Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  “You’re not proposing to stay shut up in the nursery all day?” Cary objected.

  “No, my lady, you mustn’t!” cried Paggles. “Go out and enjoy yourself. Mustn’t fuss over silly old Paggles. I’m quite happy where I am. Make her go with you, Dickie-bird, and I shall knit you a muffler, there’s a good boy.”

  A breathless Polly came into the room at that moment. Cary’s instructions to her were so thorough that Abigail could think of nothing to add. In short order, Paggles had all of her things around her, and Cary withdrew while Abigail got her dressed. When Polly had brought up Paggles’s breakfast, Abigail quietly went down the stairs to find Cary.

  “Your marmalade is quince preserve,” she told him, “but I daresay, she won’t notice. You’ve made her very happy, sir. I’m truly grateful. She’s a dear old thing, but she does get fuddled at times.”

  “I really hadn’t noticed. I can answer to Dickie-bird, if you can answer to Annie-Fanny.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “My mother was Lady Anne Frances.”

  “What a pity you were not named for her. Then you would be Annie-Fanny too.”

  “I was named after Paggles, actually.”

  “I see,” he said gravely. “Then you actually are called Paggles.”

  “No, she is called Abigail,” the young lady clarified. “But when he was a boy, Dickie-bird couldn’t say Abigail. It sort of came out as Paggles, and got stuck that way.”

  He looked at her with a critical eye. “Young Paggles, in fact.”

  “Abigail—such an old-fashioned name,” she said, blushing. “My father calls me Abby.”

  “Your father. Mr. John Smith, I presume?”

  Abigail sighed. “His Christian name is William, sir.”

  “You ought to have called yourself Williams, then,” he said sternly. “Too late now, of course, but may I suggest we drop the Smith, at least in Miss Paggles’s presence? She seems to have a morbid fear of all things Smith. Can’t say I blame her. Nasty things, Smiths.”

  “Yes, sir,” Abigail said meekly. “Thank you, sir.”

  He smiled faintly. “Well, young Paggles, if you hurry, I think we can still get out of the house before Mrs. Spurgeon is fully assembled. I’ll give you breakfast at the Tudor Rose. Skating,” he said in reply to her bewildered expression. “You. Me. Ice. Yes?”

  “I don’t skate,” said Abigail firmly. “Sir, I never said I’d go skating with you.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But neither did I go in your room and steal your shoes. Mrs. Nashe confessed to the fell deed not twenty minutes ago—at least, I hope it was not twenty minutes ago. It was she who whistled at me; she who threw your shoes out the window.”

  Abigail frowned at him. “Why would Vera do such a thing?”

  “She wants you to go skating with me. So does Paggles. It’s a conspiracy, in fact.”

  Abigail stood up straight. “Sir, as much as I appreciate your helping me find Paggles, I’m afraid that your idea of what constitutes an enjoyable activity may differ too sharply from mine to bring enjoyment to either of us.”

  “Good Lord,” he said. “I didn’t realize people actually talked like that. Don’t worry, Cousin Abigail. I promise I won’t kiss you again. You have my word as a gentleman. Though I should like to point out that when I kissed you, you seemed to like it.”

  “What?” she cried, exasperated. “I thought you were a bat.”

  He glared at her fiercely. “You little beast! You did not think I was a bat.”

  “I certainly did! Don’t you remember? I jumped out of the wardrobe—”

  “Not that,” he said impatiently. “Less said about that the better. I mean, this morning, outside. When I met you by the bridge,” he pressed as she looked at him blankly.

  “So you did kiss me!” she exclaimed angrily. “I thought so!”

  Cary’s eyebrows shot up. “You thought so? What the devil do you mean?” he demanded. “Was there any doubt?”

  “Well—”

  She scarcely got the word out. He swung her around, pushed her against the wall, and drove his mouth hard against hers. Abigail froze in shock as she felt the point of his tongue urging its way between her lips. Unthinkingly, she let him in. He kissed her expertly. Unfortunately, she was so worried that she might disgrace herself by falling at his feet in a dead faint that she could scarcely enjoy herself. He left her mouth briefly and kissed her neck, his hands skimming boldly down to her waist. As she tried to speak, he claimed her mouth again. It was just as well; she had no idea what she would have said.

  Cary stopped kissing her eventually, but only when they heard Polly on the stairs.

  “What do you think of that?” he asked breathlessly, holding her steady.

  Abigail was equally breathless. And trembling. And confused. But at least the feeling of desperate panic was subsiding, and she now had a very clear notion of the sort of man she ought to marry. A calm, plain, respectful fellow who never, ever pounced on her or threatened her peace of mind. A good-looking passionate man put far too much stress on the heart.

  Cary’s question had not been academic. “How was it? Vespertilian?”

  “Vesper…what?” she stuttered.

  “Vespertilian,” he said, cupping her chin with his hand to keep her from hiding her eyes from him. “From the Latin vespertilio, meaning bat. Was it at all bat-like?”

  “No, sir,” she said, staring at him.

  “That’s a relief anyway,” he said, releasing her. “Too much tongue? No, don’t answer that. Just tell me you’re quite sure this time that you have been kissed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. We seem to be making progress.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t do that again,” she pointed out, rather belatedly.

  “On condition that you went skating with me,” he replied. “If you go skating with me, the promise will go into effect. If not, well, this is what you have to look forward to.”

  “That’s blackmail,” she objected. “Either I go skating, which I hate, or you will attack me again, which I also hate,” she added emphatically.

  “Attack you! I’ll have you know, that was some of my best stuff,” he said, annoyed.

  Polly suddenly opened the door at the foot of the stairs. She looked at them in surprise, and Abigail turned red. “Hullo, Polly,” said Cary, sounding quite normal. “All serene?”

  Polly dropped a curtsey and said the old lady was knitting.

  “Excellent,” said Cary. “Look in on her from time to time, will you? There’s a good girl. Miss Abigail and I are going skating at the Rose.”

  “Look here,” Abigail said angrily. “I don’t skate, and someone must look after Paggles.”

  Cary gritted his teeth; it was like trying to persuade a skittish horse to swallow a medicine ball. “I will teach you,” he said cheerfully. “And Polly will look after Paggles.”

  “She could fall down the stairs.”

  “Polly’s not going to fall down the stairs,” he assured her, and Polly giggled. “And neither is Paggles. Now go and get your cloak, or I shall go straight upstairs and tell Paggles you’re refusing to go. She’ll be very annoyed with Annie-Fanny for hurting Dickie-bird’s feelings in this callous manner. I should hate for Paggles to be upset again. Well?”

  Abigail found it impossible to argue in front of the very interested Polly, a weakness he fully exploited. “I will go with you, sir,” she said, “though it gives me no pleasure.”

  “Excellent. Who could ask for more?”

  “Nor will it give you any pleasure,” she warned, “for I really cannot skate.”

  “You really cannot skate,” Cary told Abigail two hours later when he was helping her off the ice and back up the bank to the Tudor Rose’s back terrace. The curate, Mr. Temple, jumped up at their approach and offered Abigail his seat. “You’re hopeless,” Cary said bluntly. “I must get you off my ice before you break it.”

  “I think your ice has broken me,” she comp
lained, gratefully accepting the curate’s chair.

  “I don’t mind your falling down ten times a minute, Cousin Abigail,” he said as she panted for breath, “but I strongly object to your pulling me down with you.”

  “Serves you right,” she retorted, rubbing her sore ankles through her thick woollen socks. “I wanted to come in twenty minutes ago. Indeed, Mr. Temple, I didn’t want to go on the ice at all, but he badgered me and bullied me until I gave in, the more fool I. He even used my old nurse against me. Was that not unkind of him?”

  Mr. Temple scarcely knew how to answer; it was impolite to contradict a lady, but impolitic to cross a gentleman who might one day grant him a good living.

  “What is infinitely worse, you’ve given the Misses Mickleby some fatal ideas,” Cary complained. “They are all falling down now in the hopes I will come and pick them up.”

  “They are certainly falling down, but it does not follow they are depending on you, sir. They have Mr. Maddox and their brother,” she added, bending down to unlace her skates.

  “Let me help you.” Cary was at her feet, pulling off her skates. “We are cousins, so no one can say I’m taking liberties.” Mr. Temple smiled complacently, and, once again, Abigail’s natural diffidence worked to Cary’s advantage; she was too embarrassed to speak. Nor could she create a scene by pushing him away. Instead, she concentrated on the blue-and black-coated figures gliding along the frozen river as he busied himself at her feet.

  The three plump, rosy-cheeked Mickleby girls so closely resembled one another that Abigail could not tell them apart, though she knew they were called Rhoda, Ida, and Lydia. Rhoda was the eldest. Hector Mickleby was their brother, and Mr. Maddox was his friend from Magdalen College. Both boys were nineteen and neither could hold a candle to Cary Wayborn.

  “Feet hurt?” Cary inquired solicitously. Without waiting for a reply, he began rubbing the balls of her feet through her ugly black woollen socks.

  Abigail closed her eyes in acute embarrassment, her face scarlet. “Stop it,” she whispered through her teeth. “What will Mr. Temple think?”

  “What are you implying? He’ll think your feet hurt.”

  Happily, the curate’s attention was engaged elsewhere. “There goes Miss Rhoda,” he said gaily, as a female Mickleby sat down hard on the ice, carrying Mr. Maddox with her. The other two sisters fell in a heap at their brother’s feet, their skating blades flashing in the sun. Hector did not enjoy handling his giggling sisters half as much as Mr. Maddox did; he skated away with his arms behind his back.

  “Oh, Mr. Wayborn, do come and help us!” cried the two abandoned girls in chorus.

  “Do, please, sir,” urged Hector, skating near to the bank.

  “I cannot leave my cousin unattended,” Cary told him, holding Abigail’s boot for her.

  “I will look after Miss Smith.” Mr. Temple and Mr. Mickleby spoke at once.

  Abigail felt her usual panic at the prospect of being left among strangers.

  “Can you not spare me, Cousin?” Cary teased her. “You seem alarmed. Now, don’t scowl at me,” he instructed. “Rather, say, ‘I can spare you passionately, sir, and just as long as you please.’ That would be putting me in my place. She’s a queer, quiet little thing,” he told Hector and the curate. “You’ll have to compose her side of the conversation, as well as your own. She will not match wits with anyone.”

  Though he doubted that skating with Miss Ida and Miss Lydia would give him any pleasure, Cary had no qualms about leaving her with the two gentlemen. She’d be perfectly safe, and after an hour spent in such tepid company, she’d be more appreciative of himself.

  Hector grinned at Abigail. “You needn’t fear matching wits with me, Miss Smith! Nobody thinks I have any.”

  “The landlady here is famous for her clangers, if you’re hungry,” Mr. Temple said, giving the younger man a look of disapproval. “It’s a local dish, a large pastry stuffed on one side with a meat filling and on the other with fruit.”

  “Hard as a door-knocker, too,” added Hector.

  Absurdly grateful to them for trying to make her feel at ease, when all Cary did was tease her, Abigail agreed to the simple meal. “And a half-and-half to wash it down, I think.”

  “Miss?”

  She looked up to find the waiter staring at her. “Half mild and half bitter,” she explained.

  “You heard her,” said Hector, snickering. “I’ll have a pint of ale as well. Mr. Temple?”

  The curate hesitated. He’d never been the sort to drink ale. He certainly had never drunk ale with a lady. Still, he had no wish to offend Mr. Wayborn’s cousin…

  “He’s thinking about it,” Hector observed derisively. “A curate can’t be too careful.”

  “Yes, all right. Pints all around!” said Mr. Temple, growing red in the face.

  The landlord came out to them in person. Scowling, he set a pewter cup on the table.

  “That’s the littlest pint I’ve ever seen,” Hector objected.

  “It’s a lady’s pint, Master Hector,” said Mr. Sprigge banging down their clangers and ale.

  Chapter 7

  “What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Lydia Mickleby asked Cary, holding his arm tightly. At seventeen, she had little conversation herself, and tended to fill any awkward silence by speculating about other people’s conversations.

  Cary glanced at the happy little group on the terrace and frowned. Evidently, the two younger men found Abigail as appealing as he did. “They seem so interested that I can only suppose they are talking about us, Miss Lydia,” he said lightly. “Shall we eavesdrop?”

  With a Mickleby on each arm, he skated closer to the bank, where frosty reeds sheltered them from the conversationalists. “It’s ice cold,” Mr. Temple was complaining.

  “I think it’s quite good cold.” Cary recognized Abigail’s voice.

  “My teeth are chattering,” Hector complained. “I’m changing to hot cider. Waiter!”

  “If only I could invent a way to serve it cold on a hot summer’s day,” sighed Abigail. “I swear I could earn a million pounds.”

  “A million pounds,” Hector scoffed.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Mickleby,” said Abigail. “Sometimes it’s the littlest things that bring in the highest profits. Take my Christmas wrap, for example. When I was about ten, we had a bit of wallpaper left from doing over the summer breakfast room, and I used it to wrap the Christmas presents. That’s where I got the idea. Very inexpensive paper, just to wrap presents in, with pretty designs. The very first year it was on the market, we turned a profit of a thousand pounds, and that’s after Papa bought the paper mill outright. The next year we were up to five.”

  This was the longest speech Cary had ever heard her utter, and that it was delivered to two lesser mortals annoyed him considerably.

  “F-f-f-five thousand pounds?” stuttered Mr. Temple, who was paid the handsome sum of thirty pounds per annum for making sermons and visiting the sick.

  “Then this past year, I went ’round to all the London shops, and sold them the idea of offering a gift-wrapping service. Only a penny more, and the clerk wraps your package for you, right there in the shop. Of course, they bought the paper from me. I quite doubled my profits.”

  “You mean ten thousand pounds?” screamed Hector.

  Cary had heard enough. He allowed Ida and Lydia to draw him away. He was going to have to speak to his “shy” cousin about telling such outrageous whoppers before her lies spiraled out of control. Ten thousand pounds, indeed!

  But first, he was going to have to kiss her again, promise or no promise.

  In the meantime, he had no objection to linking arms with Ida and Lydia to keep them from falling on the ice. The two girls idolized him, and, after being rejected by Vera and by Abigail, he needed to be idolized. As they chattered on, he skated with his eyes half-closed, enjoying the sound of their breathless female voices without attending to a word they said.

  “Mr. Wayborn?”<
br />
  “Yes, Miss Ida?” he murmured contentedly.

  “It’s Lydia. Where’s Hector going with Miss Smith?”

  Cary’s eyes popped open. Abigail had disappeared from the terrace. He looked around and saw Hector and Mr. Temple on the snow-covered bank across from the inn. They were leading Abigail away from him, uphill, and Hector was carrying a huge serving platter.

  “What’s he doing with that tray?” cried Lydia.

  Leaving Rhoda in the care of Mr. Maddox, Cary and the two younger girls hurried back to the Rose to change their shoes. According to Mr. Sprigge, the other members of their party were going up to the top of the Cascades, a local beauty spot, and they meant to slide down the icy stone steps on Mrs. Sprigge’s pewter tray. Mr. Sprigge became exercised on the subject of trays. “If anything happens to that tray, sir, Mrs. Sprigge will not be best pleased. And then there’s the bill—! Drinking like there’s no tomorrow, they were,” he grumbled.

  After settling the bill with a shilling, Cary skidded across the river towards the opposite bank. Ida and Lydia ran after him, calling in thrilled voices, “Are we going to slide down the Cascades, too, Mr. Wayborn?”

  “Certainly not,” he snapped, pushing his way through the frozen reeds and up the bank.

  In fashioning the Cascades, Art and Nature had combined in a marriage of dubious felicity. Once, the river had run placidly over the top of a little prominence, then down a long, gentle slope that gradually flattened out behind the Tudor Rose, until the water scarcely could be observed to run at all. Then, in the last years of the eighteenth century, the natural state of things had been judged too tame for real beauty. Turbulence had come into fashion.

  In keeping with the new sensibilities, the little prominence had been transformed into a sinister cliff by the addition of a very large cut stone that resembled a step. Six more “steps” had been added on the way down, creating a dramatic series of frothy waterfalls.

  The falling water was icebound now, the dark, giant steps coated in ice.

  Cary could see Abigail and the two men nearing the top, struggling up the incline in the heavy piles of snow. He shouted to them, waving his arms, and Abigail waved back, her butterscotch hair standing out vividly against the pearly frost that surrounded her. He watched in disbelief as Hector Mickleby, with his unkempt chestnut hair falling into his eyes, began arranging the huge pewter tray on one of the steps. Unable to run uphill in the snow, Cary bounded up to them in a series of clumsy leaps.