“And that is why you hate him,” murmured Abigail, climbing to her feet.
“I didn’t mind the flogging. But he ought not have betrayed me to my colonel. That wasn’t cricket, if you see what I mean.”
Abigail could not comprehend this apparently important male distinction. She was more upset by the flogging. Silently, she berated herself for ever agreeing to marry the man. How could she have been so thoroughly deceived? He was a monster. And what, she wondered, must Cary really be thinking of her? True, she had come to her senses in time; to her credit she had jilted Dulwich, but could Cary ever forgive her for the engagement? He claimed not to despise her, but surely, she must at least bear some taint in his eyes.
A horrifying possibility occurred to her suddenly. Could this be why Cary felt entitled to maul her at every turn? She felt tears welling up in her eyes. Had he taken such liberties, not out of passion, but merely because he regarded her as used goods? Worse yet, did he think she had allowed Dulwich such liberties? The very thought made her ill. In truth, the man had never even kissed her, not even when she had accepted his offer of marriage.
She couldn’t look at Cary. He would be loathe to marry her, even if, by some miracle, he had fallen in love with her; surely he would be too proud to offer for a woman once engaged to the man who’d had him flogged. She also knew that if he were to kiss her again, she would be unwilling and unable to resist him. She was in danger of becoming not his wife, but his mistress, and this important female distinction added to her distress and confusion. If he loved her and wished to offer the protection of his name: bliss. If he were merely amusing himself: misery.
“Excuse me,” she said, brushing away her tears. “I mustn’t stay in the cupboard all day.”
He stilled her with his hands, resting one on her shoulder. The other he placed flat over her breastbone, effectively pinning her against the shelf. She could feel her heart pounding, and knowing that he felt it too compounded her acute embarrassment.
“This won’t take long,” he said, grinning at her. “I paid you a rather irregular tribute in the gatehouse just a few minutes ago.”
“Tribute!” she exclaimed.
“Shall I refresh your memory?” His hand slipped down from her shoulder, and Abigail panicked at the implied threat.
“No! Don’t you dare!”
He chuckled. “Ah, then you did notice. You are becoming more observant. You haven’t always remarked my attempts to make love to you. But perhaps you mistook me for a bat again? No? Well, that’s progress, I suppose. It seemed to me—but perhaps I flatter myself—it seemed to me that at a certain point in the exercise you became rather happy.”
“Mr. Wayborn, you have insulted me for the last time—!” she began, seeking refuge in righteous indignation.
“You mean you were not happy? How very odd. I had quite the opposite impression. As I recall—correct me if I am wrong—first you began to tremble—”
“Yes—all right!” she said, stopping the embarrassing flow of words. “I was happy! That is to say, I was happy, briefly. But I am not happy now. I can only regret what…what happened and declare to you, sir, that it must never happen again.”
He looked at her gravely. “I accept your apology, Smith, and, as you assure me it will never happen again, I forgive you.”
“How dare you!” she stammered indignantly. “I do not apologize. I am not sorry. Why should I be sorry?”
“Why indeed?” he countered. “When I have given you the greatest pleasure of your life, and you have given me absolutely nothing in return.”
Abigail sputtered ineffectually. “What do you expect in return, sir?” she demanded.
“I expect to be given my fair share of pleasure,” he replied.
“What?” said Abigail, torn between the desire to flee and the imperative need to remain concealed forever in the cupboard. “You know perfectly well I cannot give you any pleasure! I mean—that is to say—I should not. It would be quite improper. It would be a sin.”
“So it would be,” he agreed. “Speaking as one who has actually studied sin at university, I can confirm your assessment. It would indeed be a sin if we were to give in to our carnal desires and despoil our bodies outside the bounds of holy matrimony. Just tell me it’s a bit of a struggle for you, that’s all I ask. Tell me you are at least tempted to give way to my sinful inclinations. Tell me you have sinful inclinations of your own.”
“Cary, for heaven’s sake—! Where I come from, we do not discuss such things.”
“But I thought you came from London.”
“I do. Well…Kensington.”
“That explains it. You want me, don’t you?” he persisted, his voice low and urgent. “You are not indifferent to me?”
She could not help but grimace at such a strong absurdity. “You know I am not.”
“You have restored me to hope, Smith,” he said. “You will not give me any pleasure, but you are not completely indifferent to me. Therefore, the courtship will continue at a brisk pace.”
Before she could catch her breath, he had pulled her out of the linen closet and they were hurrying down the hall, past the staircase, and into the empty entrance hall. Though nothing definite had been decided between them, Abigail was in high spirits. “The courtship will continue at a brisk pace,” he had said. Surely that was a declaration of sorts? Surely that meant his goal was marriage? If this proved to be the case, much of her anxiety would vanish.
Cary held out the package Abigail had dropped in the study. “This belongs to you, I think,” he said.
“It’s for you, actually,” she explained. “The stockings you lent me.”
“Ah,” he said, tucking it inside his coat. “Did you wash them?”
“Of course.”
“Pity.”
“You’d better go now,” she said, blushing. “Hurry!”
He leaned close to her. “You will hurry me again very soon, Smith,” he predicted, “but, when you do, it will mean something remarkably different.”
He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek, then he was gone.
Dinner that evening was a quiet affair, with both Cary and his cousin Horatio sending their regrets, the captain by handwritten special delivery, Cary by word of a rumpled boy. To Abigail’s astonishment, they both claimed to have been called to London on urgent business. Neither man had said a word.
“I daresay it is because of Miss Smith’s Presbyterianism,” Mrs. Spurgeon postulated, looking down the table with a jaundiced eye as she picked at her “veal” chop. For the evening she had chosen her yellow wig, dressed in the Grecian style, and a voluminous gown of chartreuse silk trimmed heavily in fringe, like a drawing room curtain. “What have you to say for yourself, Miss? Are you not ashamed?”
Abigail declined to apologize for her religion. Inwardly, she was smarting at Cary’s unexpected departure. All her hopes plummeted. It was frightening to realize how much her happiness now depended on him, especially when he was free to abandon her at a moment’s notice, without explanation. What possible business could he have in London? Between the disaster of the Dower House, his new tenants at the Manor, as well as the decline in the estate, one would think Mr. Cary Wayborn would have business enough to keep him in Hertfordshire. To say nothing of his promise that “the courtship” would continue at “a brisk pace.”
What sort of husband would he make anyway? The man was a faithless spendthrift.
She picked at her “veal” in a mood of spiteful disappointment. She was so annoyed that when Mrs. Spurgeon turned the subject to the virtues of her beautiful lost bird, she nearly lost her temper and told the woman the truth. She caught herself in time. If Cary had devoured Cato, she would not have hesitated to expose him, but she was rather fond of Angel. Moreover, it would have been cruel to tell Mrs. Spurgeon how her treasured pet had died. It was better for everyone to let her think the clever macaw had opened the window and flown away.
“I daresay he is halfway back to India now,” said Mrs. Spurgeon
, ringing the bell for the next course. “Poor darling. He will not understand one word of what the natives say.”
Summoning a reserve of kindness, Abigail suggested that the window in the study be left open in case Cato should return from “India” as quickly as he had disappeared. There would have been no point in explaining that macaws come from South America.
Cary returned to Hertfordshire two days later and paid his respects to the ladies at the Manor, inquiring solicitously after Mrs. Spurgeon’s bird.
“I thought I saw him go into your orchard,” Mrs. Spurgeon answered, tucking a thin strand of gray hair under the fringe of her curled auburn wig. “The gardener and two under-gardeners searched for nearly an hour, but he was nowhere to be found. I daresay he has returned to India and I will never see him again.”
“If so, he will be profoundly missed,” Cary said tactfully, if not truthfully.
Abigail answered all her cousin’s civilities with civility, but volunteered little in the way of conversation. Vera did most of the talking, compensating for Mrs. Spurgeon’s malaise and Abigail’s silence with a gentle inquiry. “I trust your business was concluded satisfactorily, sir?”
Cary smiled. “Indeed, Mrs. Nashe. I was able to sell the painting without any difficulty.”
“Sell the painting,” Abigail repeated sharply. “What painting?”
He glanced at her. “The Cromwell. I sold it.”
“That is why you went to London? To sell the painting?”
“Yes, Smith. Among other things.”
“What other things?” Abigail demanded, forgetting that she had no real right to question him. Vera Nashe raised her brows, Mrs. Spurgeon muttered to herself, but Cary only laughed.
“For one thing,” he said cheerfully, “I settled my bill with that scoundrel Red Ritchie!”
“I don’t see that he is a scoundrel,” she sniffed. “You owed him that money. But I’m glad you paid him.”
“I did no such spineless thing. Pay him? I don’t think.”
Abigail frowned. “But you said you settled the bill.”
“Oh, it’s settled all right,” he replied. “I went to see him at his warehouse.”
Abigail felt her blood run cold as she tried to imagine this encounter.
“He was less than glad to see me, especially when I gave him his Gold Label scotch back and flung his poxy bills in his rancid face, the dirty old crook.”
“What?” Abigail jumped to her feet, then sat down again.
“I thought the old boy was going to come apart at the seams. Now I know why he’s called ‘Red.’ It’s the color of his face, not his hair. He’s bald as an egg.”
“How could you do such a thing?”
“It was simplicity itself,” said Cary. “But then I have never been loathe to do what is right, no matter how distasteful.”
“No. How could you do such a thing?” Abigail repeated; it was no longer a rhetorical question. “How could you return scotch you’ve already drunk up?”
“Well, I couldn’t,” he answered. “Fortunately, as it turned out, I hadn’t drunk the stuff after all. My groom advised me there was a case of the foul brew in my cellar, untouched.”
Mrs. Spurgeon was roused out of her melancholy. “Scotch whisky? In my cellar? Mr. Wayborn, I won’t allow it. Mr. Spurgeon only drank English whisky. Take it away at once.”
“Madam, I have already done so,” Cary assured her. “I have returned it to its maker. So you see, Miss Smith, the bill is quite settled.”
Abigail folded her arms and glared at him. “That was my scotch in the cellar.”
Cary seemed unable to believe his ears. “Pardon?”
“I brought it with me from London,” Abigail explained. “You had no right to take it. You know perfectly well you drank yours. Cary, you stole my scotch!”
“Yes, of course,” he murmured ruefully. “I’d quite forgotten your special relationship with the bottle. I confess it never occurred to me it might be your case of Ritchie’s Gold Label. Surely, a case of the stuff is rather excessive, even for you?”
“I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying,” she replied tartly. “I promised my father I’d take a quaich every day. For your information, I have not yet finished the bottle in my room.”
“Ladies do not keep bottles of liquor in their rooms,” Mrs. Spurgeon informed her.
“Where do they keep them?” Cary politely inquired. “I’ve often wondered.”
Abigail refused to be diverted. “You stole my scotch!” she accused him. “And used it to humiliate my—Mr. Ritchie! You still owe him that money. And now you owe me a case of scotch as well.”
Cary sighed. “How excessively awkward. Obviously, if I’d known it was your scotch, Cousin, I would never have touched it. Please accept my deepest apologies. If I could get it back for you, I would. As it is, would you accept cash? I believe the price was thirty pounds.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept money,” said Abigail. “It was a gift from my father.”
Cary sighed. “Then I have no choice but to confess the fell deed to your father and reimburse him for the full amount.”
“Why could you not simply pay your bill?” she demanded in exasperation.
“I told you, I don’t like the man,” he replied. “I don’t suppose your father would give me a little time to come up with the money?”
“What do you mean? You said you sold the Cromwell picture. Where’s the money?”
“The fellow at the auction house would only give me thirty pounds,” Cary explained.
Abigail stared at him. “Thirty pounds! I told you it was worth at least two hundred. For pity’s sake, Horatio offered you a hundred!”
“Considering it was worth precisely nothing to me, I think thirty pounds rather more than fair,” Cary replied. “Indeed, I felt like a cheat taking thirty pounds for something I heartily despise. I felt I ought to have been paying him to take it away.”
“You are not meant to sell it to the auctioneer. You are meant to give it to him—”
“How very generous of me,” Cary smiled.
“Then he sells it at auction, and you get the money. You pay him a small percentage.”
“That hardly seems fair when he does all the work,” Cary said, unperturbed. “Let us say I paid him a large percentage, and leave it at that. In any case, I no longer have the money.”
Abigail was stunned. “How could you be so foolish and irresponsible?”
Vera Nashe tried in vain to catch Abigail’s eye. “My dear Miss Smith,” she murmured.
“Calm yourself, Cousin,” he said lazily. “I have rid myself of an execrable painting that never gave me a moment’s pleasure, and gotten a little money for it besides. I have invested this money in a little project which I expect will be infinitely more rewarding than two hundred pounds. Believe me, I am well pleased with the bargain.”
This time Abigail heeded the gentle warning in Vera’s eyes, and bit her lip.
“I wish you the very best of luck in your investments, Mr. Wayborn,” Vera said placidly.
He smiled. “My cousin is sure I will end my days a sad bankrupt, but while she is counting her pennies, I shall be counting my blessings. Look at her, Mrs. Nashe. Can we not guess her thoughts? ‘A fool and his money are soon parted,’ perhaps?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Abigail said stiffly. “It is no concern of mine how you choose to dispose of your property.”
Over the next few days, Abigail avoided Cary at all costs. She was so successful that, by the week’s end, she began to suspect that her success in avoiding him was due in part to his success in avoiding her. It was a lowering thought, but as she went over their last conversation in her mind, she could scarcely blame him for not seeking her company. How shrewish and judgmental she must have seemed to him.
As she sat before her mirror brushing out her hair before bed, she told herself she did not care if he had lost his taste for her. After all, her attraction to him was scarcely bas
ed on his character. He was a hedonistic spendthrift who neglected to pay his bills. He had treated her father in an infamous manner. Without so much as a declaration of love, he had taken the liberties of a husband, and, worse yet, he gave no sign of wishing to repeat the exercise.
The courtship will continue at a brisk pace. My foot, she thought bitterly.
“Cary Wayborn, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth,” she said aloud.
The face in the mirror appeared wholly unconvinced, and the voice trembled. She loved him, she knew. She loved him even though he was foolish with money, or perhaps even because of that. In her sheltered view, it took great courage and daring to live beyond one’s means. Beyond that, he was the only man who had ever responded to her as a woman. To be kissed breathless by a man was quite a new and precious experience for her, and one she had never supposed would come her way. That he had shattered her lifelong tranquility in a careless manner, without any serious design on her, pierced her to the quick, but she could not hate him. She loved him to distraction, and the fact that there wasn’t the least chance of her ever marrying him hurt more than anything.
Chapter 11
On the following Sunday when the others went to church, Abigail went for a long walk. The snow was melting, and the slush in the paths was liberally mixed with mud, but in the quiet solitude of the woods she found that she could think more clearly.
Her position in Hertfordshire had become unbearable, she decided. She would have to return to Kensington. If the mess with Lord Dulwich hadn’t sorted itself out, she would find another hiding place. Aunt Elspeth in Glasgow seemed more desirable to her now. She resolved to write to her father. Red could scarcely object to her removal from Tanglewood, once she informed him that the house he’d leased had been rendered uninhabitable by a fallen elm. Somehow, she would forget Cary Wayborn and recover her lost tranquility.
Arriving at this decision brought her little comfort, however. She had no idea how long she walked or how far. To avoid the dirt in the well-traveled areas, she turned deeper into the trackless woods, climbing higher to the places where the snow remained untouched and the icicles in the trees might have been carved of rock crystal. She had no fear of being lost; she could always follow her own footsteps back; but as she emerged from the other side of the silent woodland, she realized that she was exhausted. There were no benches or stones on which to sit, but, as she wandered further across a field of snow, she found a fallen log. As she sat down, she heard a loud noise. At first she thought it might be the crack of a huntsman’s rifle, but it was followed by such a barrage of raps, taps, and claps that she supposed it must be a woodcutter hacking at a tree. Perhaps she had wandered near the Dower House and what she had heard was the sound of workmen clearing away the fallen elm. As the noise subsided, a man wearing an Oxford scarf emerged from the wood. Abigail recognized him by his close-cropped thatch of barley-white hair. It was Mr. Maddox. The young man was so deep in thought that it was only Abigail’s greeting that prevented him from stumbling over her.
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