longer, I reached for the first volume of Mrs. Radcliffe's work. Aunt Agnes, being a learned scholar, had frowned upon novels—and horrid ones in particular.

  Naught but silly fluff to fill a girl's head, she'd said.

  At the moment, however, fluff seemed a welcome change to my other thoughts. I turned to the first page.

  *****

  The scream woke me.

  Heart pounding, I blinked in the eerie silver glow. So deep had my slumber been that it took me a minute to remember where I was. The guest chamber. Moonlight streamed through the windows where I had forgotten to draw the curtains. I rubbed my eyes. Reading that novel hadn't been a good idea, after all. Clearly, my sensibilities had been overwrought by dark forests and mysterious castles, the evil plotting of villainous counts. So much so that I had imagined a blood-curdling cry—the heroine's no doubt. Poor little Emily St. Aubert.

  With a shaky breath, I turned onto my side. No more thoughts of Emily or her spine-tingling adventures. I would simply think of more pleasant—

  The terror-filled cry slashed through my thoughts.

  I sat up, my breath coming hard and fast into my throat. I had not imagined it. I could not have—not a scream such as that. The hair rose on my skin, tingling with primeval awareness. Of threat. Danger. It came again, a high-pitched shriek that had me lighting the lamp with a shaking hand. The cries were increasingly distant now, but still my blood stirred with alarm. Throwing my robe over my dress, I hobbled to the door.

  My hand paused on the knob.

  Don't do it, Abigail. Remember what he said. You'll regret it, you will.

  The sound again, no longer fully human, but that of an animal brought to slaughter. My palm slid clammy and cold against the brass. My arm quivered, as did my entire body. Lord help me, what was he doing to her? I had to help ... Yet I did not want to go. I feared to leave the room where he had told me to stay. I feared seeing what I would see.

  I feared knowing the truth about Hux.

  The screeching emerged again and again, each time from a greater distance. The thready desperation of the last cry jolted me to my senses. What was I doing, trembling and useless whilst another suffered? This was no vision but reality. I had the power to intervene and God save my soul if I did nothing.

  The realization freed me. I twisted the knob. Limping, I made my way down the da
rk corridor. My lamp cast wavering shadows, and several times I jumped at the movement of my own flame. But there was nothing out of the ordinary here. I turned left, pausing at the door to the mistress's boudoir. I pressed my ear against cool wood. No sound, only that of my raging heartbeat.

  With stealth due as much to fear as pain, I crept slowly along the length of that hallway. The dark paneled walls seemed to narrow above the glow of the lamp. The air thickened in my lungs. The corridor could not have spanned more than thirty yards, yet it seemed an eternity passed before I reached its end and the enormous door which marked it. To my relief, the thick slab of wood was closed; no noise emerged from within. I set the lamp upon the floor waited, crouching inches from that entrance, and still I heard nothing.

  I breathed again.

  I had not heard the sound for some time now. Minutes, at least. Mayhap I had imagined it after all. Or mayhap it had been a cat, a feral animal in heat. Yes, I thought, with sudden giddiness, an almost overwhelming need to laugh. Earlier, had I not compared the cry to that of an animal? My sense recognized what my overheated imagination had not. 'Twas no woman in distress, but a beast given to its natural ways.

  Straightening, I drew away from the door. In doing so, my foot caught the edge of my robe. I felt myself falling backward, my arms flailing in a bright flash of pain. Somehow my hand latched onto something, and I did not crash to the ground. Panting, my heart galloping in my chest, I pulled myself into balance holding onto the door handle which had saved me.

  I heard a soft click.

  I stumbled, dragged forward by the heavy door into the master's domain.

  EIGHTEEN

  Fear slowed time; I was aware of everything as I fell into that room.

  Its unoccupied state was the first thing I noticed—and the most important thing. As I caught my equilibrium, my eyes adjusted to the blazing light; dozens of blue candles upon the tables and dressers released a haze of smoke that lifted to the vaulted ceiling. I coughed as the acrid gases filled my lungs. Like Cook's meal gone awry, the whole chamber smelled of burning spices, a heady rush of sage and thyme.