Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  “What a sorrowful beginning,” Abigail said softly.

  He gave a shrug. “Lonely, perhaps. But I had ample time to read.”

  “You enjoy books, do you?”

  “For the longest time, ma’am, they were my only friends.”

  “He’s never to be found without a book on him,” Reginald added. “Devours them, Abe does.”

  “Are you reading something now, may I ask?”

  “In my coat pocket in the hall, ma’am, I have two books.”

  “And they are . . . ?”

  “Homer’s Odyssey. And a Greek grammar.”

  “Do you mean—well, are you teaching yourself Greek?”

  “I have so loved the hero’s tale, ma’am. I would like to read it in the writer’s own words.”

  “Four years back, this young lad appeared at the warehouse door asking for any work I might have,” Reginald told the table at large.

  “The pastor and his wife had moved on,” Abe explained as the looks turned his way again. “The new pastor didn’t think it was fitting for me to stay in their woodshed.”

  “Not fitting?” Abigail asked, appalled.

  Reginald continued, “This lad did whatever task I set to him. Nothing was beyond his ability. If he did not understand something, he asked for an explanation.”

  “I did a bit of asking, didn’t I?” Abraham Childes commented, then joined in the chuckles around the table.

  “He works at twice the pace of anyone I have ever met, including myself,” Reginald continued. “And every spare moment, he reads. Whenever we receive a barrel of books, he dives inside. He borrows them one by one—usually overnight is enough. His knowledge and understanding surpass many I’ve known with university diplomas.”

  Abigail’s grandmother rapped the tablecloth with her spoon. “This is all well and good. But the meal Cook has prepared for us is growing cold. Horace, will you please be so kind as to bless this food?”

  They gave their full attention to the meal. When the forks were put down for the final time, Reginald picked up the conversation where they had left off. “I have asked Abe to become the manager of our new Wheeling emporium. We need a man we can trust, someone we are confident will have the good sense to adapt to all the things we cannot anticipate in advance. We are offering to take him on as partner in this new venture.”

  All eyes turned to where Abraham fiddled with his fork, but the young man did not speak.

  “Do you want this to happen?” her grandmother asked.

  Abraham addressed his response to the tablecloth. “More than I can say, ma’am.”

  “Then why,” Reginald asked, “have I been waiting all these months for your answer?”

  “I don’t see how I can accept, sir.”

  When no one else spoke up, Abigail asked, “Why not, please tell us.”

  Abraham raised his eyes to hers. “Life’s not been so good to me, Miss Aldridge. I’ve never known a family like this one nor hours like the ones I’ve spent in their company, the work I’ve been entrusted with.”

  “Yes?”

  He seemed to struggle to form the words. “I couldn’t bear it if I let them down.”

  Abigail could barely hear his statement. She wanted to assure him, but the conversation had taken another turn, and she held her thoughts inside during the dessert and coffee. She would watch for an opportunity to discuss the offer being made to him.

  Mrs. Cutter pushed back from the table. “I fear I have eaten more than is healthy and really must have a breath of air. Horace, do you think I might have the strength of your arm for a turn about the neighborhood?”

  “Of course, Mother.”

  “If anyone else wishes to join us, you are most welcome,” she said as the two moved toward the door.

  Abigail rose along with several others, and she found herself beside Abe as they stepped out onto the front porch.

  “I shan’t be a moment, Abigail,” her grandmother said. “You young people wait for us in the front garden while I get my cloak. You had better wear one yourself, young lady.”

  Abigail went back inside for her own cloak, and as she fastened it at her neck, the sound of voices drew her back a few paces. She tiptoed over to the narrow hall table and pretended to inspect the clasp in the oval mirror above.

  “I have known the lad for just over four years now,” Reginald was saying, “and I have never heard him speak of his past before.”

  “You knew something of his beginnings, surely.”

  “Aye, a few sparse words, granted only after I wrestled them out of him. But to lay it out calm as you please like that? Never.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Horace asked, “Is it true what he says? He’s teaching himself Greek so he can read Homer in the original?”

  “I’ve never known the lad to lie. About anything.”

  “You’ve got yourself a prize there, Reggie. He thinks the world of you, sure enough.”

  “If only I could manage to build a little gumption in the lad. He fears his own shadow at times.”

  “No wonder, given his difficult start in life.”

  “I tell you the truth, if the lad had a bit more spark, he could become anything he wanted. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised to find him governor or senator or even president of these United States one day. If only he—”

  Abigail hurried for the door as the voices grew louder. Abe stood on the top step waiting. He smiled as he turned toward her, causing a little catch inside. His story had profoundly moved her.

  Chapter 21

  At Mrs. Cutter’s suggestion, the little group turned away from the river. The waterfront taverns, according to Abigail’s grandmother, did a booming business on the Sabbath. Instead, the four headed inland and wandered through streets Abigail did not recognize. The day remained overcast, with a rising wind that tasted of coming rain.

  Her grandmother and uncle set the pace, with Abigail and Abe gradually falling behind. Even when the lane in front of them provided enough privacy, Abigail was uncertain how to begin the conversation.

  Abe finally ventured, “May I ask, Miss Abigail, what you are thinking?”

  “I was wondering whether you would continue talking with me as you did inside.”

  He appeared pleased by her comment. “Do you know, I was thinking the same thing. I never have been one for sharing confidences, you see.”

  “I’m not the least surprised, given your upbringing. Only books for friends, never a family to shelter you through the hard times. I should think you’d scarcely have learned to communicate at all,” she finished in a rush, then quickly covered her mouth. “Oh, I am sorry—”

  “Not at all,” he assured her.

  “But it was a truly dreadful thing to say,” she argued, cheeks hot with embarrassment. Exasperation with herself rose like a wave. “Oh, why must I always speak before thinking? If I could find out precisely where my impetuous nature resides, I would physically cut it out!”

  “Oh, no,” Abe said, shaking his head.

  “But it’s always getting me into the most terrible messes.”

  “I never can seem to do anything without fear and trembling.” He tried to smile at his own little joke, but the uncertainty in his eyes came through clearly. “I am awfully fearful, you see.”

  “But look at everything you have overcome to arrive at where you are now,” she protested.

  “Ah, but you don’t know all the mistakes I’ve made along the way.”

  “Mistakes? You think you have made mistakes? I don’t think you want to hear about all the mistakes my impetuousness has dragged me into.”

  “Oh, but I do,” he said, then they both laughed at the irony.

  But Abe turned serious again, and his interest was so genuine, his face so open, Abigail told him everything. How she had lied to them all, most especially to herself. Over and over and over. Then of the night in Soho. And the arrest. And the prison.

  She was so busy with the telling, gesturing with he
r hands and her voice rising and falling with the emotions of the moment, that she did not immediately recognize the wetness on her face as rain. But when she realized his face was wet as well, and his hair, and his coat, she exclaimed, “Look at me! Here I am babbling away while we become drenched.”

  Abe shrugged. “Rain never hurt me before.”

  Abigail spotted her grandmother and uncle sheltering beneath a shop’s awning. They were observing the two young people with affectionate smiles and waved but said nothing. “It was so very impulsive of me to tell you all that.” She shook her head, creating a shower of raindrops from her hair. Abigail had no interest just then in joining her relatives. Instead, she waved back and started toward a nearby elm whose branches were so thick the lane underneath remained dry. “Oh, this reckless nature will be the death of me!”

  “Please don’t say such a thing!”

  She stopped at the entreaty in his voice. “But—”

  “You probably have no idea of the gift you have. Can you imagine never taking a single step without fearing it is the wrong one? Can you conceive of people only wanting the best for you, fully knowing this, and still seeing only the prospects of failure?”

  Her heart constricted at the strain in his voice and on his face. She reached for his arm and began pulling him toward the sheltering elm. “Come, Abe. Let’s at least have the sense to take cover from the rain.”

  Once they had wiped the moisture from their faces, she looked up at him. She could see raindrops caught by his dark lashes and the ache in his gaze—all the lonely hours, all the emptiness he had struggled against for so long. “Abe, I promise you, to fail is not your lot in life.”

  “How can you be sure of that, Miss Abigail?”

  “Because,” she declared with soft and utter certainty, “you will not let it happen.” And neither will I, she promised herself silently.

  The rain halted as suddenly as it had begun, and a soft call was heard from their chaperones. “Let us return home before the deluge truly arrives.”

  The horses clip-clopped down the length of Pennsylvania Avenue. Their hooves striking the brick pavement made a contented Sunday afternoon sound. Lillian sat upon the landau’s high fore seat next to Reginald. She had seldom had the opportunity to view the world from this perspective. But Americans did not seem to go in for drivers, particularly for the smaller open carriages such as Reginald’s landau. He clearly enjoyed handling the matched bays himself, and he was quite skilled with the reins. Although the day remained gray and the wind brisk, Lillian was comfortable in her cloak with the travel rug over her lap. Tall oaks and hickory and birch lined the road. It was a fine day for a ride, especially with Reginald at her side.

  If only she could truly enjoy herself.

  Reginald was making the ride an introduction to the nation’s capital. He drove by the president’s residence, which had been painted white when rebuilt after the British invasion of 1814, and ever since had been known as the White House. He explained how the city had been designed by Pierre L’Enfant and laid out by the surveyor Andrew Ellicott, and how it was constantly growing. He took obvious satisfaction in the city’s six miles of brick paving. Past the expanded building known as Congress House, they drove up to where Pennsylvania Avenue joined Thirteenth Street at the Rotunda. There he halted to enjoy the panoramic view of the surrounding forests.

  Lillian scarcely saw any of it at all.

  “I fear I am boring you with my enthusiasm for my nation’s capital. Britishers have every right to consider us infants—”

  “It’s not that at all.”

  “I believe I just saw you shiver.” He took a firmer grip of the reins. “We’ll have you back to the warmth of the house and fireplace in no time.”

  “Please, no—”

  “But I saw—”

  “It is not the weather. Or your fine city. It is my own . . .” But she could not complete the thought.

  “You are ill?”

  “In spirit only.” Her hands were clenched so tightly she scarcely could feel them. “Will I never know a moment’s peace?”

  “Please, Lillian,” he said, his voice catching on her name, “I do wish you would tell me what is the matter.”

  “And I would so . . .” She bit her lip. “I owe Abigail and her family a great debt. I feel it is only right to speak with her first.”

  “Are you sure it matters all that much, the order of the conversation?” He bent to look at her.

  “I am certain of nothing these days.” She gazed into the eyes of this kind, strong man. “I prayed today.”

  The delight shone in his face. “In church?”

  “It was not much, as prayers go. But I tried.”

  “Lillian, my dear, you don’t know how much joy this brings me.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “I am astonished at how I feel I can speak with you about the most intimate of matters, and do so with such ease. I have spent my entire life harboring secrets as though they were my only companions.”

  “But a lady of your wealth and standing must have had any number of friends.”

  “It is remarkable how lonely one can be in the company of others,” she replied softly.

  “I do wish you would tell me what makes you so downcast.”

  “Perhaps I should. Perhaps . . .”

  The first drops of rain began, carried by the wind. It did not rain heavily nor for very long. It seemed as though Reginald had just raised the landau’s top before the rain halted. When he returned to his seat and Lillian remained silent, he picked up the reins and clicked the horses back into a trot.

  Lillian sat upon the high seat, trying to take an interest in Reginald’s world. She knew he was attempting, hoping, to captivate her with this burgeoning city, to make her feel as happy here as he clearly was. In truth, it was an extraordinary place, with an energy that even a quiet Sunday afternoon could not disguise.

  But she could not reside here. Lillian knew that all too well. Her only hope was to lose herself in this new country’s vast hinterlands. Find some distant town or outpost where British scandals—or bankers—could not reach. Or if they ever did, it would not matter. For Lillian was under no illusions. Once Simon Bartholomew realized she was no longer of use to him, he would do his utmost to destroy her. No, she could not stay here in this new nation’s capital, much as her heart yearned to call this wonderful family’s peace and strength her own.

  Revelers chose that moment to burst out of a boardinghouse set back from the road. Reginald flicked the reins and urged the horses to greater speed. “Pay them no mind.”

  “Who are they, may I ask?”

  “Freelanders would be my guess. Some months back, rumors started that if General Jackson wins the election he will give land away.”

  “Why, that seems absurd.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But rabble-rousers from all about the union have been gathering here, intent on pressing Congress to make good on the claim.” Once safely past the noisy throng, he slowed the horses back to a canter. “The Land Office is our nation’s greatest source of income. It pays for the military, the government, even the National Road.”

  She started to ask what that was, then decided that in truth she really was not very interested. Reginald obviously caught her introspective mood, for he said nothing else until they arrived in front of the Cutter home. He fastened the reins to the brake lever, leaped down, and helped Lillian alight. “Perhaps you would prefer to go in and rest?”

  “I have explained to you, Reginald, that I am not the least bit weary.”

  “But—”

  Lillian motioned to where Mrs. Cutter had already opened the front door and stood waiting for them to enter. “Do please come with me. Otherwise the lady of the house will think we have quarreled.”

  Midway up the walk, however, Lillian knew something was wrong. The solemn cast to Mrs. Cutter’s features caused her insides to clench with foreboding. “What—what is the matter?”

&
nbsp; Mrs. Cutter waited until they had climbed the front steps to reply, “You have a visitor.”

  No walk seemed longer than the one Lillian took from the front stairs of Mrs. Cutter’s house across the foyer and down the hall. She was halted by the sight of several people seated in the parlor, silent and staring forward. She could not see who was the focus of their attention.

  She looked at Reginald, feeling helpless to enter the room. But he was wise enough to understand and offered, “Shall I go in for you and see what it’s about?”

  The words granted her the clarity she needed. She whispered, “Would you please stay nearby?”

  “Of course,” he replied, offering his arm.

  She could feel his strength through her fingertips. They stepped into the parlor.

  The tableau would remain etched upon her mind. Erica Powers sat closest to the visitor, occupying a straight-backed chair by the window table. Abigail, looking a bit rain-spattered, sat on the parson’s bench closest to the fire, alongside an equally damp Abraham Childes. Old Mr. Cutter sat opposite them, the parlor’s most comfortable chair turned so he could be near the fire and still observe the room. Horace Cutter and his wife, Beatrice, occupied the sofa next to the spot Mrs. Cutter must have vacated to watch out the front door.

  A solitary chair, isolated on the window-table’s other side, was occupied by a stranger. One glance was enough for Lillian to be certain they had never met before. Even so, she knew him and why he had come. Oh yes, she knew.

  This gentleman was stouter and far taller than Simon Bartholomew. He cut a commanding figure from the gray light pouring through the window behind him. No color to his dress, no break from the stern black save the starched collar rising to envelop his substantial jowls. But there was no doubt in her mind who Lillian faced.

  Reginald must have sensed her tension and her fear. He demanded, his tone civil but direct, “Perhaps you would care to state your name and the purpose of your visit, sir?”

  “I believe Lady Houghton is well aware of this matter,” the man replied, “and understands why it should remain confidential.” He had a deeper voice than Bartholomew but the same pompous overbearing tone.