Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  She froze as she remembered where she had seen that waistcoat before. Even by moonlight, it was still recognizable in the brighter illumination given by hundreds of lamps. Rory O’Malley. And the man was approaching her, straight as a shot. There was no avoiding him.

  The light of that awful night had been sufficient for him to have the countenance of the stunning young woman before him, firmly imprinted on his mind. “Aha! Mrs. Fogg again, I see!” he leered, and she was repelled by his thick lips slobbering over her hand. Where was Rob? He was taking an inordinately long time in fetching her cloak.

  “I had heard ... I thought ... the police,” she muttered, glowering at him.

  “Nobody confines Rory O’Malley!” he whispered smugly, for her ears alone. “Didn’t I just escape them! I’m quite safe here. There’s none that knows me, ’specially rigged up in toffs clothes! And ye won’t be givin’ my game away, now, will ye?” He drew aside his coat, just enough for her to catch a glimpse of the small, deadly hand-pistol. She shook her head nervously. Would that Rob would come this instant! She glanced around but there was no sign of him.

  “Mr. Fogg abandoned ye, eh? Never mind. Would ye care to dance with me? I can do a turn of the floor as well as any of these swanks!”

  Since it was more an order than a request and he had already grasped her firmly about the waist, Abigail could not refuse.

  “Ye might look like ye’re enjoyin’ yourself, Mrs. Fogg. I’m not treadin’ on yer toes! Many a girl would wish themselves in the arms of Rory O’Malley,” he boasted, his black eyes glaring at her.

  The man’s conceit was insufferable, and for a moment, anger replaced fear. “Weil this one does not,” she retorted furiously. “Would you kindly let me go, Mr. O’Malley? I wish to return to my husband.”

  Her indignation only served to make him hold her all the more tightly. He spun her dizzily into a turn, throwing back his dark head and roaring with laughter.

  “I like a bit of spunk in a woman! Yer husband’s not there. Never fear, madam, I shan’t eat ye—much as I’d like to! Yer uncommonly pretty and I’d share my bed with ye any day! Are ye sure ye’re happily married?” He watched her lasciviously.

  Abigail felt her face flaming with his rude talk. “Quite,” she retorted, her voice shaking with rage. “And you are loathsome. Would you stop before I scream? Your threats do not frighten me one bit!”

  His eyes narrowed, were evil. “No one insults Rory O’Malley, not even a comely gal. And ye are forgettin’ my weapon, madam. Ye’d best enjoy this dance or ye’ll be walkin’ out of this hall in front of me and nobody will know ’tis a gun makin’ ye walk.”

  She complied silently. Where, oh where, was Rob? Each step was agony, each moment longer in this wicked man’s arms more repugnant.

  “I’m lookin’ for a man,” he hissed with an insane gleam in his eyes. “His father ruined my father’s life, sent him to the penal colony. Botany Bay, just for a wee spot of poachin’. Spent the rest of his time cuttin’ rocks to make toeys’ houses. Year after year, cuttin’ bloody rocks. Earl of bloody Winderslea!” He all but spat on the ground as his thick lip curled in disgust.

  Abigail cringed at his coarse language. “But the man you look for?” she muttered. “He had nought to do with your father’s sentence.”

  “He’s his father’s son, ain’t he?” He swung her about in a violent circle. “Good enough for me. My father’s dead now, killed by his. ’Tis his turn now to even the score.”

  O’Malley was beyond reason. The evil, irrational fires of vendetta flared on his face. “I know he’s here,” he growled as he threw his eyes wildly around the room. “Robert—bloody—Sinclair!”

  Abigail turned to ice. No, it could not be! Not her husband. But, instinctively, she already knew. Panic seized her. She must occupy this maniac, keep him away from Rob as long as possible while she thought of something ... anything ... to avert the impending tragedy. Perhaps if she turned his mind to herself? Fighting the disgust in her throat, she acted out her part. “Mr. O’Malley,” she looked coyly under her lashes at the repulsive creature, “you know, me and Mr. Fogg ... Well, ’tis not all good. You saw how he left me at the door? Waiting...”

  “What? What d’ye say?” The fellow was too preoccupied with seeking his victim. She would have to try harder. Almost nauseated, she squeezed his hand. “Mr. O’Malley!” she spoke louder, in a winsome tone. “Me and Mr. Fogg ... we’re, well, not that happy.”

  “His snorin’ getting too much for ye, eh?” he breathed rapidly into her face.

  “Something like that.” O’Malley clutched her even tighter, groping near the side of her breast. Abigail felt weak. Over his elbow she glimpsed two reassuring blue coats, and her husband behind them. If she could persuade O’Malley towards that direction, and if Rob could stay where he was ... but there was no time. The bushranger had seen them too.

  Immediately he abandoned his dancing grip and with his hand put a vice over Abigail’s arm. The policemen already had their guns pointed at him.

  With a sound of agitation the dancers on the floor cowered to the edges of the room. Only the police and O’Malley, with Abigail, remained in the centre. With relief she saw Rob standing back with the crowd.

  “All right, O’Malley,” one of the police shouted authoritatively, “we’ve got you covered. Come quietly now and let these good people get on with their dancing.”

  “Nobody catches O’Malley,” the man roared defiantly, and Abigail felt a hard touch in the small of her back. “One move from you lot, and this pretty thing’s a dead woman. Ye’ll let us pass quietly, Officer, or there’ll be a bit of nastiness awaitin’ ye when ye take

  Abigail felt the hard gun move from her back, then she saw it. About six inches from her neck.

  The police stood immobile. The man confronting them was reasonless, high with the insanity of revenge. There was no knowing if he would carry out his threat. He was mad enough to do anything, and if he did, feeling would run against the forces of law.

  The sergeant nodded. “Very well. But ye leave the lady at the door.”

  “She’ll be left down the road. If ye follow, she’s dead.”

  Still her husband remained well into the crowd, Abigail noticed. Then suddenly she saw him push his way into the taut arena.

  “No,” he called, “’tis me the man wants. Let Mrs. Sinclair go, O’Malley. You can take me in return.”

  “No, Rob, no,” Abigail implored. She knew what O’Malley would do to her husband once they were “down the road”.

  “Shut up,” O’Malley hissed. “So yer not Mrs. Fogg! Yer his bloody wife. I’ll have to think about it.”

  But he had not allowed for female weakness. For, as he deliberated, Abigail fell in a swoon, concertinaed at his feet. It was the distraction of a second; a second long enough for the two policemen to pounce, disarm O’Malley, and bundle him kicking, and hurling abuse at the Sinclair family, out at the door.

  The crowd who had hushed, transfixed, were now a babble of consternation. The plucky girl had won their hearts. Mrs. Sergeant, who had witnessed the dangerous scene with horror, elbowed aside the people, ploughing through the crush to her charge.

  “Get back! Get back!” she commanded loudly to the curious spectators. “Let her have air!”

  Then William was there, enforcing her command. The people moved back as they were bid. Mrs. Sergeant waved her vinaigrette beneath Abigail’s nose. She was soon aroused.

  She felt strong arms around her. “Rob? Rob? Don’t go with O’Malley...” she murmured in a daze. Then she heard his dear, kind voice.

  “Everything’s all right now, my darling. Come on, my precious, home immediately,” he said, then turning to William asked him to fetch the cabs. “Mrs. Sergeant, help me with Abigail’s cloak.”

  The coat was soon about her shoulders and Rob swung her up into the cradle of his arms, out of that terrible pavilion, away from the gawking throng. Abigail’s relief at once more being cushioned in her
husband’s arms was limitless.

  They were at last reclined against the hard, buttoned leather of the cab’s interior. Rob could not have held her any closer, and the goodness of his touch made her feel almost herself again.

  “Gad, Abby!” he declared now that he could see that his wife had composed her spirits again. “You were magnificent. But can you forgive me for placing you in such danger? Had I known that that scoundrel had escaped I would never have risked such exposure.”

  “You were the one in danger.” She tightened her clasp of his hand.

  “Aye, but as soon as I saw the brute, I had the police fetched. I had not bargained for his taking you for a waltz around the floor. My dear ... to think of that man’s arms about you...” He pulled her to him firmly. “It was all I could do not to have challenged him then and there. It was a long wait till the police came. I knew he would be armed, so whatever I did would be foolhardy until then.”

  “Oh, these are such good arms,” she murmured with relief. “You saw O’Malley come into the hall?”

  “Your brother and I watched his every move. If he had tried to leave before the law arrived we were going to stop him. Your brother can be very fierce at times. And brave,” he added admiringly.

  “But I looked around for you...”

  “We were behind an enormous aspidistra and a pot of ferns. The greenery was shielded by a group of couples sitting conveniently in front.”

  “Good heavens! So that was why I couldn’t see you,” she exclaimed.

  “So there was no danger until he pulled that gun. Then I cursed myself for devising such a scheme.” His voice was impatient.

  “Well ... at least nobody was harmed,” she replied meaningly. It was he who was uppermost in her mind.

  “No, thank God. If you ... ’Tis to be hoped that is the last time you are in clanger, my dear one. There have been too many times already.” He spoke softly. “I must thank you this time. You saved us all, my dear little wife.”

  “Your wife...” she echoed, looking up into the smiling face of this enigma, her husband.

  “Aye,” he lowered his head. “There’s much explaining to be done, but ’twill wait until we’re home. Nay,” his voice became louder. “’Tis not a home, our home, but Mrs. Sergeant’s, though ’tis comfortable just the same. Soon, Abby. Soon, there’ll be our home.”

  “You deceived me about who you really are,” she accused, though she could not be angry for the deception. And he had given no indication of who he really was. He had never deliberately misled her. By saying nothing he had left her to draw her own conclusions about him.

  “Aye. I’m sorry, dear heart. But ’twas necessary at the time. I’m afraid there’s more to be told. But, oh Abby,” he stroked her cheek gently. “I hope your affections will weigh to my advantage.”

  Her head was whirling again. So she was to learn the truth of him at last! Before O’Malley’s reappearance her world had become whole, good, and secure in the love she had accepted and returned. Now she could feel that world shaking, ever so slightly, but enough to make her wary again.

  She was not sure that she wanted to know that truth.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  “Some warm milk, child.” To Mrs. Sergeant the young woman was still a girl who aroused her motherly instincts. “Are you quite sure you’re all right now? Is there anything else you might want?” She fussed over her.

  “Perfectly, Mrs. Sergeant. And no, there’s nought I’m needing.” Abigail allowed the anxious woman to tuck her into the high, iron bedstead.

  “Dear, deary me! I don’t know I’m sure! That nasty bushranger with his horrible threats. And him pointing his revolting weapon at you!” She fanned Abigail’s face with her chubby hand. “Lawks! It doesn’t bear thinking about. Quite upset me it has.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Sergeant,” Abigail replied solicitously, “you should be the one lying down! All’s well and nought can happen, now that he’s safely locked away.” She patted the woman’s hand. “You must not fret about me. We are all safe now, thank you.”

  “Aye, Miss Abigail. Oh, dear!” Mrs. Sergeant put her hand to her mouth in astonishment as the realization hit her. “I suppose I must call you, Lady Sinclair. Why did you not tell us the truth? And him gadding about the countryside like any old digger! Mercy on us, what is the world coming to?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Sergeant! Please don’t excite yourself. I’m not Lady Sinclair. ’Twas best kept secret. There was no harm in it. It was because of O’Malley.”

  The small, white lie sufficed. She could not bring herself to confide in Mrs. Sergeant that she too had been just as ignorant of her husband’s true identity. Mrs. Sergeant nodded.

  “But please keep calling me Abigail,” she said firmly. “Nought will change our friendship, you can be assured of that, Mrs. Sergeant. You have been a true friend to me and much consolation at a time when I had no one but you to turn to.”

  Just then they heard a knock at the heavy door, and William called, “Can I come in, Abby?”

  “Aye, Billy!”

  “Well, if there’s nought ye’re wanting, I’ll to bed too. I think a good cup of tea for me! What a night this has been. Good night, my dear. We shall see ye at breakfast,” Mrs. Sergeant smiled warmly at her.

  “Good night, Mrs. Sergeant, and thank you,” she replied.

  The good woman bustled out of the door, but not before cautioning William not to remain too long with his sister because she was not to be overtired after such excitement. He grinned, and rather cheekily replied that her wishes would be obeyed, making an exaggerated gesture of obeisance.

  “Fussy old thing!” he protested when she was well out of earshot.

  “Now, Billy, she means well and is kindness itself. You must not mock her,” Abigail reproached. “We could not have done without her, when you were sick.”

  “ ’Tis true,” William admitted shamefacedly, “but she’s still a fusspot! Abby, why did you not tell me who your husband was? Surely you could have trusted me?” He felt hurt that his own sister had not taken him into her confidence.

  Abigail was slow in answering. A white lie might do for Mrs. Sergeant, but her brother was a different proposition. She decided that only the truth would be acceptable.

  “Because I did not know, either. My husband must have had his reasons for keeping me in ignorance too, and I respect those reasons.”

  William nodded. “Aye, particularly if that fiend was after him. What a brute! ’Twould be easier for him the less people knew. Even you. You must admit you are a bit impulsive at times. You could easily have let it slip!”

  “Really, Billy!” she protested. “Had I known, his secret would have assuredly been safe with me. Still, you may be right.” She conceded his glib explanation to prevent further discussion. If that satisfied William, she was content to let it remain thus. She had no wish to divulge any of the details of her meeting her husband.

  At that instant the bedroom door swung in, and the man in question appeared in its opening. “Whato, Billy! Not retired yet?” he asked.

  “ ’Tis too early for me.” William failed to take his hint.

  Abigail, who was more than anxious to have her husband to herself, decided to take matters into her own hands. She firmly told her brother that if he did not mind, she wished to be alone with her husband and that a good night’s sleep was requisite for all. William pouted, but tactfully bade them good evening just the same.

  “My dearest! Are you quite comfortable now? This evening’s unpleasantness has not made you ill? I could never forgive myself if it had.” Rob was all attention, covering her small, tremulous hands with his own. She turned her clear, light brown eyes up to him.

  “Aye, Do not fuss, Rob,” she chided. “I’ve had enough fussing from Mrs. Sergeant. I am very strong you know.”

  “And plucky,” he added.

  She ignored his statement. “Rob, you must tell me the truth now. I have gone long enough, accepting you without
question. Until now it has been sufficient for me to know what you have seen fit to tell me of yourself, but now ’tis not enough.”

  “You are quite right, my darling. But could explanations not wait till morning? ’Twill be long in the telling.”

  That determined look passed through Abigail’s eyes and a trace of furrowing marked her brow. “Nay, I shall not rest until I know. I insist you tell tonight.”

  Her husband laughed. She really was irresistible even when provoked! “You’re a perverse little creature when you want to be! But you are quite right. You have every right to be told all and it has been most unfair, that you, as my wife, should be kept in darkness all this time,” he admitted ruefully. “But Abby, first promise when all is revealed ’twill not alter our situation.” The pulse of her neck fluttered, and a shiver of fear brushed her impatience. What was he suggesting? “Nought will alter how I feel,” she reassured, despite the perturbation of her mind.

  He settled himself at the side of her bed on a small wooden cottage chair. “ ’Tis hard to know where to start,” he declared.

  “Your name?” she prompted.

  “Aye. You must know now who I am.”

  “Lord Robert Sinclair. Son of the Earl of Winderslea.”

  He nodded. “Second son. I have an older brother, Henry, and a sister, Adeline.”