by Ingrid Hahn
Someday he would have to marry. Men like him always had a duty to their fortunes. A highborn lady of distinguished breeding would come into his life and he’d have no choice but to share that other woman’s bed to beget the heir.
And when he did so, Abigail would break. Even now the thought alone compressed her heart.
No. It was better this way.
At the door, she paused, hand on the frame as she studied him one final time. “My lord?”
No response. He was well and truly asleep.
Creeping back into the room, she brought a hand up to the tie of the mask, fingering the ribbon, but not pulling. Did she dare?
She did.
The case clock was beginning to chime the hour.
Outside, the icy air was still and silent. A layer of frost covered everything. The grey on the horizon was quickly warming to a rosy glow. Just enough coin remained in her reticule to secure a ride home. That was, if there were any hackneys to be found at such an hour.
Fear stabbed her insides. She was late enough as it was. She might not see anything wrong with what she’d done, but the rest of the world would mercilessly and relentlessly condemn her actions for the whole rest of her life. All she’d worked for would be lost.
Starting from the cottage, she stepped right out of her slipper. She balanced a moment, reaching back to see if her toe would catch the rim, but her only reward was almost toppling over. Arms splayed for balance, she hopped back once and stabbed her foot back inside the thing.
Abigail pulled her cloak about her more tightly. How many hours had passed while wearing the mask? Not so many to feel so exposed without it.
She glanced heavenward. Christmas. And there were so few stars left.
Harland reached out only to grasp at nothing. A lifetime of satisfaction at waking alone gave way in one fell swoop at one horrifying thought: When wouldn’t he wake alone?
He pushed up onto his elbows, one eye squinting open while the other stayed mostly squeezed shut, and, a lungful of air pulled tight inside his ribcage. Perhaps she’d decided to remain. Perhaps she’d stayed. “Are you here?”
Silence.
The cottage was empty but for him. As per always.
He fell back to his pillow and rubbed his stubbly face with both hands. The intention to ruin her for other men might have reflected from its target somewhat, for there was certainly no question she’d ruined him for other women. The thought of taking any other but his Miss S to bed made him recoil in disgust.
The fire had long since died out, leaving the air in the snug cottage bracing, but not wholly unbearable.
In the other room, he found the abandoned wine. Might as well. He tossed back the contents of his glass in two hard swallows.
His bare foot stepped on an odd little something resting on the floor. He lifted his leg to peer to whatever it was that stuck to his sole. As he did so, the object fell back down with the high note of a faint metallic clatter. A hair pin.
Leaving it, he went back to the second room.
But before he could take a step inside, he stopped in the doorway as if caught by a net. There upon her pillow she’d left her mask.
10
By sheer luck, Abigail crept through the back way towards her mistress’s house no more than an hour later, the narrow alleyway cramped with empty crates and various bits of this and that. Morning lit London with a clarity unusual for December, and more than a few servants from the various houses were out. She kept the hood of her cloak high and made no eye contact. If anyone reported back to her mistress that she’d been seen creeping home at such an hour…
No matter what happened, no matter what fate awaited her, she’d never be sorry.
She repeated this again to herself at the plain door leading to the kitchens. She drew a shaky breath. Going inside unnoticed was virtually impossible. The cook and her assistants would have been up and working since dawn when Abigail was rousing herself from the bed of the marquess.
She bit into the back of her hand.
But before she had to submit herself to the inevitable, the door opened a fraction and Carter slipped out, quickly shutting the door behind her. “There you are, at last.” She clutched a fist to her breast and let out a relieved breath. The harsh slant of direct morning light hardened the lines upon her face, but the years drawn in those marks in no way diminished the ever-present gentle kindness of her air. “I thought I’d expire from terror if you waited one more minute to appear. I’ve been waiting by the window for the last—oh, well, it doesn’t matter, nevermind that. Quickly—go up to the garden and I’ll let you in through the morning room.”
Abigail did as she was told, slipping from the wintery morning into the quiet of a well-appointed space. The room wasn’t entirely modern, with rather more heavy and ornate décor than the height of fashion many other houses boasted. The mistress inherited it from her late husband, a man twice her age, and neither of them were terribly forward-thinking on matters of change.
Odd. No fire had been lit. By this hour time, a fire always burned in the room.
“You found him, then?” Carter’s eyes were bright as she whispered.
Found him? Abigail had indeed found him. And more.
Oh. But the other woman had meant Edward. Edward, the man she’d dreamed of when she’d been entirely unknown to herself. Edward, who’d called her “his little gamekeeper’s daughter,” though not much about her could be said to be little. She’d once found the nickname so endearing. She’d been so grateful to him for knowing about her birth and loving her anyway.
Or professing to love her anyway.
But she didn’t blame him. Not really. She couldn’t, given what she was guilty of was far worse. What she’d thought of as love for him had been only a strange sort of indebtedness to his having overlooked the fault of her parentage.
The lady’s maid’s expression turned to concern. “You didn’t. Oh, my poor dear.” She engulfed Abigail in a hard embrace.
“I—I just need to sleep.”
Carter pulled away. “You’ll have to sleep in the carriage.”
“Carriage?”
Carter took her by the arm and began ushering her from the room. “We’d best hurry if we’re going make you ready in time. Don’t worry, I took the liberty of packing a few things for you.”
“Packed things for me?”
“For the journey.”
“What journey?” Abigail shook her head, which suddenly felt as though it were stuffed with cotton rags. “I don’t understand.”
Carter gave her a concerned look. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
They came to the servant’s stair and began to ascend.
“The mistress was invited to Westmore Hall.”
“What?” Westmore Hall—known to Abigail only by reputation through her mistress’s friend who never failed to work her connection to the place into any conversation, which seemed tenable at best, even once managing to make the leap from salted fish to the fabled residence—wasn’t too far outside of London, but it was at least four hours by carriage. So she’d been told.
The strange part was the sudden change of plans, which was so out of character. Her mistress liked things a certain way and favored predictability over all else.
Carter spoke in hushed tones, her eyes wide, a note of panic in her voice. “I thought she told you—about the note she received after dinner from Mrs. Biddleton?”
“I must have been distracted.”
“Mrs. Biddleton wants to bring her as a particular guest. We’re off in an hour.” The other woman’s face softened. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll help you.”
Even with that promise, Abigail went weary to the marrow of her bones.
Harland swung down from the chestnut gelding while a servant came from around the side of the great house, where the stables were, to attend the animal. It’d been the perfect day to be on horseback—and he’d never needed an extended ride more than today.
She’d left. The shock of it still sent him mentally reeling. She’d actually left. Part of him hadn’t believed she ever would. But she had. And he was more alone than ever. Without her, would part of him stay empty forever?
Upon first hearing her speak back in the upper gallery above the ballroom at Mandeville House, his impression had been that he’d known her once. The whole time he’d spent traveling he’d searched his memories, again and again, trying to place where that tugging feeling originated. His memory, however, if indeed it was being truthful about the sensation of being able to place her, wouldn’t oblige him.
All the way here a single question had pressed upon him: Should he have made a stronger effort at learning her name? Obviously he was never going to recall when and if he’d met her before.
“Don’t tell me you rode the whole way.”
“It isn’t so very far.” He untied the saddlebag in which his valet had packed several changes of clothing.
Lady Ingrahme stood in the doorway surveying the small scene in the sweeping drive overlooking the idyllic parkland. In twenty odd years of widowhood, she’d not yet shed the weeds. Harland privately supposed she quite liked the look of herself in the theatrical drama of the black clothing. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t genuinely mourn the untimely loss of her beloved husband.
He took the shallow steps up to the house two at a time and kissed one powdery-soft cheek smelling of her favorite lavender skin ablution. In his current state, it was as pleasing as anything was wont to be. “You look well, aunt.”
She had wide-set eyes, something of a wattle under her chin, and not a single hair upon her head that didn’t dare to be anything but perfectly white.
“If only the same could be said for you. You should do away with those ridiculous Harland balls, nephew. You look at least five years older than you have to.”
“Next year, I very well might.”
This caught her off guard. “Really?”
Would he really be the Marquess of Harland who turned his back on the tradition? He must uphold what had been started by his predecessors.
Besides—and a twist of bitterness accompanied the thought—what did he care for debauchery if he couldn’t have her? “Probably not. It’s expected. Practically an obligation.”
“And what care the likes of you for doing what’s expected?”
“It’s what we do.” And by God, if society wanted their marquess to be a debauched rake, he was going to show them the most debauched rake London had ever seen.
After Christmas.
“I wasn’t asking about we. I was asking about you.”
“Where do I come into the question except as the marquess?”
“Mmm.” Mouth puckered in the same sour disdain she always wore when the subject of the ball arose—always at her instigation—she slipped her arm into his. “Come inside, you stink of horse, but you can change later. I must have tea with you before everybody else arrives. Are you going to want a bath afterwards?”
“Oh, no. Far too much bother.” It was much too much trouble to put the servants through on Christmas, to be sure.
His aunt arched her brows at him. “Are you certain?”
“Quite. Perhaps tomorrow.”
She nodded to the reedy butler who responded with a shallow nod, no doubt taking careful note of the request to ensure the marquess was accommodated.
A dower house stood on the grounds, but Lady Ingrahme had told her son under no uncertain terms that until he produced the coveted grandchild, male heir or otherwise, she wasn’t leaving the hall. Given that Harland’s cousin had yet to marry, Lady Ingrahme wouldn’t be leaving terribly soon.
Harland’s empty stomach ached to be filled. One part of him remembered he needed sustenance, even if nothing held a whit of appeal. Which was worse? Needing to eat or needing to suffer the company of others? “And who, by the way, is everybody else this year?”
“Mostly the same people, with a few additions. Nobody known to you, I’m sure.” Her voice changed almost imperceptibly. “Robert isn’t coming.”
“Yes, I saw him in November. Something about a week of shooting up north?”
She frowned. “So he says. I’m sure it’s a woman.”
“Maybe he’ll marry this one.”
“Oh, I do hope not. Each one is less suitable than the last. How he manages it, I can’t imagine.”
Stepping into the house, they were greeted by the familiar scent of polished wood and his aunt’s prized hothouse roses.
Westmore Hall. A sixteenth century delight for any child given almost free rein to explore—and what rein he wasn’t given, he’d taken anyway. In his youth, the house had been one of his favorite places to come to take part in the boisterous activity of five very high spirited cousins, four lively girls and a boy just his age.
For now, though, all he needed was peace. Today would be what it would be, with the usual merriment and amusements. He would do what must be done. After that, however, his time would be his own.
“I think I’ll retire for a bit before your guests arrive, aunt. I have a bit of a thick head.”
“Fine, fine.” She patted his shoulder. “But after tea, my boy, after tea.”
A few days here might help him erase the if-onlies strewn about in careless writing over the center of his being. If only he hadn’t fallen asleep. If only he could remember where he knew her from. If only he’d learnt her name.
11
When the carriage came to an abrupt halt, Abigail jerked awake.
The two older ladies on the opposite seat were huddled to one side, staring wide-eyed out the window. One was Mrs. Frances Biddleton, of course, and the other, Abigail’s own mistress, Mrs. Selina Gordon. The latter wore her customary turban, having been celebrated in her youth for her raven locks only to suffer—her word—their prematurely greying.
Whatever Abigail was needed for to make part of the company was quite unknown, but Mrs. Gordon wouldn’t hear of her being left behind.
Carter and Mrs. Biddleton’s lady’s maid were crammed onto the seat beside her, the carriage not meant to seat more than four. Carter patted Abigail’s hand, sending her a concerned look.
To be so crowded amongst people who meant her so well and to still be so alone…
The only way to cut through the sorrow was to focus on the minutiae of the present. Whatever task needed attending would have nothing short of her absolute fullest attention. She wouldn’t regret her life, she wouldn’t. Nor would she wish to be something she was not.
Servants came to see to the horses, carriage, and trunks. The day was frigid, but the clear sunshine was warm upon her face.
Abigail, in her best calico day dress under the traveling cloak lest she not have time to change and set herself to rights after traveling, stood to the side staring up at Westmore Hall. It was imposing enough, with a smooth grey stone edifice and banks upon banks of windows bespeaking nothing but centuries of wealth and status.
The great hall was in her home county, but quite on the other side of where she’d been raised.
Two of the grooms exchanged a few sentences in the same dialect she’d grown up speaking with her father before she’d learned to school her tongue when playing in the great house with her highborn friend.
She was naught but the daughter of a gamekeeper who’d been born with bowing words and a different pattern of speech in her mouth. The whole world would view her as being highly unsuitable to even be in the presence of a marquess, unless viewing him from a distance. Completely below his notice, that’s what people would think.
But she hadn’t been. And she wasn’t. Would he think differently if he knew? He hadn’t seemed particularly interested one way or the other when she’d told him what her father had done.
Never mind, it was better this way. There was a reason she’d never told him her name. She was a gamekeeper’s daughter turned companion. He was a marquess. What could they possibly have together that might extend beyond the
ir one night?
Abigail kept to the far wall well away from the others, hardly part of the room at all. Going with Carter would have been preferable, but that was not an option. Companions were stuck in that same bind that shackled governesses. They were not a part of the family, but not a true servant, either.
Her place was by her mistress’s side. Or near, should she be needed, which certainly did not seem to be the case.
The house itself might have been several hundred years old, but the first drawing room—a distinction Mrs. Biddleton had not allowed Mrs. Gordon to overlook—was nothing but the picture of elegance. Perfectly appointed, it was done to the height of style late in final decade of the last century, with sea-foam green walls decorated with elegant plasterwork patterned from nature and long sweeping lines harmonizing every object, piece of furniture, and item to be seen.
A footman in full livery stood back by the windows overlooking an enclosed garden, ready to attend every and any whim of the ten or so assorted guests, including Abigail.
It was a stark contrast to the little cottage in which she’d spent the night with the marquess. Yet, he’d been born to this world. If he ever found himself in a room such as this, he’d probably not think twice.
The woman of the house, the small yet regal Lady Ingrahme, with her hawkish eyes and an odd little arching trick to make her appear in possession of the most imposing set of brows Abigail had ever seen, sat with her guests as if holding court.
By all appearances, Mrs. Biddleton had capacity to speak on but a single subject. “I don’t suppose your nephew might be joining us any time soon, my lady?” While speaking, she patted the back of her hair, apparently highly concerned with her toilette.
If Abigail had been subject to the glowers Lady Ingrahme was bestowing upon Mrs. Biddleton, she would have been able to do a fine impression of a Gunther’s ice, albeit in a rather unusual flavor.
Mrs. Biddleton, however, brought the subject back to the man at least thrice during the first insufferable hour. After the first mention, Mrs. Gordon cast her friend a warning look.