Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Would you care for more porridge?” her grandmother asked.

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Susie, pour the young lady another cup of tea.”

  “I’m fine, really, thank you.”

  Her grandmother seemed to take that as the signal she had been waiting for. She pulled her chair up close.

  “My dear, I want you to tell me about your companion.”

  The question was not expected, and Abigail required a moment to understand properly.

  “The countess. She really is a titled lady?”

  “Y-yes. Her husband was the count of Wantage.”

  “Was?”

  “He has died.”

  “Do you know when?”

  Abigail lifted her gaze. “Over a year ago.”

  “Land sakes,” the cook said at the stove.

  “It’s Providence,” the maid declared as she refilled Mrs. Cutter’s cup. “Mark my words. Providence is here among us this very morn.”

  At the end of the table, the gardener asked, “Where is she now?”

  “Pacing the front parlor,” the maid reported. “I asked did she want tea, but the lady didn’t hear me at all.”

  “Is she as lovely as they are telling me?” the gardener asked.

  “You wait till you see her,” the cook answered stoutly. “Take the breath right out of your body, that woman will.”

  Her grandmother ignored them all and focused her gaze on Abigail. “How old is she? Do you know?”

  “Not for certain,” Abigail replied slowly. “But she has a son.”

  “Providence,” the maid said with a firm nod of her head. “Mark my words.”

  “How old is the boy?” the cook asked her.

  “I’m not . . . Yes, I remember now. Byron is fifteen.”

  “That’s not possible,” the cook said, banging her spoon against the pot. “That lady isn’t old enough to have a child nearing man size.”

  “But she does. I recall distinctly my parents talking about this.”

  Abigail’s grandmother asked, “What can you tell me about her?”

  Abigail looked around the room, puzzled by their curiosity. All of them—even the gardener—seemed filled with the most remarkable sense of anticipation. As though they could scarcely wait for something to happen.

  “Don’t mind them,” her grandmother said to Abigail’s hesitation. “If you and I were to have this conversation at the bottom of a deep dark well, they’d learn of every word the instant it was spoken.”

  “It’s Master Reginald, you see, miss,” the cook explained. “We think ever so much of the gentleman.”

  “He’s mourned long enough.” The gardener nodded his agreement. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times.”

  “If anyone deserves a bit of joy in his life, it’s that gentleman,” the cook said.

  “The finest man to ever walk this earth, Master Reginald is,” the nurse agreed.

  “Our Horace is starting a business with him,” Mrs. Cutter explained. “Only it’s not really with Reginald, but with his sister, Mrs. Erica Powers.”

  The maid put in, “She’s the brains in that family.”

  “Master Reginald is no sluggard,” the cook commented slowly.

  “No, but it’s Mrs. Powers what’s driving them forward. Her with the child and the writing and the troubles.”

  “Troubles?” Abigail wondered. “What troubles are these?”

  “Mrs. Powers, she’s been ever so busy with this anti-slave business,” the maid answered.

  “A right tragedy, that is as well,” the gardener agreed. “Worn her down to a nub.”

  Her grandmother tapped the table with a the sugar spoon. Just one quick rap. But it was enough to silence the room. She turned to her granddaughter and said, “Erica’s situation can wait. It most certainly isn’t going anywhere, what with this pending presidential election. As for Reginald, my dear, you know of course about his losing his wife in childbirth.”

  “Only what Erica wrote in a letter.”

  “It was a tragedy such as you can’t imagine,” her grandmother said. “He adored that little lady.”

  “Ripped the heart right out of his chest, it did,” the cook said, wiping her eye with the corner of her apron. “Spent these two years mourning. Losing himself in work and pining for his lost lady and their little son.”

  The gardener used his cup to point out the front window. “Here comes the gentleman now.”

  Abigail’s grandmother bolted to her feet. “All of you, stay right here. I’ll see to the door. Cook, prepare tea. Use the silver teapot and the Meissen porcelain. I’ll serve them myself.”

  “Providence,” the maid said as the cook pointed her toward the dining room and the silver service. “You mark my words.”

  Chapter 17

  Lillian hardly saw the parlor where she had stayed since arising that morning. One set of reasons for distress had been exchanged, not for others, but rather for the same plus even more. Though an ocean apart, she was still caught in the banker’s snare. Piled upon this were pressures that rose from a past she had thought was faded and forgotten. Yet now here it was, coming at her from all sides. These new forces were far more confining than the room’s walls. They went with her everywhere, even into her dreams.

  Pages from her son’s letter, written more than a month ago as his gift to her before their separation, dangled from her hand. She had hoped to find a sense of peace in his caring words. Today, however, Byron’s letter only magnified her inner tumult.

  She had tossed and turned all night. Her thoughts were like wolves, baying at her heels, tracking her every move. They surrounded her now, their howls so confusing she could not distinguish one from the other.

  If only I had not attended that Sabbath service on the boat, she remonstrated with herself. She would prefer to have remained ill, yes, even that! It had all started then. The feeling remained with her still. That day, for the first time in years, she had felt a spark of hope. She wanted to tell herself it was just a lie. Yet she could not. She yearned for this. She hungered to believe it was real. But how could she? For every time her mind touched upon this yearning, she was attacked. She was back in her uncle’s cold house, trapped inside restrictions and rules and silent condemnation. How could a religion that had so confined her soul now give her such a sense of beckoning new life? It was impossible. Oh, if only she could still believe it was impossible! She thought she had reconciled herself to a life of hidden secrets, fear of their disclosure, and now a banker’s blackmail.

  But she could not ignore the flame that had been ignited within her. She had sat alongside young Abigail and peered into her very soul. She had seen the truth. Yes. Even now, trapped and hounded as she was, she could not refuse the fact that she had seen there what she did not have, what she had never had. And what she so desperately wanted.

  Peace.

  A chance to set down her burdens and dwell in the strength of One who was able to carry them all for her. Yet how could she? Of all people, she was the most outcast! This banker demanded that she damage these very same people who had revealed to her a living mystery. A chance at hope eternal. And to compound her guilt, she was using their very goodness and kindness to carry out her evil assignment.

  Oh, if only she could dismiss their faith as myth and turn away!

  The knock on the outer door froze her mental wandering. Lillian folded her son’s letter and slipped it into the pocket of her day dress. She heard the sound of a man’s voice at the front door. A murmur of voices in the hall was followed by a softer knock, then the parlor door opened. Mrs. Cutter smiled. “Good morning, Countess. I hope you slept well.”

  “Y-yes, thank you,” she stammered out.

  Abigail Cutter said, “You met Reginald Langston last evening. May he join you here? I have called for some tea.” She motioned them both to chairs near the fireplace. “I won’t be but a moment.”

  The man who entered the parlor
seemed equally speech- less. When they had finally made their way to the offered seating, Mrs. Cutter said, “Tea it is, then,” as she backed from the room and shut the door.

  Lillian had no idea how long they sat across the fireplace from each other. The mantel clock droned steadily.

  Finally Reginald Langston said softly, “I do not know how to address you. Should I call you ‘my lady’? Or is ‘Countess’ the correct term?”

  “Whichever you wish,” Lillian answered, her voice low.

  The two quietly watched the fire until the maid entered and placed a silver tray on the low table between the sofa and the fireplace. She quietly departed.

  Lillian said, “I shall pour us tea. Will you please tell me about yourself?”

  “I think I would prefer that we begin with your story. I’m afraid mine is rather ordinary.”

  “How do you take your tea?” Lillian asked, feeling her cheeks grow warm. He told her a bit of cream and sugar would do. Her hands trembled as she passed him his cup and picked up her own.

  “Now then,” she said demurely, “I asked first. Please tell me.”

  “Well,” he said simply, “you have perhaps heard from Abigail about my sister, Erica. After she returned from England, I helped her rebuild our family business. For years the work consumed me. Four years back, I met and married Agatha. She was lovely, and we were very happy. She died giving birth to our first child. A little boy. He died later that very same wretched day. My life since then has been no life at all.”

  Lillian could barely hear his last sentences. She saw the way each word was pushed out against a great wall of grief.

  “I am so terribly sorry,” she whispered, reaching a hand toward him, then slowly returning it to her lap.

  He spent a long moment looking down at the floor. When he spoke it was to her hand. “I have spent the last two years thinking that the sun should never rise again. Not for me. That joy is something reserved for others. That I could never . . .”

  Lillian wanted to hear him finish that sentence. But she could not ask it of him. How could she, and then hold back her own secrets?

  Reginald raised his gaze to hers, eyes the color of smoke laid upon the glow of a winter’s dawn. They were set in a strong and handsome face, with high cheekbones and a cleft chin. A strand of dark hair fell over his forehead, like a little boy’s.

  He said, “Today is the anniversary of my wife’s passage.”

  “Oh,” she breathed out like a sigh.

  “I am planning on driving out to visit her grave this afternoon— hers and that of our little son.”

  He paused a long moment. “Would it be—I mean, is it too forward of me to invite you along for the drive?”

  Lillian’s breath caught in her throat. She began her answer with a nod, then said, “It would be a privilege to pay my respects.”

  “And it will be your turn to tell your story,” he said with a smile. But Lillian felt her heart squeeze with foreboding. How could she tell him of her past?

  Only Mrs. Cutter was at the front door when the carriage with the driver up front departed. But the staff were at the windows. Lillian studied their expressions through the open carriage window. They obviously cared deeply about this man who sat beside her.

  “I say, you have only arrived in America last night,” Reginald noted. “Are you certain this is how you would care to spend this afternoon?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I am quite sure.” When they turned onto the main avenue, she spied a shop up ahead. “Would you have your driver halt for a moment?” she asked.

  But when the carriage pulled up in front, she realized she had not brought along her purse. “I am terribly sorry, but I left the house without a farthing to my name.”

  Reginald was already climbing down and held out his hand to her. Together they entered the flower stall. She selected a bouquet of late-summer blossoms—dahlias and delicate pink roses. He paid for them and walked her back to the carriage.

  They rode in silence to the Oak Hill Cemetery. Lillian felt relieved he was not asking questions. The cemetery gates were framed by maples so large their boughs formed a canopy over them. The grounds were quiet and almost empty. The whitewashed church shone in the afternoon sunshine.

  The carriage halted before a broad tombstone. Reginald helped Lillian down and they walked across the grass.

  “This is where my boy lies,” Reginald said softly.

  Lillian gently read the name, “Charles Harrow Langston.” The infant’s mother’s name was engraved above his.

  “He was named after a distant relative. It was done to honor my mother, who passed away . . .” But Reginald did not finish the sentence.

  “And where does she lie?”

  Silently he crossed the well-trimmed grass to a neighboring stone, one that bore two names, Forrest and Mildred Langston. Beneath the woman’s name was the same year of departure as Reginald’s wife and son. “You poor man,” Lillian murmured. “All at the same time.”

  Together they returned to the first grave. Lillian knelt and placed the flowers in the stone urn. She remained where she was for a long time, then slowly rose to her feet.

  Behind her, Reginald asked, “Do you think it might be possible for someone to truly set the past aside and start anew?”

  Lillian brushed the grass from her dress with slow, deliberate motions. “I was about to ask you the very same thing.”

  Abigail chatted with her grandmother about several differences she noticed in Georgetown as their carriage took them into town. There was a definite change in the atmosphere since their bedside conversation. Abigail knew her grandmother loved her. She always had and always would. But now, things were different. A threshold had been passed. Confidences had been shared. They rode companionably together now as adults. And as friends.

  Langston’s was no longer merely a trading center and coffeehouse. Where the original warehouse had once stood now rose a grand structure of cream-colored wood and yellow brick. A large sign above the second-story windows proclaimed this to be Langston’s Emporium.

  Abigail alighted from the carriage and took in the uniformed doorman tipping his hat as he opened the portals. “Why, this is as nice as anything I have seen in London!”

  “Be sure to tell Erica,” her grandmother said, nodding to an elegant lady departing from the store. “She will be so pleased.”

  They left the bustling public areas behind and moved upstairs to the central offices. An attendant left them in an antechamber lanced by afternoon sunlight. There was a fine old carpet on the plank flooring and horsehair chairs from another age. The mantel brimmed with drawings and small oils of faces Abigail faintly recognized.

  She was both excited and nervous over the coming meeting. Her grandmother noticed the tension. “What is troubling you?”

  “I was just wondering,” Abigail slowly replied, “whether I should tell her.”

  Her grandmother did not need to ask of what she spoke. “You will tell her what you wish, and only when it seems suitable.”

  “But the scandal was in all the broadsheets. Possibly she would have read about it . . .” A thought occurred to Abigail. “Had you heard about all this before I told you?”

  “I do not bother with nonsense from the British royal court,” her grandmother replied crisply.

  “So you had heard.”

  “Only enough to be certain it was all a pack of lies.”

  “But Erica—”

  “Was a dear friend,” her grandmother finished for her, “who trusts you as I do and who knows the British court to be full of ruffians and scoundrels.”

  “Just so.” The side door creaked open. A lovely woman entered, dressed in gray muslin with white collar and cuffs that would have been severe were it not for the warm glow on her features. “I could not have said it any better myself.”

  For a moment Abigail was uncertain whom she faced. Though she recognized Erica instantly, still she knew this was a very different woman from
her childhood friend. Here was a woman of calm authority and very deep resolve. Intelligence shone from her eyes. Then she smiled, and the young Erica came into view. “My dear, sweet Abigail! What a lovely young woman you have become.”

  In that first embrace, Abigail felt the bundle of nerves recede to mere excitement at the reunion. They held hands as Erica led them into the next room and announced, “This was the chief clerk’s office when I was a child. Then the British troops invaded and the warehouse was burned and Father killed. You know that story, of course. Afterwards it became my mother’s bedroom. The chamber has returned to its original purpose, I’m happy to say. Reginald’s protégé occupies it now.”

  “I have so wanted to meet this young man,” Abigail’s grandmother said. “Reginald speaks very highly of him.”

  “As well he should.” Erica turned at the sound of footsteps. “And here he comes now.”

  Abigail found herself singularly unimpressed with the man who came through the door. He might have been handsome were he to pay the slightest attention to his appearance. Which he most certainly did not. Nor did he seem the least bit concerned with greeting unexpected guests. His attention was completely focused upon their hostess. “Mrs. Powers, the shipment from France has arrived!”

  “What, already?”

  “Three weeks early!” He bore a double armful of documents. The way he clenched the papers to his chest revealed two poorly patched elbows on a dark coat shiny with age. Rings of ink adorned both shirt cuffs. His pants were intended for a much larger man and were held up by threadbare suspenders. “The company has employed a new clipper ship, and it has made the crossing in record time!”

  “Might I introduce two dear friends, Mrs. Abigail Cutter and Miss Abigail Aldridge. This is Abraham Childes.”

  “Ladies.” It was unlikely the young man saw them at all. “The customs officer is downstairs, Mrs. Powers. He has the bill of lading and wishes for payment in full.” He spoke in excited bursts, as if he had run the entire length of the emporium. Which perhaps he had. Ink was streaked across his forehead, where he had no doubt sought to clear his unruly dark hair from his eyes. “I have served him coffee and told him I would seek you out.”