Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (20 page)

Midway through the telling, Abigail found she could remain prone no longer and rose to a sitting position. Even that was not enough. She swung her feet around to the floor. Her grandmother seemed to understand, for she took Abigail’s hand and led her to the straight-backed parson’s bench beneath the window. The light was even stronger here and lay across her shoulders like a warming hand. Which was very good indeed, for the telling had chilled Abigail to her bones.

When she was finished, her grandmother remained silent for a very long time. Abigail felt no urgent need for her response. Instead, Abigail inspected this woman who was both an intimate part of her life and a new person entirely. Her grandmother had aged into a slender and stately woman. Her hair was pulled back into the same bun as the previous night. A silver and black lacquered hairpin rose like a miniature Spanish fan at the back of her head. A matching brooch was pinned at the collar of her high-waisted dress made from rose-colored linen. The frock shone in the morning light like a late summer flower.

“What are you thinking, Grandmother?”

“That I should not call you Abbie any longer.”

“Have I done something so awful you wish—”

“Oh, my darling child. You have grown up. That is what I mean.” She took hold of her granddaughter’s hand and said solemnly, “I want you to know I am honored you would entrust me with such a secret.”

“I want to ask you something. Will you please be truthful with me?”

“I hope I have always been such, and always will be.”

“I wish the barest of truth, Grandmother. Now that you have heard what I have done, what do you think of me? What do you see when you look at me?”

Her grandmother had her mother’s eyes, now framed by lines and skin turned fragile as porcelain in the light. “An intelligent and adventurous spirit, who until recently was trapped inside a place she yearns to outgrow.”

“You are just saying what you think I want to hear.” When her grandmother did not respond, Abigail pressed, “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because I know your mother,” she replied simply. “Now I want to tell you a secret of my own. When you were very young, the British invaded Washington and burned a great deal of the city to the ground. Your dear childhood friend, Erica Langston Powers, lost her father that day. The family’s business caught on fire. Her father died when a soldier struck him on the head with a musket as he tried to get through the line of soldiers to the water trough. Erica later discovered that the fire was not caused by the British soldiers who invaded Washing- ton. Instead, an unscrupulous London merchant banker used foreknowledge of the British invasion to fire the Langston business. He was holding a great deal of the family’s gold, you see, and he wanted to keep it for himself. But Erica went to England and stayed with your family and successfully forced the banker to return her family’s gold.”

“And while she was there she met Gareth Powers,” Abigail said as she filled in the rest. “They fell in love and then returned to Washington together because William Wilberforce asked them to become involved in America’s battle against the slave trade,” she finished. “I know this, Grandmother.”

“Indeed you do. But what you don’t know is that during the very hard years between the loss of her father and her departure for England, Erica came to me for help. And being the busybody that I am, I gave her advice as well.”

“You’re not a busybody, Grandmother.”

“Oh, that I most certainly am. Just as certainly as your mother, God bless her, would like to go through her entire life without making a single wrong step.”

“Why should she need to?” Abigail felt a great lump of sadness building within. “After all, she has this impetuous daughter who will make more than enough mistakes for the whole family.”

“That I very much doubt.”

Her grandmother’s calm tone defeated her. How could she possibly remain upset with herself when her grandmother did not seem the least bit fazed? “I have a letter for you from Mother.”

“In which I am sure she has been very diplomatic in explaining why you are here. Again, child, I am grateful that you would share your confidences with me as you did.”

“I-I was dreaming that I was back in Newgate Prison, locked up forever.”

“Well, you’re not. You are here in your family’s Georgetown home, safe and sound.” Her grandmother reached around Abigail’s shoulders and hugged her close. “You came to me for help, just as Erica did all those years ago. Shall I give you advice as I did her?”

“Of course, Grandmother.”

“Very well. Here is what I think. Don’t let the world ever take away what makes you unique. And of even more importance, don’t ever count your gift as a burden.”

Abigail sat straight, breaking free of the embrace. “How can you say that? It is this very impetuousness of mine that has caused everyone so much trouble!”

“Gift I said, and gift I mean,” her grandmother said firmly. “The deed may be wrong, but God has given you this characteristic for a reason. There is nothing wrong with impetuousness, if tamed and correctly employed.”

“But . . .” The concept was so novel she had to work her mind around words that could frame her confusion. “How can I use something that causes me to act before I think?”

“I have no idea.” Her grandmother was smiling now, and she gave Abigail another hug. The sunlight seemed to be captured by her grandmother’s features and reflected back in a glow that warmed Abigail’s heart. “Why don’t you take that question to God? After all, it is He who gave you the gift in the first place. Why not see what He has in mind?”

Abigail dressed and went down for breakfast, fearful that the entire household had heard her cries on awakening from her nightmare. She entered the kitchen hesitantly. Gazes all turned her way, inquiring, inspecting. She lowered her head and took aim at the chair her grandmother pulled out for her. A bowl of porridge was settled in front of her, then a steaming cup of tea followed by a little pitcher of fresh cream. Her grandmother began introductions. The cook stood by the stove, preparing her grandfather’s breakfast. A younger woman, the maid, stood polishing silverware by the big rear window. Abigail did not catch their names. She focused upon her bowl of porridge and remained silent after her acknowledging nods.

The door behind her opened and another woman came in, this one introduced as a nurse employed to help with Abigail’s grandfather. He had, according to her grandmother, become increasingly doddery this past year. A man stumped into the kitchen from the rear door, wishing Mrs. Cutter a grand good morning and calling for his tea. He was introduced as the gardener. The kitchen now held six people and felt very cramped. Abigail did not need to lift her head to feel the eyes watching her.

Abigail finished and placed her spoon in the bowl.

“Would you care for more porridge?” her grandmother asked.

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

“Susie, pour the young lady another cup of tea.”

“I’m fine, really, thank you.”

Her grandmother seemed to take that as the signal she had been waiting for. She pulled her chair up close.

“My dear, I want you to tell me about your companion.”

The question was not expected, and Abigail required a moment to understand properly.

“The countess. She really is a titled lady?”

“Y-yes. Her husband was the count of Wantage.”

“Was?”

“He has died.”

“Do you know when?”

Abigail lifted her gaze. “Over a year ago.”

“Land sakes,” the cook said at the stove.

“It’s Providence,” the maid declared as she refilled Mrs. Cutter’s cup. “Mark my words. Providence is here among us this very morn.”

At the end of the table, the gardener asked, “Where is she now?”

“Pacing the front parlor,” the maid reported. “I asked did she want tea, but the lady didn’t hear me at all.”

“Is she as lovely as they are telling me?” the gardener asked.

“You wait till you see her,” the cook answered stoutly. “Take the breath right out of your body, that woman will.”

Her grandmother ignored them all and focused her gaze on Abigail. “How old is she? Do you know?”

“Not for certain,” Abigail replied slowly. “But she has a son.”

“Providence,” the maid said with a firm nod of her head. “Mark my words.”

“How old is the boy?” the cook asked her.

“I’m not . . . Yes, I remember now. Byron is fifteen.”

“That’s not possible,” the cook said, banging her spoon against the pot. “That lady isn’t old enough to have a child nearing man size.”

“But she does. I recall distinctly my parents talking about this.”

Abigail’s grandmother asked, “What can you tell me about her?”

Abigail looked around the room, puzzled by their curiosity. All of them—even the gardener—seemed filled with the most remarkable sense of anticipation. As though they could scarcely wait for something to happen.

“Don’t mind them,” her grandmother said to Abigail’s hesitation. “If you and I were to have this conversation at the bottom of a deep dark well, they’d learn of every word the instant it was spoken.”

“It’s Master Reginald, you see, miss,” the cook explained. “We think ever so much of the gentleman.”

“He’s mourned long enough.” The gardener nodded his agreement. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times.”

“If anyone deserves a bit of joy in his life, it’s that gentleman,” the cook said.

“The finest man to ever walk this earth, Master Reginald is,” the nurse agreed.

“Our Horace is starting a business with him,” Mrs. Cutter explained. “Only it’s not really with Reginald, but with his sister, Mrs. Erica Powers.”

The maid put in, “She’s the brains in that family.”

“Master Reginald is no sluggard,” the cook commented slowly.

“No, but it’s Mrs. Powers what’s driving them forward. Her with the child and the writing and the troubles.”

“Troubles?” Abigail wondered. “What troubles are these?”

“Mrs. Powers, she’s been ever so busy with this anti-slave business,” the maid answered.

“A right tragedy, that is as well,” the gardener agreed. “Worn her down to a nub.”

Her grandmother tapped the table with a the sugar spoon. Just one quick rap. But it was enough to silence the room. She turned to her granddaughter and said, “Erica’s situation can wait. It most certainly isn’t going anywhere, what with this pending presidential election. As for Reginald, my dear, you know of course about his losing his wife in childbirth.”

“Only what Erica wrote in a letter.”

“It was a tragedy such as you can’t imagine,” her grandmother said. “He adored that little lady.”

“Ripped the heart right out of his chest, it did,” the cook said, wiping her eye with the corner of her apron. “Spent these two years mourning. Losing himself in work and pining for his lost lady and their little son.”

The gardener used his cup to point out the front window. “Here comes the gentleman now.”

Abigail’s grandmother bolted to her feet. “All of you, stay right here. I’ll see to the door. Cook, prepare tea. Use the silver teapot and the Meissen porcelain. I’ll serve them myself.”

“Providence,” the maid said as the cook pointed her toward the dining room and the silver service. “You mark my words.”

Chapter 17

Lillian hardly saw the parlor where she had stayed since arising that morning. One set of reasons for distress had been exchanged, not for others, but rather for the same plus even more. Though an ocean apart, she was still caught in the banker’s snare. Piled upon this were pressures that rose from a past she had thought was faded and forgotten. Yet now here it was, coming at her from all sides. These new forces were far more confining than the room’s walls. They went with her everywhere, even into her dreams.

Pages from her son’s letter, written more than a month ago as his gift to her before their separation, dangled from her hand. She had hoped to find a sense of peace in his caring words. Today, however, Byron’s letter only magnified her inner tumult.

She had tossed and turned all night. Her thoughts were like wolves, baying at her heels, tracking her every move. They surrounded her now, their howls so confusing she could not distinguish one from the other.

If only I had not attended that Sabbath service on the boat,
she remonstrated with herself. She would prefer to have remained ill, yes, even that! It had all started then. The feeling remained with her still. That day, for the first time in years, she had felt a spark of hope. She wanted to tell herself it was just a lie. Yet she could not. She yearned for this. She
hungered
to believe it was real. But how could she? For every time her mind touched upon this yearning, she was attacked. She was back in her uncle’s cold house, trapped inside restrictions and rules and silent condemnation. How could a religion that had so confined her soul now give her such a sense of beckoning new life? It was impossible. Oh, if only she could still believe it was impossible! She thought she had reconciled herself to a life of hidden secrets, fear of their disclosure, and now a banker’s blackmail.

But she could not ignore the flame that had been ignited within her. She had sat alongside young Abigail and peered into her very soul. She had seen the truth. Yes. Even now, trapped and hounded as she was, she could not refuse the fact that she had seen there what she did not have, what she had
never
had. And what she so desperately wanted.