“Abigail—”
The clink of keys in the lock brought a vicious oath from Dominic. He released her, and she walked out after Pritchard had opened the door.
As she trailed Pritchard along the corridor, Abigail held the piece of paper tightly, knowing how important it was. She was not sure what Dominic was requesting in this letter, but it would be a way to flee England. With her help, he might be successful. Her steps faltered as she emerged onto the street. Dominic had told her more than once that there was no place for her in his life on the sea. She could not think of that now. Somehow he would escape. Somehow she would persuade him to take her with him. Such a life might not be easy, but with Dominic, it would be exciting.
Chapter Nineteen
Abigail’s happiness vanished as soon as she entered Sir Harlan’s house. She saw Fuller in the hallway. What was he doing here? Usually he loitered in the kitchen, bothering the maids.
Then, with a stomach-twisting pulse of disgust, she realized it must be time for her daily visit with Clive. Not all prisons have bars on the windows and rats in the corners. She shivered at that thought.
Fuller grasped her arm and pulled her close. Boothe tried to interfere, but Fuller growled at the butler, “Get out of the way, old man! Sir Harlan wants her and his son together each afternoon.”
“Miss Abigail has just arrived back from Morristown,” Boothe argued. “She must be fatigued.”
“Yes,” seconded Abigail, wanting to give Boothe a smile of gratitude, but knowing that she must not turn Fuller’s cruelty on her unexpected ally. “I am fatigued. I will return to see Clive in half an hour.”
Fuller smiled coldly. “In half an hour you will be halfway through your visit with your darling Clive.” He forced her ahead of him toward the parlor. He pointed at the butler. “Say a single word, Boothe, and you shall be sorry.”
He shoved her into the room and slammed the door. Abigail snarled an impotent curse at the closed door, but it did not relieve her frustration. With a sigh, she chose a chair next to the hearth, so she would be as far from the door as possible when Fuller returned with Clive.
She tried to hide her terror as the door opened. The laughter from Clive’s guards warned her it would be more difficult than usual to keep him from hurting her. She did not rise, for Clive could construe any motion as aggression.
Every attempt to hide her fear vanished as the trio burst into the room. Fuller and his assistant Greene were struggling to restrain Clive, but Clive’s fist knocked Greene off his feet.
Fuller screeched, “Get up, Greene! Help me!”
Jumping to her feet, Abigail said in a strained voice, “Calm down. You are making him worse.”
Fuller stamped toward her, leaving Greene to deal with Clive. He put his finger directly in her face, but she batted it away. With a growl, he stated, “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“I shall not, if you do it!”
“No,” he drawled. “You do it.” Before she could answer, he walked out, motioning for Greene to follow.
She gasped in horror. They were leaving her alone with Clive! She ran to the door, but it closed before she could reach it. A key twisted in the lock. She put her hand on the latch, but she was torn away from the door.
The arm around her waist tightened until she could hardly breathe, as Clive stroked her hair. He continued to be fascinated with its bright color. That added to her fear, but she gently pushed on his arm and said, “Let me go. You are hurting me.” She repeated those two sentences over and over as she tried to breathe. She did not know what he would do if she collapsed. She must not let him kill her. If he did, Dominic would die, too, for Sir Harlan would have no reason to keep him alive.
When his grip loosened, she sucked in a deep breath. He released her, not moving until she reached again for the door. She edged away from his broad hands, and his puzzled gaze stalked her around the room. A vacant smile appeared on his face as he lumbered toward her.
Abigail gasped. She had been maneuvered easily into a corner. Had she and everyone else underestimated Clive’s intelligence?
“Pretty,” he mumbled as he stepped closer. “Pretty.”
“No,” she whispered. When she saw rage on his face, she added hastily, “Not pretty.”
“Pretty.” Childish petulance filled his voice. He reached for her. “Pretty. Mine.”
Her eyes widened. She had never heard him use that word. Suddenly she understood why Fuller had locked her in here with Clive. By leaving her and Clive alone, Fuller hoped she would have to scream for his help. That would set Clive off more, and Fuller could come to her rescue to gain his employer’s gratitude. Or would he even come to save her? She wondered if Clive’s other bride-to-be had died because of Fuller’s pride.
“Abigail,” she said as she caught Clive’s outstretched hand. Pressing it to her shoulder, she whispered, “Abigail.” She put his hand on his chest. “Clive.” Slowly she repeated the action endlessly until he began to mouth the words with her. She smiled, believing she was reaching the child within the man.
Suddenly he pulled his hand away. When he raised it, she fought her instinct to cower. If she did, he might go on another rampage. His heavy hand settled on her hair, and he stroked it jarringly.
“Pretty. Pretty. Pretty Abig.”
“Yes.” Hoping she would not make the situation worse, she put her hand on his shoulder. “Pretty Clive.”
She struggled not to cringe when she heard a bizarre sound; then she realized he was laughing.
He patted her head hard. “Pretty Abig. No pretty Clive. Pretty Abig mine. Clive be good boy. Pretty Abig mine.”
Abigail swallowed her shock. Never had she heard him string so many words together. If she had not been about to be forced to become his reluctant bride, she could have felt pity for him. He had been shut away and ignored for most of his life, until, like her, he had gained value in his father’s eyes.
“Do you want to see more pretties?” she asked.
“Pretty Abig?”
She shook her head, wondering how long she could communicate with him before his frustration overwhelmed him and set him off into a rage again. “No,” she said, pointing to the doors to the garden. “Pretties out there.”
“Yes. Yes.”
Abigail took his hand before he could shake his head off his shoulders in his enthusiasm. He reminded her of the toddler who lived next door to Aunt Velma, but Clive was not a child. Keeping up a steady patter about the “pretties” they would see, she led him out the doors. She steered his uneven steps around the chairs on the terrace and across the perfect grass. How it must infuriate Sir Harlan, who insisted that everything be kept exactly as he wanted it at this house, that he had a son with so many imperfections.
When Clive paused by a tree, she ran his hand along the bark. He laughed when it tickled his palm, and her pity grew. She tried to guess how old Clive was. At least a decade older than she was, but he acted as if he had never touched a tree. She suspected he had not.
Tessie’s comments about Sir Harlan’s older son who had been the heir suggested that Clive’s brother had died within the past few years. She glanced at Clive’s delighted face. Until his brother’s death, he may have been shut away in some windowless attic where he could not be seen by anyone.
“Pretty Abig.” He pointed at the tree and struggled to find a word.
She laughed, but halted when his face twisted with rage. Instantly she understood. Too many people had laughed at him. Keeping a smile on her face, she ran her fingers along the bark and said, “Tree. Pretty tree.” As she had before, she repeated the words over and over.
Again the sound like a rasp being drawn across rusty iron came from him. He touched the tree. “Pretty.” Another new word seemed beyond his limited capabilities.
“More pretties?” she asked.
“Pretty.” He held out his hand and smiled expectantly.
Abigail’s eyes flooded with tears as she saw how he longed for af
fection. Not the lust his father yearned for him to have in order to obtain Sir Harlan another heir, but the longing for friendship. She put her hand in Clive’s. When he closed his fingers too tightly, she loosened them with a gentle smile. He nodded, but she was unsure how much he understood.
Watching his face so she could gauge any change, she walked with him to where rosebushes were lush with bright red flowers. She simply said, “Pretty.”
His thick fingers touched the bright blossoms, sending petals cascading to the ground. She saw the joy on his face. This was what Clive wanted. To be surrounded by “pretties” and escape from his prison. She wondered how Sir Harlan could be so indifferent to his son’s needs.
She shivered as she folded her hands behind her back and watched Clive examine the flowers with a child’s curiosity. Unlike Clive, she had been fortunate enough to have Aunt Velma and Uncle Jareb to love her. She had always adored her uncle, although she had never suspected he was her true father. She ached for such a giving love again. She turned to look toward Morristown. In the prison there, she had a precious love that might be as doomed as her uncle’s ship.
Renewed pain cut through her as if she had touched the thorns on the vines. If she did not do as Sir Harlan ordered, he would see Dominic hanged. Her love would be gone, and she would be forced into Clive’s bed.
She touched her bodice and heard the crackle of the page she had secured there. Dominic’s letter to the man named Red at the Brass Fish had not been lost. Somehow she had to find a way to go to London and see Red. She smiled when she realized she might have just the way.
Anxious to do what she must to help Dominic and realizing that they must return to the house before Fuller discovered what was happening, Abigail urged Clive toward the garden doors. He grumbled, and she said, “We will see pretties again, Clive. All right?”
He stroked the soft petals he had gathered from the ground. She wondered how many promises had been made and forgotten by those who guarded him.
He reached for her hand. When he saw the petals in his hand, he looked from them to her.
She smiled. “Pretties for Clive.”
“Clive good boy?”
“Yes,” she said with sympathy. “Clive is a very good boy. Next time we will get more pretties.”
“More?”
“Yes. Next time,” she repeated firmly. She was beginning to understand how to deal with him. Once she set boundaries he could accept, he was docile. It was only when he was frustrated that he exploded into violence.
He babbled something she could not understand as they walked back to the house. When he paused as if expecting her to answer, she smiled. The only words she understood were their names and his favorite word.
When they entered the parlor, she paused. Fuller and Greene had already arrived. Fuller was looking about the room with a horrified expression. She shuddered as she realized he was looking for her corpse left behind by Clive.
“Lose something, Mr. Fuller?” she asked quietly.
He whirled, fear straining his hard features. When he saw her smile, he growled.
Clive lurched across the room with his drunken gait. Holding out his prize, he announced, “Pretties. Clive pretties.”
Fuller knocked the petals from his hand. When Clive let out a screech, Fuller asked, “Clive want pretty? There is pretty. You want pretty? Abigail is pretty.”
“Abig pretty?”
The guard could not hide his surprise at the name Clive had given her, but he glanced at Greene as he said eagerly, “Yes, Abig pretty. Clive good boy. Abig is for Clive.”
“Abig mine?”
“Yes. Abig is for Clive. Touch pretty.”
The guards chuckled as Clive dropped the last petals and turned to face Abigail. She stared at Clive’s transformed face. The gentle Clive who had walked with her in the garden had vanished. She backed away as he came closer.
“Clive … Clive,” she whispered, knowing too well the price of screaming out her fear.
“Pretty. Pretty.” He grasped her and pulled her against him. He fondled her, then touched her hair. Suddenly he released her. “Pretty Abig?”
Not sure what else to say, she answered, “Pretty Clive?”
When Clive chuckled, Fuller cursed. Fuller crossed the room and grabbed Clive’s arm.
“Don’t hurt him!” Abigail cried when Fuller grappled Clive into his control with Greene’s help.
Fuller snarled, “I don’t know what you have done to him, but Sir Harlan will not be pleased. You can be damned sure that the next time—”
“What about next time?”
At the question, all of them but Clive glanced toward the door to the hall.
Sir Harlan walked into the room. “What about next time?” he demanded. Before anyone could answer, he added, “Get Clive out of here.”
Fuller and Greene hastily led Clive out of the parlor and up the stairs toward his room. Abigail sat in a chair, closing her eyes as her shoulders sagged. Her small connection with Clive was the last thing Sir Harlan would have wanted.
“What in hell happened here?” Sir Harlan asked as he went to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy.
Deciding not to mince on the facts, she told him how Fuller had left her alone with Clive. “He hoped Clive would hurt me, or mayhap even kill me.” She laughed icily. “That did not happen. Clive and I took a walk.”
“You did what?” He stared at her as if he could not believe what he was hearing. She was sure he did not.
“We took a walk in the garden. Has he ever been in the garden before?”
He disregarded her question as he smiled with the frigid rage she recognized as dangerous. “Have you civilized him?”
“He wants only to be with his ‘pretties.’” She picked up a flower petal. “He laughed with me today.”
“He did what?” He knocked the petals from her hand as viciously as Fuller had sent them flying from Clive’s fingers. When she gaped in astonishment, he snapped, “I don’t want him to be a gardener. I want him to father my grandchild. You will not see him again until the wedding. By then, with Fuller’s tutorage, he shall not be interested in looking at flowers with you.”
She came to her feet. “He is your son! Don’t you care about him at all?”
“No.” He chuckled when she swallowed the retort she had been about to make. “You didn’t expect such honesty? ’Tis the truth. If my older son had not been killed in that duel, I would never have bothered to bring Clive from the home where he was with others like himself. Go to your room, Abigail. The very sight of you vexes me.”
She went to the door. “Sir Harlan?”
“Leave me, girl!”
“After I say one thing.” Before he could halt her with another order to leave, she said quietly, “There is a gentleness in your son which you will never know. Who is the lesser man?”
For once, he was the one shocked to silence. She left the room. As she climbed the stairs, she knew it was too late to try to reason with Sir Harlan. Clive’s fate and hers had been assured by his father’s hatred for both of them. Now she had to try to find a way to foil Sir Harlan’s schemes before she and Dominic and Clive all became the victims of the baronet’s malevolence.
Chapter Twenty
When Abigail left her room, she made sure she looked her very best. She kept her head high and tried not to smile, but she glanced in the mirror set amid the paintings along the railing leading to the stairs. Tessie had spent more than a half hour curling Abigail’s red hair into ringlets which were pinned up on her head before dropping onto her shoulders. She did not want to ruin Tessie’s work. In a high-waisted gown of her favorite mint shade, she was set for battle.
As her hand followed the curve of the banister, her fingers tightened on the wood. Two men waited in the foyer. Captain Fitzgerald! What was he doing back here so quickly? She had not planned on him being here tonight.
Abigail was aware of both men watching her, but she did not acknowledge either of them unt
il she stepped down onto the marble floor. When Sir Harlan stepped forward with his officious smile, she raised her right hand formally to him.
Taking her fingers, Sir Harlan bowed over them. When he started to raise them to his lips, she pulled them back, not hiding her distaste. She did not offer her hand to Captain Fitzgerald.
“Good evening, Sir Harlan,” she said quietly. She glanced away from him and added, “This is a surprise, Captain Fitzgerald.”
The man she had believed was her father snickered as he sipped on a glass filled high with brandy. “Listen to her! Putting on airs as if she is a fine lady already. She shall change her tune after the wedding.”
Sir Harlan flinched more visibly than Abigail did. “I do not wish to speak of such private matters here,” the baronet said.
Captain Fitzgerald just laughed, and Abigail realized he was already intoxicated. She wondered how long the two men had been drinking while she had been upstairs getting ready for the evening. Then she noted that Sir Harlan was as sober as a parson. Tessie would have warned her if Captain Fitzgerald had arrived before she came to help Abigail dress. Captain Fitzgerald must have been drinking before he arrived.
She shuddered. She did not want to be here with Captain Fitzgerald or with Sir Harlan. The past fortnight had been an endless torment. Every day, she feared Sir Harlan would announce that Dominic’s trial would be held that day. Life in the huge house had become even more uneasy. Sir Harlan refused to let her see Clive again. Several times, she had heard shouts from the wing where Clive had his rooms. She ached for the poor soul who was a victim as much as she was.
“Abigail?” asked Sir Harlan, offering his arm.
She disdained it by stepping back a half step. That set Captain Fitzgerald to laughing harder. With his face reddening, Sir Harlan led the way along the hallway. Abigail walked beside him, but kept a forearm’s length between them.
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