Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (24 page)

“Nor I. And shame on you.”

The two ladies shared a look, then began to chuckle. Lillian said, “Now you must help me select something appropriate.”

“First let me bring you tea and toast. Otherwise you will be famished long before dinner.”

Abigail was soon back bearing a tray. “Grandmother is thrilled that you are going.”

“I do hope she won’t introduce me by my title.”

“She won’t need to. Everyone knows.”

Lillian drew in a sharp breath. “They what?”

“Don’t ask me how. But they do.” Her hands were busy with the tea as she talked, with milk and one sugar as Lillian preferred. “Grandmother has been stopped on the street. She has received a pile of notes and invitations. This lady wishes to call. That one wants to invite Mrs. Cutter to an afternoon tea dance. And of course her houseguests must come along.”

“Is this the normal way things happen here in America?”

“Grandmother says she has received more invitations in the past three days than she has in the past two dozen years.” Abigail spread butter liberally over a piece of toast. “Will you take marmalade? Cook cooks it up fresh with figs from our own garden.”

“To tell the truth, I am rather hungry.”

Abigail settled herself in a straight-back chair. “Do you think I should ever fall in love?”

“A lovely young maiden like yourself, I’m astonished it hasn’t already happened.”

“Mother has long since despaired of me. She says I can turn away suitors faster than anyone she has ever met. One young man actually told her he would rather face a brace of pistols on a dueling ground at dawn than spend another hour in my company.”

Lillian lifted a second piece of toast from the plate. “Umm, this marmalade is delicious. I’m sure the young man did not mean that.”

“He did, I fear.”

“But whatever for?”

“I informed him that I failed to see how his money permitted him to harbor such a vast collection of miserable failings.”

“Oh Abigail, I wish I could have heard it!” They both laughed.

“My mother says I am both impetuous and incorrigible,” Abigail said. “Do you suppose she is right?”

“Impetuous, certainly. And I find it one of your most endearing traits.”

“Then you will forgive me for asking you again why you were so morose for the second half of our journey. I thought you were deathly ill.”

“Ill, yes. But in spirit only.” Lillian was tempted to tell her the whole story then and there. But she quailed at the prospect.

“I’m sorry . . . Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes. Please do not be concerned.” Lillian tried hard to reassure the anxious young woman. “It has to do with something I wish to speak with you about this afternoon, you see.”

“I suppose if we start now we should be late for church,” remarked Abigail slowly.

“Precisely.”

“You may find this difficult to believe, but I positively detest having to wait for anything.” Again their laughter mingled in the morning sunlight.

Lillian said briskly, “Now you really must show me what might be a proper gown for church.”

The day was sunny but blustery, with a slight hint of bite to the wind. Lillian wore a spare cloak from Mrs. Cutter. Abigail had pulled a similar one from the recesses of her trunk. The charcoal gray cloaks made a suitably somber impression. For the journey to church Lillian sat alone on the carriage seat, facing a frail Mr. Cutter with his wife holding his arm on one side and Abigail on his other. With every jostle or turn, Mr. Cutter threatened to slip from his seat. But Abigail and her grandmother’s steadying hands kept him upright. He examined the world outside with alert eyes, and twice when their gazes met he gave Lillian an observant smile.

When they arrived at church, Lillian remained in the coach with him while the other two saw to his chair. The old man said to his houseguest, “I fear I have made rough going of my duties as host, my lady.”

“Nonsense, sir. I could not have been made more welcome to your wonderful home and family.”

He attempted to dab a wet spot at the corner of his mouth, but his shaking hand could not seem to make proper contact. Lillian moved to the seat beside him. “Here, sir. Allow me.”

He permitted her to take the handkerchief from his grasp and apply it to his mouth. “It is a sad day when I must rely on a grand lady such as yourself to dry my chin.”

“Sir, I must tell you . . .” She had to stop there. For reasons she could not explain, the small gesture of assistance had left her throat closed with emotion. She swallowed. “I have never known a finer family, nor felt more indebted to new friends, than with your household. They do you great credit, sir. They are . . .”

Mr. Cutter studied her anew. “Yes?”

She forced herself to continue. “They somehow humble me at the same time they are showing such great care.”

He sighed, a contented sound. “I do so appreciate my Sabbath meetings. So long as I can make the journey to church each week, my life is not in vain.”

“No matter what happens to you, sir, no matter how cruel life’s hand may turn, I assure you with all my heart your days are far from futile.”

“I see my wife was correct in her thinking.” Outside the open carriage door, the coach driver had unlashed the wicker chair with its wooden wheels. As the driver lowered it, Mr. Cutter went on, “You will take an old man’s advice?”

“With deepest gratitude.”

“My wife tells me you do not share our faith.”

“I-I regret to say I do not.” She wanted to add
yet
but held back for reasons she could not have explained.

“Might I ask why?”

“I . . .” Lillian stopped when Mrs. Cutter reappeared in the carriage doorway.

Her husband said, “May I have a moment longer with the countess?”

“I can hear them beginning with the music,” Mrs. Cutter began, but stopped as she looked at her husband.

“We won’t be long.” He turned back to Lillian. “You were saying?”

“I would be so grateful if you would not let titles stand between us, sir.”

A trembling hand waved the air between them. “We were addressing the issue of faith, madam.”

“I was raised by a vicar and his wife. It was not a pleasant experience.”

“Ah. A forlorn and loveless home, I take it.”

“Such that I can scarce call it a home at all, sir.”

He studied one of several stains on his greatcoat. “Such experiences are near impossible to overcome.”

The absence of platitudes struck her hard. “Yes?”

He lifted his gaze to hers, revealing a trace of the power that had certainly once filled his now frail frame. “Without God, madam. Without God we are but bruised reeds, ever threatened by the prospect of being crushed by life’s uncaring millstone. Without God we are nothing, our lives worthless, our days an endless circular tread. Without God we stand condemned, doomed to a life without the precious gift of hope.”

There were many people awaiting them by the church doorway. Reginald stood among them, and it seemed to Lillian that all the others faded slightly. Reginald did not speak, but she could feel his gaze on her face. Lillian endured an endless stream of introductions, wishing she were back on that windswept hill with him again.

Horace pushed the wheelchair holding his father up the brick path. Alongside Horace now stood his wife, Beatrice, and four strapping young lads, all in dark suits and hand-tied bows. Reginald was joined by his sister Erica and her young daughter, Hannah. Abigail was on her knees, adjusting the child’s petticoats and chattering in a soft manner. The child smiled shyly in reply. Lillian knew she should be paying attention, yet her mind seemed capable of just two thoughts: Reginald’s presence and the old man’s words.

The Bridge Street Church’s cornerstone announced that it had been erected in 1782. The edifice was stone and wood, the interior gloriously unadorned. They hung their wraps on wooden pegs in the vestibule. Lillian was wearing the most sedate dress she had brought, a blue velvet with pale chalky stripes running from hem to neckline. They walked up the central aisle as the congregation rose to sing a hymn. Lillian could feel eyes watching the progress of the group to the Cutter family pew, and she heard someone whisper
countess
as she passed. But it could not distract her from the feeling that she was in a hallowed place.

And hallowed it was. Of that she had no doubt. A line of whitewashed iron pillars marched down either side of the church, supporting a broad balcony encircling the rear. The same intensity of spirit she had felt beneath the ship’s billowing white canopy was here as well. Perhaps it was even stronger, she reflected as she slipped into the pew. The group accompanying Lillian filled two entire rows. The pews were entered through little waist-high doors, upon which were named the families who occupied them.

The song ended, the pastor spoke words of welcome, and a second hymn began. A well-worn book was slipped into Lillian’s hands. She did not need it. She knew the words. Oh yes. She knew them intimately.

She had first known of her musical gift when she was seven years old. Long before then, she had loved singing. In fact, it was one of her greatest joys in an otherwise colorless childhood. Lillian had sung with all her heart. Perhaps she had done it for as long as she had known the hymns. But when she was seven, she began to experiment with sounds. At the time Lillian had not known such words as chord structure and tonal elements. Nor could she read music. She had merely wondered one Sunday what would happen if she sang a different note below or above the melody. Would this not add something to the music? She had done so very softly at first. Even then, several of the people around them had stopped singing and listened to the child. The young Lillian found great pleasure in this. She had never had anyone look at her in such a way before. The weeks passed, and she became increasingly comfortable with this exploration. She began to move further and further from the hymn’s standard course. And those clear, confident tones were noticed by her uncle from the pulpit.

Lillian stood in the pew and recalled that horrid night. How her uncle had thrashed her after church! He had called her a bad seed. She remembered it vividly. He had said there was no hope for her. Her uncle had declared that Lillian carried all the elements of doom, just like the one who was lost to them now, another singer who had let her voice take her off into the dark. Lillian had not understood her uncle at the time. But she had seen the rage in his eyes and his voice and his hand as he commanded her to never sing like that again. And she had obeyed him. Until she ran away.

Lillian realized her eyes had clouded over. And at the worst possible moment. The pastor had done something quite remarkable. He had invited the congregation to offer the sign of peace to one another. And then he himself came down from the pulpit and was now walking toward her!

Lillian wiped the tears that marred the carefully applied powder upon her cheeks. The pastor did not seem to notice. He took her hand in both of his and welcomed her. Welcomed her so warmly, in fact, that the tears fell even harder.

Then she was being turned and other hands were taking her own. So many people wished to greet her. And she could see none of them clearly.

Abigail leaned across the people between them to take both Lillian’s hands and say, “Sabbath blessings to you.”

Lillian could not reply, so she merely squeezed Abigail’s hands.

“Grandfather asks if you might wish to come sit beside him.”

She did not know why this offered the solace it did. But Lillian slipped past the people and waited while a place was made for her at the end of the pew. Mr. Cutter remained in his wheelchair, positioned alongside in the aisle. She seated herself, reached over the little swinging door, and allowed the old man’s quivering hand to take her own. For some reason that simple gesture permitted her to regain control of her emotions.

The congregation now began another hymn. Holding Mr. Cutter’s hand gave her the excuse to remain seated and silent. She opened the hymnal and set it in the old man’s lap. She read the words along with him as the congregation sang.

Christ, Whose glory fills the skies,

Christ, the true, the only Light.