Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  “Good morning, Mr. Maddox!”

  Startled, he halted in front of her and sketched a bow. “Good afternoon, Miss Smith.”

  “Is it so late?” cried Abigail. “I only meant to go for a short walk. I seem to have lost all track of time, Mr. Maddox.”

  “Are you alone, Miss Smith?” he asked. He seemed puzzled. “You’ve strayed a bit, haven’t you? You’re less than a hundred yards from the top of the Cascades. Just on the other side of those trees,” he added, pointing the way.

  Abigail did not know the local geography enough to realize this meant she had walked nearly four miles in the slushy snow, but she was surprised to learn that the Cascades was so near the Manor. “Is that where you’re going?” she asked the young man. “To the Cascades?”

  He nodded glumly. “It’s Rhoda—Miss Mickleby, that is. She is determined to go down the Cascades on a tray like her younger sisters did. She won’t listen to reason. She won’t listen to threats! I can’t put her off any more. What will Mrs. Mickleby think of me if I can’t stop her?” he fretted. “I’m at the end of my tether with that girl, Miss Smith.”

  “Mr. Maddox, you must put her off,” said Abigail in alarm. “The ice will have thinned considerably in the last week. I cannot imagine that it would be safe.”

  He cast her a look of annoyance. “I know perfectly well it’s not safe,” he said. “Just try convincing her of that. I had no idea she was so irrational. I’d like to wash my hands of the silly nit. But the thing is, Miss Smith, I made a sort of pledge to her, if you see what I mean.”

  Abigail’s eyes widened. “You mean you are engaged to her, Mr. Maddox?”

  He shuddered. “And she still wants to go to London! I told her she ought to give one of her sisters the chance, but she won’t hear of it. Now all I can do is hope she finds someone she likes better. Then she might release me.”

  Abigail pitied him. Without knowing Miss Mickleby well enough to determine her character, Mr. Maddox had committed himself to her. Now he was beginning to realize the extent of his mistake, but was trapped by honor in the unhappy engagement. Fortunately for her, women were not bound by such strictures, and she had been able to break with Dulwich.

  “I am very sorry for you, Mr. Maddox,” she said sincerely. “But you cannot leave Miss Mickleby at the Cascades when she is likely to injure herself.”

  “Well, she hasn’t got a tray,” he said. “I told her I’d go and get her one, just to put her off. She promised not to do anything foolish until I return, if one can trust a word she says. I say, Miss Smith! Would you come with me and talk sense to her? She might listen to you.”

  Abigail doubted this very much, but she could not refuse Mr. Maddox’s appeal.

  They found Rhoda sulking against a tree. “You abandoned me,” she accused her young man. “What’s she doing here?” she added petulantly as she saw Abigail.

  Mr. Maddox’s lips thinned. “Do please forgive Miss Mickleby’s rudeness, Miss Smith,” he said angrily. “She’s a sullen, ill-mannered child. I’ve no doubt that when she grows up, she will be a sullen, ill-mannered woman.”

  Two hot spots of color appeared in Rhoda’s plump cheeks. “Where’s the tray, John?” she demanded. “I have been waiting here these two ages at least.”

  “Couldn’t find one,” he retorted.

  Her lip curled in scorn. “You promised,” she complained. “You’re perfectly useless!”

  Though ordinarily shy, Abigail was incensed by Rhoda’s gall. “Now, look here, Miss Mickleby,” she said sharply. “You will stop this nonsense right now.”

  “You stay out of this,” Rhoda snapped.

  “Indeed, I won’t,” said Abigail. “Mr. Maddox is right. You are behaving like a naughty child. I know your mother has forbidden you to go anywhere near the Cascades.”

  “You did it! You all did it, except me. It’s not fair, I tell you!”

  “My mother didn’t tell me not to,” Abigail pointed out. “In any case, it’s no longer safe for anyone. The ice is melting. If it were to break, you would certainly drown.”

  “Perhaps I should find a tray,” Mr. Maddox said darkly.

  “Coward!” Rhoda replied. “I’m not afraid.”

  “If you persist in this nonsense,” Abigail said sharply, “I shall have no choice but to—to write to my mother’s friend, Lady Jersey!”

  The threat effectively terrified Miss Rhoda. “Oh, Miss Smith! You wouldn’t!”

  “I certainly shall,” Abigail stoutly lied. “And you know what that means. No vouchers to Almack’s. When you get to London, you will be shunned by all decent society. You might as well not go to London at all, if Lady Jersey is against you.”

  Rhoda darted forward and clutched her arm. “You won’t set her ladyship against me, will you, Miss Smith? Dear Miss Smith! Kind, thoughtful, generous Miss Smith.”

  Mr. Maddox turned his face away in disgust.

  “Well, I won’t,” said Abigail. “If you go straight home, and never even think of disobeying your mama again.”

  “I’ll see that she gets home,” said Mr. Maddox.

  “I’m not speaking to you, John Maddox!” said Rhoda, knocking into the young man as she stomped past him. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. I consider you a traitor and a talebearer! You had no right to tattle on me to Miss Smith. I hate you!”

  “When we are married, I shall make you very sorry for that,” said Mr. Maddox.

  Rhoda swung around. “Married?” she shrieked, her eyes bulging. “I shouldn’t marry you, John Maddox, not if you were the last man in England! I’m quite finished with you. You were only practice anyway. I want a real London beau.”

  To her extreme annoyance, the young man threw back his head and laughed. Rhoda sputtered indignantly. “I shall find a better husband in London!” she shrieked.

  “No doubt,” he said cheerfully, taking her firmly by the arm. He grinned at Abigail. “Miss Smith, if you follow the river for half a mile, you will come to a little bridge. Follow that path, and it will save you an hour’s walk in the woods.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maddox,” Abigail said gratefully.

  Rhoda Mickleby snatched her arm away from her escort, and marched to the east, towards Squire Mickleby’s estate, excoriating Mr. Maddox in a shrill voice as she went. Now free of any obligation to marry the girl, the young man seemed to take great pleasure in the young woman’s diatribe, chuckling almost continuously, which only served to deepen her anger.

  Abigail followed the river north, guessing that the bridge Mr. Maddox had mentioned must be the one where Cary had discovered her painting. Her feet ached, but she forced herself to go on, eager to get away from the tiresome sound of Rhoda’s voice as quickly as she could.

  She had just come within sight of the bridge, and the rough-hewn stone bench on the bank, when she heard a dog barking. Two pointed ears appeared above the brown, bedraggled reeds on the other side of the river, followed by a pair of round black eyes and a long foxy nose. Abigail stopped in her tracks. She liked the corgi, but she had no desire at present to see his master. Angel howled joyously. “Hush!” she whispered urgently. “Hush, Angel! Go away!”

  The corgi took this for a welcome and threw himself off the bank, landing with a smack in the middle of the frozen river. Instantly, more than a dozen white cracks appeared all ’round the dog as the ice began to break. Horrified, Abigail recognized the sound she had heard earlier. It was not huntsmen or woodcutters. Up and down the river, the ice was breaking.

  The corgi’s impact had cracked the ice under him, but not broken it. “Angel!” Abigail cried. “Angel, stay! Stay!”

  Heedless of the command, the determined corgi scrabbled for a foothold, growing increasingly desperate as the ice cracked under him. His hindquarters went under first as a patch of thin ice suddenly gave way under his weight.

  Abigail screamed for help as the corgi slipped under the ice. To her relief, Angel’s head reappeared. His front paws paddled at the edge of the ice, brea
king off more and more of it, until he was swimming in a hole, struggling to keep his head above water.

  Abigail watched helplessly from the bank. She knew that, if she tried to help, the ice would never hold beneath her weight, but she couldn’t bear to watch the little beast drown. She broke off a long, thin branch from a nearby tree, and, with a prayer on her lips, she surged down the bank on her hands and knees. The ice close to the bank held, but as she crept out onto the river, she sensed it fracturing under her knees. To distribute her weight more evenly, she dropped onto her stomach and inched forward like a worm, swinging the stick across the ice towards the dog. For what seemed like an eternity, she crept forward, praying silently, until the end of the branch was within reach of the dog.

  “Get the stick, Angel,” she panted softly, moving the branch back and forth to entice the dog. “Come on, boy. Chew it. You love to chew. It’s very tasty, I promise.”

  Without even a groan of warning, the ice beneath her simply disappeared, plunging beneath the river, and carrying her down with it before snapping in two. Abigail’s mouth filled with icy water, and the weight of her winter clothing pulled her down. The current was unexpectedly strong beneath the deceptive tranquility of the ice. She felt herself swept and dragged along by its force. Later, she would realize that the savage current had saved her; had it not been for its strength she would simply have been dragged to the river bottom by the weight of her skirts. But for now she was skimming beneath a layer of ice, fighting for her life.

  Abruptly, the current drove her into an unmovable object, pinning her against it. Flailing around in a frenzy of panic, she was able to break the ice above her head. She surged upwards into the hole, but she was unable to find anything to hold onto, and went under again. The vicious current was again her friend, pushing her up when her weight sought to bring her down. This time, as she came up, her hands flailed against something that did not give way when she grasped it. Its sharp edge cut into her palms, but she refused to let go. For the first time, she felt the cold air crystallizing on her wet face and head. “Angel!” she cried out in anguish.

  The hole she had created was not big enough to allow her shoulders through. With just her head and hands above water, she clung to the spur on the rock, vomiting water as the current continued to pound her lower body.

  All at once she knew where she was. The current had carried her all the way back to the Cascades, and she was clinging to the top step without being able to see over it. She tried to pull herself up, but the ice in which she was wedged refused to budge. By contorting her body, she was able to work one arm and shoulder through the opening, but that was all. The edge of the stone step cut into her armpit. Beneath the water, her foot probed the stone, and found a chink. Instinctively, she pushed her foot in as far as it would go. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably as the water in her brows and lashes froze over. She wasn’t going to drown, she realized. She was going to freeze to death.

  Faintly, as if from a great distance, she thought she could hear Angel barking.

  “Abigail!”

  It was Cary’s voice, but she could not see the speaker. She had just decided she must have hallucinated it, when Cary’s dark head appeared above her. As he edged onto the step on all fours, the sight cut her to the quick.

  “Oh, Cary—you’re crawling,” she murmured inanely.

  His eyes blazed. “You damned fool! You might have been killed!”

  “Angel was drowning,” she protested. “I had to—”

  “That bloody beast!” he said savagely. “Remind me to strangle him.”

  “He’s drowned,” cried Abigail.

  “Not he,” Cary snorted. “Who do you think brought me here? Frightened the life out of my horse. Now give me your hand. I’ll pull you up.”

  Abigail bit her lip. “Cary, don’t. You’ll fall!”

  “That’s my lookout. Your hand, Abigail.”

  “Couldn’t you get a rope or something?” she stalled.

  “I haven’t got a rope,” he said, assuming an air of patience. “And I’m not leaving you here while I toddle ’round to the shops and buy one. Your hand. Quicker, if you don’t mind.”

  She gave him her hand. The instant he grasped it, she knew everything would be all right. She wasn’t going to die. Strength and warmth seemed to flow through his fingertips into hers.

  “Good God, your hand is like ice,” he muttered, his face grim.

  Having no leverage, he began to pull her up by the main strength in his arms. Abigail cried out as the ice broke around her shoulders. Cary squirmed forward and, catching her under the arms, tried to lift her out of the water. Abigail tried to pull her shoe out of the chink in the rock beneath the water, but couldn’t. She heard Cary cursing.

  “Wait,” she cried. “My foot is caught.”

  Just as she spoke, her shoe gave way, and her body sailed out of the water and landed painfully on the top step. Cary’s grip on her broke as he fell backwards. Unable to regain his balance, he rolled with a series of thuds and curses down to the fourth or fifth step. Abigail couldn’t see him. She screamed his name, but there was no reply, not even an echo.

  Some time later, she felt warm. She could hear voices murmuring around her, humming like bees. She forced her eyes open, and Vera Nashe’s face swam before her. “She’s awake,” someone said, but it was a lie. Consciousness slipped away again.

  Suddenly, a finger lifted one of her eyelids, and then the other. Just as suddenly, the finger disappeared, and darkness closed over her again. Her body careened restlessly. At times it seemed to be hurtling through space. At other times, she felt herself to be in bed. She became uncomfortably warm, then unbearably hot. She woke up, as if from a nightmare, by sitting upright and opening her eyes. Her skin was sticky with sweat, and her heart was pounding.

  She was in her room at Tanglewood Manor; she recognized the Tudor roses painted on the ceiling. A fire was blazing on the hearth. For a moment, she was mesmerized by the dancing flames. She could not remember her dream, though she was sure it had been a nightmare. She could not understand why her head ached and why her body felt bruised all over. The palm of her left hand itched. Her hand was bandaged. Unwrapping the bandage, she found a nasty looking cut sealed with tiny silk stitches.

  Vera Nashe quietly entered the room, and some of Abigail’s confusion lifted, though it was still very hard to think. It had not been a dream. She had cut her hand at the Cascades. She had nearly drowned in the river, and Cary had fallen in his attempt to rescue her. If he was dead, it was entirely her fault. Tears spilled from her eyes. “Mr. Wayborn?”

  Vera smiled. “So you are awake, my dear. We’ve been so worried about you.”

  Abigail could barely hear her; a sound like the roar of a waterfall was in her ears. The dryness of her mouth made it difficult to speak, but she managed to croak, “Is Cary all right?”

  Vera seemed very far away, and Abigail was faintly surprised when the other woman took her hand; she had seemed much too far away to do that. “Yes, yes,” she said soothingly, wrapping a fresh bandage around Abigail’s palm. “Mr. Wayborn is expected to make a full recovery. I’m much more worried about you. You were in the water such a long time.”

  “Was he badly injured? May I see him?”

  She tried to swing her legs out of bed, but Vera was too strong for her. “You mustn’t get out of bed. Doctor’s orders. Don’t worry about Mr. Wayborn. He’s a few bumps and bruises, but he’s young and he’s strong. He’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, have had a bad fever.”

  She turned up the lamp at the bedside and Abigail stared at it. Questions occurred to her, but then slipped away. It was difficult to focus. “Where is he?” she finally asked.

  Vera smoothed Abigail’s hair back from her damp forehead. “He’s right next door, resting comfortably. I’ve just given him his medicine. Now I shall give you yours.” As she spoke, she took out a dropper filled with scarlet liquid and emptied it into a glass of water. The scarlet drop
s swirled through the clear liquid like dancing feathers. Vera held out the glass. “Laudanum,” she told her cheerfully. “It will take away the pain.”

  “I’m not in pain,” Abigail whispered. The red drops looked revoltingly like blood.

  “You will be, if you don’t take your medicine,” said Vera, smiling. “And if you don’t get better, you won’t be allowed to see Mr. Wayborn.”

  Abigail took the glass. As a child she had once had a toothache, and Paggles had rubbed a little laudanum into her gums, but the effect had been nothing like this. A cloud of foggy pleasure seemed to press down on her, almost paralyzing her limbs.

  “Sleep,” Vera commanded, and the word echoed in the room long after she had gone, growing louder instead of fainter, until Abigail could not bear it. The feeling of euphoria became almost suffocating, frightening, drowning her ability to think. Convinced that something was very wrong, Abigail tried to call out, but she could scarcely hear her own voice. Vera was gone, and Abigail was sure no one would come.

  She got out of bed, but her legs trembled so violently that she was forced to her knees. She began to crawl across the planked floor to the door, but the room seemed to lengthen into an almost endless tunnel. She could barely see the door at the end of it, and when, after a herculean effort, she reached it, it was locked. Looking back the way she had come, she saw the room had changed. It was no longer a place of safety. Strange black and gold shapes darted in and out of the firelight, and the air was thick with smoke. A whispering wind seemed to blow in the room, agitating the curtains of the bed. “This is not real,” Abigail told herself firmly. “The fever has disturbed my mind.”