by Valerie King
“Twelve,” Miss Lavant exclaimed, obviously shocked, looking back at her over her shoulder. “I do not believe you.”
Abigail did not hear her precisely, for her gaze had become fixed on the figure quickly approaching Oak Hill. “Oh, no,” she said. “It cannot be. However did he find me? Miss Lavant, I fear your father will be quite angry with me.”
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked. “Do you know this gentleman?” They stood side by side, staring out the window. A decidedly handsome man descended his piebald horse, which he tied haphazardly to a stake near a flower bed. He then shook the stiffness from his limbs.
“Far too well,” she said, turning away from the window. “In point of fact, he is one of the men I was just telling you about. His name is Laurence Carter. He offered for me two years past and has not given up his suit. We were betrothed for several months, but after a time I realized that though I loved him deeply, I could never marry him. You see, he was consumed with his poetry and lived with considerable disdain among his fellow man. He had no friends and scarcely any connection at all to his brothers and sisters. I knew myself well enough to comprehend that no matter how much I loved him, he could never give me what I desired most—a close connection to friends, family, to a community.”
For the first time in the past hour, Miss Lavant fell silent, staring at Abigail uncertainly. Finally, she said, “So, even though there was a great deal of love between you, in the end you felt there was an insuperable difficulty that no amount of discussion could resolve?”
“No amount,” she stated firmly. “The obstacle would have been too great, and I believe most sincerely that love would have simply died between us had we married.”
Miss Lavant glanced at Abigail’s hands. “You are trembling,“ she said. “My dear Miss Chailey, I have never before seen you so greatly overset. This is most singular.”
“If you will recall, I loved him. It is very difficult to see him now without remembering all the pain I endured in parting from him. Would you go with me to greet him?”
Miss Lavant smiled. “You have never asked for my help before.”
“Well, I am now.”
“I should be happy to attend you.” And in that statement, Abigail heard the mature woman Miss Lavant would one day become.
“Thank you,” Abigail said, as together they turned in the direction of the door.
The walk from the schoolroom down the long hall toward the staircase, then down the full length of the stairs to the waiting man below, was a long walk indeed for Abigail. More than once she thanked Miss Lavant for attending her, since her knees quaked the entire time.
At last, she confronted one of the most recent gentlemen she had thwarted. “Hallo, Laurence,” she began softly.
“My dear Abigail,” he responded, his light blue eyes warmed with affection. “It has been an age.”
“However did you find me?”
He smiled. “I was visiting at the Duke of Chandos’s home when his wife, a quite lovely and elegant woman, received a letter from Lady Waldron. Imagine learning that a neighbor of hers had hired recently a most exceptional governess by the name of Chailey. There could be no two with that name, or so I was convinced, and so I have been proven right. When I discovered that you had broken off your engagement to Ferrers, I had to come to see you—”
A booming voice intruded. “Whose horse is in my drive, eating my flowers.”
“The deuce take it,” Laurence muttered, turning abruptly to face the door. “I am sorry. Are you Mr. Lavant? Pray permit me introduce myself. Laurence Carter, at your service.”
Mr. Lavant scowled. “Don’t know who you are. Never heard of you before. “
“My people are from Yorkshire.”
“Good God, that would explain it, then. Devilish far, Yorkshire, but what brings you here?”
Abigail stepped forward, her knees unsteady. “He is a friend of mine, Mr. Lavant. I have known him these four years and more, for I was once employed by a very fine lady—”
“In Yorkshire, no doubt,” he bellowed.
“Yes,” she returned. “In York, as it happens.”
He glared at her. “One of your suitors?” he queried, his eyes alive with brimstone.
“A former suitor, yes. But Mr. Carter does not mean to stay. He came only to wish me well on my most recent post.”
“Indeed?” he queried, pulling off his gloves in short, irritated jerks. “How kind of him.” He shifted his gaze to Laurence. “I suppose you are staying at the Mermaid, and now you will expect an invitation to dinner.”
“Where are your manners, Lavant,” Lord Treyford said, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “I’ve seen harassed bears less surly than you at this moment.”
“How kind of you to make your opinions known to me, but this man is one of Miss Chailey’s beaus and you know my disinterest in having suitors languishing after my governesses. I suppose I should make the introductions. Laurence Carter, may I present Lord Treyford. Apparently, Mr. Carter intends on staying for dinner.”
Laurence moved forward rapidly and extended his hand to Treyford. “I thought I recognized you, my lord. You have argued in favor of reform for several years now, have you not? I heard you once deep in an argument, at Vauxhall, of all places. Agreed with your reasonings and thought it a shame all M.P.’s were not so well informed. You have my compliments.”
Abigail was stunned by Laurence’s speech. She realized she had never before heard him deliver a compliment. Yet, here he was, fairly fawning over Treyford. The viscount took Laurence’s hand and shook it as one who had been struck a sound blow.
For the second time in a mere handful of days, Treyford had been the object of praise by yet another gentleman who had known him only by reputation. Who was this man whom Laurence had praised, when he praised no one, and with whom Mr. Burwash was eager to fence? The former knot of desire she had known while in his company suddenly tightened in her stomach. Despite her present fit of nerves at Laurence’s unexpected appearance at Oak Hill, Abigail found herself overcome with a growing interest in, of all gentlemen, Lord Treyford.
She tried to dispel the sudden feeling, but it would not obey her wishes as easily this time, and she was left with the feeling that Cupid was hinting at his presence yet again in her life, even though he had not precisely shot his arrow at her, at least not yet.
Laurence then turned to address Mr. Lavant. “I did not come to beg for an invitation to dinner from you. Instead, I hoped Miss Chailey would join me at the Mermaid. I have reserved the parlor, for I do not mean to intrude on your house, sir.”
Abigail would have refused, but Miss Lavant also addressed her father. “Papa, Miss Chailey was once betrothed to Mr. Carter. I do think he should stay to dinner. Besides, it is half past five already and the ride from town requires a hard hour on horseback. Please, Mr. Carter, will you not dine with us? Papa is not always so tiresome. Only when he thinks he is being clever.”
All eyes turned upon Sylvester Lavant. Abigail saw an amused glint pop from his eye before he deepened his frown. Whatever was he about? He shifted his gaze from Treyford to Carter to herself.
Narrowing his eyes at her, Lavant said, “I remember Carter now. He has eight thousand a year and one of the largest properties in Yorkshire. Why ever the deuce did you not marry him, and how am I permitting such a stupid female to instruct my daughter?”
Abigail could only laugh, if ruefully. “You can be, at times, an excessively rude man. You are being one now. Pray make your apologies, if not to me, then to your daughter, for setting such a wretched example for her.”
He harrumphed several times. His expression lifted suddenly, as though a new thought struck. “Very well. My apologies, Sarah, and Mr. Carter may dine with us so long as Treyford joins us as well. I shall not be required to be a perfect stranger’s sole entertainment for the evening.”
Miss Lavant glanced imploringly at Lord Treyford, who accepted immediately. “I should like nothing better, for
I have been in the saddle all afternoon.”
“I’ll have the housekeeper prepare a room for your use, just as you like it, Uncle Trey, and one for you as well, Mr. Carter. We ladies have not yet dressed for dinner, so you will have to excuse us.”
The gentlemen bowed, and even Lavant seemed surprised by his daughter’s composure. Miss Lavant expressed her intention of speaking with Stockleigh about dinner. Abigail, having endured all she could, withdrew to her bedchamber.
Eight
Treyford took up his seat beside Abigail at dinner, unable to comprehend her in the least. Earlier, Sarah had told him that Miss Chailey had had so many betrothals and proposals of marriage that the whole numbered twelve.
Twelve, and Laurence Carter, seated opposite, was one of them.
Abigail Chailey had rejected one of London’s matrimonial prizes, and eleven others besides. What the deuce was wrong with this lady?
He shook his head, utterly bemused. In his view, she seemed fragmented. On the one hand, she was the lady who would kiss a highwayman; on another, she had rejected one of the most eligible bachelors in all of England; and on yet another hand, she seemed to prefer to live her life as a governess. Good God. Were these the reasonable choices of a sane creature? Perhaps the chit was demented in some inexplicable fashion.
Worse, however, was how he had begun to desire her. She had challenged Lavant in his rudeness, just as Lavant ought to be challenged, and she but a governess not yet a fortnight in her employer’s home. He had delighted in every word she had spoken to his good friend. A powerful feeling of longing had overtaken him in that moment, as well as a sudden wish that he might have her alone for a few minutes, to speak with her, to discover her deepest feelings about Mr. Carter, and, oh, yes, to take her in his arms. Why was it that he had but to be in her company for a few minutes and he was ready to kiss her again? Now that he had begun to suspect she was as mad as Bedlam, what did that say of him?
He sipped his claret and glanced at her. Another recollection came to mind of his earlier conversation with Sarah. He had been encouraging her to read, when an odd expression slipped over her face. “Do you know, Uncle Trey,” she had said, “none of my friends have opened a book after having escaped the schoolroom. However, Miss Chailey is not such a one. You should see the stack of books she keeps on her bedside table, and more than once, late at night, I have passed by her bedchamber door, noting that her candle was still burning. Fearing she might have fallen asleep with her candle still lit, I have opened the door, only to find her nibbling on an apple and reading from at least a dozen books spread about her counterpane. She always seemed so happy in such moments.”
He took another sip of claret, still staring at Abigail. He was seeing her in her nightgown, surrounded by her books. He found the picture so appealing that he felt certain the temperature in the dining hall had suddenly climbed a dozen degrees. His coat and waistcoat felt very warm, indeed.
Twelve suitors. Was Sarah mistaken in this, he wondered. Twelve beaus? It must be some sort of humbug Abigail was passing off to trick Sarah into mending her ways. Well, he certainly had much to ponder. One thing he knew for certain, he had questions about Abigail, about her sanity, which he wished answered, and if possible he would begin seeking those answers tonight.
* * * * * * * * *
Abigail felt sorely used all through dinner. Laurence kept eyeing her with such a tender light in his eye, it became abundantly clear to her that he believed her to be receptive again to his proposals, for he kept hinting at a journey they would make together. Of course the quantity of wine he was imbibing certainly was not aiding his discernment in the least, nor his ability to receive her hints to the contrary, which became more pointed as the dinner progressed. She felt certain they would quarrel before the night was through.
At the same time, Mr. Lavant fairly assaulted him with every manner of insult, but Laurence was entirely impervious. Abigail was irritated that her employer could not seem to command himself in this regard and further aggravated that Laurence was wholly unable to perceive what his host was about. This alone set her teeth on edge. However, the entire situation was further exacerbated by Treyford’s conduct.
She did not comprehend him in the least. He seemed intent on tripping her up somehow. For every thought or opinion she put forth, he countered with a piercing question that she felt was intended to reveal some manner of faulty reasoning on her part. When she said she felt Sarah Siddons to be an extraordinary actress, he had quickly asked, “When did you ever see her perform?”
“In Bath,” she had responded. “Three years past.”
“How did you happen to be in Bath? One does not meet with many governesses in Bath.”
“My employer, in Lincolnshire this time, desired to take the waters and wished for both her daughter and me to attend her. I do not think this in any manner extraordinary. The theater was only one entertainment of which we partook during our three-week sojourn there.”
“But how would you know Mrs. Siddons was a fine actress? How many times have you been to the theater? By what standards do you make such a judgment?”
She had stared at him, feeling that in any other setting he would not have asked such questions, for they were decidedly impertinent. She might have given him answer, but Laurence had interjected, “Abigail knows everything.” He had smiled sloppily, and instead of his compliment pleasing her in any manner, she had felt further needful of defending herself.
“Do not be absurd, Laurence. I do not know everything. No one does.” She had glanced at Lord Treyford and saw that he was staring at her in a hard manner. She had become quite agitated in that moment and had said, “And you, sir, are being grossly uncivil. Were I other than a governess, you would not address any lady at a table in such a manner as you have me.”
Treyford had appeared entirely unimpressed by this outburst.
And through it all, in his habitually self-serving manner, Mr. Lavant kept laughing . . . loudly.
By the time she rose to declare that the ladies were ready to withdraw in order that the men might enjoy their port wine, there was nothing warm in her speech, which only made Mr. Lavant laugh harder still.
“Papa was ridiculous tonight,” Miss Lavant said, once the men were out of earshot. She hooked arms with her and continued. “Enjoying himself at your expense. Of course Mr. Carter should not have come here. He is the very sort of besotted puppy whom Papa delights in making sport of. Unfortunately, since Mr. Carter had eyes only for you, he was not struck by even a single barb from Father’s odious tongue.”
“All this I understand perfectly, but why was Treyford intent on questioning everything I said? Even my remarks concerning Sarah Siddons were not accepted for what they were, and is there a sensible creature in England, who, once having witnessed her performance, would not declare her to be a very fine actress?”
“As for Mrs. Siddons, I cannot say, not having witnessed a performance of hers. However, I fear I might be partially to blame for Uncle Trey’s odd shift in attitude.”
Here she appeared quite conscious.
Abigail turned to her. “You did not tell him of my betrothals and offers of marriage?”
She nodded. “I now realize I should not have.”
“Miss Lavant—”
“Oh, pray, will you not call me by my Christian name? I—I am beginning to think of you as a friend, and I should like it above all things.”
Abigail was stunned. This compliment was entirely unlooked for. “Yes, of course, if you wish for it.” She marveled at this unexpected request, since only a few hours earlier they had been involved in a terrible quarrel.
“Indeed, I do. Very much so. I realize I must continue to call you Miss Chailey, else Papa would box my ears, at least until my come-out ball.”
They had arrived at the doors of the drawing room, and Abigail turned to smile upon her. “You are no longer angry with me, then?” she queried. “I pressed you very hard earlier, when we were in the schoo
lroom.”
“I deserved nothing less, but your words, indeed, your own decision to reject Mr. Carter’s suit, chastened me. I could only wish that I had learned my lesson years ago instead of tonight. I feel as though I have lost decades in not applying myself beforehand. Only, do you think there is any hope at all for me, at least where Mr. Ditchling is concerned?”
“I cannot say. I wish that I could promise you that were you to apply yourself, your future with him would be all but settled, but I can offer no such assurance. The only true promise I can make is that once you start, you will be delighted in how much your life changes. Every day begins to appear different and you will become aware of things that before had entirely escaped your notice, like the way the birds sing in the gardens or how blue the sky is on one day and gray the next, or how one person’s manner differs so much from his neighbor’s. The seasons will become sharper and clearer, the days to be treasured as never before, and your books sometimes will become your very best friends. You will have thoughts as you have never had and you will enter into many discussions that previously made no sense to you.”
“Like the one between Mr. Ditchling and Uncle Trey?”
“Yes, precisely.”
Sarah nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Then, I am content.”
Abigail was more than satisfied with this conversation. She could in no manner predict the dedication with which Sarah might apply her newfound desires to improve her mind, but this was, at least, a beginning.
She opened the door to the drawing room, and a rush of cool air greeted them both. The evening had proven rather hot, but Stockleigh had been beforehand, the windows were open, and a lovely evening breeze blew the fine muslin drapes in great sweeps. Abigail moved to one of the windows in order that the full force of the cool air might envelope her. Sarah followed along.