The Lady's Disgrace

by Callie Hutton

  “Thank you,” she said. “What was your name again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”

  “Posey, my lady.”

  “I shall remember the next time.”

  “That’s all, Posey. You may leave us now.” Joseph waited until the footman quietly closed the door, then he turned to Abigail. “About last night.”

  “Yes. It was a lovely meeting, and I enjoyed spending time with the ladies. I think it will be beneficial for me to join their group. They are sewing baby clothes for the poor. It seems like a very worthwhile project…”

  He allowed her to go on about the meeting as she obviously did not want to discuss the same activities of last night that he wished to discuss. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks as she jerkily poured tea for herself, her words tripping over each other. Feeling a bit of sympathy for her unease, he merely smiled as her comments faltered and then stopped.

  “I am glad you enjoyed meeting my parishioners. And I believe joining the women’s sewing circle is an excellent idea.” He checked his pocket watch. “However, I fear I must leave you now. I am expecting a visit from a young man I’ve been tutoring in preparation for his entry into University.”

  “Oh.” The air seemed to leave her, like a deflated ball. “Perhaps I will take a stroll after breakfast. I should like to walk to the village and meet those who were not in attendance last evening.”

  On his way out, Joseph brushed a kiss over her forehead. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. I shall be tied up for the morning, so perhaps I will join you for luncheon?”

  Abigail nodded, unaware that he watched her from the doorway as she touched her fingertips to the spot he had kissed. His stomach knotted in frustration, he continued down the corridor.

  …

  The scent of newly awakened flowers filled the late spring air. The half hour walk to the village gave Abigail plenty of time to muse over her new life. It had seemed strange this morning to not spend time going through invitations, admiring bouquets of flowers from potential suitors, and receiving callers—her life as it had been since she’d left the schoolroom. Now she was a married woman with responsibilities beyond her expected realm.

  As she entered the village proper, the lure of meat pies drew her into the first shop. The flush-faced woman behind the counter was selling her wares as quickly as she took them out of the oven. Abigail joined the queue, introducing herself to those she hadn’t yet met. Most people had already heard of Joseph’s marriage, and welcomed her warmly.

  With a smile on her face and a warm meat pie in her hand, she left the shop and continued on her way. Being a market town, Addysby End boasted a number of shops, as well as a small circulating library and an inn.

  “Lady Abigail!”

  She turned to see a young woman with a babe in her arms hurrying toward her. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she startled Abigail by bursting into tears. “Oh, dear. I’m nothing more than a watering pot.”

  Abigail touched the woman lightly on her arm. “It is all right. Is there something I can help you with?”

  The woman wiped the tears from her face and shook her head. “No. You have done so much for me already.”

  When Abigail regarded her with raised eyebrows, she continued. “You rescued my little girl from being attacked by our pig a few days ago.”

  “You must be Agnes’s mother. Mrs. Dinger, correct?”

  “Yes, I am. I meant to attend the meeting last night about the school so I could thank you then, but this one,”—she nodded toward the baby settled firmly on her hip—“decided to raise a fuss about going to sleep, and Mr. Dinger is not too handy with the children.”

  “It was no trouble for me. Is Agnes recovered from her fright?”

  “Oh, she is fine, but I see you still have scratches on your face. I am so sorry that nasty pig got out to begin with. I’ve told my boys to be careful with latching the fence.”

  “I am happy your little girl wasn’t injured.”

  Mrs. Dinger smiled, a slight blush on her cheeks. “Well, thank you again. If there is ever anything I can do for you…”

  “I will be sure to ask. It was a pleasure meeting you.” Abigail touched the baby’s sweet cheek with the back of her hand and continued on her way. Perhaps one day she would have a little one of her own in her arms. She thought of a boy with Joseph’s deep brown eyes and wavy black hair. An imp with a smile that would wrap her around his tiny finger. Or a little girl with curly black hair, who would surely wrap her father around her finger.

  For the first time, she realized her children would not be Lady or Lord. Not that titles mattered so much to her, as it wasn’t something she’d ever thought about one way or another, since she’d just assumed it would be so. At least with her and Joseph’s connections, and their sufficient funds, any children of theirs would certainly be able to take their place among Polite Society when the time came. She would have to be careful with their education and make sure they had all the advantages they would have enjoyed had she’d married Redgrave.

  Redgrave. Just the thought of him brought shivers to her. What a bounder the man had turned out to be. Despite the disgrace his abandonment had caused her, she was grateful that his wicked side had emerged before they had irrevocably joined themselves together. Now if she could only erase him from her heart, all would be well.

  She wiped her fingers on the handkerchief in her reticule and glanced down the street. The small circulating library caught her eye, and she headed straight for it. The town certainly boasted enough shops to keep her well supplied. In fact, she need never return to London if she wished. At one time that thought would have panicked her. Now it was comforting. Village life was very appealing.

  The tinkle of a bell sounded as she opened the door of the circulating library. The welcoming and familiar scent of paper and leather drifted toward her. Shelves of books lined the walls, and an older man sat at a desk near the door, writing in some type of a ledger. He looked up as she entered and smiled. “You must be the rector’s new wife. Lady Abigail.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I am Mr. Fogel. We were all happy to hear Mr. Fox had married. Although I’m sure some of the ladies who had their eye on him weren’t too pleased.” His warm smile and twinkling eyes brought a grin to her face.

  “I would like to take a look at your books.”

  “Go right ahead, my lady. If I can help in any way, please let me know.”

  A few hours later, Abigail peeked at the position of the sun outside the little shop’s window, amazed at how quickly the time had passed. A few people had come and gone, and Mr. Fogel was careful to introduce her to everyone who came in. She enjoyed meeting the townsfolk.

  She stretched to loosen her tight muscles and picked up two books from the stack alongside her that seemed interesting. Since she’d already missed luncheon with her husband, if she were to meet him for tea, she must hurry.

  After paying her two guineas for a year’s subscription, she waved goodbye to Mr. Fogel and left the library. The streets were not as busy as when she’d arrived earlier. Fewer shoppers strolled along, although the woman who’d sold her the meat pie seemed to still be doing a brisk business. Her stomach growling, Abigail waved at her and crossed the street in the direction of home.

  …

  Joseph checked his pocket watch one more time. Tea had come and gone, and Abigail had still not returned. He never should have allowed her to walk to the village by herself. Even though it was a straight path, she could have gotten turned around, and now be wandering in circles.

  He rose from his desk and strolled to the window, telling himself he wasn’t concerned, but merely wanted to see how the gardener’s work was progressing.

  No sign of her coming up the road.

  One more turn around the room and he strode to the front door and headed to the stable. “Jackson, please tack up Whitney.”

  “Yes, sir.” The stable master laid aside the bridle he’d been working on. While Joseph paced, J
ackson readied his horse. His carriage might have been a better idea to retrieve her, but the horse would be faster. The tiny kernel of fear in his belly had grown as the sun began its descent behind the trees.

  He jumped on Whitney the minute Jackson brought him out. Since the village wasn’t too far, he hoped the daylight would last long enough to do a thorough search.

  Keeping the horse at a trot, he scanned the area, his fear mounting as he grew closer to town with no sign of Abigail. This had to be the path she would have taken, going directly from his house to the main part of town.

  About a mile before the stone wall surrounding the town appeared, he spotted a lump on the ground ahead of him, off to the side. Anyone passing by would not have seen it, only if they looked directly at that spot. He squeezed his thighs to kick Whitney into a gallop, leading him over brambles until he reached what looked like a bundle of rags on the ground.

  He slid off the horse and dropped to his knees. “Abigail!” She lay on her stomach, her face in a cluster of leaves. As he rolled her over, he noticed a gash on her forehead. He felt for her pulse, releasing the breath he held. Faint, but steady.

  The air had chilled, and her clothes were damp from lying on the ground. He needed to get her home and into bed. Scooping her into his arms, he held her close to his chest as he put his foot into the stirrup, then swung his leg over Whitney. Settling her on his lap as best he could, he took off toward home.

  “Send for the surgeon,” Joseph barked as he once again strode past a surprised Manning with his wife in his arms. “And ask Mrs. O’Neill to come to my bedchamber at once.”

  Joseph hurried up the steps, shifting Abigail in order to open the door. Once inside, he laid her gently on the bed and studied her face.

  “Sir, Manning said you wished to see me.” Mrs. O’Neill stopped at the foot of the bed, her fingers pressed against her mouth. “Oh, dear, what has happened to my lady?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I found her about a mile from the village. She has a gash on her forehead, which I believe might have come from her falling against a rock. I’ve sent for the surgeon.”

  “What can I do, sir?”

  “Please light candles. Plenty of them. Then ask Sanders to attend my wife. She’ll need to remove these damp clothes.” He turned as Mrs. O’Neill headed to the door. “Also ask one of the footmen to light a fire. I need it warm in here so her ladyship doesn’t catch a chill.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joseph sat alongside her on the bed and took her cold hand in his. “Abigail, what in heaven’s name did you do?” Even though he knew she couldn’t hear him, it made him feel better to talk to her, pretend she could hear him, assume she would be all right.

  “Oh, my poor lady. What is wrong?” Her eyes wide, Sanders approached the bed.

  “She apparently fell and struck her head. Please remove her clothes and get her into a warm nightgown.” He turned toward the door. “Where is the blasted footman?”

  “Right here, sir,” David, the younger footman said, as he hurried through the doorway carrying a bucket of coal. With efficient movements, he went about starting a fire. In the meantime, Mrs. O’Neill lit a number of candles about the room.

  In the candlelight Abigail looked like she was sleeping. He ran his fingers over the scratches from her encounter with the Dinger’s pig. Now she had a gash on her forehead from heaven knew what. He was certainly not doing a very good job of protecting his wife.

  “I will await the surgeon downstairs.”

  After telling Manning to alert him the minute the surgeon arrived, he cosseted himself in his study. With shaky hands he poured a brandy and wandered to the library window. Nothing but the darkness of night greeted him.

  He hadn’t spent a great deal of time studying the area where he’d found Abigail, but couldn’t for the life of him imagine how she’d ended up on the ground with a gash on her forehead. Had she tripped? Twisted her ankle on a rabbit hole? He shook his head, then took another sip of brandy. Once she awoke—and he prayed that would be soon—he would get to the bottom of this.

  “Sir?”

  Joseph turned as Sanders pushed open the door, Abigail’s frock over her arm. “Yes?”

  “I don’t mean to intrude, Mr. Fox, but Mrs. O’Neill thought perhaps we should show this to you.”

  “You did not leave her ladyship alone, I hope?”

  She shook her head furiously. “No, sir. Mrs. O’Neill is with her.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “What is it you wish to show me?”

  She moved forward and held the dress out to him. “Mrs. O’Neill and I discovered this when we undressed her ladyship.”

  He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “You wished to show me her gown?”

  “No, sir. I wanted to show you the bullet hole we found in the sleeve.”

  Chapter Eight

  Joseph felt all the blood leave his face and pool at his feet. “Bullet?” he croaked.

  “Yes, sir.” Sanders moved closer and stuck her finger through the hole in the sleeve of Abigail’s silk gown. She wiggled her finger back and forth until Joseph thought he would cast up his accounts.

  “Enough!”

  “Oh, sorry, sir.” She backed away, her eyes downcast.

  Guilt nudged him for taking out his anger and frustration on the poor maid. What was that quote about being the bearer of bad news? After apologizing and dismissing her, he rested his hands on his hips, studying the carpet, his thoughts in a whirl. Turning on his heel, he strode to the window, trying hard to get himself under control.

  A bullet? Why would someone shoot Abigail? It must have been a hunter not being careful enough. Bloody hell, this marriage might have saved his wife from scandal, but it was becoming very dangerous to her well-being. She’d been here only three days and injured twice.

  “Sir, the surgeon has arrived.” Manning stuck his head around the partially closed door.

  “Thank you, Manning.” Joseph grabbed the frock from the chair where Sanders had dropped it, and left the room.

  Mrs. O’Neill had done a good job of placing enough candles and two oil lamps around the room. Abigail lay still on the bed, the surgeon on a chair next to her, examining her arm closely. “Mr. Fox, it appears your wife not only hit her head when she fell, but she also sustained a bullet wound to her right arm.” He looked up at Joseph as he strode into the room, the garment still clutched in his fist.

  “I have just been informed of that fact. How serious?”

  “Only a flesh wound. I found very little in the way of fabric imbedded into the wound. Her maid tells me she wore a silk gown, which is fortunate for her. Silk lessens the depth of the piercing, so there were no nasty pieces of wool to pull from her injury. My main concern is the loss of blood, and the damage to her head.” He returned his attention to his work, then spoke over his shoulder. “How did her ladyship end up with a bullet wound?”

  “That is something I intend to find out. She had planned a walk to the village. I worried about her going alone, but it never occurred to me that something like this would happen. You can be assured she will not venture beyond the front door by herself ever again.”

  Joseph moved closer to the bed, and took the cloth Mrs. O’Neill had been using to wipe Abigail’s brow. “I will tend to her now. Please prepare one of your elixirs for her ladyship. I am concerned about infection and would like to have something to offer her when she awakens.” The doctor turned to the housekeeper. “Madam, if the household also stores honey, please bring some. It will help to cut down on the infection and reduce the size and appearance of any resulting scar by keeping the skin around the wound moist and soft.”

  “Honey?” Joseph asked as Mrs. O’Neill hurried from the room.

  “Yes. I spent some years in the Far East during my youth and learned they used honey for dressing wounds. Although no one is quite sure why it helps, it does appear to be very beneficial.”

  Sometime later, Joseph jerked awake as his head fel
l forward. Confused for the moment, he eased his sore muscles from the cramped position he’d been in on the chair next to Abigail’s bed. He ran his palm down his face and shook the sleep from his body. He’d been sitting in the chair for hours.

  The faint light of dawn brought Abigail’s features into view, a soft glow from the window casting her skin in a milky white luster. Her dark eyelashes rested on her pale cheeks like chocolate crescents.

  While he studied her, she slowly opened her eyes, blinking as if unsure where she was. “Joseph?”

  He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

  “Like I was stomped by a horse. What happened to me?”

  Brushing back the errant curls from her forehead, he said, “You had an accident coming back from town. Do you remember anything?”

  She licked her lips and furrowed her brows. “I’m not sure. I think I remember walking home, and then, something happened.” She stopped and shook her head slightly, then winced. “Goodness, my head hurts like the devil.”

  “You must have fallen and hit your head on a protrusion, most likely a rock.”

  “Fell? That explains it. Have I been unconscious?”

  “For about ten hours.”

  She closed her eyes, leaving him to wonder if he’d lost her again.

  “May I have a drink of water?” she asked him through cracked lips.

  “Of course.” He reached behind him and retrieved a glass from the dresser.

  She reached for the glass. “Ouch!” She sucked in a breath, growing pale. Her head dropped back onto the pillow. “If I fell and hit my head, why does my arm hurt so much?”

  He placed the glass on the small table next to her bed and took her hand, not saying anything for a moment. He eyed her as he kissed her knuckles, then ran them over his lips.

  “Joseph?”

  When he didn’t answer, she said, “What happened to my arm?”

  “You were shot.”

  “Shot!” Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “I was shot?”