Dear Abigail,
As you have likely surmised, I have been informed of your wild adventure, wandering about unescorted in the night. No doubt you realize that I cannot express the extent of my surprise, horror, and disappointment in you. Never in my wildest imaginations did I fathom you would ever undertake such unbecoming behavior, behavior most inappropriate to a lady of the Pettigrew household.
I pray you are thanking Providence that you were rescued by your host. As you have most likely learned by now, he did indeed bring you, half-conscious, to our estate in the middle of the night. Your stepmother was awake, having realized your absence when she checked your bed. Considerate of my feelings as always, she had not informed me of your deceit. Only later did she relate to me the anxiety she experienced worrying about you throughout the night, pacing the kitchen alone as I slept, blissfully unaware of my own daughter’s treachery.
Hours passed before your host rode up to our door, your limp figure barely clinging to the horse. What a fright you caused your dear stepmother, who has nothing but your best interests at heart, as she imagined you were dead! When she learned the truth—that you had not expired but had merely fainted—her fright turned to consternation and great anxiety over how learning about your behavior would vex me. Unlike you, Abigail, she wanted to consider my feelings. Therefore, she chose not to awaken me. When your host gallantly offered to take you to his estate, she accepted, knowing this event would assure I would remain asleep and be spared the humiliation of discovering your treachery in such a shocking manner. Her plan was to tell me herself the next morning, then send for you right away.
Your stepmother did not realize at the time that you had foolishly chosen not to wear a proper winter coat, which, as you now know, resulted in your illness. When we learned this, all parties involved thought it best to allow you to remain where you currently reside, lest increased exposure to the cold outside air cause your illness to lead to your untimely demise.
I trust now that time has passed, you are feeling better. My wish and desire is for you to return to your full state of youthful health. I pray that is God’s desire as well.
I hope you will take full advantage of this distress to meditate upon the unhappiness you have caused both of us and on the disgrace you have brought upon the Pettigrew name, and that after you are well in body, you will return to us a repentant soul.
In the meanwhile, I shall take your stepmother’s suggestion that I not make further contact with you until such time arrives. While I regret that I will not be able to see you, I believe her counsel is wise.
Yours,
Father
Abigail’s hand shook as she read and reread the letter. Obviously, Father had no plans to take her away from this place in the foreseeable future. She reread the last part of the message. How could he not see her, not even write? How much time would he allow to pass? Certainly Griselda would like the time to be indefinite. Abigail knew her father was punishing her. Perhaps he was only too happy that his wife had suggested such harsh treatment of his wayward daughter.
And to think that he left her there, despite the potential scandal. Would the whole world talk about the little Pettigrew girl, locked up in a strange estate away from her home and family? Apparently, her father no longer cared about her or her reputation.
“Oh, Father!” she cried to the man who could not hear her. “Have I hurt you so much?”
Abigail knew the answer. She had risked throwing away everything she held dear when she had tried to elope with Henry. The risk had failed. If she cared not a bit about her own reputation, why should they? The reality of her actions and her present situation weighed upon her.
She wondered how long he thought she should remain away from her own home and family. Until she was well? How long would that be?
“How can I bear it?”
A torrent of tears flowed before she could contain them. She sought a kerchief from the nightstand drawer. Grateful to discover one, she used it to wipe her eyes. She sniffled.
Missy’s footsteps in the hall alerted her to the fact she would soon have companionship. The maid would likely be full of questions about the letter’s contents. Abigail was in no humor to share them. She slipped the piece of paper in the folds of her nightshift and dove under the covers. She did not want Missy to see her reddened and wet face, and maybe if she pretended to be asleep, the girl would go away.
Her wishes were not to be granted. A shock of frigid air hit her as Missy threw back the coverlet. “Time to rise, M’lady.”
“Time to rise?” In her surprise, Abigail forgot that she didn’t want Missy to see her tear-streaked face. “I thought you wanted me to stay in bed.”
“I did. But that was before.” Missy scrutinized Abigail. “Ye are still coughin’, but seein’ as you could stand without help today, methinks ye’re well enough. As long as ye’re careful to wear enough clothin’, that is.”
“Well enough? Well enough for what?”
“The master,” Missy said matter-of-factly, as though Abigail shouldn’t harbor the least bit of surprise. “He is home. It is time for ye to meet him.”
Six
“Meet him? But I have no desire to meet anyone who would keep me captive in his house against my will!” Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. With all her strength, she anchored herself on the bed. If Missy wanted her to move, she would have to take her by force.
“Against yer will, eh?” Missy placed her hands on her hips. “Fine then.” She nodded once and swept her hand toward the door of the bedchamber. “Ye can go right ahead and leave.”
Abigail’s heart seemed to leap out of her throat with joy. “I can?”
“Sure ye can.” Missy’s mouth tightened. “Ye could have left any time ye liked.”
“Is that so? Why did you not tell me before?”
Abigail soared out of bed, ready to take Missy at her word. She was so thrilled by the prospect of escape that she barely noticed the wooziness she was accustomed to feeling upon standing was now gone. She swirled in delight.
“Feelin’ better, I see,” Missy commented.
“Yes—” The wooziness suddenly returned. Abigail stopped in midturn and placed a hand to her forehead.
Missy hastened to her side. She placed a comforting arm around Abigail’s waist to steady her. “Are ye sure ye’re well enough to rise out of bed?”
“Perhaps not as well as I first thought.” She released herself from Missy’s hold and crawled back up into the bed. She remained sitting upright, letting her legs dangle off the side of the high mattress. “You said I could leave at any time. I beg to differ. How could I have left when I could not stand upright?”
Missy sniffed. “I suppose me master should have left ye out there in the cold.” She shrugged. “Perhaps Vicar Morrison would have happened along eventually. Maybe in time to save yer life, maybe not.” The look Missy sent Abigail was cold, as though she cared not a whit whether Abigail lived or died.
Hurt feelings tugged at Abigail, indicating she had become fonder of Missy’s company than she had intended. “That would not be your wish, would it? For me to die?”
“Of course not, silly goose.” Missy shook her head. “But I hate to see ye so ungrateful.”
Remorse washed over Abigail. “I suppose your master meant well.” She sent Missy a meaningful look. “But once I speak to him, I shall be on my way.”
“Very well.” Missy’s tone was chilly. “I’ll be leavin’ ye to get dressed, unless ye’d like me to help.” Missy’s expression was apologetic. “I’m afraid we don’t have a proper ladies’ maid.”
“Of course not.” Why would the Suttons employ a ladies’ maid? No female had lived at the estate since Lady Elizabeth’s death.
Abigail remembered the frock she had been wearing that fateful night when she was to meet her beloved Henry. She had dressed without assistance. Abigail hadn’t dared summon the Pettigrew maid to help with her garment. Assuming Hilda would agree to assist her,
she would have most certainly betrayed Abigail’s elopement plans to Griselda immediately upon learning them.
Soon after Father’s wedding, Abigail’s own maid had been dismissed in favor of keeping Griselda’s. Griselda always enjoyed Hilda’s services first, while Abigail was left with whatever time Hilda could spare. The dismissal of Abigail’s maid had occurred ostensibly from a desire to economize, but Abigail suspected Griselda’s ulterior motive was to keep as many servants with allegiance to her in the Pettigrew household as possible. Whatever old servants she couldn’t order the housekeeper to fire outright, Griselda had done her best to alienate until only Mattie and Father’s valet remained. Griselda had hired everyone else.
Abigail sighed.
“I know,” Missy answered.
Abigail lurched back to the present. “What?”
“Yer dress, of course.”
Missy held Abigail’s dress up for inspection. The emerald green silk had become wrinkled and matted to such an extent that Abigail failed to see how it could be smoothed back into place. She gasped.
“It’s a cryin’ shame,” Missy agreed. “It sure don’t look like much now, but I venture it was mighty pretty before it got all wet.”
“Obviously, no one took the time or effort to press it.” Abigail tried to rein in her anger at the ruin of her favorite dress.
“I suppose not, M’lady.” Missy grimaced, her face turning an unflattering shade of red. “I most humbly beg your pardon.”
The maid’s apology gave Abigail pause. She tried to consider the situation from Missy’s point of view. “That is quite all right. In all the confusion and without a proper ladies’ maid, I venture your last thought was that the dress needed proper care.”
“Yes, M’lady.”
Abigail wished she hadn’t left her leather satchel on her bed the night of the failed elopement. Had she not been wild with excitement at the prospect of a secret marriage, she would have had the presence of mind to take it and would at this moment have a second dress to wear. Mulling over her options, she wondered if she could send a messenger to the Pettigrew estate to secure her one or two more dresses.
No. The time had passed for such plans. For a brief moment, she considered asking if any of Lady Elizabeth’s garments remained in her closet. Just as quickly she bit back the question. She had no right to don a dead lady’s clothing, and Lord Sutton would hardly find her appealing in his mother’s dress.
“M’lady, do ye want me to stay?”
Abigail nodded. “I suppose I could use some help.” She shot Missy a pleading look. “Perchance do you have any skill in dressing hair?”
Missy’s dark eyebrows arched. “Ye wish me to dress yer hair? Whatever for?”
“A lady must look her best at all times. Do you not agree?”
Abigail concealed her real motive. She wanted to appear as beautiful as possible when she confronted the master of the estate. Let him see that she, Abigail Pettigrew, was a lady of quality. Let him be grieved to see her depart.
“I suppose I could try.” Missy moved toward her and examined Abigail’s honey blond locks with a discerning eye. She lifted a few strands and swished them back and forth between her fingers. “Yer hair’s gotten a mite straggly. I’m afraid makin’ it pretty won’t be easy.”
“I beg your pardon!”
Missy backed away and curtsied. “Forgive me, M’lady. I’m not used to doin’ much but tryin’ to keep me own hair from fallin’ in me face while I scrub the floors.” Missy studied her charge. “I doubt I can do ye justice.”
Imitating Missy’s earlier gesture, Abigail twisted a few strands of poker straight hair between her own thumb and forefinger. Missy was right. Her crowning glory was all the worse for not having been groomed during her illness.
“That is quite all right. I know you will do your best.” Abigail hoped the smile she plastered on her face didn’t reveal her discouragement and doubt.
Missy sent Abigail a relieved grin before she tilted her head toward the oak vanity chair. “Why don’t I help ye with yer dress? Then I’ll see what I can do.”
❧
Tedric waited for Abigail in the study. He leaned back in the well-worn brown mahogany chair. The chair, along with the carved desk, had been in his family since Grandfather Sutton’s day. Shelves of books lined the wall behind Tedric. He took comfort in their presence. Each volume had a special place on its shelf. Tedric had read almost all of them, whether the language was English, Latin, Greek, or French.
For the first time in his life, Tedric almost wished he couldn’t read. In his hand, he held a letter from Henry Hanover, bearing the Hanover family crest on creamy paper. Tedric reread the tiny scrawl. Not only had Henry left Abigail standing in a freezing rain with little to shield her but hopes of becoming his wife, but also he had no intention of honoring his promise to marry her. Not now. Not ever.
Adding insult to injury, Henry had written a letter to convey the news. The fact that Henry knew Tedric would be required to pay postage to receive the letter was of little importance except that it revealed Henry was cheap as well as inconsiderate. A gentleman would have been courteous enough to visit Abigail in person.
Tedric let out a harrumph. He had never heard the name “Henry Hanover” and the word “gentleman” spoken in the same breath. So why should Henry’s behavior surprise him?
Even so, Tedric didn’t understand how Henry could be so cruel. Tedric had never been friends with Henry, even though they were close in age and attended many of the same social gatherings. Intimate knowledge of Tedric’s own brother, Cecil, was enough to fill his gullet with the skillful deceptions of the garden-variety rake. Tedric guessed that Henry expected Cecil would be the one to convey his message to Abigail. Surely Cecil had experience enough in breaking women’s hearts.
If only Cecil hadn’t been detained in London. Tedric grimaced. Cecil had pleaded for more time to deal with London’s chronically clogged courts. Tedric suspected that the city’s gambling establishments as well as gatherings in houses of both respectable and ill repute were of far more interest to his brother than the rather dull details of the estate’s business.
Tedric grimaced. He dreaded the moment Abigail would walk through the polished wood doorway to the study. How could he tell her that Henry had abandoned her forever? Not that Tedric faulted Abigail for wanting to escape marriage to Cecil. Tedric understood that Cecil didn’t love her. Certainly Abigail was painfully aware of the fact herself. Perhaps that’s why she had attempted the ill-fated elopement.
Still, for Cecil’s sake and for the Sutton family honor, Tedric knew he would have to be strict with his prospective sister-in-law. He would be forced to act as a father, explaining that her betrothal to a Sutton meant that proper behavior was expected.
Most women of her station would be contrite, admitting their mistake, perhaps summoning a few tears for good measure. Tedric wasn’t so sure about Abigail. He hadn’t seen her since the night he’d found her listless body in the churchyard. He hadn’t meant to frighten her so. Guilt about how he must have scared the poor thing out of her wits haunted him. But what if he hadn’t happened by? Or worse, what if he had been like the priest in the Bible story of the Good Samaritan, leaving Abigail to fend for herself? Many gentlemen might have chosen that course rather than to risk humiliating the daughter of an esteemed family. Abigail surely had suffered untold embarrassment. But since he’d happened by to rescue her from the freezing drizzle, at least she hadn’t had to pay for her mistake with her life.
Tedric wondered what had possessed Abigail to associate with a cad such as Henry. He twitched his mouth into a knowing line. Henry was handsome, for certain. Rogues always were. No doubt Henry was smooth enough to flatter a young woman unwise to the ways of the world, easily luring her into his web of lies.
He thought about his fiery little Abigail. How was she to know that someone like Henry would never marry a woman whose family was nearly impoverished? Surely Abigail had been reare
d with the confidence of her unblemished family name. Certainly she could see that her family didn’t live as well as some of the other nearby aristocracy. Yet she lacked for nothing. How could she be expected to know the realities of how much money was needed to keep an estate running?
He knew one fact. If God ever chose to bless him with a daughter, or many daughters, Tedric would make certain they would have nothing to bother their pretty little heads except choosing what dress to wear to the next party.
In a flash, his imagination conjured up a young girl, the portrait of what his daughter with Abigail might look like. She was a petite, dark-haired beauty, with his blue eyes and Abigail’s lithe frame and flawless skin.
“Stop it!” Tedric jumped in his seat. To his shock, he had uttered the words aloud.
“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s.” The admonition of Exodus 20:17 rolled through his brain. Repentant, Tedric petitioned silently for the Lord’s forgiveness.
What kind of brother was he, to be thinking of Cecil’s betrothed in such a manner? And what kind of brother-in-law would he be to Abigail if he didn’t put such nonsense out of his mind here and now?
At that moment, the butler entered. “Miss Abigail Pettigrew is here to see you.”
Tedric’s stomach lurched with anticipation and dread. Nevertheless, he managed a curt nod. “Send her in.”
Seven
Abigail walked woozily down a wide hall, following the butler. Her footfalls remained silent upon the well-worn but still beautiful Oriental runner. Occasionally, she lifted her gaze to walls painted a muddy green. Portraits in gilded frames, presumably of long-dead lords and ladies, were spaced apart in exact measurement. The eyes of each ancestor stared at her as though the subjects of the pictures had come alive for the sheer purpose of scrutinizing her. Superior stares they were indeed.
Light Among Shadows Page 5