Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (19 page)

“We have spaces held for us in the first barge,” Abigail told her companion. She spoke with the gentle cadence of one addressing a child. “We should arrive in Georgetown by early evening.”

Lillian glanced over the side of the ship and inspected the barge far below. “Our luggage?”

“I’ve already seen everything but your small hand case on board.”

This time the captain inserted himself so closely Lillian had no choice but to accept his presence. “It has been an honor to have you on board, Countess.”

“I cannot thank you enough, sir,” she replied. Her words were perfect, her manners impeccable. But Abigail knew her companion well enough to realize that Lillian was not really there at all. “Both for seeing us along this journey and for your hospitality.”

He bent over the offered hand. “It would be an honor to welcome you on board again soon, my lady.”

Abigail assumed the conversation was over and began leading Lillian toward the temporary stairs leading down to the barge. But again the captain stepped forward. “A word of advice, my lady.”

“Yes?”

“The Yanks, well, ma’am, that is . . .” He fumbled with his thoughts for a moment. “Might I ask where you are headed?”

“That depends upon a number of things out of our control, sir. But I would imagine a journey into the interior is required. We are thinking of acquiring land, you see.”

The captain nodded, as though his suspicions had been confirmed. “In that case, my lady, you’d best be aware that there are those among the frontiersmen who don’t take kindly to titled folk.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

“They’re seen as land-grabbers, ma’am. Speculators, they’re called. Folks who are not interested in farming, or even clearing the land. Just paying top dollar for the best and the biggest, then holding it for gain or even just for prestige.”

“That is not my intent at all, sir.”

“They won’t be knowing that, my lady.”

“Indeed not.” For the first time that day, Lillian seemed to draw the world into focus. “You are saying it would be best to refrain from mentioning who I am. I am indeed most grateful, sir. Come, Abigail. I see the others are on board and await us.”

But as soon as they were settled into the bow station and the barge was cast free, Lillian seemed to return to her internal world. For once, however, Abigail refused to be affected by her companion’s secret ailment. The surroundings were simply too captivating.

Thankfully, the sun lanced through the sky’s coverlet. But the wind held its aim straight for their faces. The swift-flowing current and the wind proved too strong an adversary for the barge’s six oars. They halted a brief distance upstream as two strong horses were attached to a yoke and long lead rope. One of the oarsmen led the horses on a path alongside the river, while another rode backward and kept an eye on both the line and the barge. All traffic moving downstream kept to the opposite bank. Their progress remained slow but constant.

The landscape was varied and beautiful. Gentle hills seemed carved by the farms that blanketed their sides. There was a prosperous and contented air. The hamlets were far more open and expansive than the villages Abigail knew in England. There were neither ancient fortress walls nor tightly restricted lanes curving through densely clustered houses. And the air was rich with scents—autumn foliage and late fruit and woodsmoke and the river’s sweet smell.

Her first sighting of Georgetown was a shock. Even Lillian roused from her reverie enough to ask what the matter was. Abigail replied, “I-I don’t recall it being so—so large, important looking.”

“When were you last here?”

“Four years ago. But most of my time was spent with my father’s family in New York.” Abigail stared at the sight drawing steadily into view. “I do not recognize anything.”

The port of Georgetown was nowhere near as expansive as London’s eastern docklands. Yet the noise and bustle resounded across the waters and punched at her chest. Even as dusk fell upon the river and the surrounding hills, the activity continued. A constant stream of heavily laden wagons plied back and forth at quayside. Men shouted and horses neighed and an endless line of stevedores shifted cargo. Scores of blacksmiths pounded steel in a neighboring open-sided building. Farther upstream a dozen mills spouted great plumes from brick smokestacks.

As the barge pulled alongside one of the long piers, men swiftly appeared and began off-loading cargo, shouting so harshly Abigail could not make out the words. She could not even tell if they were speaking English. Their hands and arms and faces were black with dirt and sweat, and they were never still. Everything about the place seemed frenetic and jarring.

The passengers were shepherded up the landing and off to one side. Abigail identified all their baggage, counted the pieces a second time, then allowed one of the jostling carriage drivers to load their goods. Everything seemed to be taking place at an impossibly swift pace, as though the entire scene were driven by some unseen hand.

Once away from the river port, however, Abigail was reassured by familiar sights. She had found herself wondering if everything would be alien. Yet here she was, traveling down a long cobblestone street that she was almost positive she had been on before.

They turned one corner, another, and a third. And she cried out loud.

“What is it?”

“There’s the house.” The familiar redbrick Colonial house with its emerald green shutters welcomed her with its memories. “That is where . . .”

“Yes?”

Abigail alighted before the carriage had fully halted. “Hurry!”

“Abigail, wait a moment, please.”

She forced herself to turn back. “Yes, what is it?”

Lillian said, “Perhaps I should have the driver take me on to a hotel. Your grandparents do not expect us, you see. As I have noted before, most certainly they are not prepared for a stranger arriving from halfway around the globe at dusk—”

Abigail could listen no longer. The house was there and beckoning, with candles in the windows just like she remembered from childhood. She wheeled about and tossed back over her shoulder, “Oh, Lillian, I
know
they won’t hear of you staying any place but here.”

A narrow brick walkway led from the street to the three-story manor. Abigail lifted her skirts and raced beneath the magnolia tree and the dogwood, the cherry tree and the dark-leafed maple she had climbed as a child. She flew up the six steps where she had danced and spun her childhood fantasies.

She paused there a moment, resisting the urge to turn the polished brass handle and call to the house. Abigail smoothed her dress, patted her hair, and pushed her hat into place. She wished suddenly for a hand mirror to check her appearance. But there was nothing to be done about that now, nor any way to correct the ravages of wind and sea. She raised the knocker and hammered once, twice, three times.
What if they are not at home?

The wait seemed as long as their sea voyage. Finally the door was opened by a housemaid in starched apron. “Yes?”

“Is Mrs. Cutter at home?”

“Who should I say is calling?”

“I . . . Please excuse me, but I’d rather it be a surprise.”

“Who is it, Matilda?” came from behind the maid.

“She won’t say, ma’am.”

“Won’t say?” A slender woman with her hair pulled back in a steel-gray bun entered the front hall. “Why on earth not?”

Then the older woman faltered. She gripped her throat with one hand.

“Mrs. Cutter? Ma’am? Are you all right?”

Abigail stepped into the light. But she could not say precisely what was happening, because the room now was swimming. She bit her lip and wiped at her eyes.

A voice called, “Mother? What is the matter?”

A man appeared in the side entryway. Abigail recognized him instantly as her uncle Horace, after whom her brother was named. “Who is this, Mother?” Horace questioned once more.

But her grandmother did not speak.

Abigail took a very shaky breath and said, “Good evening, Grandmother.”

“Oh, my dear, sweet child.” The older woman came rushing forward now, her arms outstretched. She embraced Abigail with the force of one who had yearned for years. “My dear darling Abbie, you’ve grown up on me.”

After awkward hugs with Horace, she was brought into the front parlor where her grandfather struggled to rise from his chair. Abigail recalled a burly man with a great booming voice and pockets full of sweets for his granddaughter, not this ailing man with snow-white hair and limbs that could not stop their shaking. She wept then, both for joy and for all the years that were lost to her.

When she regained a semblance of control, Abigail was introduced to a man she did not recognize but instantly knew his name. Reginald Langston was Erica’s brother. He was a tall, strong-looking man with a handsome face. And Abigail felt her heart pierced anew by that strange mixture of sorrow and joy, for she could see in his features a mirror image of her childhood friend. Erica Langston, now married to Gareth Powers, had been the most wonderful person in Abigail’s young world. And now she stood before Erica’s brother and again felt a rushing back through the years, echoes of long discussions with Erica about her family and friends.

But the man did not completely reflect the descriptions Erica had drawn of her brother. Both in their time together in England and in the letters that had followed her return to America, Erica had described her brother as full of joy and energy and great good humor. Yet this handsome man now stood motionless by the fireplace with a slightly haunted look upon his well-carved features. Then Abigail remembered a letter, some two years back, relating how Reginald Langston’s beloved wife had died in childbirth. The baby had died just hours after the mother. A son, if she recalled correctly. Erica had noted that her brother had taken this very hard. Even now, two years later, the stain of sorrow remained in his gaze.

Abigail abruptly remembered Lillian. “Forgive me, Grandmother, but my companion awaits outside in the carriage.”

“My goodness, child, why on earth did you not invite her in?”

Abigail decided any longer explanation could wait. “She has not been particularly well. The journey was very hard on her.”

“Even more the reason to bring her in out of the night.”

“She was thinking that perhaps she should find lodging in a hotel. I assured her that you—”

“After escorting my granddaughter all the way from England? And with six upstairs rooms sitting empty? I won’t hear of such a thing.” Mrs. Cutter hurried to the front door.

Soon enough there came the sounds of protest outside the entrance. “Surely you must understand, madam. I have no wish to intrude upon your reunion—”

“I understand nothing of the kind” was the firm response. “You are a friend of my family, and I will not hear any further discussion of your staying anywhere but with us. Now up the stairs with you, if you please.”

Abigail’s grandmother propelled Lillian forward with a firm grip upon her arm. The woman looked to protest further, but Mrs. Cutter was busy with her own arrangements. “Horace, be so good as to see to the carriage and their luggage. Granddaughter, perhaps you might formally introduce your companion.”

“Yes, please, I would be most happy to do so. This is the Countess of Wantage, Lady Lillian Houghton.”

“Eh? What’s that you say?” A trace of her grandfather’s stout manner returned. “We’re entertaining a countess this night?”

Abigail nodded and looked at Lillian, who stood frozen in the doorway, her hand to her throat. Abigail followed Lillian’s gaze across to where Reginald Langston stood by the mantel. If anything, he was even more still than Lillian.

Chapter 16

Abigail moaned in terror. She was back in Newgate Prison, crouched in the narrow recess between the empty fireplace and the side wall. The association room, the jailer called it, leering at her as he rattled his keys.

Everything she thought had come since then had been only a dream. The surprise arrival of Lady Houghton, the anguish she caused her family, the meetings with Wilberforce, the travel to America. All a myth, a fabrication created by her fevered mind.

She had only imagined that a countess would appear like a delivering angel to sweep her away. Abigail struggled to see the fetid room with its flickering shadows and gloomy tallow candles, and knew she would never escape. Never.

The far door opened. The creaking hinges sounded like the wails of prisoners trapped inside forever. The stone walls glistened with centuries of tears.

The jailer entered, his stained leather apron stretched taut over his enormous belly. He started walking toward her, jangling his keys like a snake rattling its tail. She saw in his hard flashing gaze all the unthinkable dreads that made up his daily life. And now were hers as well.

She awoke calling out in panic.

“Child, child, I heard your whimpers in my dressing room.” Her grandmother’s voice and hand soothed her. “I thought at first it was a kitten.” Mrs. Cutter set the hairbrush she had carried with her down on the bedside table. “There, shah now, you’re safe and sound. Open your eyes, my darling little girl.”

“I had the most awful nightmare!”

“Look at you, trembling like a leaf. Your nightclothes are drenched. Do you have a fever?” Her grandmother pressed the back of her hand to Abigail’s forehead. “No, you feel all right. Come, let’s get you into some dry clothes.”

Abigail allowed herself to be treated like a young child. The nightdress was pulled over her head, and a fresh one was slipped on and buttoned up the front. She was settled back into bed and the covers were nestled under her chin. Her grandmother stroked her forehead. “There. Do you feel better now?”

“It was the most awful of dreams, Grandmother.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

The fact was, she did. She lay there snuggled deep in the bed where she had slept as a little child. The room had been reserved for her whenever she had visited her mother’s family in Georgetown. The morning light was strong and clear and golden. It poured through the window across from her bed and vividly illuminated each detail in contrast to all the appalling memories. But it was not of the nightmare that Abigail spoke. Instead, she told of the reality that had brought her to America.