Hoping to discover the truth, later Abigail inquired, only to endure Griselda’s tongue lashing. The reprimand about eavesdropping hadn’t been nearly as disturbing—or intriguing—as Abigail’s unsatisfied curiosity. What was this awful event that married women were forced to endure? And if it were so awful, how did they manage to survive? She supposed her curiosity would end soon after the wedding ceremony.
Such forbidden thoughts caused her to feel shy. Abigail sent her stare down to a few planks of the floor, its knotted beauty marred by scuffmarks. She resolved to remind Mrs. Farnsworth to have the floors polished.
“I beg your forgiveness, Abigail,” Tedric said. “You are right. I should not have touched you. And I will never touch you improperly again.”
Her eyes lifted to meet his look. “You shall not?” Why was disappointment granting her an unwelcome visit at this moment?
“No, I shall not.” His voice became curt. Tedric’s face took on an expression she didn’t know, one of a businessman serious about his duties. She wasn’t sure she liked it.
“The hour is late,” he told her. “Tomorrow morning, prepare a list of duties and present it to Mrs. Farnsworth. Instruct her to put the chambermaid on notice that if her work does not improve, we will no longer require her services. Notify Cook that she is to prepare whatever dishes you suggest as long as the necessary ingredients are available.”
Abigail nodded. “May I tell them these are your orders?”
“I would not advise it. If you continue to rely upon my authority, you will never be able to exert your own.”
“All right. I will try.” Reluctance colored her voice. “But if they resist, I shall tell them you will be most distressed.”
“Tell them nothing of the sort.” He paused. “I shall be going on business at the close of the week. So I will not be available.”
She searched for any signs of sorrow or regret that he would have to leave her. She saw none. Abigail’s stomach gave her the undesirable sensation of leaping into her throat. “You will not be here?”
“I shall be in London.”
“On business, you say?”
“Yes. On business.” His mouth smacked shut.
Abigail wondered what his business was. Even worse, why did his business have to take place in London?
London. The place where Tedric could meet with all the lewd and bawdy women he wanted. Women who already knew everything there was to know about the mysteries of marriage, without the responsibilities. With these types of women, men could forget all about their troubles. They need not vex themselves about the condition of the estate. No lists of duties or meals to plan awaited their approval. They had no need to settle arguments with the housekeeper or cook.
What would it be like to be a woman of ill repute? To be so close to Tedric, to be in his arms for as long as she wanted without a worry in the world? She clenched her hand into a fist when she realized her feelings were those of envy. Envy of brazen, disgraceful women who walked in the flesh. Women who had no idea of God’s love for them and had no desire to know Him. Shame filled her being. How could Tedric do that to her?
Tedric arose from his seat, a motion to conclude his meeting with her. Abigail followed suit, averting her eyes.
“Is everything all right, Abigail?” The melody of his voice bespoke compassion.
She nodded.
“Do not be afraid. I will not remain in London for so very long. If you encounter difficulties, you may be assured that I will reprimand anyone who gives you the least bit of trouble. Do you understand?”
She nodded, keeping her focus on the open Bible.
“My dear Abigail, I see how frightened you are. If you were not, you would look at me. If I had the power to send you home until the wedding, I would.”
“I know.” She brought her gaze to his face. “Your business in London cannot wait?” she ventured.
“I am afraid not. It is quite urgent.”
“I understand,” she answered, although she didn’t.
Terrified of her roiling emotions, Abigail turned and rushed out of the room. She would never let him see her cry.
Ten
Though she ran to her bedchamber in tears, Abigail’s fit of sadness didn’t last long enough for her to don a nightshift.
So Tedric was a believer! A follower of Christ! Or was he?
Eager for warmth against winter’s chill, Abigail lunged into bed and threw the coverlet over her head. She sank her cheek into the down pillow. If Tedric were sincere about the Lord, how could he go to London to gamble and meet with women?
“But he never said he was going to see other women or go to the gaming tables,” she reminded herself. Then again, would he?
“Father in heaven,” she petitioned, “I pray that You will lead Tedric away from all temptations while we are apart from one another. Please give me solace while he is gone.”
She swallowed. Had she really just sent up a plea expressing regret that Tedric was leaving?
“Lord, is it possible? Could it be Your will for me to marry Tedric after all?”
She wondered how that could be. Just weeks ago, Abigail had been convinced that Henry Hanover was to be her groom. But Henry’s wedding to the wealthy London heiress had come and gone.
Abigail knew how wrong she was to pay attention to idle gossip, but when Henry’s name was mentioned, she couldn’t resist. All reports indicated the wedding day brought about much commotion and excitement in London. The music of Neil Gow’s band and tables burdened with exotic fare including sweets from Gunther’s resulted in a ballroom overflowing with guests. Abigail could only imagine such a lavish reception.
Envy filled her, until fresh news about the society couple circulated. Almost as soon as the honeymoon abroad ended, reports about Henry’s unfaithfulness to his bride and love for fast city life were bandied about by every tongue in the village. Rumor had it that Henry had already spent a third of the heiress’s fortune at the gaming tables. Tongues clucked in sympathy for the heiress, yet expressed no surprise in Henry’s behavior.
Abigail shivered, but not from cold since her body heat had permeated the covers. Rather, the chill signaled her fright and remorse over what had almost happened. Abigail pulled the covers down from over her face but kept them over her shoulders.
She sighed. How could she have been so foolish about Henry? He had never loved her at all. Unaccustomed to men of the world, she’d mistaken his flirtations for true romantic interest. Perhaps her rebellious heart and her dislike of Griselda had caused her desire to disobey her father by attempting the failed elopement. True, the Lord had used Henry to humiliate her. Much as she disliked His discipline, she knew it only showed her Savior’s love for her.
She thought back to the night Tedric had rescued her. Yes, rescued. Long ago, she had stopped considering the event a kidnapping. Now, Tedric had freed her from a terrible fate. No, two terrible fates. One was the misfortune of becoming Lady Hanover. Her family had little money. That much she knew even though Father tried his best to shield her from the harsh reality. Henry never would have been satisfied with what little dowry she could offer. Again, she felt a twinge of pity for the dowager whose money he ran through like a carefree child sprints through a spring rain.
The second fate from which Tedric rescued her was certain death. Exposure to so much freezing rain and biting wind no doubt would have caused her to cross death’s threshold. Perhaps after what she had done to disgrace her father and the family name, she deserved the sting of death. But the Lord had seen fit to let her live. Was Tedric’s rescue God’s way of showing Abigail the folly of her ways? Was He trying to lead her to the true love He planned for her—a lifetime of love with Tedric?
“Is this why my heart is softening toward him?” She gasped in happiness. “Heavenly Father, if it is so, I rejoice!”
With a swift, eager motion, Abigail sat upright and reached for the Bible on her nightstand. She flipped through the pages just after the book’s cen
ter. Soon she found the Scriptures she sought, the ones offering advice on how to be the perfect wife. Surely Tedric deserved the perfect wife, or at least a wife as perfect as she could be.
Several times she read Proverbs 31. Her mind lingered on one passage in particular: “Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life. She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.”
“Worketh willingly with her hands.” She snapped her fingers. “I know! I shall embroider him a handkerchief. One with his initials and a bit of decoration.”
But the fabric? She would send Matthew out to the village on the morrow to secure a good square of the finest muslin. And yes, she needed white silk twine. She could borrow a needle from the estate’s sewing supplies.
For once, she was grateful to Griselda. “A lady sews a fine stitch,” her strict stepmother had repeatedly said while refusing to let Abigail get away with sloppy needlework.
At the time, Abigail had resented Griselda’s persnickety demands. Who cared how finely she could darn a stocking, as long as she left no holes? And so what if the French knots on the tablecloth she decorated weren’t all the same size and if some were a bit lopsided? Would anyone notice? Griselda thought so, and to prove her point, she forced Abigail to pull out and sew again any stitches that were less than perfect. After much frustration, Abigail had learned to form stitches carefully and correctly on the first attempt. Finally, Abigail could appreciate Griselda, if only for one small detail.
She clasped her hands. Tedric was certain to appreciate the gift she would make for him.
Another idea seized her. She would prepare soaps for him. The ones she had in mind wouldn’t be the haphazardly shaped laundry soaps she usually made, but fine soaps, formed well in flawless ovals. She tried to remember the stock of ingredients in the herb house. Had she seen one or two bottles of perfumed oil? Well, if not, she would use whatever herbs she could find to make some. Tedric’s soap would be scented with a masculine fragrance, a rich aroma befitting one of his rank and position. She inhaled stark air, but in her mind, the fragrance came to life.
As she closed her Bible, she contemplated other gifts she could present to her betrothed. Her stomach churned with an unpleasant thought. What if Tedric laughed at her gifts? What if he used the fragranced soap to be more attractive to the women in London? What if he showed off the beautifully embroidered handkerchief to the men at the gaming tables, men she imagined too rough and crude to appreciate her work? Would they poke fun at her naïveté? A little girl staying dutifully at home and working to be the perfect wife, while the man she had grown to love with desperation caroused in a distant city, doing as he pleased?
No! She would prove herself far superior to any London trollop, more enchanting than the temptations waiting at any gambling hall. She wasn’t sure just how, but certainly if she kept praying, the Lord would show her the way. Suddenly feeling cold prick her flesh again, she dove back under the covers and fell into a fitful sleep.
❧
Tedric tried to concentrate on his Bible but to no avail. Realizing the futility of his efforts, he shut the book. Absently, he ran his hand over the cover that showed marked wear from years of use by the Sutton family. Well, at least some members of the Sutton family.
He sighed. Why couldn’t Cecil tear himself away from the gaming tables and immoral women of London? He had a treasure of a woman waiting for him right at home, but he wasn’t even willing to journey back long enough to discover the delight that was Abigail Pettigrew. A fortnight ago, Tedric had written, begging Cecil to return home for a few days, at least long enough to form a brief acquaintance with his betrothed. The letter he received in response was curt, except the portion that now led Tedric to make an arduous and unplanned trip to the city.
Tedric reached into the top left-hand drawer, the one where he kept pending correspondence. He extracted the letter and read:
Tedric,
I understand you want me to meet my betrothed, but at this time, returning to the estate does not suit my pleasures. How you can endure remaining in such a dreary place, out in the middle of nowhere, I cannot fathom. In any event, I have more pressing business that needs tending immediately.
My dear brother. . .
Tedric stopped reading for a moment. Whenever Cecil addressed him as such, he could be sure trouble followed. He sighed and returned to the letter.
My dear brother, you must journey here and meet me to aid in settling the business of which I speak. You see, there is a small matter of money. It seems there is a disagreement between myself and the proprietor of one of the establishments here in town. This gentleman claims I owe him a not inconsequential sum of money as a result of a bad run of luck at the gaming tables. I, on the other hand, have no recollection of this matter. He claims that perhaps my memory has been dulled by the ale I consumed that evening. On this matter, our recollections also disagree.
In the meantime, I am enjoying the generous hospitality of one Lizzie Thompson in St. Giles. I assure you that Lizzie is a fine woman indeed, though misunderstood by the wagging tongues about town. I suggest we find some recompense for her as well. After all, she is going to quite some effort to see that my stay here is agreeable.
In the meanwhile, I promised you would be arriving soon to settle this matter. Since I am a longstanding patron of the gentleman’s establishment, he has agreed to not take this matter any further for a fortnight. Otherwise, I might be enjoying the hospitality of the constables, which I am quite certain would not meet the expectations or requirements of a gentleman of my stature. However, I understand the constables may be willing to permit me to remain in my current circumstance should they find an extra few pounds in their palms.
I shall be expecting you within the fortnight. You may remember me to my betrothed.
Your loving brother,
Cecil
As he tossed the letter on top of his desk, Tedric wasn’t sure whether to spit in contempt or cry out for the lost soul of his brother.
Tedric heaved an exasperated sigh. He had not had occasion to meet the Lizzie Thompson that Cecil mentioned, nor did he seek the opportunity. An image of Lizzie formed in his mind. Cecil was drawn to large, coarse women who wore immodest evening dresses during the day and spoke boldly, using the slack grammar of their class. How could such a woman compare to the spiritual and physical beauty of Abigail?
Abigail, with dark blond locks she had taught Missy to style. Smooth skin, with a touch of pink in each cheek and lips a touch pinker. Abigail’s eyes sparkled, but not with suggestion of illicit pleasures. She was much too innocent to lead weak men down that broad road.
No, Abigail was decidedly not the type of woman Cecil admired or sought. Still, how could Cecil be so thoughtless as to make a passing mention of Abigail at the end of this letter, not even writing her name, as though she were a mere fixture in the house rather than the woman he would soon marry? Tedric shrugged. Why even bother to give her such a puny message?
Of course, Cecil had no love for Abigail, a woman he had never met. Tedric suspected Abigail, even in her great artlessness, did not presume Cecil loved her. Tedric doubted that Abigail had even become aware of the ever-absent Cecil until their recent betrothal.
Tedric shook his head when he thought about Abigail’s father. How could a loving parent wed his daughter to a man—any man—without at least making sure she had met the man? Tedric drummed his fingers on his desk, observing them as mindlessly as though they belonged to someone else. Perhaps if Cecil had met Abigail, he wouldn’t be so eager to stay in London, consuming with his passions whatever remained of the Sutton fortune.
In the meantime, Tedric felt charged with Abigail’s safety and reputation as she prepared to be his brother’s wife.
His brother’s wife. Not his own.
Oh, why did Cecil’s betr
othed have to be so beautiful? Why couldn’t she be an old dowager, like the new Lady Hanover? Or a plain-faced girl? Or maybe even a London sophisticate, though not of a reputation sullied beyond all reason.
As soon as the thoughts entered his mind, Tedric could answer them. Abigail’s attraction was her family name. Pettigrew. A name of the local aristocracy not besmirched by any whiff of scandal. The root of local aristocracy, the Pettigrew name was from a heraldic lineage dating back to King James. Pettigrew was the kind of name a man such as Cecil needed if he ever hoped to pull the Sutton name out of the mire into which he had thrown it. Where he most likely would continue to keep it. Lady Abigail would run the estate while her husband played in London most of the year.
And what would Abigail and the Pettigrews receive in return? They would be forever tied by marriage to a name of prestige and its title. Tedric supposed if he were in Lord Pettigrew’s position, the marriage would seem a good, if not ideal, match.
What would be the ideal match? The thought pricked his conscience. A rhetorical question, to be sure. No matter how much he felt his love for Abigail grow, she belonged to his brother. He forced himself to ignore the light of love he sensed in her expression, in the wistful way she looked at him. In the way she leaned toward him that very evening, her lavender scent so tantalizing. . .
“No!” The word she had used to stop him from touching his lips to hers arose to his own mouth. He was grateful to the Lord that Abigail was a woman of unblemished character. Otherwise. . .
He couldn’t think of that now. Not now. Not ever. Perhaps the trip to London was timed perfectly. Perhaps he could thank the Lord for that small favor.
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