Her eyes flew wide. So that was why Tom knew so much about art, wine, and fine things. A servant, and she had mistaken him for a nobleman! She almost laughed at herself. It made no difference, though, to her feelings. “If it was so beautiful, why did you leave?” she asked.
The shutters closed again. “That need not concern you.” He looked at the pot of paint next to the ladder, as if impatient to return to work.
Abigail suspected that he was leaving something out, something important. But Tom had provided more information than she had hoped, and she would content herself with that—for now. She dropped her hand from his forearm, but she was not quite finished. “Do you ever want to go back?"
“I cannot.” His voice was flat as his shadowed eyes. “But it doesn’t matter. My future lies in the west. As soon as I've saved enough for a wagon and supplies, I shall leave Cambridge.”
His words shot through her like a barbed arrow, and sensing her distress, Cromwell growled low in his throat, nudging her gently with his muzzle. “But why?" Abigail exclaimed. "Why must you leave Cambridge? Do you not like it here?”
“I told you my plans from the beginning,” he said, as if she were a dull student and he were a tutor explaining a concept for the third time. She had seen that patient expression on her father’s face before. “All my life I've worked for others, and now I want to work for no one but myself.” He added under his breath, “You Americans seem to feel the same; why shouldn’t I?”
“When will you leave?” Her hands clenched by her sides, and Cromwell made a whining sound. “A few months? A year?”
“Two or three weeks, at most.”
She flinched at the words. So soon? “But surely creating a farm out of wilderness will not be easy by yourself!" she protested. "There will be trees to chop down, Indians to worry about, nowhere to buy food or supplies. You’ll have to do everything alone, with no help.”
“Don't you understand? That’s exactly what I want.”
From the set of his mouth and the stance of his body, it was clear nothing she could say would change his mind. He picked up the paint brush and turned back to his work. This time she did not stop him.
* * *
For the next few days, Abigail could think of nothing but Tom’s imminent departure. She lay in bed under her coverlet, staring unseeing at the painted ceiling, imagining the house without his presence. She had forgotten how lonely it had been before he came. Her life had been an endless round of preparing meals, needlework, and paying dwindling visits to friends who were kind and well-meaning but busy with their new lives. For the first time, Abigail could foresee the rest of her life spreading before her: an endless series of days trickling away in inanity until she was old and gray.
A mad impulse came to her. At first, it seemed ridiculous, impossible. But she tossed and turned all night, unable to shake it. The urge grew stronger the next day until that evening she sought Tom out when he returned home. He was behind the house chopping more wood to add to their store, while Cromwell picked up the chips in his muzzle and laid them next to his feet hopefully, as if asking to play a game of fetch.
Abigail hurried up and spoke quickly, before cowardice could stop her. “Take me with you, Tom.”
He set down the axe and straightened, his eyebrows rising. She raised her voice, hoping to drown out his “no” before he could voice it. "It will be dangerous for you to travel so far by yourself. What if you drowned or got sick? There'd be no one to take care of you, no one to get help if necessary. I'm strong and capable. I'd be useful around the house. I can cook, I've been doing it for years. Besides, everyone knows farming is no job for a single man, and where would you find a wife in the Northwest Territories?”
Her words ran together, until she had to stop to catch her breath. There! She had made the shocking proposition and there was no taking it back.
If Tom was taken aback by her boldness, his face did not show it. When she stopped, he appeared to consider his response carefully. His voice sounded controlled, although it held a tinge of impatience. “Begging your pardon, Miss Wood—”
“Abigail.”
“—Miss Abigail, but that's impossible. Even if we were of the same rank....”
“You know that we care nothing for rank in America!” she cried, unconsciously echoing her father's words.
“What you ask is impossible. You know nothing about hardships or physical labor.”
Abigail was well aware the life he was headed for would be far more difficult than the one she had known, but she was sure she could handle it. Without a smattering of pride, she cried, “I don't care!”
His voice became deliberately cruel. “Why should I take you? You would only be a burden to me.”
Abigail's head snapped up at that. Cromwell sensed once more that not was all well with the two people he loved most. He gave a whine and paced agitatedly between them. Neither spared him a glance.
“That's not true,” Abigail said hotly. “I can knit, sew and cook. I have been running this household singlehandedly for the past two years by myself.”
“Can you spin? Can you card? Can you weave? One needs cloth to sew into shirts and dresses, and there will be no shops to buy supplies where I am going.”
“I can master those skills. And I can be trained to ride a horse, as well, and shoot a gun, even, and … and whatever else a man or a woman needs to do on the frontier. I’m not an idiot or a weakling, Tom West, for all I am a woman!”
He switched tactics abruptly. “What about your father? You would never see him again.”
“My father?” The point struck home, but she had already considered this. “He'll miss me, but he'll get by. Without my expenses to pay, he can afford to hire a serving girl. And he will not be lonely, either. Visitors come from all over to see him because of his books. He constantly turns them away as it is.”
Tom studied her, his mouth flattened into a line. “Why? Why would you want to accompany me west, Miss ... ah, Abigail?”
“I want change, adventure!” she cried. “I'm tired of this dull house, of my life, where everything is the same day after day!”
“You'll find life on a farm dull enough, and harder work besides. It will not be long until you’ll wish you had never left Cambridge. One more thing ....” He cleared his throat. “How it would appear to your father, to your friends, if you came away with me?”
“What do I care what they think?” she said wildly. “Can't you tell that I love you?”
When he did not respond, a wave of heat spread from her throat to her hairline, and her newfound courage drained away as quickly as water from an overturned bucket. Abigail swallowed and backed away, suddenly realizing the enormity of what she had done. “This isn't the first time, is it?” she said slowly. “This—of course, this has happened to you before.”
Other girls have thrown themselves at you, just like this. Shamelessly. Obviously they have. And I am just one more.
His eyes slid away again, avoiding hers. She slowly curdled in humiliation, but it was too late to retract her statement. There was only one way to lift the mood.
“Perhaps you have broken many ladies’ hearts in your day,” she said, with an attempt at her usual humor. “But at least none of them managed to trap you. That means I’m in fine company, does it not?”
But the poor attempt at a joke fell flat. Suddenly Tom looked older, sadder, and new lines appeared by his mouth. Immediately, Abigail realized what she had done, and for once, she was struck speechless. Then another emotion swept over her, an ugly, unworthy one, which she had never felt before. Jealousy. The sensation was so powerful and destructive that for an instant she felt that if the other young lady had been there, she would have clawed her eyes out. So someone had managed to pierce Tom's seemingly impenetrable barrier after all! Abigail’s envy burned deeper into her psyche as she tried to imagine what the young lady looked like. The wench must be indescribably beautiful, infinitely charming, to have won Tom’s lasting love.
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Then, with effort, Abigail thrust the unworthy feeling aside. With the sense that she was crossing further into dangerous territory, knowing that she’d be thoroughly ashamed of herself later, she forged onward, impelled by curiosity and hurt pride.
“You are m...married then?” She stumbled over the word. “Where is your wife, then?”
“She died. Our firstborn child with her.”
Abigail looked away, hating herself for having pried open that wound. It explained everything. She had guessed there was something in his past, something painful, but never imagined it was this. If only she could have comforted him, but his chiseled features looked as cold as those on one of the marble statues in Lord Marlowe's gallery at Blackgrave Manor, and she knew had already gone too far.
Tom reached past her for the axe. “If you have nothing else to ask, Miss...?”
She stood her ground, chin high, shoulders squared. “My offer still stands. I shall go west with you, as a housekeeper, a traveling companion, or ... well ... in any capacity you wish.”
Even as her nails dug into her palms, she silently dared him to reject her.
There was the slightest pause imaginable.
Then, “I suppose it will have to be as a wife,” he said, climbing the stepstool without looking at her. “I imagine your father will not approve otherwise.”
Abigail let out a long breath and then, before he could take back the words, hurried back into the house to tell her father the news.
Chapter Eighteen
To Abigail's relief, Miles Woodbury appeared happy to hear of the betrothal. Since overcoming his first suspicions of Tom West, he had never made a secret of his liking for the tall newcomer, and Abigail wondered if he had nursed a secret hope that the two would end up together.
If you only knew, she thought. Her father would be appalled at the way she had thrown herself at Tom.
“West is a fine man,” he had told her warmly, after Tom had formally asked for her hand, and then retreated to his room. “A perfect gentleman, in the truest sense of the word, whatever his background may be.”
Something in her father’s words made her look at him sharply. Then, she followed his glance to his desk, where a newspaper lay open. She snatched it up and found one of the columns of small print had been circled. “Escaped Indentured Servant,” she read aloud. “About six foot four inches, powerfully built, known to be violent. Reward offered.”
Her horrified eyes met her father’s, and he nodded. “Some strangers have been seen in Cambridge making inquiries. Fortunately, no one appears to have revealed his presence yet. Perhaps the neighbors have kept silent out of loyalty to us, or perhaps simply because they have benefited from his labor.”
“Still, it is only a matter of time,” she said quietly.
“I suggested to Tom that he should leave as soon as possible, and it appears he had the same idea. It is wise that you chose to marry quickly, child.”
She swallowed. “Papa, you do not think I'm taking a risk...?”
He removed his spectacles and regarded her warmly. “Of course you are. What marriage doesn’t involve risk? Your mother lost everything by marrying me. I hadn't a penny to my name, and her parents cast her out, but we were happy nonetheless. And you will be too, I’m sure of it. Tom’s a fine man, finer perhaps than he knows.”
With a little sob, she buried her face in his shoulder as she had done when she was a little girl. She wanted to memorize his scent, the rough feel of his coat against her cheek, the strength of arms encircling her.
* * *
The preparations for their departure took more time than those for the wedding. To Tom's annoyance, Abigail insisted on coming to watch as he picked out his plow horses, two big dappled grays and a spare, a black with a long mane and a white blaze down its nose. When he asked the ostler to saddle the black, the ostler raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Why not? You’ll want to try ’em out, naturally. They’re as good for riding as for plowing.”
With a quick frowning glance at Abigail, Tom hesitated before attempting to mount. It took him two attempts, and the ostler peered up at him with surprise as Tom grabbed the reins and steadied himself in the seat.
“You got no experience riding, sir?”
“I've been on a horse's back before, but the circumstances were … er … different," Tom muttered. He thought of his seven years living in the stable above the animals and two more years riding behind them as a footman. The only time he had sat on one of their backs was the day he had rescued Jonathan and Maeve Marlowe from their runaways, the day that had changed his life. The fact that he had managed to leap on and cling to the galloping animal seemed more impossible than ever. Only sheer luck and desperation had permitted it. Hopefully those qualities would allow him to succeed in the wilderness where he was headed.
“I expect I shall have more time in the saddle now that I have my own horses,” he said, patting the black's strong neck, and felt pride course through his veins as he struggled to appear comfortable on horseback. He, Tom West, was now the owner of three strong horses, finer than the two he had bought while working for Mr. Radstone near Providence. Who’d have thought he'd have come so far, after falling so low? Perhaps his luck had finally changed, in spite of the fact that once again, he was being saddled with a wife against his wishes.
“You picked well,” the ostler commented, nodding. “Dickie, Minerva, and Blackie are used to pullin’ carts, but they can to do whatever you need: plowing, hauling logs…. Some might think them too big for riding, but that there black fits you fine. Gentle and obedient, too, all of ’em.”
Tom nodded, patting the horse's warm withers, still trying to sit upright as he had seen other riders do. He had come this close to achieving his goal before, and fate had intruded at the last moment, dashing his plans. This time he would allow nothing to stop him. Nothing. Not even Abigail Woodbury. His grip tightened on the reins.
* * *
Abigail bit back a smile at the sight of Tom trying to look at ease on the horse, despite sweat beading on his brow and his hands gripping the reins tightly. The ostler was right: under any other man, the big plow horse would have looked outsized, but under Tom, it looked just right.
“Don't worry, the riding will come eventually,” the man remarked when Tom slid off, looking relieved to find himself back on the ground again.
The two men moved away to discuss terms, and Abigail emerged from the shadows. “Hello, Dickie. Hello, Minerva.” The horses swung their strong necks to look at her, and she reached up to pat their coarse manes. Like Tom, she’d been around horses her whole life, but she had never ridden, not even in one of the awkward side saddles women were expected to use for modesty’s sake.
Surely the wife of a farmer ought to ride? Hoisting her skirts and petticoats, Abigail put a foot in the stirrup and tried to throw her other leg over the horse’s broad back. Minerva shifted, and Abigail lost her balance. She ended up sitting in the none-too-fragrant straw with wounded dignity, glad that no one had witnessed her graceless dismount. Fortunately her multiple petticoats padded her fall. Mumbling under her breath, she got unsteadily to her feet and tried again.
This time, Minerva was expecting her and stood patiently. Abigail launched herself upward again and managed to sprawl across the saddle, clutching the mane and, no doubt, displaying an excess of stockinged leg to anyone who happened to enter at that moment. Pulling herself to sitting position, she settled herself in the saddle with a sense of pride. So this is what it felt like to sit so high and look down on the world! She felt powerful, like the captain of a ship.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Minerva, startled, took two steps sideways, but Abigail grabbed the saddle. Tom’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, afternoon sun glinting off his hair like burnished gold. As usual, he had forgotten his hat somewhere and was bareheaded. His face was glowering.
“If you’re learning to ride,” she said defensively, tightening her grip on
the reins, “Why shouldn’t I?”
“These are my horses, not yours. I bought and paid for them myself.”
“Aren’t they ….” She swallowed. “Aren’t they going to be ours, Tom?” A mistake. He did not want her coming with him, and Abigail belatedly realized her words would merely remind him of that fact. “I thought I’d be of more use if I could ride,” she said quickly. “In case of accident or unforeseen events. I don't want to be a burden.”
The ostler leaned casually against the wall, chewing a stalk of hay. “I see no harm in it myself,” he said, chuckling. “Where you’re going, mister, the more she can do the better. From what I hear, it ain’t no stroll across the commons, the other side of the Appalachians.”
Tom flung him an annoyed look, and a muscle clenched in his jaw.
“Less you’re afraid the lady’ll ride better than you?” The ostler snickered. “If that’s the case….”
Tom stiffened. “It doesn’t matter in the least to me,” he said with the arrogant air that had misled Abigail to think he was a nobleman, “as long as she doesn’t damage the horseflesh.” He stalked out of the stable, and the ostler threw down his half-chewed straw and ambled over.
“Here, Missy, I'll show you. Ain’t much to it, not with a tractable horse like this. To make her go forward, just dig in your heels and say “Git”— that’s right—and to make her stop, say “Whoa” and pull back on the reins. To turn right or left, just lay your reins across the side of her neck, like this, and she’ll know what to do….”
Abigail followed the directions, and when the ostler took her outside and let her ride around the yard for a while, she began to feel, if not confident, at least less unsure of herself.
At dinner, feeling the effects of riding in unfamiliar muscles, she told her father what she had done.
“Your mother was an accomplished horsewoman,” Miles Woodbury said approvingly, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Pity we did not give you more opportunity to learn.”
“When did I need to ride around Cambridge, when I could walk everywhere?” Nevertheless Abigail's eyes sparkled. “It was only a slow plow horse, Papa, but even so, I felt so—strong. As if I could make it go anywhere I wanted, do anything I pleased! I have never known anything like that feeling of control.”
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