Abigail Moor (3 page)

Joshua had left
good men still fighting in the wars which continued seemingly
endlessly with France, and he felt for them. Part of him wanted to
return to their ranks. He had now witnessed the bleak future they
could face back at home, jobless, penniless and reunited with their
hungry families here. But then, if he did, what fire would that put
in their belly to fight for their country? The Regent might have
sadly let them down, as he craved and indulged his own excesses,
but Napoleon would offer nothing to them but death to their kith
and kin, should he successfully invade. ‘Choices’ he mused, the
world was full of them.

He placed his
high hat upon his head, buttoned up his caped travelling cloak and
stood patiently whilst his bag was tossed aloft and tethered. York
would be the first stop. He waited whilst a lady and her husband
climbed in, then a captain of the Militia, and lastly, a man of
fashion. He toyed with the idea of riding atop, but his ticket was
for inside and the clouds were growing thicker and darker. Seating
himself, he rested his leg against the side of the coach as he
squeezed in next to the married couple. The husband took more than
his share of the seat, but as Joshua stared out of the window as
his journey began he settled, as he had suffered far more
uncomfortable situations with his men than this temporary one. He
closed his eyes to the world and remembered the skirmishes fought,
men lost and battles won. One day he would be free of the memories
and the pain, but he doubted the scars would ever leave him. Until
then, he would live life as best he could.

Joshua opened
his eyes once more and marvelled at the dramatic shadows which
played around on the scenery passing by. Such was life: one minute
full of colour, shape and beauty, the next it was dark, menacing
and gloomy. The memory of Francesca’s face pained him more than his
wound. Her lovely life, her beauty, her last breath... he could not
save her. There had been no qualified surgeons to treat her in the
small village where they had met, unlike his own wound, which had
been treated by the best surgeon Edinburgh had produced. Pain...
his leg and heart held too much of it.

Joshua was
resolved, his decision made, he would return to London, remain a
bachelor and when he was fully fit once more he would embark on a
whole new world. His heart was closed to love of a personal nature;
it had been left open and the pain was worse than that caused by
the bullet. He would find a new purpose in life… somewhere.

Abigail stared at Frederick, his dark figure standing awkwardly at
the foot of her bed. “You’ve changed so.” She tried to sound
confident rather than vulnerable. “I don’t understand why you are
so angry with me. Is it something I’ve done, Frederick?” Abigail
wanted to try to reach out to him, give him one last chance to
explain why he was being so hard and totally unyielding. There was
no reason why her life should change from what it always had been,
if he willed it so.

“Can you not
understand, woman? You are not of our family. In fact, you were a
penniless orphan who now has no rights as a female; you are what
some would call plainly a bastard – a child born out of wedlock to
an impoverished woman of no worth – a Jezebel!”

He folded his
arms across the immaculately buttoned up coat, peering down at her,
his sinewy figure accentuated by the black trousers and tail coat
that he was accustomed to wearing. She recoiled, holding the bed
cover close to her. She had never been spoken to in such a way
before. Her father had rescued her from an alms house, and Martha,
her maid, had been hired to tend her, as she did to this very
day.

“Do not look so
aggrieved, Abigail. You have shared my home and my father’s
affection for these last twenty years. I have found your presence
tolerable as your frivolous and childlike countenance has pleased
Father immensely.”

“How can you
say such things? Have you not been and are you not still my brother
in every right, but, perhaps, by blood? Does that mean so little to
you? An accident of birth created me, but God placed me in your
father’s arms... as his child. How can you turn on me now that he
is so ill?” She was almost pleading with him to see reason, but he
stood there with a cool facade and stared back silently at her for
a long moment.

“It is your
naivety that is your most appealing grace and folly in equal
measure. Blood, my girl, is everything to everyone who has good
blood running through their veins; it goes along with money and
position. You have no blood to be proud of running through yours.
Beyond our generosity you have no wealth.” He raised his arms as if
encompassing everything around them. “This leaves only position.
You have been allowed to have one whilst you have lived at Beckton
Manor. However, you must realise that if you were to come out, with
the other eligible girls of good breeding, you would be the joke of
society; considered no more than a weed amongst prime roses in full
bloom. No, Abigail, your position is both unenviable and untenable.
I shall not have you bring low my reputation and name. It is a
matter to which I have given a deal of thought over the last few
years.”

Abigail felt
herself shiver. She had never been set as low and felt so
threatened, trapped by Frederick’s words and manner. He was not the
person she had thought him to be. Her father was right... Lord
Edmund Hammond, the only father she had ever known... she would
have to escape.

Underneath the
hurt and humiliation another emotion was stirring within her –
rage. How dare he presume to talk to her so? Her future could be as
pleasant or hard as he chose to make it. There, Abigail knew, lay
the problem. Her destiny was at the mercy of his will – his will,
unfortunately, declared she become his puppet, to obey him and
serve his ends in life.

He continued,
“I have given the matter much thought and have decided you will be
best suited to a man with new money who needs a young wife to breed
from, who knows how to behave herself tolerably well within the
society that he will mix in and give his success a greater
respectability than perhaps it would otherwise have had...”

“An old man
with new money,” she added bitterly.

“Beggars, my
girl, cannot be choosers. He has no fine blood in him either,
although his parents were respectable and married, but then,” he
folded his arms once more and added calmly, “neither have you. His
mills and the asylum he runs have earned him money and position,
along with his natural business acumen for seeing an opportunity
and taking it. Yes, he is a sound match for a favoured companion of
Lord Hammond; you shall make him an obedient and pliant wife and a
very happy man. You shall nurture a respectable brood and if you
are a devoted wife, then I am sure he will leave you well provided
for in the future. That is my decision, so make sure you are well
enough to join us tomorrow as it would be in your best interest not
to vex your future husband unnecessarily. I am told he is of a most
pleasant temperament, unless crossed.”

He smiled at
her and bowed slightly, mockingly, before leaving the room. Abigail
leaped from the bed as soon as the door was shut.

“No! This will not be, Frederick Hammond! I will not dance to your
tune!” Abigail snapped as she gathered her thoughts together. She
opened her window. The steep drop beneath the ledge somehow seemed
far greater than it had when she was just a young child. She would
have presumed the opposite would be the case. Strange how, as a
girl, she had risked life and limb and never given her antics a
moment’s thought for her own safety. Escaping from her room had
been an adventure and worth Cook’s rebuke to gain a glass of
warmed, honeyed milk and her freshly baked parkin by the open
kitchen fire, before being smuggled back to her bedchamber. Martha
would then tuck her in and stay with her until she went soundly to
sleep. It had all seemed normal and right, but as she viewed it
now, she realised it had been a pampered existence, one she had
apparently no right to.

Yet, here,
standing in her dress, she realised that the second she committed
herself to this act of escapology, she would say goodbye to
everything and everyone that had ever meant anything to her within
her twenty years of life, except Martha, who would be leaving with
her. Never before had she had to literally step out in every way in
pure faith. A picture of the man Blackman formed in her mind, of
being married to such a man, and shamelessly she thought of the
long intimate nights that would lie heavily ahead of them. Abigail
cringed, her stomach squeamish at the thought of his touch upon her
naked flesh. The sensation of his grasp made her flinch at the mere
thought of the man’s stubby fingers touching her and she had to
take in a deep breath in order to steady her nerves once more. “Now
or never,” she muttered quietly to herself. She placed her foot
precariously onto the narrow ledge, just as she had as a child,
only then her thoughts had been on nothing more than one of Cook’s
cakes. Now her feet were grown to full size and the ledge seemed a
far more dangerous place to be.

She clung to
the building; the cold air seemed almost to pinch her skin. Far
from being scared, though, a different sensation filled her - an
old, almost unfamiliar feeling, as she realised that, although her
body had grown and changed, inside she felt the excitement of her
adventure, as if she was a girl again. She inched around the corner
of the Hall leaving her window behind, placing her foot onto the
top of a gargoyle’s head. It peered out into the night almost
unnoticed from the ground, yet it was such a striking carving. The
first time she had seen it she nearly fell to her death, but once
over the initial shock of the evil looking face, she had named it
Achilles, then it did not frighten her anymore. Abigail had decided
that Achilles was her friend, because without his presence she
could not climb down onto the lower roof. Once there she moved
swiftly across the length of the building looking like a fairy of
the night, her steps soundless.

When she had
reached the southern part of the Hall, she was above the servants’
quarters. Now all she had to do was climb down the drainage pipe,
lowering her body to the ground. This, Abigail discovered, was a
far greater obstacle when one was full-grown and wearing a dress.
When she was but five feet from the ground the old metal bracket
parted from the brick wall. She clung on tightly to the pipe as it
came away. Abigail curled into a ball and, despite the urge to
scream, let the force take her backwards into three successive
rolls before she stopped, spread-eagled on the cobbled yard. This
was not the start to her adventure she had hoped for, exposed to
the bitter cold and damp air.

“Miss Abigail,
child! This is no time to be playing silly games.” Martha’s harsh
rebuke was said accusingly in a clear whisper.

It nearly
caused Abigail to shout out in denial and indignation - as if she
would dream of doing such a childish thing, under the
circumstances! She quickly stood up, slightly bruised and muddied.
However, both women were intent on making a swift escape from the
manor, so they both ran for the kitchen door, from behind which the
light of a lantern flickered. Cook hugged Abigail firmly, all of a
fluster and at a loss for words. Unceremoniously she was bundled
with Martha into the dairy rooms. Her clothes were revealed from
where they had been hidden under a large piece of muslin and her
bag behind the milk churns.

“Hurry, Miss
Abigail, please change quickly.” Cook pointed to the clothes.

“It’s freezing
in here!” Abigail protested, but started to undress when she saw
the stern look on Martha’s face.

“Soon as you’re
gone I’ll put your gown in the laundry; that’ll hide any evidence
of your being here well enough. Nobody will know you were ever down
in these kitchens.” Mrs Grimes nodded in agreement with herself, as
was her habit. No sooner was the dress off Abigail’s back than she
bustled away with it.

Martha shook
her head. “She’s broken hearted, Miss Abigail. She loves you so
much. I pray we may safely return one day… soon.” Martha watched as
Abigail laced up her boots.

“What did you
do with the Bible, Martha?” Abigail looked at her maid, whose
behaviour appeared to be changing more determinedly each minute,
even to the point that Abigail would describe as outspoken.

“It’s in here.”
Martha picked up the bag.

“What do you
know about it, Martha?” Abigail asked, as she took the heavy
leather travel bag from her servant, then realised its true
weight.

Martha, with a
firm, sturdy grip, took it back. “It’s the ‘Good Book’. Now, let’s
have less chatter and come with me before we are missed.”

“Where is the
carriage?” Abigail asked, and was surprised when Martha turned
around almost laughing in her face.

“Lord preserve
us! This is not going to be easy, is it, lass? Common sense should
tell you there isn’t one.” Martha shook her head. “It would clatter
like a mad man’s chains over the cobbles and the horses won’t stay
quiet no matter how much I tell ‘em to.”

Abigail stared
determinedly back at her, indignant at Martha’s change of attitude
towards her. She was about to rebuke her maid when the woman
continued. “Should we summon all the servants in the house or
perhaps ask Mr Frederick Hammond himself to escort us to York, via
the Gorebeck Asylum of course, to drop me off first, that is?”

Martha’s words
made Abigail feel rather stupid, thoughtless even. But she did not
like her maid’s change of manner and the stinging sarcasm of her
tone. Abigail felt that the woman should have more compassion for
her mistress’s situation. After all, she had never done anything
like this before.