Abigail Moor (5 page)

“What is that?
We cannot get lost if the inn is on this road, for the road is
straight and The Cruck Inn will be large and well lit. Won’t it?”
For one moment she was unsure as she had never seen a real inn
before. People stayed in them so Abigail presumed it would be like
a small manor hall, with an arch for carriages to go through to the
stabling block. Martha gave her a stern look that made Abigail
think that perhaps her image of the building may not be accurate.
“Slow down or for sure you will exhaust yourself.”

“Tis a bad
omen, or I’ll be damned.” Martha did not slow and her voice was not
only breathless but becoming unsteady.

“What is a bad
omen?” Abigail asked. She was nervous of all the strange animal
noises which disturbed the silence of the night, but that was just
nature doing what it did – not something Abigail would consider an
‘omen’.

“A bad omen is
something that’ll bring you no good luck and…”

“I know what an
‘omen’ is, good or bad, Martha.” Abigail shook her head in
disbelief that her maid thought her to be so dim-witted. When would
Martha realise she was not a child anymore? “What is it that you
have seen and think is one – is so bad?”

“Them clouds up
there –look!” Nervously the woman pointed upwards but soon took her
gaze back to the solid ground beneath their feet. The sky was all
but dark, the stars and the moon lost above a gloomy shroud. She
would not look left or right across the moor, nor stare into the
cloak of darkness around them. A strange sound, a bird or some
small beast shrilled and Martha let out a gasp of fear before
running a few breathless steps.

“Don’t worry,
Martha, it will pass and then it will be the dawn and another day
will begin – a new and a very different one.” Abigail glanced back
along the road into an unseen existence, one that was as lost to
her now as it was from her sight. She jumped slightly when Martha
put a hand out firmly gripping her shoulder.

“Aye, a new
dawn, lass, and one that bodes ill as the signs are not good for
us. God protect us, for this is to be the darkest dawn I’ve ever
seen.” Martha released her grip and started along the road at her
brisk pace once more.

“Then we need
not fear, Martha, for we shall pray for His light to shine and
guide our way. Besides it is always darkest before the dawn,
everyone knows that.” Abigail boldly took the lead, carrying her
case and struggled on with her head held high. She would survive
this; they would make their future work. No one, Frederick or a
total stranger, be he suitor or not, would determine her fate;
certainly not a mass of cloud or the call of an animal, no matter
how menacing a sound it may make. If this is to be her darkest
dawn, then by contrast, tomorrow would be her brightest light – a
new beginning which she would not fear.

As the icy rain
started to fall, she saw something in the distance - a flicker of
some sort of light.

“Look, Martha,
look! Do you see it? A long building, a barn perhaps and it has a
light within it.” Abigail felt a surge of excitement stir inside
her. She could not allow her mind to dwell on her father’s
predicament. Abigail had to be clear and decisive in her thinking.
The best she could do for him was to deliver his message to his
friend, the solicitor in York, and stay safe until she could return
to her beloved home once more. “Perhaps the farmer who lives here
would take us to the inn if I paid him for his trouble, Martha,”
Abigail said enthusiastically, thinking about a warm fire, food and
a softly upholstered chair.

“That’s it,
lass.” Martha coughed and laughed. “That ‘barn’s’ The Cruck
Inn.”

Abigail sensed
a tone of sarcasm in Martha’s voice.

“We’ve made it
before the coach. Hurry now, before…” Martha looked around her
anxiously, “we catch our death of cold or somethin’ carries us off
across that moor…” Martha shivered and looked even more nervously
around her.

Abigail stared
at the building again. She was determined not to let her ignorance
or naivety show again; she would learn. “I thought you were the
worldly one, Martha? Come on before we catch a chill, there’s
nothing more than that out here to catch, woman!”

Abigail did not
pause to hear her maid’s answer. She strode boldly onwards. They
approached the inn but, before they knocked on the door, Martha
took hold of her mistress’s bag.

“This is my
world; don’t forget it, Miss Abigail. I’ll do the talking and you
settle and be still,” Martha ordered.

Abigail said
nothing. She did not approve of her servant’s high handed manner.
If she thought that she was going to take over then Abigail
decided, rashly, that she would show her she was mature enough to
take charge of her own destiny. If not, she may as well become the
maid, so she waited silently. They heard the heavy latch lift and
the door opened.

The figure who
greeted Abigail once the old oak door was unbolted caused her to
stare in amazement. The tall, skeletal man was attired in breeches,
coat, totally dressed in black, as if he was a priest or something
dour, never changing, regardless of fashion.

Abigail spoke
before her maid had the chance to usurp her authority. “Good day, I
require a warm place to rest for myself and my maidservant until
the York coach arrives.”

Martha glared
at her, but Abigail ignored her.

“Oh, do you,
lass?” The man’s voice was deep and powerful, in stark contrast to
his wiry frame and appearance. He was obviously humoured by her
words. “Then perhaps you’d best come in out of the cold night air
and sit by the hearth.”

Abigail
hesitated as the inn was dark and stank of tallow candles. Martha
nudged her forwards. She stepped over the muddy threshold and
nearly tripped on a raised flagstone’s edge. Her eyes adjusted to
the dimness of the narrow passage. The man closed the door on the
right that led to a small parlour and shone the lantern through a
narrow shelved passage to the left. Abigail smelt the ale from the
dispensary ahead of her. To her left was the hearth; a black range
hung with a cauldron and flat iron was flanked by two bench seats
against the wall of the inn. There was an upper level that Abigail
could see was accessible by a narrow twisting wooden staircase
ahead of her, beyond the oak table to her left.

The fire
flickered low in the hearth. He took off his hat and, with an
exaggerated bow, pointed to the wooden settle built against the
outer stone wall. Gratefully, she sat at the end nearest the fire
and warmed her hands.

Martha dropped
their baggage and crouched by the fire.

Abigail tried
not to look frightened as she saw the ungainly pockmarks etched
into his skin. “Would it be possible for us to have something warm
to drink, sir, and could you inform me as to how long we need to
wait before the stagecoach arrives?” Abigail asked the man as he
replaced his hat over what was left of his thinning oily hair,
which was tied at the nape of his neck.

“Now, about
your drink, I do not know, miss. But the coach will be here in less
than an hour, and if you’re lucky there might even be room for thee
inside it. Best I get the landlord and ask him about yer vittles,
eh? ” The man winked at Martha, who did not look at all amused.

Abigail’s mouth
dropped open slightly as she had presumed the man was the landlord.
She watched him as he casually walked away through the door that
led to the dispensary and cellar.

Martha put her
hands on her hips and glared at Abigail, who swallowed and looked
defiantly back.

Abigail
realised that the future was definitely going to be different from
her past.

“So are you
proud of yerself, Miss Abigail?” Martha snapped at her.

“I don’t know
what you mean, Martha. I think you have forgotten yourself. You are
still supposed to be my maid. I requested a warm fire and look, we
have one. I know not who the man is but he surely must be attached
to the inn, in some way.” Abigail sat bolt upright, her warmed
hands resting on her damp coat; she saw steam start to rise from
the hem, and moved her legs slightly away from the direct heat.

Martha stared
at her. “No, you have no idea who that man is and ‘tis best for
your health that it remains so. Now, until we get into polite
society again, may I suggest you keep that little mouth of yours
firmly shut!”

“Martha! How
dare you!” Abigail heard laughter from a lower parlour beyond some
stairs at the end of the room they were in.

A ruddy faced,
round figure of a man appeared from the steps.

“Now, tell me,
lass, what lady roams around the moors at this hour demanding me
fire and victuals? Tell me that, lass, and you just might get some
milk fresh from me cow.” He grinned and stood, hands on hips, and
squared up to Abigail who looked pale and lost.

“Ezekiel
Bickerstaff, it’s me, Martha Napp, and I don’t want to set foot on
that coach unless I have a hot drink in me first. Leave the lass
alone, she’s fresh out of the nursery and don’t know any better.”
Martha stood up and Abigail sat mortified as they flung their arms
around each other - two rotund, happy figures embracing and kissing
like long lost friends – no, Abigail thought, more than that, like
lovers. Abigail watched silently, appalled at their brazen
behaviour as they openly embraced. Tears filled Martha’s eyes as
they recounted how long it had been since last she was at the
inn.

“Nearly two
seasons gone already, lass,” Ezekiel answered her.

Martha shook
her head in denial. “No, it can’t be, really. Fetch that drink,
man, before I get all soft again, and another for Miss
Hammond.”

“Aye, lass. So
tell me what you’re doing out here on a night like this. Firstly,
though, take this’un upstairs. I’ll send her a tray and she can
rest safe and sound, out of harm’s way,” he said, and winked at
her, “whilst we talk.”

“Aye, all
right, Ez.” Martha showed a reluctant Abigail up the narrow
twisting stairs into what looked like the loft space. Open thatch
was above her head. Two truckle beds were built into the eaves of
what Abigail felt she had first thought rightly of as a barn. Above
each adjoining bed, end to end was a board to stop the dust and
insects falling onto those who slept below on the straw filled
mattresses. Immediately to her right was a low arch beneath the
cruck frame of the building that led, she presumed, to another bed
chamber, as she could hear someone snoring.

“Be quiet,
lass, don’t go wakin’ up the guests. Now you rest here and a tray
will be sent up. We will call you when the coach arrives.”

Abigail glared
at her, but said nothing.

Martha made her
way back down the stairs.

Abigail was
left with a small oil lamp which flickered as her hand shook. She
felt fear like she had never known before; how she missed the
comfort of Beckton Manor. She stared out of the small leaded window
at floor level at the inn’s gable end; she waited anxiously for the
coach to arrive. Ale, bread and cheese were brought to her. She had
never felt so desperately alone, she was left on her own to stare
at the night by the light of her dwindling lamp, and reflect upon
the day’s events.

She ate without
appetite and drank the noxious fluid, realising she knew nothing of
this world, only what she had read in her father’s study, from his
selection of books.

Abigail
reflected on how stupidly bold her behaviour had been. She could
not help thinking how next time she would stay silent when a
strange door was opened to her, until she could see what or who lay
behind it.

A loud dragging
noise of what sounded like barrel over stone could be heard from
the lower parlour. Abigail leaned over the stairwell, daring
herself to peer down as there were gaps between the planks that
made up the steps. She thought of walking down the stairs to see
what they were doing, bored with her own company, and curious as to
who worked at such an hour in such a solitary place. It seemed a
strange time for a dray to deliver. She peered down the stairs, but
saw that the man in black, wearing a tall hat, smoking a long clay
pipe, was sitting on the bottom two steps. Abigail fell back into
the gloom of the roof space. The sooner she was away from this
place the happier she would be, or so she prayed she would. This
was not how Abigail felt life should be. It was certainly not how
it was going to be. When she arrived at York, Martha Napp was in
for a surprise. Abigail was determined she would take control again
– but the question which concerned her was: How?

Martha returned to an ever more impatient Abigail after what seemed
like an age. The noises from the lower room had ceased and whoever
had been there had left by a back door. Abigail was frightened.
Every shadow, every snore from the other part of the loft space had
unnerved her. She was used to clean light coloured walls, high
ceilings, warm drapes, polished furniture and fine things, not a
draughty open thatch roof with roughly hewn beds beneath it. This,
she thought, was a place for insects, spiders and mice. She had
been secreted away and guarded like a criminal. Her disappointment
in Martha was growing by the minute. How could she think of leaving
her on her own in such a place as this? She glanced at the
slumbering figure in the bed through the small open doorway. Martha
had not even bothered to see that she was settled and well. Was
this how her servant thought it would be from now on? If so,
Abigail reasoned, she should be better off on her own.

“Come, lass,”
Martha gestured to her and looked back down the stair well. She
prayed that the woman had not told this ‘Ezekiel’ of her father’s
money. If she knew she carried this then would they rob her and
return her? No, Martha would be in too much trouble if that
happened as Frederick meant what he said about placing her to work
in Blackman’s asylum.