She focused upon her son, who had returned to devouring another sweet. “I must travel to America, my darling. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I suppose so.”
“Won’t you miss me?”
“Oh yes. Very much.” He fumbled and almost dropped the oversized teapot. “I say, the handle has grown rather hot.”
“Here, use the tea cloth.” She poured for him. One characteristic Byron had inherited from her in abundance was fierce independence. It had been his defining trait even as an infant. Byron had resisted being held. Or stroked, or cuddled. Lillian’s late husband had taken humorous pride in this, calling it a sign of good British breeding, but she knew better. Her aunt had described Lillian’s infancy in the same way. Lillian had been the only baby girl her aunt had ever known who refused a cuddle. Who liked nothing more than to crawl into an empty corner and play all by herself.
Which was why Lillian had elected to send her son off to school. At nine years of age Byron had already begun to explore beyond the safe boundaries. He would disappear for hours, sneak away from the most careful minder and race into the unknown, as though he heard some secret call, a silent trumpet whose invitation he could not resist.
Just like his mother.
“Mama? Did you not hear a word I said?”
“I’m sorry, my darling. I was drifting.”
“The school has planned an outing to Scotland. Two days in Edinburgh and then a week hiking the Highlands. It sounds like ever so much fun. Might I go along?”
In fact, she had already discussed this with the headmaster. Byron had been in trouble several times his first year, usually for slipping out of school bounds. His punishments had been rather severe, and at one point Lillian had feared he might be sent down. But the prospect of leaving his new friends behind had done what Lillian could not, which was to teach her boy an acceptance of regulations, at least so far as the authorities were aware. The Highland trip was restricted to those who looked to become honor students. It was a rare privilege to be included.
“Mama?”
“I will agree, but on one condition.”
A genuine fear shone in his eyes, and she knew he was expecting her to say he must go to America. Lillian felt her heart fill with burning sorrow. She loved her boy so. Loved him so much, in fact, that she saw with a mother’s wisdom that he had already grown beyond her arms.
“What is it you want, Mama?”
“I wish—” she stopped and cleared her throat—“I wish for you to spend your holidays with a family in London.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know them. Their name is Aldridge. They are Americans.”
“But I’m sure my friends would have me home with them if I asked.”
“You may spend half the time with them,” she conceded. “But the other half I wish for you to stay with the Aldridges.”
“Why, Mama?”
Why indeed? Because there was a goodness to these people that she could not fathom. Because she wished for Byron to have a connection to a way of life that was lost to her, or so it felt. “They have a son who will start at Eton next term.”
He made a face. “A new lad?”
“You were a new boy not so long ago yourself.”
Byron caught the change in tone and no doubt knew his mother would not bend further. He gave his most charming smile. “Of course I shall do as you say.”
She resisted the urge to sweep him up in her arms and sob from a mother’s broken heart. It would only embarrass him. She struggled to frame the words around a trembling smile. “And you shall miss your mother just a little. You must promise me that as well.”
Lavinia Aldridge did not intend to pry. Well, perhaps she did. She released a breath that might have been a sigh had it not been necessary for her to remain silent. Because she was eavesdropping, of course. She was desperately concerned and needed to know precisely what was happening.
When Lillian Houghton had requested time to speak with Abigail alone, Lavinia had naturally agreed. After all, the two would need to know and trust one another. They would be living in each other’s pockets for a very long time. And yet, now that the decision had been taken and things were moving forward, Lavinia lived with an almost constant fear. Who was this Countess Houghton? Was she truly the sort of person to whom Lavinia could trust her only daughter? The thought of her dear sweet child traveling so far away was a noose that threatened to rob her body of breath.
There were so many unknowns, so many perils. The dowager countess had no daughter. What if her intent was to steal their Abigail away? Clearly she was a lady of experience—after all, she managed her late husband’s household and estate now. What if she taught Abigail improper ways? And worst of all was the woman’s stated lack of faith. This seized Lavinia’s heart like a fist. She knew her husband was fearful of the same thing, though Samuel did not speak of it. He had himself stated in the woman’s front parlor that God’s hand was upon this journey. Yet how could that be, if Lillian Houghton was not a believer?
Lavinia sat in the dining room, which was separated from the parlor by a set of tall sliding doors. When the Aldridges entertained a large number of people, it was possible to remove the dining table and open up the doors to form one elegant chamber. Now the doors were tightly closed, yet Lavinia had long since learned that every sound carried from the front parlor to where she sat. The polished oval table was strewn with papers, matters related to the upcoming journey and unfinished letters Abigail would carry to her family and friends. Lavinia touched none of them. She stared straight ahead, her entire being focused upon what was happening in the next room.
Lavinia heard Ben Talbot enter the front parlor and say, “Begging your pardon, ladies. Mrs. Aldridge suggested I serve you tea.”
“A very good afternoon, I’m sure, Mr. Talbot.”
“How are you, my lady?”
“As well as can be expected, given this dreadful weather. I don’t believe I have had an occasion to thank you for your services that awful night, sir.”
“It is I who am grateful, my lady. I don’t know what my mistress would have done without you, or Miss Aldridge here either, and that’s the honest truth.”
“You care for the young lady very much, I see.” Lavinia heard Lillian’s tone soften.
“She’s like the daughter my wife and I never had, ma’am. Can’t tell you how pleased we are to know she’s got you as a traveling companion.”
“Yes, well, that is what we are here to discuss.”
The words caused Lavinia to sit up straighter. This was unexpected. Lillian made it sound as though the decision was not yet final.
“Then I’ll just set the tray down here, ma’am,” Ben said, “and leave you to it.”
“Good day, Mr. Talbot.”
Lavinia heard the door close and Lillian ask, “Shall I pour you a cup?”
Abigail spoke for the first time since Lillian had arrived. “Yes, please, and thank you, ma’am.”
Lavinia heard the tinkling sound of a spoon being set upon a porcelain saucer. Then nothing. Outside the dining room window was a world awash in thunderous gloom. The glass was streaked by heavy rain. Carriages trundling around Grosvenor Square were mere smudges in a gray, wet landscape. The absence of color reflected how their house had seemed ever since that dreadful night. Abigail’s cheery brightness had utterly vanished. Previously she’d had an opinion about everything and no sense of restraint whatsoever. When she was happy, the entire world sang. When sad or tired or angry, the household ached with her. Thankfully, her foul moods had been few and short-lived. Until now.
“May I call you Abigail? And you must call me Lillian. I should not abide traveling halfway around the world with someone whose first name is forbidden to my use.”
There was yet another silence. Lavinia stared at the rain-washed window, yet in her mind’s eye she saw clearly the two of them seated in the next room. Their front parlor was painted a creamy yellow, with the firep
lace and windows dressed in white. The sofas and high-backed chairs were covered in matching silk fabric striped the same bright tones. Flowers rose from a crystal vase upon the sofa table, and more stood upon the mantel. Even the painting over the fireplace was a cheerful rendition of children playing with a little dog. The intention had been to create a room that defied the often gray world beyond the drapes. But nothing could overcome the gloom Abigail transported about with her these days.
Except, perhaps, for Lillian Houghton. “It is rather vexing not to have a response from you. I find myself wanting to address you as ‘child.’ Which of course cannot be if we are to travel together as friends. Do you wish to travel? Or is this something being pressed upon you?”
“I suppose I want it.” Lavinia’s daughter’s voice sounded distressingly weak.
“You suppose. That is hardly the sort of response I had hoped for, given the ardor of the journey ahead of us. Do you not have a strong opinion one way or the other?”
“Yes, but, well . . .”
Lillian’s tone turned testy. “I have asked you a proper enough question. I wish to receive a proper reply.”
Abigail blurted out the words, “I am afraid of making another mistake!”
“Excellent. Progress is being made. Why, pray tell, are you so afflicted with such concerns over your future?”
“You were there! You saw what a blunder I made!”
“Indeed I did.”
“Well, then.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Do you not see?” Abigail seemed disconcerted by Lillian Houghton’s response.
“Clearly not.”
“How can I be certain that I shall not make such a terrible mistake again?”
“Are you saying that the only way you can give yourself fully to this voyage is if you can be certain of making no errors?”
“No, of course not. That is—”
“That would be utterly futile, would it not? Because of course none of us is perfect. We all make mistakes.”
“I have shamed my family so!”
“Indeed you have. And I see that there has been no need for anyone to punish you, for you have succeeded in doing a far better job of it than they ever could.”
Lavinia found herself unable to sit quietly any longer. Silently she rose from her chair and walked over to the window.
“Now I want you to listen to me,” she heard Lillian continue. “I am not completely certain of what you feel has happened. I would hazard a guess that you are not certain yourself.”
“I have failed those I hold dearest. Is that not enough?”
“Abigail, I want you to listen to me. I will share with you something I have never told another living soul. If my life has taught me anything, it is this: we cannot help but fail those closest to us from time to time.”
“I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“I can scarcely believe I am saying such a thing. But your parents . . .”
“Yes, please go on. My parents . . . ?”
“Your parents have left a most remarkable impression upon me. Particularly your mother. I do not understand it. But I cannot deny the fact that in them I see something I do not possess. It is for this reason as much as anything else that I have agreed to make this journey. And it is why I am speaking to you about matters you cannot possibly understand.” Lavinia heard the sound of a cup being set down upon the tray. “Listen to me, Abigail. My husband has left me strapped with debts so burdensome I feel at times as though I am crippled. He failed me. Yet I do not condemn him. How could I? He did his best by me. He was an honorable man, quite a good husband in his own way. Yet he failed. I could spend my very existence bemoaning his errors. But I do not. How could I, in all honesty, when my own failures are so much graver than his?”
“I-I don’t think I understand.”
“No. I can see that. And perhaps I was wrong to speak with you as I did. But hear me out. I am going to America because I must. For the sake of my child and our heritage, I must begin anew. There. You know a secret that I have shared with none other save your parents. Not even my own son is aware of our current financial state. So now we are even.”
“Even?”
“Is that not part of why you are so distressed around me?
Because I have seen you at your worst moment? So now you know of my own.” Lillian paused, then said in a much lower voice, “Or at least one of them.”
“I am afraid,” Abigail confessed quietly.
“I can see that.”
“I want to go. So very much. And yet . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t trust myself anymore.” The confession came with a crack in Abigail’s voice. “I am frightened of . . .”
“Of failing.” Lillian waited. But Abigail did not reply. Or could not. “Of course you are. It is not merely the mistake as such. You fear the character trait that caused you to err as you did.”
From her position by the dining room window, Lavinia raised one hand to press hard against her mouth. The force of her sudden realization was so strong, she had to fight back the sobs. It was one thing to tell herself that her daughter was growing up. It was another thing entirely to realize her daughter’s course was no longer hers to shape. Lillian Houghton was here in this house to do what Lavinia could not. She would not merely travel to America with Abigail. Lillian would introduce new worlds. She would help Abigail fashion her direction and name her dreams. Lavinia’s eyes became as cast with tears as the windows.
“I would say you have made a great realization,” Lillian observed. “You have begun the process of examining yourself.”
“I don’t feel as though I have learned anything at all.” Abigail’s words seemed drenched in sorrow.
“No. I can see that. But you have, of this I am certain. And I am much further down this murky road than you.” There was the rustling of skirts, as though Lillian were shifting over closer to the younger woman. “Now I want you to promise me something,” she said, her voice lower so Lavinia had to strain to hear the words. “You shall give yourself over fully to this voyage. There will be none of this mourning about as you are doing now. Either that or we shall not go at all.”
“But you said—”
“That I must go. Indeed so. Were I a believer like you and your parents I would say that this entire idea is a godsend. But there is no set time. We can go whenever the time is right.”
“My father is already seeking berths.”
“Plans can be changed.” Lillian sounded firm now. “I shall travel only when you have become fully ready, my dear. And not until then.”
Chapter 12
Abigail did not require much time to make the first move. She acted tentatively and with great trepidation, Lillian was certain of that. But Abigail seemed to have accepted her challenge and sought to prepare herself for the journey ahead. Three days later a letter arrived, a brief note thanking Lillian for her visit and saying that her parents had mentioned Lillian wished to meet Mr. William Wilberforce. The gentleman had invited Abigail to visit Parliament. Might Lillian wish to join her?
Lillian’s midnight vigils had altered considerably since beginning to plan this journey to America. She had rarely slept through an entire night since her husband’s demise. Her worries were hardly the sort of thing to make for easy slumber, and sleeplessness had become a habit. Yet things had changed. She woke still, but more often than not she reflected upon a future without her current burdens. She almost dared hope for herself. There was no logic to this, nor could she say why she continually found her thoughts returning to the Aldridge family. But they did.
And now this. The letter had arrived precisely ten minutes after a letter of her own had left. One requesting a meeting that same afternoon with Simon Bartholomew.
She knew the word religious folk used for such matters. They called it providential. She had heard her aunt and uncle use the word so often it had lost all meaning. Yet here she stood, fastening the cloak about her
shoulders while Abigail waited in the coach outside, and finding no other word that fit the moment quite so well.
She had sent word back to the Aldridges that she would be delighted to accompany Abigail to Parliament if they might start off early enough for her to see to a rather tedious and unavoidable chore on the way.
Only now that the hour had arrived and the carriage had pulled up in front of her townhouse, Lillian Houghton was afraid.
She stared out the door being held open by her maid. It was truly high summer, with a splash of light as soft and shimmering as the leaves that shaded her lane. Even so, she had to fight down a burning urge to turn and flee back to her bedroom, lock the door, and hide away from all she was risking. Lillian forced her head up straight and walked into the day.
“Good day, Mr. Talbot.” She accepted his hand into the carriage. “I hope I did not inconvenience the family, asking to be fetched so early.”
“Not at all, ma’am.” The houseman tipped his hat as he helped her into the carriage. “Truth be known, I suspect there’s little you could do that would displease the Aldridge family.”
Ah, but you’re wrong there, Lillian wanted to say. “Have you been told where we are to go?”
“Only that I’m to take you wherever your ladyship wishes.”
“Bartholomew’s Merchant Bank, if you please. Do you know it?”
“On Threadneedle Street. Aye, my lady. The family once had some dealings there.” Lillian halted in the process of greeting Abigail. “Did they?”
“Some time back, that was.” Talbot shut the door and said through the open window. “But I know it, sure enough.”
Lillian wanted to lean out and ask precisely what the Aldridges had done to raise such ire from Simon Bartholomew. But there was nothing to be gained and much perhaps lost from open curiosity. Instead, she turned and said to Abigail, “What an adorable gown.”
Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine Page 10