Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (10 page)

The intent examination returned. “And if I refuse?”

“You will not,” she said simply. “You know you cannot hold this blade poised over me forever. This gives you what I want, and vice versa. Does that not make up an ideal bargain?”

“I will consider . . .” Something outside the window distracted him.

“What is it?”

“A carriage has pulled up in front of your house.” His eyes widened. “It is the Aldridges!”

“Step away from there!” She leaped to her feet. “Did they see you?”

He glanced out. “Apparently not. What are they doing here?”

“Did I not say I was with them in their hour of need? Where is your own carriage?”

“I came from the bank by transom.”

“This way!” She opened the parlor’s rear door and said to the startled maid, “Bring the gentleman’s cloak!”

“I had none,” Bartholomew told her.

“Follow me.” She hastened down the narrow servant’s hallway and through the kitchen. Lillian unbolted the rear door and ushered him out. When Bartholomew stood upon the rear stoop, she said, “You risk undermining your own cause by coming here. From now on you will send written word, and I shall present myself to your premises when I am able.”

Before he could reply, she shut the door in his face.

Lillian turned back to face the cook and said, “It appears we are to have additional guests, these far more welcome than the last.”

The cook understood instantly. “There’s some of the lovely cherry gateau I made up for yesterday’s visitors.”

“Serve that with tea for three perhaps, or four—I’m not certain.”

“Very good, mum.”

She heard the front bellpull jingle and hurried back down the hall. She arrived in the main foyer just as the maid was about to answer the door. “Remain as you are for one moment, please.”

“Yes, mum.”

Lillian turned to the oval hall mirror. Her appearance was one of the few givens that remained steadfast in her life. It was her eyes she wanted to inspect. What precisely had Bartholomew observed? The sky-blue irises stared back at her, as lovely and placid as ever.

Lillian was struck by a sudden urge to give the banker nothing. She studied her reflection and wondered how such a perilous concept could grip her with such wrenching force. No matter how appealing the prospect, to refuse to do Bartholomew’s bidding meant to risk everything. Were she to fail him, Lillian had no doubt whatever the banker would destroy her. Yet her mind returned once more to the utter goodness in Lavinia Aldridge. And her daughter. No matter what nonsense the broadsheets might be spouting. She had seen the young woman in her direst hour declare that she would only accept freedom if her friends were released as well. What a remarkable strength of will this young woman held. So very much like a younger Lillian, she reflected. And so very different.

Yet with the blade hung poised over her head, what could she possibly do? Lillian found no pleasure in the fact that her features shone with the lie of surreal calm. A life of lies, she mused. Why was she growing so distressed over just a few more?

The bell jangled a second time.

“My lady?”

Lillian touched a perfectly coiffed strand of hair, smoothed the collar to her frock, and turned from the mirror. “You may open the door.”

As soon as she heard the front door’s jangling bell, Abigail knew it was for her. She had been expecting the call, had known ever since Sunday morning that it had to come. Even before Horace came trumping up the stairs and down the long central hallway, she knew it was a visitor for her. Which was why, when her brother knocked upon her door, Abigail was already at her little dressing table.

“Come in.”

“Nora is downstairs.”

Abigail buttoned her collar and refitted the little cloth fasteners at the wrists. “Thank you, brother.”

“Are you all better now?”

That was all it took, and the tears started pressing against her eyes. As if she had not already cried enough for an entire lifetime.

But Horace did not notice. “I hate it around the house these days.”

Abigail could only nod her mournful agreement.

He took her silence as license to continue. “It’s no
fun
. It used to be so jolly here. Why can’t things go back to the way they were before?”

Abigail’s curls defied easy grooming. She had two brushes, one stiff enough to force its way through the tightest knots. She used the other one now, so soft it did little save polish the red surface. She picked up the powder puff and dusted her cheeks. The paleness of her complexion caused every tiny freckle to stand out like a beacon.

Horace was ten years old and tall for his age. He wore stout corded trousers and boots and a starched white shirt. He was attending a local grammar school and was scheduled to enroll at Eton beginning the next term. He was both eager to go and frightened at the prospect of leaving home, which only added to his foul mood. He kicked at the doorframe and muttered, “Nora’s man is downstairs with her. I don’t like him.”

Abigail turned from her dressing table and opened her arms. “Come here.”

Horace had long been a great friend, the little man of her life. She found him utterly exasperating at times, of course. He was, after all, a younger brother.

He allowed her to hug him, something he was growing to detest as he grew older. “Are you all better now?” he asked again.

Abigail hugged him harder still and found herself recalling him as a baby. How he wriggled when she held him, and the way he smelled. And how much he cried. Baby Horace had always seemed to be squalling.

Abigail released him and stood. Strange how her younger brother was the only one whose presence seemed to calm her. “Come.”

Horace took her hand, the most natural gesture in the world. And why not? He had been doing it all his life. “Why did she have to bring that man with her?”

“His name is Tyler. Tyler Brock.”

“He sniffs when he talks to me. Like this.” Horace snorted like a mule with the grippe.

“Don’t make such sounds.”

But he had caught the hint of a smile in her voice. So he made the noise again, even louder this time. “It’s ever so annoying.”

Abigail heard their voices in the front parlor and tightened her grip upon Horace’s hand. She would be strong. “The house is so quiet.”

“It’s the Talbots’ half day off,” Horace said, glancing at her in surprise.

“Of course.” She had no idea what day it was. Time had mingled together in a colorless muddle, and for the first time she could remember, the days had not seemed an hour or so too short. Now it was the exact opposite. Now the clock seemed to taunt her with the impossibly slow passage of empty minutes. Particularly the nights. She had come to dread hearing the hours chime away.

“And Mother and Father are off on some errand.” Horace hesitated, then added, “I heard them talking before they left. It was about you.”

But they had arrived at the parlor door. Abigail released her brother’s hand, lifted her chin, and took a deep breath.

Horace caught the change. His worried expression returned. “Are you quite all right?”

There was no way she could answer that honestly and not worry him further. “Do you think you could be the proper English gentleman and serve us tea?”

“I’ve done it for Mother before.”

“Of course you have. Don’t burn yourself with the kettle.”

He gave her a look full of a ten-year-old’s disdain and turned away.

Abigail opened the parlor door and entered the front room. “Hello, Nora.”

“Well. I’m surprised you even remember my name.” Her dearest friend came over and embraced her. “Especially after ignoring me like you did on Sunday.”

Abigail could not quite suppress the shudder over hearing the day so casually referred to. The church service had been a scalding affair. People she had counted as friends all her life long had seared her with their looks. She had been shunned.

The same as the previous Sunday. And it was all to happen again next Sunday. And every Sunday after that.

Abigail forced herself to confront the slender young man and his knowing smirk. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brock.”

Tyler Brock was a fastidious man who used a pungent oil on his hair. Stray curls popped up here and there, glistening in the afternoon light. He was sharp featured and favored high collars with brightly colored foulards. His lips were a tight red line. “Miss Abigail. I trust you are well?”

That particular question deserved no response. Abigail said to Nora, “I have asked Horace to serve tea. I fear it shall be dreadful.”

“Oh, good heavens, Abigail. Who cares about tea?” Nora’s hands were busy, fluttering about, as though trying desperately to keep her nerves bundled up. “I came to see
you
.”

“Did you?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Won’t you sit down?” Abigail hesitated, then clasped her friend’s arm and pulled her over to the sofa even while directing Tyler to the one opposite.

“How
are
you?” began Nora.

“You know perfectly well how I am.”

“My parents were frightfully upset. I’m sure it’s been just dreadful.”

Abigail found she could not bear it. The tearing sensation in her heart was awful. Here she sat, next to her dearest friend in the entire world, and there were so many things she desperately wanted to share with her. But she couldn’t. Particularly while her young man sat opposite them, watching Abigail with such disdain.

“Won’t you talk with me, Abigail? Aren’t we still friends?”

“Of course we are.” But Tyler was such a distraction, she could not put much strength into the words. “I’m so sorry I got you into such trouble, Nora.”

“It was rather tense around the house, I don’t mind telling you.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “My mother was so upset when she heard I’d been in Soho, she took to her bed for three days.”

Abigail found Tyler’s tight little grin was visible no matter how she turned in her seat. So she stopped trying to ignore him and instead confronted him directly. “Did Nora’s parents insist upon your coming along, Mr. Brock?”

“They suggested that Nora might care for some company.”

“And you always do what your betters say, don’t you?”

He was not to be cowed. “I find it keeps me in good stead with those in positions of responsibility. As you no doubt are fully aware now.”

“Tyler,” Nora protested nervously, “you promised.”

Normally such a comment would have been enough to raise Abigail’s temper to the boiling point. Today, however, she observed the young man as from a very great distance. “What about adventure, Mr. Brock?”

“What about it?”

“Do you not find yourself yearning to be involved in the new horizons unfolding about us?”

He removed a fleck of lint from his trousers. “Hardly.”

Somehow the act of speaking was enough to ease the pressure in her heart. She spoke as much for herself as for Tyler. As though she plumbed her own reasons for acting as she had.

“They say we are entering into a new age, Mr. Brock. One of great industrial might. One where inventions will transform the way we live our lives.”

Nora seemed pleased that for once they were not quarreling. She offered, “Father is very excited by the prospects of steam.”

Tyler Brock had developed his sniff into an exact science. “Mr. Mills, the general director of our firm, feels all this interest in steam is utter stuff and nonsense. A flash in the pan. A momentary sensation, a distraction, nothing more. The horse is as perfect a form of transport as will ever be developed.”

Abigail waited a moment, hoping Nora might disagree. But of course her oldest friend merely sat and looked adoringly at her fiancé.

Abigail asked him, “And what of all the great strides made in exploration? New lands being discovered, new peoples identified, the westward expansion in America. Does all this not thrill you?”

“I find nothing quite so thrilling as the careful measure of accounts, the knowledge of a good day’s wage for a good day’s work, and the probability of a long future lived in this fair land.”

“With me,” Nora added brightly.

“But so much is happening, so much is changing,” Abigail protested. Yet her voice remained mild. She was too busy listening to her own thoughts being expressed to find Tyler irritating. After all, she knew his responses even before she spoke. “The broadsheets are filled with this newest land sale in America. They call it the greatest such expansion in the history of humankind.”

Nora asked, “You read the papers?”

Abigail turned to look at her friend. Her oldest, sweetest, and dearest friend. “Every day,” she quietly replied.

Tyler Brock inquired, “And does your good father know of this?”

“He observes me from time to time,” she responded, not taking her eyes from her friend. “But I doubt he is aware how avidly I study the information.”

“I would have thought,” he paused for a sniff, “that you would have learned by now the perils of such misbehavior.”

Thankfully Horace chose that moment to knock and enter. He balanced the tray with great diligence and had even donned a jacket to give himself a proper appearance. He concentrated so hard his forehead creased in a dozen furrows as he poured the tea and offered each a cup. As Abigail had expected, the tea was so weak as to appear almost clear. “You have done a marvelous job, Horace. I can’t thank you enough.”