Abigail heard the sound of tearing, then Charles rapidly scanned the maltreated document.
He swore viciously as he reached the end, balled it up in his hands and hurled it at Mr Tidewell.
'Is this some kind of lawyer's joke!' He shouted. 'Where's the real will?'
Admiral Pullen was on his feet, standing between Mr Tidewell and Charles Johnson, though the lawyer seemed undisturbed by Johnson's outburst.
Abigail clenched her hands in her lap. Her heart hammered with alarm at the ugly scene. This was what she'd been afraid of from the moment they'd entered the dining room.
She hadn't anticipated Miss Wyndham's generosity to her, because she'd known how little the old woman had to leave—but she had anticipated Charles Johnson's rage when he discovered how little he would inherit.
'This is Miss Wyndham's will,' said Mr Tidewell flatly.
'Dammit, man, what about this house? Her fortune. She's been living on its interest for years!'
'She had no capital,' said Mr Tidewell. His voice was dry and precise. Only the angry glint in his eyes revealed how much he disliked his late client's young relative. 'She received no interest. She was the recipient of an annuity, paid to her quarterly. With her death, the annuity also dies. She leased this house and all the furniture in it—with the exception of the pianoforte and her bed. This document is a true expression of her wishes.'
He carefully opened out the crushed will and smoothed it very deliberately against the table top.
'What about her jewels?' Charles flung at him. 'My grandmother often mentioned her jewels. Answer that, vulture!'
'Vulture?' Bessie started up in outrage. 'Aye, she had jewels. Once. They're all gone now. Unforeseen expenses, she told me, when I asked her where they were. She sold them to cover unforeseen expenses.'
'What unforeseen expenses?' Charles braced his knuckles on the table top and leant forward menacingly.
Bessie mirrored his pose, leaning forward with her palms resting on the table. Their faces were barely a foot apart.
'You!' she cried, all her hatred of him throbbing in her voice. 'She sold them to give you the money you came a-begging for. There's nothing left for you to take. You already sucked her dry!'
'You doxy!' Charles swayed back, then lifted his hand to strike her.
Joshua knocked him down. Charles crashed into a chair, then sprawled, dazed on the floor for several seconds.
'Well done, man!' Admiral Pullen exclaimed.
Joshua flushed. He rubbed his grazed knuckles and looked anxiously at Abigail for confirmation that he'd done the right thing.
'Thank you,' she said, as calmly as she could. 'That was very chivalrous of you. Very gentlemanly,' she added, when she saw that he didn't know what she meant. She managed to smile, so that he would know for sure she wasn't cross with him.
'He didn't ought to have talked to Bessie like that,' said Joshua. He scowled and lifted his fists into a fighting stance as Charles stumbled to his feet.
'I believe Mr Johnson's business here is now concluded,' said Mr Tidewell. 'You will no doubt wish to make arrangements for the removal of the bed, sir...'
'I don't want the damn bed!' Charles spat. 'What good is that to me?'
His necktie was ruined. He clutched his hand against the side of his jaw, where Joshua had hit him. His narrowed eyes blazed with spite. He looked vicious— like a cornered rat.
He frightened Abigail more now than he ever had before.
'Get out of here!' Admiral Pullen thundered. 'Joshua! Put him out!'
'Yes, sir!' Joshua grabbed Charles' arm and hustled him out of the dining room.
Joshua might not be needle-witted, but Miss Wyndham had initially hired him at least partly because of his splendid physique. He was several inches taller than Charles and, on the evidence so far, his fighting reflexes seemed to be considerably faster.
Abigail realised she'd been holding her breath. She released it in a long, very unsteady breath. Her ribs ached with tension. Her heart still pounded with the horror of the past few minutes. She drew in several slow breaths in an attempt to calm herself.
'Miss Summers?' Admiral Pullen came around the table to take her hand. 'Do you feel faint?' he enquired solicitously. 'I'm sorry you had to witness such an ugly scene.'
Abigail swallowed and made a determined effort to appear composed. On her other side, Bessie was panting with anger and indignation.
'I've bin wanting to speak me mind for years!' she exclaimed excitably. 'Vulture, indeed! Hah! Who was the real vulture, hey?' She burst into tears.
Mrs Thorpe patted her shoulder and made soothing noises.
'I believe you spoke for us all, Miss Yapton,' Mr Tidewell observed. 'This is a sad time for all of us— Miss Wyndham will be sorely missed—but the one fortunate consequence is that none of us will need to have any further dealings with Mr Johnson.'
'Perhaps...' Abigail's voice trembled. She consciously relaxed her shoulders and tried again. 'Perhaps we should all retire to the drawing room,' she suggested. 'Miss Wyndham never used this room. It seems more fitting we should...should offer a toast to her upstairs. Mrs Thorpe, do you think you could find something suitable for the occasion?'
'Yes, miss,' the cook agreed eagerly. 'Miss Wyndham had me set aside a fine brandy for this very occasion. She didn't want long faces... I was just waiting for him—' her jerky nod indicated the recently departed Charles '—to leave before I brought it out. If you'll all go upstairs, I'll be there in a trice.'
'She left me her dresses—such exquisite dresses— Bessie showed them all to me,' Abigail said, still awed by the magnificence of what she'd seen. 'And her pianoforte. I never imagined...she was so generous.'
She was sitting in Mrs Chesney's drawing room, in the soothing company of Admiral Pullen, Mr Anderson and Mr Hill, and the rather less soothing presence of Gifford Raven.
After they'd all toasted Miss Wyndham with the fine brandy Mrs Thorpe had produced, the admiral had decided that what Abigail really needed was a calming cup of tea well away from the scene of the recent debacle.
'You were her loyal companion for nine years,' Pullen said stoutly. 'Of course she treated you generously.'
'The dresses are already made over,' Abigail said wonderingly. 'Just think of them both—Bessie and Miss Wyndham—taking such trouble.'
'You've certainly repaid Bessie's trouble,' said Malcolm Anderson. 'And before you knew the part she'd played in your inheritance. She seems well satisfied with the position I offered her.'
'Joshua would make a fine prizefighter!' said Admiral Pullen. 'I had no idea the fellow was so fast. No flourishing, or signalling his attentions.' He demonstrated with a quick jab of his right fist. 'Splendid!'
'Joshua is not going to be a prizefighter,' Abigail retorted hotly. 'He's going to be a footman in Berkeley Square?' She glanced questioningly at Anderson for confirmation.
'That's right,' he said. 'Although, I'm wondering...' His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 'By your account of this afternoon's events, his loyalty to you and to the rest of Miss Wyndham's household is very strong. I'm
wondering if it might serve better to send him to Oxfordshire with the two women.'
'He is more comfortable with people he knows,' Abigail agreed. 'But...do you need a footman in Oxfordshire?' she asked worriedly. 'I did not intend... that is, he is not to be a burden upon you. But he does need a little guidance.'
'I'd say he deserves a pension for life—just for knocking Johnson down!' Raven said unexpectedly.
'Hear, hear. Couldn't agree more!' the admiral agreed enthusiastically. 'Now. Where are you planning to wear those splendid gowns, Miss Summers? A Season in London at the very least, I hope.'
'Oh, no!' Abigail protested instinctively.
She was overwhelmed by Miss Wyndham's generosity, but neither the clothes nor the pianoforte altered her fundamental situation. She was already trying to come to terms with the knowledge she would have to sell her inheritance. She would keep a few of the dresses, she cou
ldn't bear to part with them, but when the lease expired on the house she would have nowhere to keep the pianoforte.
'Wouldn't you enjoy a London Season?' Raven asked brusquely.
'Oh...well, yes...I think I m-might,' Abigail replied, flustered both by the question and his unusually terse manner.
All through the conversation she'd been intensely aware of Raven's listening presence. She tried not to look too conscious, or glance too often in his direction. These men were all his friends. She wasn't nervous when she met any of them individually, but it was very
agitating to find herself surrounded by them—and with Raven himself in the same room. She was afraid they might notice something different in her manner when she spoke to him. And she was afraid he might think she was trespassing on his goodwill, or...or...taking advantage...if she addressed him too familiarly.
'Of course you would,' said the admiral. 'It's high time you danced the night away and broke a few hearts into the bargain!'
Abigail blushed and took care not to look in Raven's direction. In her secret dreams he was the man she wanted to dance with—but she'd die of embarrassment if any of the men present guessed that.
'I can't dance!' she exclaimed, saying the first thing that came into her head. 'I never had the opportunity to learn.'
'I can,' said Anthony cheerfully. 'Country dances. The minuet...quadrille...cotillion...the waltz. I perform them all with grace and precision. I'll teach you.'
'That's very kind of you.' Abigail gazed at him helplessly. 'I do appreciate your offer, but I really don't think...'
'You will need a sponsor,' said Malcolm Anderson briskly. 'I know two or three ladies who would be suitable and might be agreeable to introducing you to the ton.'
'Splendid!' said Admiral Pullen, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. 'Anderson will find you a chaperon. Hill will teach you to dance. You have the gowns already. What else must be arranged for your first Season?'
Abigail pressed her hands against her cheeks. Her head was spinning with all these suggestions which sounded staggeringly like foregone conclusions as far as her companions were concerned.
'I haven't anywhere to put the pianoforte,' she whispered, plucking one coherent thought out of all the dreams, hopes, and sharp-splintered doubts which whirled around in her mind.
'Bring it here,' Pullen said. 'Mrs Chesney will look after it for you.'
'I thought I will have to sell it,' she replied, her confusion evident in her muddled tenses. 'I don't want to,' she added quickly. 'It's a beautiful instrument. I love to play it. But...I have nowhere to put it.'
'Mrs Chesney will look after it,' the admiral repeated impatiently. 'We must decide what you are to do for the rest of the summer. You should begin your dancing lessons straight away. Can you dance?' he shot the question at Raven.
'Not with Anthony's degree of expertise,' Raven replied.
'You can have lessons as well, then,' the admiral decided.
'Please...!' Abigail threw up her hands, palms outward. 'Please. I do appreciate everything... everything... But I can't have a London Season!'
The silence following her declaration sounded very loud to her. All the men stared at her. She drew in a careful breath and tried to speak calmly.
'It is very kind of you all to plan such wonderful things for me,' she said unsteadily, 'but it's really
not...not possible. Please don't think me ungrateful, but it wouldn't... I don't... In short, gentleman, I am not a suitable candidate for such an enterprise,' she said desperately. 'A lady whose dowry consists of one pianoforte does not have many prospects in the Marriage Mart—I think that's what you all have in mind, isn't it?' She glanced around at their startled faces, though she avoided Raven's eye. 'And I could never misrepresent myself as something I'm not.'
'But you might still enjoy yourself,' said Anthony, and smiled at her. 'After nine years of loyal service, I think you are entitled to a holiday, Miss Summers.'
Abigail let her hands fall into her lap. She was confused, agitated and suddenly exhausted after all the excitements of the day.
'All this can be discussed at a later time,' said Raven, standing up. 'Miss Summers has had no chance to rest since Miss Wyndham died. I will escort you home, ma'am.'
'Oh.' Abigail was disconcerted by his abrupt statement, but she didn't argue with him. 'Thank you.' She took the hand he offered her and let him draw her to her feet. 'I do thank you, gentlemen, all of you, for your kind suggestions. But I really don't think they are practical.'
'Would you like to take a little walk?' Raven asked, when he and Abigail had gained the relative privacy of the pavement.
'I...yes. If it's not an inconvenience to you,' Abigail said breathlessly.
'Not at all,' said Raven.
They walked slowly down the steep street for several minutes before either spoke.
Abigail's thoughts were still in a turmoil. The idea of a Season in London—of dancing with Raven—was so enticing. So different from the future she'd planned for herself. One moment she thought perhaps it was a dream that could come true—the next she knew it was an impossibility.
Would Raven dance with her? She sneaked a quick glance at him from the corner of her eye. Deep down she knew the most seductive aspect of going to London was the chance it might offer of extending her friendship with Raven.
She'd known from the first meeting that he intended to spend only a month in Bath. Even if she accepted Mrs Chesney's kind invitation, they would be living under the same roof only briefly. Raven would be gone within the next few weeks.
But if she went to London...
Was it worth sacrificing the security of her future for a few nights of dancing and glamour now?
'Why don't you wish to go to London?' Raven asked, breaking into her musings.
'Oh, I do!' she exclaimed, before she could stop herself. 'I...that is, I've never been to London.' She tried to sound more composed.
'Never?' Raven stopped walking, clearly startled by her unthinking revelation.
'No.' She looked up at him. 'I was born in a small village near Gloucester. Then I went to live with Miss Wyndham in a small house a few miles north of Bath.
Then about five years ago Miss Wyndham decided to move into Bath itself. She was still able to visit the Pump Room when we first arrived. Sometimes we went to the Assemblies. But after the first year she wasn't strong enough to go out anymore.'
'You've barely travelled fifty miles from your birthplace!' Raven said wonderingly. 'How can you tolerate—?' He broke off. 'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'Not everyone has a desire to travel incessantly.'
'I would like to travel,' said Abigail. 'Admiral Pullen has told me so many stories...he promised me that you would tell me tales about faraway lands,' she reminded Raven brightly. 'I hope you will before you leave Bath.'
'Before I leave Bath?' Raven focussed on only one part of what she'd said.
'You are only here for a month,' she said. 'And you've already been here...some time.' She didn't want to reveal she'd been counting off the days till his departure.
'Ah, yes. That is so,' Raven agreed.
They took several measured steps in an electric silence.
'Why do you feel unable to go to London?' Raven demanded. 'I've never known Malcolm's assurances to lack substance. If he says he can find you a patroness, be sure he can.'
'I am sure! But only consider, sir. I have no fortune. Well, I have a little,' she corrected conscientiously. 'I have three hundred pounds from my father, and I've added to it a little by savings and interest. But if I have a Season in London, it will all be gone—'
'No, it won't!' Raven protested. 'You have Miss Wyndham's dresses. There may be a few other trifling expenses—but hardly enough to eat into your capital.'
Abigail smiled tremulously at his fierce assertion. He was arguing in favour of her going to London, but it didn't seem as if he had a personal interest in her visit. He sounded much more like Mr Anderson and the admiral,
who had both obviously intended her to display herself to her best advantage in the London Marriage Mart. They'd even settled it amongst themselves that she was to have dancing lessons from Mr Hill!
She didn't know whether to be grateful or mortified by their clumsy efforts to arrange her future.
'I see no reason why you should leave Bath yet,' Raven declared. 'You can accept Mrs Chesney's invitation to stay with her—and I'm sure she'll be pleased to look after your pianoforte. Anthony can teach you the cotillion and the waltz and...what have you.' Raven's knowledge of fashionable dances was somewhat less extensive than his cousin's. 'So when Malcolm has arranged things in London you'll be fully prepared. This will be the first Season I have ever spent in London,' he added casually.
'Theirs?...?' Abigail exclaimed, as surprised by his revelation as he had earlier been by hers.
'I've visited London briefly during the Season,' Raven said. 'I've certainly attended balls and routs. I've even danced at Almack's—though I'm afraid I didn't appreciate the honour as much as I perhaps should—but I've never spent more than a couple of weeks at a time in such activity. And I've often gone years between balls.'
'Then you'll have to ask Mr Hill to teach you to dance,' Abigail dared to tease him.
'Only if you'll go to London,' he said.
Abigail gasped. She couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly. Was he suggesting he wanted to extend their friendship beyond these few weeks in Bath?
'I don't think many other ladies would be brave enough to dance with such an unsightly fellow,' Raven said.
Shock held Abigail rigid for two seconds. Then his comment knocked every other thought out of her head. She swung to face him.
'You are not unsightly! How can you think such a thing?'
'I see myself every morning when I shave,' Raven said tightly. 'I know what I look like.'
'You don't know anything!' Abigail's voice shook with anger. 'You are a s-stupid man!'
She spun away from him and marched off down the street. When Raven caught up with her she stopped so suddenly he nearly outpaced her. She prodded him in the chest.
'How can you think such a thing? You should be ashamed to say such a thing!'
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