One full-length painting showed a young man in a powdered wig with the large, stiff collar dictated by past fashion. The man held a falcon, a hunting bird favored by the wealthy. The portrait beside his appeared to have been painted about the same time. The powder-haired woman was wearing enough brocade, lace, and rubies so that one could almost overlook her hooked nose.
Abigail sniffled as though to remind herself that her nose was far from hooked. Its diminutive size caused it to be barely noticeable. With a proud motion, she corrected her posture. Then, recalling a flaw in her appearance, she touched a loose curl. Abigail tried not to feel self-conscious about the inept way in which Missy had dressed her hair. Perhaps if she pretended that Hilda had styled her honey blond locks, her confidence would overwhelm Lord Sutton so he wouldn’t notice that her coiffure was lopsided.
She tried not to look down at her crumpled skirt. Optimistic, she decided to be grateful that the dampness hadn’t shrunk her dress beyond her ability to squeeze her frame into the garment. Then again, she wasn’t quite as filled out as she had been on the day of her failed elopement. Warm broth did little to stick to one’s ribs.
She tugged on the lace of her left sleeve. Miraculously, the fragile decoration had borne no damage. No seams had broken. The dress even retained all its buttons. She surmised she could look much worse.
Perhaps if she stared straight ahead, Lord Sutton would concentrate on her face and be blind to the fact that her dress had suffered from its prolonged exposure to freezing drizzle.
She held her shoulders back and straightened herself to her full height. Abigail strove not to look arrogant. Her aim was simply to exude confidence—more confidence than she felt. She had long awaited the moment when she could confront her captor. Now that the time had finally arrived, why was her self-assurance waning?
The uniformed butler paused in front of a door at the end of the hall. He turned toward her and nodded. For an instant, Abigail froze in place. She wondered if she could pretend to faint so she wouldn’t have to face such a beast. Her knees began to feel so wobbly that she wondered if she might faint for real. Abigail told herself she was still feeling the effects of her illness and shaky knees were to be expected.
After the butler announced her, Abigail listened for a response. Apparently, Lord Sutton merely nodded, giving the butler permission to look her way.
“You may enter,” he prodded, his expressionless face not revealing what he thought of his temporary charge.
Abigail nodded and forced herself to walk past the butler and over the threshold. Her initial impression of the room was that of a large, dark cave, not unlike her father’s study at home—down to the same centuries-old furniture carved so heavily that not an inch seemed to be untouched by a knife. She observed a figure standing behind a large desk but framed by an expansive collection of books. She took in a deep breath and lifted her face. She stared straight into startling blue eyes. Abigail gasped.
“It is you!” Her shriek defied all good intentions to appear poised.
His eyes widened in obvious shock at her outburst, but otherwise he remained calm. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced. I beg your forgiveness at the informality necessitated by our current circumstances. I am Tedric Sutton. I am honored that you have been a guest in my home during your illness, and I pray that you have been treated well.”
Lord Sutton.
Remembering her manners, she curtsied reflexively, despite the fact that such a vile man deserved no respect.
She looked back up onto his countenance. So this was the man Father wanted her to marry! The man who stopped to speak to her the night she was writing in her diary. The man who charged her with the phrase “peppery.” Indeed!
She opened her mouth to admonish him; but his searching eyes, filled with wonder and kindness, stopped her.
Her anger evaporated. Rather than feeling threatened, a sense of safety and security took hold of her. Somehow, she knew that as long as she trusted this man, he would protect her. Yet Lord Sutton was a known rake and gambler. Perhaps this was his stock in trade, to deceive innocent women. Flashing blue eyes, a straight nose, and wavy ebony hair would be enough to draw the attention of any woman, enough to lure an innocent into thinking he loved her, only to leave her alone and abandoned, her heart broken.
Father in heaven, I pray you will help me not succumb to his lies!
Abigail felt a sense of peace. She observed the face of her host. Anyone could see that he was outwardly handsome. Honing in on his eyes, Abigail wondered about the state of his soul. When she studied his face, she could feel emanating from him a sense of peace, a peace she found only in those persons in whom the Lord dwelt. Instinctively, she felt that he belonged to the Lord Jesus Christ. But how could that be? Could the rumors whispered in local drawing rooms be wrong?
“The illness has temporarily claimed some of your faculties. Quite understandable.” His eyes reflected the compassion in his words.
Abigail felt her cheeks flush. Having merely uttered his name and dropped an awkward curtsey, of course she appeared to be a ninny. Abigail stood up to her full height. Rather than empowering her, she felt more helpless as she still craned her neck to meet his gaze. “I beg your pardon. My faculties are at their peak.” She was pleased that her voice bespoke bravado.
“Then I most humbly beg your pardon. Please, take a seat.” He nodded toward a stiff wooden chair.
“I shall stand, thank you. What I have to say will not take but a moment.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “I am most interested in what you have to say to me.”
She drew a breath. “I–I. . .”
Why couldn’t she say anything?
“Perhaps you plan to tell me that Henry Hanover will soon arrive to rescue you?” His voice held no rancor.
Abigail’s stomach felt as though it were about to jump into her throat. “Henry? Who told you about him?”
“He did.”
“He did?” Her stomach lurched with anticipation. “He has already been here to see you?” A triumphant smile touched her lips. “I am sure he was quite indignant that you took me away from the churchyard before he could arrive.”
A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “On the contrary, some would say that I saved your life.”
“Some would be quite mistaken.” Abigail nodded once in confirmation. “Henry would have been along soon enough. Rather than saving my life, you interrupted our plans. Surely he was quite angry with you?”
Ignoring her question, Tedric took hold of a letter lying on his desk and waved it before her. Abigail recognized that the letter bore the Hanover family seal.
“He tried to contact me? He sent me a letter?” Abigail’s voice revealed the combination of happiness and outrage she felt. “You beast! How dare you keep my letter! Let me have that!” She extended her hand to grab it.
Tedric drew his hand back so that the letter missed her grasp. “But it is not addressed to you. It was sent to me.”
Abigail’s mouth dropped open as she let her hand drop to her side. How could Henry send a letter to Lord Sutton and not to her?
“I am sure he had discovered the nature of your illness and thought it best to communicate with me rather than you directly,” Tedric explained, as though he could read Abigail’s thoughts. Why didn’t Tedric seem to believe what he was telling her?
Curiosity overruled humiliation. “What did he say?” As soon as the question left her lips, she became all too aware of her beating heart.
“Would you care to read it yourself?” He extended the hand that held the letter tantalizingly within her reach. His blue eyes seemed moist, almost as though his own heart were about to shatter.
Nodding, she took the envelope gently from his grasp. Recalling his offer that she be seated, Abigail followed her instincts and took her place in the unyielding chair before reading:
Dear Tedric,
I have come to understand that you are accommodating in your home a
lady of my acquaintance, Abigail Pettigrew, as she recovers from a grave illness. Hence, I am sending you this correspondence rather than posting it directly to the Pettigrew estate. I have already sent a letter of apology by post to Abigail’s father.
It has been brought to my attention that Miss Pettigrew misunderstood my kind attentions toward her as gestures of more than the fondest friendship and esteem. She is young, as you are aware, so it is quite understandable that she might misconstrue a gentleman’s intentions. To my utmost shock and regret, she came to believe we were engaged. Without any encouragement, she decided to meet me the night you discovered her in the churchyard.
Abigail gasped. Misunderstood? How could she have misunderstood his promise that she would become his wife that very night? No. It couldn’t be. She kept reading:
For your discovery and rescue of her, I am most grateful. However, I am quite distressed by the thought that she might still believe we are betrothed. We are not.
Not betrothed? Not betrothed? No!
In fact, I am engaged to marry a fine lady here in London. I believe you met her at Baron von Stein’s ball last season—Lady Hempstead.
“Lady Hempstead?” Abigail cried. She shook her head in disbelief and looked at Tedric. “He is betrothed to a dowager?”
“Lady Ernestine Hempstead,” Tedric answered. “The widow of the viscount of Hempstead.”
“She must be quite old.”
“At least thirty-five,” Tedric told her.
“But why would he want to marry an old woman?” Abigail wondered aloud. When he could have me!
The corners of Tedric’s mouth took a slight upward turn. “The early bloom of youth has passed her by, but the dowager has approached the season of a more mature beauty. She also has great land holdings and a considerable fortune.”
The realization of Abigail’s changed situation suddenly struck her with the force of a kick from a horse’s hoof. “Then he is not coming,” she whispered. “Henry is not going to take me away from here.”
“No he is not, and I regret how that news must be of great disappointment to you.”
Unable to answer, Abigail stared at her wrinkled skirt.
Tedric’s voice took on the tone of a disciplinarian. “Your father has arranged for you to become Lady Sutton. My family can forgive you this youthful indiscretion. But as you wait for your wedding day and for the gossip to die, you are to take no more actions that will bring disgrace to the Sutton name.” He paused. “I want you to forget you ever met Henry Hanover.”
Her eyes met his once again. Abigail rose. “I beg your pardon! Forget I ever met Henry? Do you think you can order me to forget the man I love?”
“The man you love? Do not be preposterous. You are no sophisticated London society matron. How are you to know what love is?”
“I do know! More than you ever will!” Abigail stamped her foot.
Tedric folded his arms. “Obviously you do. Any lady who displays such maturity must be experienced in the ways of love.”
“Why, you. . .you!” Unable to verbalize her rage, Abigail couldn’t refrain from stamping her foot once more. Feeling the blood pump to her face, she knew she was turning a most unflattering shade of crimson. The grin on Tedric’s face revealed his high amusement.
“Think of me what you like,” she finally spit out, “but you can no longer keep me here against my will. I shall be leaving. Now.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. “Summon your carriage.”
“I would be happy to oblige,” he answered. “It is my wish for my guests to enjoy, not to rue, my hospitality.”
Abigail raised her eyebrows and crooked her mouth in victory. She had won! Not only would she be leaving the Sutton estate once and for all, but as soon as she returned to her own home, she would convince Father to call off the betrothal.
The wheels in her mind spun. First, she would charm her father. If that didn’t work, she would beg. Plead. Promise him anything.
Abigail glanced in the direction of the handsome man standing before her. He wore well the chiseled features and fine white teeth of an aristocrat and cut a fine form in his expertly tailored suit. Yes, she would beg Father to break off the betrothal. She looked at the man standing before her again. Unless, perhaps, Tedric showed himself worthy of her affections.
“I am glad you see things my way,” she said aloud.
The look of regret that flashed across his face almost was enough to make her wish she hadn’t made her feelings known so blatantly.
Tedric’s attention remained upon her for only a moment. The next instant, he looked beyond her. “There you are, Ralph. I was just about to ring for you. Would you instruct Nathan to ready the carriage? Miss Pettigrew will be returning to her estate tonight.”
“Yes. But first, if I may deliver to you this letter. It just arrived by messenger from the Pettigrew estate.”
“But of course.” Tedric took the letter from the butler’s hand and then read the name. “It is for you.” He relinquished the envelope to Abigail.
“Father wrote!” she exclaimed, thinking her father might have reconsidered his decision not to contact her again for awhile. Her elation was short-lived. As soon as she saw her name written on the envelope, she knew. The script belonged not to Father, but to her stepmother.
“Griselda.” Venom was apparent in her voice. “What could she possibly have to say to me?”
Eight
“You hardly seem happy at the prospect of receiving a letter from your stepmother,” Tedric noted. “Is there reason for you to be upset?”
Abigail noticed the concern evident in his face. Her fears softened, and her heart beat a little less rapidly. She sank into the chair. “I hope not. I mean to say, I am sure there is not.” She opened the letter, praying that Tedric wouldn’t notice that her hands shook.
Greetings, Abigail,
I trust this letter finds you well on your way to recovery. You are lucky to be so well cared for at the Sutton estate. Few girls in your situation would be as fortunate.
I hope you have had time to contemplate your actions and the pain they have brought to your father. He has not shared the depth of his feelings with anyone, but I know he is stricken with grief by your rebellion. You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself.
Despite all this, I know that you no doubt nurse feelings that you should be returning here to resume your life with your father and me forthwith. Exhume those thoughts from your mind. For you see, I am with child.
A gasp escaped Abigail’s lips. “With child!”
“With child? Who is with child?” Tedric asked.
Abigail tried not to grimace, lest Tedric think her jealous of a new little brother or sister. “My stepmother.”
“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting this news comes as a complete shock?”
Abigail set her gaze upon the folds of her skirt. She knew Griselda was young and that children were the natural result of a marital union. Yet somehow, she hadn’t pictured that Father would wish for a new family. Wasn’t she enough? She knew she hadn’t been the perfect daughter or the flawless stepdaughter, but hadn’t she been good enough?
“I beg your pardon,” Tedric apologized, interrupting her musings. “I should not have spoken to a lady about such indelicate matters.”
As if you would know, since the women of your acquaintance are hardly ladies. Abigail bit back her retort. “It is not that. . . ,” she murmured. Having no idea what else to say, she clamped her mouth shut.
Tedric was not so reticent. “ ‘Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but who is able to stand before envy?’ ”
As soon as the meaning of the words registered, rage hit Abigail as though God Himself had pitched forked lightning straight through her heart. “Envy?” Abigail jumped to her feet. “How dare you quote Proverbs to me!”
How dare he, indeed? How did this man, who knew nothing about her, manage to see through her as though she were made of lace?
> “I–I—” Abigail felt a surge of heat flow into her body, a sure sign she was about to lose control of her ire. “I shall be leaving this instant!”
She turned her back to him, determined to exit immediately even if she had to kick down the heavy mahogany door with her leather-clad feet.
“No, you shall not.” His voice was sharp enough to stop her in midstep.
Without bothering to turn back to face him, she lifted her nose in the air and retorted, “Are you suggesting you can stop me?”
“It is not I who will try to stop you.” The edge had left his tone.
“Oh?” Abigail twirled a half circle and faced him. Once again, she noticed the brilliant color of his eyes. Forcing her attraction aside, she reminded herself that Tedric was the enemy. “If you will not stop me, then who will?”
“Your family.”
“And how shall that be? They are not here.” Or were they? For a moment, her heart beat with hope. Was Father waiting for her in the parlor at this very moment?
“Unless Father has arrived.” Her voice grew stronger with conviction. “And if he has, he shall have plenty to say to you.”
“Perhaps he will when we do finally meet. But I am afraid that will have to wait.” Tedric’s regret seemed genuine. “It is not the desire of your father or stepmother that you should leave here.”
“My stepmother holds no jurisdiction over my father.”
“Aye, but he sent me a letter as well. He asked me if I would kindly allow you to remain here until the weather breaks in the spring.”
“The spring? But spring is months away! There is no reason to keep me here. I am perfectly well.”
Tedric shook his head. “You know as well as I do that Dr. Riley does not agree.”
“That old coot? What does he know?” Abigail said with a sniff.
“He knows enough about medicine to keep you from putting other family members in jeopardy. Surely you have no desire to bring any sickness into your house, particularly with your stepmother in her delicate condition.”
Guilt pricked Abigail. “No, I suppose not,” she was forced to admit. An unsettling thought occurred to her. “But my clothes! What shall I do? I cannot wear Missy’s nightshift and this wrinkled dress forever.” She crinkled a bunch of the green silk skirt in her fist.
Light Among Shadows Page 6