Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  The

  Innocent Libertine

  HEIRS OF ACADIA

  - TWO -

  T. DAVIS BUNN

  &

  ISABELA BUNN

  The

  Innocent Libertine

  © 2004 T. Davis Bunn and Isabella Bunn

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a Division of

  Baker Book House Company, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Ebook edition created 2013

  Ebook corrections 03.26.2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  ISBN 978-1-5855-8568-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover design by UDG Designworks, Inc.

  This book is dedicated to

  Susan & Ken Wales

  Our gifted and exuberant friends

  T. DAVIS BUNN is an award-winning author whose growing list of novels demonstrates the scope and diversity of his writing talent.

  ISABELLA BUNN has been a vital part of his writing success; her research and attention to detail have left their imprint on nearly every story. Their life abroad has provided much inspiration and information for plots and settings. They live near Oxford, England.

  By T. Davis Bunn

  The Gift

  The Messenger

  The Music Box

  One Shenandoah Winter

  The Quilt

  Tidings of Comfort & Joy

  Another Homecoming *

  Tomorrow’s Dream *

  The Dream Voyagers

  Drummer in the Dark

  The Great Divide

  The Presence

  Princess Bella and the Red Velvet Hat

  Return to Harmony *

  Riders of the Pale Horse

  To the Ends of the Earth

  Winner Take All

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place The Birthright

  The Sacred Shore The Distant Beacon

  The Beloved Land

  HEIRS OF ACADIA†

  The Solitary Envoy

  The Innocent Libertine

  * with Janette Oke

  † with Isabella Bunn

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  About the Authors

  Other Books by the Author

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Two

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Three

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Book Three/HEIRS OF ACADIA: The Noble Fugitive

  Back Ads

  PART

  ONE

  Chapter 1

  Abigail Aldridge tried to ignore the thrill she felt stepping off Shaftesbury Avenue and entering the forbidden world of Soho. Three paces were enough to cast her into another realm. The rutted cobblestones led her into a place deep in shadows and adventure. Here even the laughter was different.

  Abigail stepped carefully over a water-filled trench, her skirts held in one hand. Thankfully the rain had finally ceased. But the sky overhead remained blanketed by clouds turned orange in London’s evening lights. Though it was early July of 1824, they had scarcely known any summer at all. Abigail could see her breath as she walked. There were even reports of snow covering the Scottish dales. From the countryside came accounts of yet more ruined crops, the third such season in a row. The previous year the harvests had been particularly disastrous, bringing much of rural England to the brink of starvation. A pair of fancy ladies approached with arms linked, dancing their way around a puddle. They giggled meaningfully and spoke a man’s name with the derisive calm of women who knew things Abigail dared not even consider.

  The two deserved the title of fancy, for they both wore dresses with far more frills than Abigail’s. But their petticoats were bedraggled, and the silk trimmings were stained and frayed. Abigail had selected her plainest gown for this outing. Her abundant red hair was primly tied back in a new ribbon, and her face and hands were scrubbed clean. Unlike the pair who now were directly in front of her.

  They drew up sharp on catching sight of Abigail. One of them said, “Here now, what’s this? Down for a bit of slumming, are we?”

  The two could not have been older than Abigail’s own eighteen years. Yet their eyes were as ancient and world-weary as the crumbling buildings to either side of where they stood.

  “I-I’m here meeting a friend, actually,” Abigail murmured.

  “Oh, a friend, is it?” The one who spoke was the shorter of the pair, with pale locks spilling out from beneath a frowsy hat. “That what we’re calling ’em these days, a friend?”

  “Bet she don’t have a clue how to keep her friend happy.” The second woman smiled to reveal several missing teeth. “We could show you a thing or two, couldn’t we, darlin’. Oh my, yes.”

  Abigail smelled the gin on their breaths as they giggled. Added to this was the odor emanating from their clothing— old perfume and smoke and something rank. “D-do either of you ladies know the saving grace of Jesus Christ?”

  The two of them seemed to find that hilarious. The smaller woman took in the street with a grand sweep of her arm. “Don’t recall seeing him ’round these parts before.”

  The other agreed. “If you’ve spied ’im in Soho, missy, best you believe ’e’s got ’imself good and lost.”

  “But He is everywhere,” Abigail declared earnestly, “and always.”

  “Abigail!” Another young woman ran breathlessly toward them. “I feared I had lost you entirely! Why did you not wait for me to arrive?”

  The two ladies realized their game with Abigail was over. The smaller woman’s face hardened. “Take your manners and your religious chatter and get back where you belong, missy. There’s danger stalking these roads. Perils the likes of which you can’t imagine.”

  The newcomer waited until the pair had departed to say, “I fear they are correct, Abigail. We do not belong here.”

  “If we do not try, how are they to hear the Word?” Abigail tugged her friend Nora’s arm. “Remember, the harvest is great and the workers few.”

  “But—”

  “Come!”

  Abigail was well aware that Nora would have much preferred to remain safe in the West End. Nora had been Abigail’s friend since their school days. A quiet girl by nature, she was a perfect daughter and the light of her mother’s life. Nora was in love with a young man earning his charter in accountancy
, and her face bloomed every time his name was mentioned. She loved him so much she almost wept with joy whenever she spoke of their coming wedding. Everyone said she would make a splendid wife and mother.

  Abigail, however, had never loved any young man as Nora did this one. She could not imagine what it might be like. The only time she ever gave such feelings a second thought was when she listened to Nora prattle on. To give up her independence was unthinkable. She was not jealous of Nora. How could she be, when she had no interest in living a life tied to some man’s interests and future? But Abigail prided herself on her honesty. Abigail was forced to admit that she was a bit jealous of this young man for stealing away her best friend.

  “Do hurry on, Nora,” she said as she moved forward.

  “Oh, all right.” Nora took hold of her skirt with one hand and the printed pamphlets with the other. “I suppose it would be too much to ask you to hold to the main roads for a change.”

  “You know where we’re going. We’ve had this planned for days and days.”

  “You’ve had it planned.”

  Abigail did not respond because there was nothing to say. In the past, Nora had willingly gone along with all of Abigail’s plans. That was how their relationship had always been. Abigail was the person with ideas, Nora with the steadfast support. Abigail was impetuous and eager and bursting with a great desire to improve her world. Nora was calm and unwavering in her friendship. Even Abigail’s mother, who worried constantly about her willful daughter, always said that Nora would keep them out of harm’s way.

  Only now there was a change in the wind. Nora’s husband-to-be, Tyler Brock, did not approve of Abigail Aldridge.

  Abigail’s father ran a trading concern that was a major client of Tyler’s accountancy firm. Samuel Aldridge initially had been brought to England as deputy minister plenipotentiary for the United States. But when his stint with the government was concluded, Samuel had remained on to open a British arm of his family’s highly successful trading empire. Since her arrival here as a young child, Abigail had traveled back to the United States only once, four summers past. England was where she had spent most of her life. If she stopped to think about it, Abigail Aldridge would have had difficulty determining which was more of a true homeland. Then again, Abigail rarely stopped and thought deeply on much of anything. Abigail was one for action and forward motion, with loyal Nora by her side.

  Only Tyler was quietly intent upon changing all this.

  Tyler was never direct in his criticisms. He was a cautious man with an accountant’s way of examining things, picking them apart with delicate precision and wearing a body down with his unending questions. Abigail found Tyler to be a most trying sort of person. She tolerated him only because Nora was so deeply in love. At first she had expected this particular romance to follow the path laid down by all of Nora’s earlier infatuations. First there was a great flame of dreaming and yearning and sighing and talking. Then came niggling doubts which mounted until the romance died. Poof. Like a candle snuffed. There one moment, mere smoke and forgotten brilliance the next. Only this particular romance had remained and even strengthened. Now Nora approached her long-sought goal of marriage and a family. With Tyler Brock, of all people.

  Tyler had the irritating habit of asking Abigail questions she could not answer. For instance, were he here now, he would be inquiring in that mild voice of his about why she insisted upon walking down a dark street in the middle of London’s dangerous Soho district. Was it truly because she wished to offer salvation to those shunned by society? Or was it perhaps something else entirely? Could she be after a glimpse of what was forbidden to her, except under this guise? Yes, most certainly, William Wilberforce urged them all to embrace those crushed by modern society. But were there not other ways she could serve, places where she might be included in an established group and thus kept safe? Why must she insist upon taking Nora down. . . . Oh, it really was entirely too much.

  “Oh, I don’t like the looks of this alley,” Nora whispered. “Let’s turn back, Abigail. Please.”

  Nora had recently begun expressing a mind of her own. Only they weren’t her opinions, they were Tyler’s. The accountant might as well have been there with them now, needling Abigail with his questions, driving his ink-stained wedge between her and her very best friend. “All right, Nora. Come along. There. We’re back on the main road again. Do you feel better?”

  “No, actually, I really would prefer it if we returned to—”

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

  Nora’s face actually brightened at the voice, which was infuriating in itself. And the way she greeted him was far too much to bear. “Reverend Aimes! What a delightful surprise.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  Abigail refused to acknowledge the newcomer. “He’s not a reverend yet, Nora. Don’t provoke the man.”

  Derrick Aimes was a thickset man who affected a fighter’s stance when irate. Such as now. “Did I not say that you lambs should never venture down here alone?”

  Abigail had no choice but to greet him. “Forgive me, Mr. Aimes. I was not aware you had been appointed the new sheriff of Soho.”

  Derrick, as usual, traveled with three of his mates. They all grinned at her response. She knew most by name. Derrick Aimes was well known by those close to William Wilberforce. Derrick and his band of Soho believers were perfect examples of how far Wilberforce’s influence reached. Though a master politician and leader of the national opposition, Wilberforce had the uncanny ability to draw support from all levels of society. At Wilberforce’s request, Derrick Aimes organized efforts among a number of London’s wealthier churches to help the poor and the infirm. Abigail and her family attended one such church. Her parents, however, assumed Abigail’s only connection to Derrick and his work was in the protected confines of their Audley Street church.

  Derrick replied, “I have no need of earthly authority to protect innocent lambs such as yourselves.”

  “Have I not implored you never to call me that?”

  “Lambs I said and lambs I meant. Why you insist upon venturing down these ways, tempting someone to wield the slaughtering knife, is beyond me.”

  “Don’t talk like that; it frightens Nora,” Abigail responded.

  “As it’s intended to.” She saw his eyes widen as he realized where they had been standing. “Don’t tell me you were headed down Blind Man’s Alley.”

  Abigail was about to deny it when she spotted Nora’s hand-wringing assent. “And if we were?”

  “Did you not hear of the stabbing there just last week?”

  “Forgive me, I really must go,” Nora spoke, her voice unsteady, as she turned away.

  “Nora, please.”

  “No, Abigail. The reverend is correct in what he says. We don’t know what we’re facing down here.”

  “This is no place for two young ladies such as yourselves, out wandering after dark and alone.” Derrick Aimes snorted his derision. “I can scarcely believe your good families know what you’re about.”

  Abigail drew her friend to one side. “You can’t possibly intend to desert me, Nora,” she whispered softly.

  “No, Abigail. I want you to come with me.”

  “But we’ve only just arrived!”

  “Abigail, you are my dearest friend. I want you to attend me at my wedding. Come away from here. Mr. Aimes is right. We don’t belong.”

  The man called to them from farther down the lane, “Listen to your friend, Miss Aldridge. Go back to your world of thoroughfares and carriages and silk-lined drawing rooms.”

  “I was not addressing you, Mr. Aimes.” She turned her back to him. “Nora, we’ve done this dozens of times before.”

  “And every time I’ve felt we were doing something wrong.”

  “Wrong to spread the Gospel in a world of darkness?”

  “Wrong to do anything of which we fear to tell our parents.”

  Nora was leaving her, Abigail realized.
There was nothing she could do to change her mind. No matter that her best friend had never stood up to her in such a fashion before. Abigail felt a painful wrenching inside. “Or at least so your Tyler says?”

  “Tyler has every right to speak his mind, Abigail.” Nora’s voice was filled with hollow sadness. “Now come along.”

  “Oh, give me the pamphlets.”

  “Abigail, please, you can’t possibly mean to stay here alone and—”

  Abigail plucked the leaflets from her friend’s hands. “I suppose you’re going to report all this to Tyler and your parents.”

  “You know I won’t. Why should I wish for you to be in more trouble than you already are?”

  “But I’m not in any trouble, am I, Nora?”

  “Let’s hope and pray it remains so.” Without another word, Nora turned and walked away. Back toward the well-lit West End boulevards. Back to safety and the world they knew. Back to her Tyler Brock.

  Derrick Aimes had moved back toward the two and now watched Abigail with open-mouthed astonishment. “You don’t mean to tell me you’re staying!”

  “I most certainly am.” If only she could make her eyes stop stinging so. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have these leaflets—”

  “You’re not going anywhere in Soho alone.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you intend to stop me?”

  “I most certainly do.” He blocked her path with his muscular presence. Derrick Aimes had been many things before seeing the light, as he put it. He had spent almost two years touring the countryside as a prizefighter known as the Soho Smasher, taking on all comers for the contents of a small leather purse. His legend still lived on within these noisome alleys and lanes, part of the lore that enveloped London’s red-light district. Once he had gone nineteen rounds with Slammin’ Jack Crouch, a boxer of infamous strength with fists like anvil hammers. But Derrick had left all that behind, and he presently was within a year of completing his ministerial studies. He worked and lived out of the church on Soho Square, and he had a way about him that made even the roughest highwayman sit and listen to the Gospel message. “You’d best be turning around and heading home, missy.”