Griselda nodded. “Or rather, in light of your plain appearance, no man ever made the attempt.”
Abigail wanted to defend herself. Unable to think of a time when a man had sought her attentions with ardor, she remained mute.
“Not to mention, you still spend far too much time writing in that diary of yours. If you had socialized instead of seeking solitude, popularity would not have eluded you.”
“I hardly write in my diary at all now,” Abigail murmured.
“Good. You should have abandoned that childish habit years ago. But perhaps it is just as well that you remained so pure,” Griselda said. “Your innocence is one of the reasons why I believe Lord Sutton was willing to agree to the betrothal. Despite his abominable behavior with other women, he would, of course, want his own wife to be pure.”
“To be sure.” Abigail couldn’t dispute Griselda’s wisdom. She ignored the queasy feeling that arose in her midsection.
“You should be thanking me for my counsel, as painful as it may be,” Griselda said. “Some stepmothers, and mothers, for that matter, would let you walk down the aisle without a single word indicating what to expect. But not I. Since the betrothal is already arranged, you must make the best of it. But of course, you have much to gain. There is much to be said about the power and prestige of bearing the Sutton name.”
Abigail nodded weakly. Power and prestige were not her desires, but if they were to be thrust upon her, she would do with them what God willed.
“Enough of that.” Griselda turned her tone light. “I am wondering, did I miss the evening mail yesterday?”
“No, Mother. There was nothing for you.”
“Oh.” Griselda looked much too engrossed in her tea.
“Were you expecting a letter?” Abigail ventured.
Griselda shrugged. “I was rather hoping. . .well, I was thinking perhaps my sister in Dover would write me a line or two. She knows how lonely it is out here in the country.”
“Perhaps a letter will arrive for you today.” Even Abigail was shocked by the sympathy her own voice held. Then she remembered when she was bedridden with no one to talk to but Missy. “I should think you would have plenty of company. Father dotes on you.”
“Yes, he is kind. But it is not the same. I miss the parties and balls we had at home,” Griselda confessed.
“As if you would be permitted to attend in your delicate condition.”
“True enough.” Griselda looked down at her expanded midriff. “I look forward to the day the baby arrives.”
“As do we all.” Abigail studied her stepmother. Where once she had been youthful and lively, the expectation of birth seemed to have taken its toll. She looked bloated and tired. Earlier her father had been able to bring a chuckle to Griselda’s lips, but Abigail couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her stepmother so much as smile. How lonely she must be, rarely leaving her bedchamber. The realization caused her to pity Griselda. “I cannot hold a ball here for you, but maybe I can be a little bit of company. Would you like for me to linger awhile?”
“Does time permit?”
“If you say it does. I know there is work to be done.”
“Perhaps you should go about that, then.” Griselda stared into the fire, but her eyes took on a glossy cast as though she didn’t really see the flickering flames.
“I think I might spare a few moments.” Abigail consulted the clock. “The time has come when I usually spend a few minutes with the Lord.”
“Really?”
“If you like, we can share the passage I have planned for today.”
Griselda nodded. Abigail sensed that her eagerness for devotions stemmed more from loneliness than the desire to draw closer to the Savior, but she felt a strong leading to share her time with Griselda.
Abigail took the chair beside Griselda’s bed.
Griselda handed her a Bible. “What passage are you reading today?”
She opened the book to the sixth chapter of 1 Timothy and read the tenth and eleventh verses: “ ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows. But thou, O man of God, flee these things; and follow after righteousness, godliness, faith, love, patience, meekness.’ ”
“Did you select that passage just to torment me?” Griselda asked.
“Why, whatever do you mean, Mother dear?” Abigail couldn’t resist teasing.
“That is not a very long passage,” she scolded.
“But surely there is enough meat to chew on.”
“Indeed,” Griselda answered, and launched into her thoughts on the verses.
As they studied together, Abigail and Griselda shared their thoughts as equals. The realization that Griselda had far more worries than Abigail had imagined struck her. Perhaps her stepmother wasn’t so evil, after all. Perhaps she wasn’t put on earth solely to plague her innocent stepdaughter.
Before they realized how much time had flown by, Missy entered the room with Griselda’s breakfast tray. “My, my. I never thought I’d see the day. . . .”
“When the Lord works, you never know what He might show you,” Abigail answered.
“She is right,” Griselda agreed.
“I suppose this concludes our study. Do you want to pursue more tomorrow?” Abigail asked.
“If you will allow me to select the verse.”
“All right.”
“Oh, Abigail,” Griselda said as her stepdaughter tried to exit the room.
“Yes?”
“Do remember to fetch me the newspaper, will you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Missy giggled as she shut the door behind them. “Ye didn’t think she’d change her temperament completely in the space of an hour, did ye?”
“I suppose not,” Abigail agreed. “But I can see now, the Lord has changed much harder hearts than hers.”
But would He change Tedric’s? She prayed He would find a way.
Fourteen
As the coach made its way back home from London, Tedric looked at his sleeping brother. Cecil’s mouth opened and shut with the rhythm of each snore. Drool slithered from the corner of his lips. Tedric scrunched his nose in disgust. Nevertheless, he found his kerchief and wiped his brother’s lips before the liquid could drip onto the floor.
Tedric balled up the old square of cotton so the wet portion remained unto itself, touching neither his fingers nor his woolen traveling suit. Wrinkling his nose, he jammed the offending cloth back into his pocket.
Tedric was grateful he had a well-worn kerchief on hand for such an occasion. He wondered if Abigail had embroidered a decorative “S” on a square of muslin for Cecil and if that particular piece of her handiwork would be used for such a disgusting purpose. He hoped not. Abigail’s efforts were much too precious.
Tedric glanced at his sleeping brother once more. Certainly Abigail deserved better than the future that awaited her with Cecil. But he could ill afford to concern himself with that. His destiny was to be her brother-in-law, not her husband. To encourage any party involved to dissolve the betrothal would bring disgrace upon the Sutton name. Even worse, such action could only lead to the revelation of his own shameful ulterior motive for wanting to stop the wedding—his own desire for Abigail.
So why did he dwell upon Abigail’s fate?
Watching his brother in repose, Tedric wondered how Cecil could slumber as the coach hit rut after rut in the road. Then again, the four pints of lager he’d consumed at breakfast along with his customary three eggs and pork pie could have acted as a powerful sedative.
Tedric suspected he should be grateful for his brother’s slumber. As long as he slept, Cecil wouldn’t argue, or worse, try to escape. Tedric wished he could have convinced Cecil to return home long enough to see Abigail without resorting to threats and promises. Cecil had agreed to the betrothal of his own free will. The least he could do was to visit his intended long enough to set the date
and make arrangements for proper prenuptial entertaining.
Had Cecil returned when Tedric first asked on his previous visit to London, Abigail would be Cecil’s wife by now. She would not have been forced to return to the Pettigrew estate to help her intimidating stepmother. But Cecil’s reticence to leave the city left Tedric no alternative but to send Abigail home since she had recovered from her illness and Griselda beckoned. For Abigail’s sake, he wished he could have kept her at the Sutton estate. Tedric suspected that love and altruism were not Griselda’s motivations for wishing her stepdaughter’s return.
Cecil flipped over in his sleep, punctuating the movement with a loud snort. Tedric reminded himself to be certain that Abigail could enjoy private quarters for sleep, lest Cecil keep her awake all night. He imagined gentle Abigail’s shock upon spending time in close proximity to Cecil. Tedric supposed Cecil was charming in his way, but. . .
If only he could have changed places with his brother!
Tedric imagined a reversal of circumstance. If he were the one betrothed to Abigail, he would have been free to reveal his heart. Upon his last correspondence, he could have written how he really felt about her, the love he held for her, the love that consumed his thoughts. Instead, he confined himself to one letter. Even then, he sent only to convey urgent news. He struggled to keep the contents of the message appropriate between a man and his brother’s future wife rather than that of a besotted lover to his beloved.
Tedric’s mind returned to the last day he had seen her, the day she’d presented him with gifts she had fashioned with her own hands. After many uses, the soap Abigail had created for him was almost gone. He had given in to the temptation to hold onto a sliver so he could still enjoy the fragrance every now and again.
He reached into the pocket of his vest and fingered the handkerchief Abigail had embroidered just for him. Often during the day, he would take out the muslin square and look at it, studying Abigail’s fine needlework. From all appearances, the poor girl had spent hours on the elaborate initial, sewing countless decorative stitches on each side.
When she had given him these tokens of friendship, propriety demanded that Tedric not respond with glee. He would always remember the way her mouth had slackened and her eyes had grown moist with unhappy teardrops when he unceremoniously stuffed the soap and kerchief in his pocket and ended the walk in the garden.
He looked upon his brother once again. Cecil’s paunch, which made him look older than his thirty years, hung over the edge of the seat. Years of hard drinking had left his face puffy and his round nose veined in red. Hair that had once been lustrous and thick had thinned with age, though Cecil still succeeded in concealing his bare scalp with the remaining locks.
Tedric knew why Cecil was popular among his friends at the gaming tables. Always quick to place a bet, Cecil was a cavalier loser. When he did win, he never failed to buy a round of ale for his cohorts in celebration.
Women were another matter. Tedric wondered what members of the fairer sex saw when they looked at Cecil. Just as quickly, he realized he knew the answer. They saw a flirtatious, vibrant, and rich man. Portliness to them bespoke prosperity. His protruding belly and fleshy hands told them that Cecil never needed to worry about where he would find his next meal, nor did he need to work long and hard to procure the finest fare. Cecil’s clothing, a wardrobe of fashionable suits tailored in the finest cloth, confirmed this deduction by screaming his aristocratic roots.
Tedric wondered how many women in the past had pinned their hopes on Cecil, only to be disappointed, perhaps even ruined. How many women had Cecil caused to cry? What did he do when their tears fell, when he told them he would never marry them?
At least Abigail would be spared that insult.
Tedric fingered the embroidered kerchief. He hoped and prayed that Abigail had given the gifts to him as a gesture of appreciation for his kindness as her future brother-in-law. He hoped and prayed she hadn’t made the mistake of falling in love with him. If she had, no good could come of it. He was miserable enough, knowing he could never have her. His desire was for her never to experience such regret and shame.
Cecil stirred with a groan. “Huh? Where, where am I? Lizzie, where are you?”
The unpleasant image of such a hardened woman seared into Tedric’s dreams of lovely Abigail. “Lizzie is in London,” he snapped.
“London?” Cecil rolled over. He looked at Tedric and blinked. “Then where am I?”
“You are in our coach. We shall be home shortly.”
“My head.” Cecil placed his palm on his forehead. “Have you a nip of ale with you? Nothing cures a headache like a snout full.”
“No.” Tedric deliberately kept all traces of compassion out of his voice.
“I might have known you would not be able to offer any liquid refreshment. You always were a prig, attending church services every week and refusing to drink up with the rest of us.”
Tedric knew that nothing could be gained by taking the bait of his brother’s insult. “Rest is what you need,” Tedric answered. “You will have time for a short nap before you are due at the Pettigrews’. I am sure a few winks in your own bed will prove much more refreshing than trying to sleep here.”
“The Pettigrews’?” Cecil’s eyes flashed. “Oh. I remember. I am supposed to meet them tonight, am I not?” His tone indicated that he hoped Tedric would tell him he was mistaken.
“Yes. You are due there after dinner.”
“After dinner?” Cecil lifted his overweight frame on one arm, then pushed himself upright. He placed a hand on his stomach. “Why, my brother, could you not have secured us a bit of free prog? I suppose we’ll have to scrounge together something for ourselves from the kitchen.” A mischievous smile touched his lips.
“I am glad to see your sense of humor is returning.” Tedric paused. “I arranged for the meeting to take place after dinner because I was not sure I would be able to secure your arrival any earlier. Not to mention, I imagine the Pettigrews would expect much better table manners from their guests than the women do in the houses where you usually dine.”
Cecil chuckled, though not good-naturedly. “Indeed, my brother. I am glad to see that your sense of humor is returning.”
“Very well. Now that we are all in a fine humor, you should be anticipating a splendid evening in the company of your lovely betrothed and your future father-in-law.”
Cecil’s mouth pursed into an unhappy line. “A stifling evening in the company of prudish nobs, no doubt.”
“You leap to judgments without evidence.”
“Oh? And what do you know about the Pettigrews?”
“More than you do,” Tedric argued. “Abigail is quite lovely and charming.”
“Is she? According to Henry Hanover, she is plain and shy.”
“She is neither plain nor shy,” Tedric countered.
“Spoken like a faithful brother-in-law.” He leaned closer and looked Tedric in the eye. “Or is it more like a smitten lover?”
Unwelcome guilt pierced Tedric. Did the light in his eyes betray him? He managed to compose himself well enough to answer. “She is a young woman of breeding and refinement, and if you would remember your own breeding, you would neither insult me nor listen to the likes of Henry Hanover.”
“Surely my friend Henry has as much good breeding as Miss Pettigrew. That will be aptly demonstrated by her willingness to marry me, regardless of your feelings for her.” Cecil didn’t wait for Tedric’s reply. “You say she is so delightful. I doubt it. The women of breeding and refinement with whom I have become acquainted are barely tolerable. I do not wish to spend any more time with Abigail’s sort than is absolutely necessary, thank you.” Cecil folded his arms.
“Is she truly that disgusting to you?”
Cecil raised his shoulders and palms in a gesture of dismissal. “I am sure that, like all women, she is not without her charms. But that is not the point. I do not wish to be near her, or any Pettigrew, for that matter.
”
“You will never secure an heir that way.”
“When duty to God and country beckons, I will answer.”
Tedric hoped that Cecil didn’t see him shudder. The thought of his brother touching innocent Abigail. . .
“But I am not certain I will answer that call with Abigail Pettigrew.”
“What do you mean to say?”
Cecil leaned toward Tedric. “I am saying that there is more to the situation than you know.” He leaned back. “That is all I am at liberty to say.”
“I do not know what you are trying to imply, but I will have you to know, Abigail Pettigrew is a lady in the truest sense of the word.”
“Oh, my, but you have become enchanted by her feminine wiles. I can see this will be more difficult than I thought. Perhaps I can put off the appointment.” Cecil placed his palm on his forehead once more. “I do believe I am feeling odd.”
“No doubt. However, you do not have my sympathies as you have no one to blame but yourself for your ailments,” Tedric pointed out. “I will not make any excuses for you. You must keep your appointment with her father. He is expecting you.”
“You cannot force me to go. I shall send a messenger—”
“You shall do no such thing. You will prepare to meet them. And to be sure you do, I shall drive you there myself.”
Cecil glowered, but Tedric met his stare without flinching. Defeated, Cecil laid his head back on the seat and fell asleep once again.
With at least another hour remaining in their journey, Tedric contemplated his plight. If only he could change places with Cecil! If only he, not his brother, were due at the Pettigrew estate that evening!
But it was not to be.
Though Tedric didn’t like to think of himself as vain, he often caught women noticing him. If bold, they batted their eyelashes. If shy, they looked away when they realized he saw them. Despite the many opportunities that had presented themselves since he first became aware of the fairer sex, Tedric had never been taken with anyone as he had with Abigail. From the first moment he saw her clutching her diary, an angry look covering her beautiful face, he had loved her.
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