Light Among Shadows

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  “Only for the sake of the baby,” Griselda argued. “Apparently you do not understand that being exposed to your illness might have put me in jeopardy.”

  “Yes, Abigail,” Father confirmed. “Had you not been ill, we would have welcomed you with open arms.”

  Abigail bristled but resisted the temptation to comment. Certainly Father would have welcomed her, but Griselda still considered her nothing more than an inconvenience—unless she could be forced to serve her needs.

  Griselda nonetheless joined the subterfuge. “Yes, we would have welcomed you, in spite of your blatant disobedience and your ill regard for this family, as you so aptly demonstrated by disobeying your father in such a bold manner. You are lucky he will even permit you in this house after what you tried to do.”

  “Now, Griselda, you must not upset yourself,” Father said, patting her on the shoulder.

  “I care not what you say or think. Abigail does not deserve your—or any other Pettigrew’s—forgiveness,” Griselda snapped.

  “I am the master of this house and Abigail’s father. I shall be the judge of whether or not she is forgiven. In fact, she has already asked and I have granted her pardon. The topic shall not be revisited.” How Father managed to be authoritative and calm at once, Abigail never knew. Yet his words quieted Griselda.

  They assuaged Abigail too. She wanted to bite back, but she remembered her quiet time with the Lord the previous night as she had prepared for her return. For her reading, she had chosen another portion of the passage in the fifth chapter of Matthew that Tedric had mentioned: “ ‘For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so? Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.’ ”

  She knew perfection could not be achieved in this life except by the Lord Himself. But she could try. Father in heaven, please forgive me.

  Her sense of mission renewed, Abigail rushed to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Making her way through the hall, she mentally chastised herself. She had barely taken off her cloak and already she was at odds with Griselda. “Father in heaven,” she whispered, “why must getting along with Griselda be so hard?”

  Mattie interrupted her conversation with the Lord. “Abigail! So good to have ye back home where ye belong. I’m makin’ yer favorite dish.”

  Abigail sent her a hearty smile. “So I heard. Thank you.”

  “Is Lord Pettigrew with ye?”

  “Why, no.”

  “Oh. I thought I heard ye mumblin.” Standing near abundant flames, Mattie wiped her brow with the back of her forearm. She paused, a sure sign that she expected Abigail to respond. “Did ye say somethin’?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Abigail complied.

  “I knows better than that,” Mattie said. “But I won’t pry none. ’Ceptin’ I’m sure if ye got a trouble, it’s because of yer stepmother. Am I right in me thinkin’?”

  Abigail let out a chuckle in spite of herself.

  “See?” Mattie gave a knowing nod. “I’ve known ye since ye were a wee little girl.” She stooped down and placed her palm downward at her knees, showing Abigail just how tall she had been when they first made each other’s acquaintance. “And I know yer stepmother.” Mattie rolled her eyes skyward. She didn’t need to say more.

  A chuckle escaped Abigail’s throat, filling the kitchen.

  “Aye, that’s a good sound. One I’ve been a’missin’. Now what can I do fer ye?”

  “I should like a cup of tea, please.”

  “Let me fetch it right away.”

  “No, it is for Griselda, I mean, Mother.”

  “Aye, so she’s puttin’ ye straight to work, is she?” Mattie shrugged. “ ’Tis no surprise.” She sent Abigail a look of sympathy. “I’m proud of yer cheerful countenance, my girl. A lesser young woman woulda been poutin’ and complainin’.”

  “Thank you.” Abigail sent Mattie a grateful smile to show how much her encouragement was appreciated. She could only pray that over the next few weeks, she could live up to Mattie’s praise.

  Thirteen

  “Abigail!” Griselda called. The vigorous ringing of her silver bell followed.

  Since she had arrived home, Abigail had grown to despise the sound of that bell. Griselda’s summons didn’t surprise Abigail. At the stroke of six each morning, her stepmother commenced with her demands. Abigail wondered why she didn’t rest as would be expected of a woman in her condition instead of rising so early.

  She muttered a prayer for strength and hurried into her stepmother’s bedchamber. Griselda sat upright in bed, huddled underneath a pile of covers.

  “Yes, Mother?” The word appeared to fall with ease on her lips since the need to use it had arisen often since she arrived home. She felt herself wince all the same.

  Griselda nodded toward the fireplace. “Why do you not start the fire anew earlier in the morning? The chill of night is still upon us. It is not nearly warm enough to keep a body from frostbite.”

  “Really? I do not feel the least bit cold. Perhaps the warmth of my flesh is a result of my movement as I work.”

  “It is about time you discovered firsthand the rigors of honest work rather than whiling away all of your leisure time writing nonsense in your diary.”

  Abigail regretted her words even before Griselda’s retort. How could she expect a woman well along toward the time of her baby’s birth to work with the diligence she, a lithe young woman, could display? As for nonsense appearing in her journal, she could ignore such an insult.

  “My apologies. I beg your forgiveness, Mother.” Abigail tried to smile over gritted teeth. “I suppose we should instruct the housekeeper to hire a new chambermaid to take over my duties after the wedding.”

  The wedding. The day she had once anticipated with glee had once again become a time of dread since Tedric now paid her little attention. As she did often, Abigail placed a hand on top of the letter in her pocket, the one letter Tedric had sent during the past month. She supposed she should be grateful for that much, considering his indifferent reaction to her gifts.

  Keeping her hand upon the thick paper was enough. Abigail didn’t need to look at it. She had memorized every word. To her dismay, Tedric wrote not an apology for his coldness to her before her departure from the Sutton estate, nor of his unremitting love for her. He wrote merely to tell her he was going back to London on business.

  Business. What business? Was his business just an excuse to see another woman? A woman who was wiser, prettier, and more sophisticated than Abigail could ever aspire to be? A woman who could offer much more than she, a little country mouse in comparison, ever could?

  And to think she had come to trust that Tedric was a believer, a Christian man!

  But he was still a man. Griselda often said that all men were alike. Surely Abigail’s own father. . .

  No. Her stepmother seldom spoke wisely. Why should Abigail believe her admonitions about men and, most especially, about her own Tedric?

  “Abigail.” Griselda’s grating voice interrupted her musings. “You know very well we cannot afford a new chambermaid at the moment. I do not understand why you refuse to let Missy take on more of the duties.”

  “Missy is already working day and night as it is.”

  “What occupies her at this moment, pray tell?”

  “Emptying the chamber pots.” Abigail grimaced. At least she was spared that indignity.

  Griselda cut her glance to her own chamber pot.

  “She emptied yours before you awoke,” Abigail responded to her unspoken question.

  “Excellent. And after that?”

  “She will set about polishing the parlor floor.”

  Griselda raised a forefinger and shook it at Abigail. “Be certain she beats the rug before she lays it back down again. And have her beat it long and well. I do not approve of an indifferent approach to housecleaning.”

&
nbsp; “I am aware of your feelings concerning cleanliness,” Abigail said.

  “What will occupy her after that?”

  “She is working very hard,” Abigail explained. “You must understand that the work is quite a descent for her after she had enjoyed the position of my ladies’ maid previously. So you see, I cannot in good conscience ask her to do more.”

  “So you say. You might not be so generous if we reach the point where we are forced to let the staff go and reduce ourselves merely to a maid-of-all-work.”

  “I do not think our situation has deteriorated to that extent,” Abigail protested.

  “Perhaps it does not seem that way now, but remember, we will be needing a wet nurse and a nanny soon.” She patted her belly, which protruded more each day. “Your part of the Sutton fortune must be realized soon if we are to continue to live graciously.”

  “That is all Lord Sutton is to you? A way to get your hands on more money?”

  “Do not judge me.” Griselda’s look pierced Abigail through to her soul. “If you think you are any more to Lord Sutton than a family name and breeding mare, you are a fool.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “It is true.” Griselda leaned forward as though she was about to reveal a secret. “He has been in London on business quite awhile now.”

  She wished she could dispute her stepmother’s words, but the letter in her pocket confirmed that Tedric was indeed in London.

  “I have heard from reliable sources that the rumors about Lord Sutton are true,” Griselda elaborated.

  Abigail swallowed. “Are those old rumors still circulating?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, more news continues to be added to the old, and nothing changes,” Griselda said. “Your betrothed may accomplish a few errands during his trips to London, but he carouses as well. He is known to frequent the gambling halls and is often seen with women of ill repute.”

  Abigail searched for signs of sympathy in Griselda’s face, but her jaw only tightened. “You take great pleasure in telling me this, do you not?”

  “Why would I take pleasure in what is only my obligation? As your stepmother, it is also my duty to tell you not to expect his behavior to improve after the wedding day.”

  “Then everyone will talk behind my back and whisper about me whenever they see me. I shall live my life as a laughingstock.” The realization weakened Abigail’s voice.

  “Not necessarily.” Griselda paused. “There is a revenge of sorts that is open to you.”

  “Revenge? But revenge is the Lord God’s.”

  Griselda let out a world-weary sigh. “Then call it liberty.” She set her gaze on Abigail. “Must I elaborate, or are you able to discern what your options might be?”

  Abigail thought for a moment. “Perhaps some women might spend an excessive amount of money on party dresses and give fancy balls, but that would give me no satisfaction.”

  “But something else will.” Griselda leaned toward Abigail and crooked her finger, motioning her to come closer. Abigail obeyed. Griselda whispered, “Once they have provided their husbands with heirs, women in similar positions have been known to take a lover.”

  Abigail stepped back and gasped aloud. “A lover!” she shrieked.

  “Quiet! Do you want Missy or your father to come running in?”

  Abigail shook her head. Certainly not! The thought of what Griselda had suggested sickened her. “Why, that would be breaking God’s commandments!”

  Griselda shrugged. “Consider yourself fortunate. Your father made a good match for you, one that will bring you wealth, comfort, and ease. You will never have to worry about money as I do.”

  “Have our finances truly declined so? Or do you exaggerate to frighten me?”

  “I do not exaggerate. If we do not acquire more money soon, I am afraid we might land on Queer Street with the homeless and destitute.”

  “Then it would seem to me that you would welcome the day of my marriage.” Abigail decided not to await Griselda’s response. Instead, she grasped for another subject. “Might I bring you hot tea? Perhaps that will warm you.”

  “Very well.”

  Eager to leave Griselda’s presence, Abigail made her way down the long corridor to the kitchen. Her thoughts wandered to the day in question, her wedding day.

  What Griselda said couldn’t be true. Or was it? Why would Tedric seem to be one man when he was with her, then another man entirely once the tip of his shoe hit London’s streets?

  The unwelcome memory of his return to the estate pricked her mind and refused to leave. Tedric hadn’t acted like a man in love when he accepted the gifts she had labored so long to craft for him. Over and over, she had replayed the walk in the garden through her mind. Over and over, she had tried to explain away his indifference.

  She had made herself believe that Tedric was merely saving his hot emotions for after the wedding, as a gentleman should. She had convinced herself, being aware of her inexperience with men and their ways, that he didn’t want to frighten her with any display of the passion to come. Griselda’s words made her realize that she had woven an elaborate fantasy for herself. Tedric didn’t love her at all. Why, right this very instant, he is likely in the arms of another woman. . . .

  Abigail forced the image from her mind’s eye. She preferred to think about the times they spent together. She had fallen in love with him. She thought he returned her feelings. When she stole a glance at him, she was certain she could see traces of love in his eyes. Or at least a deep fondness. When he was near and his fingers brushed against hers ever so lightly, had those times been accidental? She had not thought so at the time.

  So why hadn’t Tedric visited? Why had his lone letter been a brief message to inform her of his departure for London yet again?

  Her thoughts turned bitter. When she left the Sutton estate, she had consoled herself with thoughts of Tedric’s letters. She’d imagined little envelopes sealed in wax with the Sutton family crest arriving with frequency at the Pettigrew estate. Abigail had surmised she would come to know the Sutton footman by sight, that she would anticipate the sound of his horse’s trot as yet another letter proclaiming Tedric’s undying love was delivered. Certainly the words Tedric could not express when they were face to face could be written in a fine hand. Once she received such a letter, she pictured herself reading it over and over. She imagined herself memorizing each word of love.

  But alas, Tedric saw fit to leave her wondering. Wondering what he was really doing in London. Wondering if he could ever love her. Wondering if Griselda’s words were true.

  So engrossed was Abigail in procuring the tea that, before she knew it, she had completed her task and stood in front of her stepmother once again.

  “My, but you dawdle, Child.” Griselda extended her hand for the tea.

  Abigail chose to ignore her remark. “I added plenty of sugar and cream, as you like.”

  Griselda tasted the beverage, then grimaced. “This is much too cold. How do you expect this to warm me? Are you determined that I shall catch my death of cold?”

  “Why, no. Of course not. Shall I bring you a fresh cup?”

  Griselda nodded as she handed the rejected cup back to Abigail. “And make sure it is hot this time.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And by the way.” Griselda paused, obviously expecting Abigail to turn and face her.

  She complied. “Yes?”

  “Do not neglect to change the water in the basin. And be certain the perfume jar is filled with lavender water. You tend to let it get too low for my tastes.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Abigail shut the door behind her. Lord, why must I serve Griselda? It is difficult enough to call her ‘Mother,’ but must she treat me like a servant? I know she is taking advantage of her state to cause me to work for her as much as possible. She knows Father would not be willing to stop her. Must I pamper her, Lord?

  Abigail waited for an answer of no to resound from the hea
vens.

  It was not to be.

  Abigail paused in the hallway. She had committed a passage from the ninth chapter of 2 Corinthians to memory, one that helped her keep her sanity as she coped with Griselda. “Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver. And God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work.”

  “Lord,” she added in a whisper, “I know You tell us to pray for our enemies. Well, I am praying now for my stepmother. Surely that is all You expect of me.”

  No.

  No? Had she heard right? Why was it when she wanted the Lord to say no, He remained mute? But when that word was the last she wanted to hear, He spoke as plainly as if He had sent the angel Gabriel to tell her so.

  What must she do now? Abigail felt sure that the Lord wasn’t asking her to do more work for Griselda. For Father’s sake, she had done her best to meet Griselda’s requirements, be they reasonable or not. Then what?

  No answer followed, but a sense that He would lead her drove her straight to Griselda’s side.

  “Here is a fresh cup of tea.” Abigail set the small tray on the nightstand. “I hope it proves satisfactory this time.”

  Griselda took a sip. “Yes, this is much better. Thank you.”

  “Cook said that breakfast will be up shortly.”

  “Good. I am rather hungry.”

  Abigail set about lighting the fire. She felt Griselda watching her.

  “Abigail?” she ventured.

  “Yes?”

  Griselda set down her cup. “I want you to know that I am truly sorry for what I had to tell you just now about your betrothed.”

  “If you are truly sorry, then why did you tell me?”

  “As I said, it is my duty as your stepmother. I know you well enough to realize that you have hardly had any exposure to men at all.” Griselda paused. “I suspect no one has even so much as kissed you under the Christmas mistletoe.”

  Abigail didn’t bother to conceal her shock. “Of course not! Why, I would not permit such a thing!”