Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (4 page)

"Ah."

I tensed as his fingers possessed my jaw, tilting my head up. His long-lashed gaze was probing, unrelenting, and the fear arose again:
what he might discover
? The pressure was building in my chest. By some magnetic force he was drawing the truth from its dark depths; I held onto it, caging it with the might of my breath. The tug-of-war persisted. His will against mine. And yet another force attacked me, this time from within. A betraying whisper, a furtive craving.

See me, see me
...

He let me go. Utterly, and with enough force for me to stumble back a step. He gave a harsh laugh. "A maid with a goddess' eyes."

"My lord?" The words emerged, half-sound, half-breath.

"
Sea-grey eyes, ready mind, heart to remember a thing.
"

"One of the H-Homeric Hymns," I stammered.

Sardonic humor edged the earl's mouth. "Bright-eyed Abigail, who sees and knows all. A worldly innocent. The question remains, what is to be done with you?"

I felt myself teetering between my rational mind and a deeper, more compelling force. My good sense told me I should look for work elsewhere, that the danger of the man before me outweighed even that of the unknown. Yet for some inexplicable reason, the danger itself called to me. Mysterious and lulling, it somehow whispered of belonging, of finding a place for my burdened soul.

Better the devil you know
, I reasoned.

"I should like to stay. H-here, at Hope End." My throat cinched, preventing me from taking back the words.

His dark lashes cast shadows against his cheek. When they lifted, eyes of smoldering sapphire met mine. "And in what capacity shall I keep you, Abigail?"

Surely he was not suggesting ... My pulse drummed even faster as an iniquitous image stole into my mind. My eyes flicked intuitively toward the desk, and heat broke over my skin. The memory of that cool, unyielding wood beneath my back and the burning, rigid strength pressing me down ...

Mortified, I realized that he was perusing me, his eyes knowing, a slight flush on the crest of his cheekbones. My heart thudded against my ribs.

"I am a
maid
," I choked out.

"You know too many of my secrets," he said.

"I would never say anything about ... what happened." Nor would I think of it again, I vowed to myself. If I was to be given this second chance, I would not give into any more madness. I would not break into libraries, I would not peep from beneath desks, and I would
definitely
not entertain any more improper thoughts about my master. "I give you my word, my lord. You can trust me."

His eyes hooded. Something flickered behind those lids. A hidden pain, perhaps a memory. "That would not be the first time I heard that from a woman."

"I would not betray my word," I protested. "I swear upon my soul that not a word shall pass through my lips about what I saw."

Silence descended, and I felt my destiny totter on its heavy fulcrum.

"Priceless collateral indeed," he said mockingly. He straightened, and I had to tilt my head up to see his expression. "Your services are no longer required as a maid."

A trembling sense of defeat overtook me. I supposed I ought to have been relieved that the decision had been taken out of my hands, that by default my good sense would prevail. But my head lowered as if I had no longer the strength to hold it up.

"You are hereby rehired ... in the position of personal secretary. To me."

My chin snapped up. Disbelief usurped despair. Had I heard correctly? He wanted me to be his ...
secretary
? The very notion, 'twas outlandish. A
female
secretary? One who was presently a chamber maid at that?

Like marbles, humiliated anger spilled within me. The mixture of my desperation with his levity was too much to bear. How could he poke fun at my wretched expense?

"I can only suppose you enjoy your own wit, my lord," I said rashly. "I, for one, find it entirely lacking."

His brow inched upward. "Is this how one responds to an offer of employ, Miss Jones?"

"When it is given in jest, yes." Goaded beyond caring, I said with prim censure, "'Tis a display of poor taste and judgment to make fun of those less fortunate."

If I thought to my rile my employer, I was destined for disappointment.

Unbelievably, his lips
twitched
.

"In the future," he said, "remind me never to offend you."

Before I could come up with a reply, he continued, "Though you may find me lacking in both wit and judgment, Miss Jones, I am in all seriousness. I do not intend to belittle you or your situation. I wish only to hire you on. As my secretary."

"But why?" I blurted.

"Because I need a secretary, and you need a job." His eyes held a glint of impatience now, and I recalled why his previous secretary had left. "Your duties will include handling my correspondence and organizing my personal affairs. At times, you will be asked to assist Mr. Creagan, my man of business. Everything you do must be carried out with the utmost discretion. Your first task will be to put this library into some semblance of order. You are up to this, I presume?"

Still doubtful, I gave a perturbed nod.

"We will meet weekly to discuss your duties; otherwise, you are free to plan your schedule as you please. Your wages will be adjusted to five pounds per month." He gave me an indifferent look. "This is acceptable to you?"

Acceptable?
I had to prevent my jaw from falling. Five pounds was a veritable fortune! 'Twas more than three times what I earned as a maid. I could scarce keep up with his words, so stunned was I by this proposed rise in my circumstance.

"There is one final condition."

A fine trembling overtook my limbs as I saw my fragile new dreams vaporizing. So this was it: he'd seduced me with the promise of respect, and now he would make an immoral proposal. I struggled to think of a properly acerbic set down—

"You are not to discuss my affairs with anyone. Not the other staff—and this includes Mrs. Beecher, who I understand was responsible for your hiring. If I take you on, your loyalty will belong to me and me alone. Is that understood?"

Torn between relief and apprehension, I stared at him. "Only my loyalty, then," I said finally. "My person is my own."

A shadow crossed the earl's face, hardening his jaw and transforming his eyes to obsidian. "Your virtue is safe with me, Miss Jones. You have my word. But I'll have yours as well. I'll countenance no deception, no matter how large or small. You must never lie to me. I will know it if you do, and you won't like the consequences."

My heart lodged in my throat. What would he think of my secret, if he knew? As my eyes traced the perfect, pitiless contours of my employer's face, I found my answer. He'd have no more use for a mad secretary than the villagers had had for a freakish little girl. Gulping, I realized what I would be committing to: deceit in the form of omission. Day after day, I would have to guard my affliction from this shrewd and volatile man. If I slipped, if the truth was to emerge ... I shuddered to think of the repercussions.

"We are agreed, then?"

I looked at the hand offered to me. The long, elegant fingers and the gleam of the antique signet. My fingers trembled at my sides—in fear or anticipation, 'twas impossible to say. But I knew the weight of that moment. It pressed upon my lungs, my heart. For despite my qualms, the lure of security was undeniable. Seductive. I would have my own resources, a purpose, a place to belong at last.

Within me, a furtive presence bristled darkly.
Don't fool yourself, Abigail. You'll never be normal. You'll never fit in. This is no place for you
—

"I will take the position, my lord."

The words tumbled from me. Too hasty to stop, too resolute to withdraw. As I reached for my fate, I knew nothing would be the same again. I saw the leap of triumph in his eyes an instant before heat engulfed my palm, catching blaze in the deepest recesses of my being. There was no doubting the bargain forged between us.

I prayed not to regret it.

FIVE

After the interview ended, I went to my room to gather necessaries for the weekend. I packed quickly for an unnerving hush had settled over the house. Without the cheerful bustling of the staff, Hope End had reverted to its natural state of gloom. I wondered what Earl Huxton did here in this empty place, why he would wish to be alone these two days and nights; a hot flush stole over my skin. Best not to think on such matters that did not concern me. Acutely aware that my employer and I were now alone in the darkening house, I stuffed a few last things into my satchel and headed out the servants' entrance.

In previous weeks, I had caught a ride with one of the other departing servants, but as I was the last to leave today I set off for the Simons' cottage on foot. The walk would take over an hour, but I was glad for the exercise. I needed the solitude and time for contemplation so that I might arrive at the farmhouse in a less giddy state. I was still reeling from my unexpected fortune.

Five pounds a month. Personal secretary to the earl.

With each step along the graveled drive, I shed my misgivings. He'd given me his word, after all, and as Mrs. Beecher herself had said, his lordship did not dally with those in his employ. That other night had been an anomaly, that was all. A product of my ill-advised appearance in a room where I did not belong and the earl's overindulgence in spirits (and, I thought dryly, his overindulgence in general).

But from now on, I would act with the utmost propriety and vigilance. I would have an opportunity at last to better myself. To put my skills to use so that I might earn esteem and a place of belonging. Blinking rapidly, I sent thanks to Aunt Agnes where she surely watched from above. I felt the warmth of her approval in the fading rays of the afternoon.

Reaching the wrought-iron gate at the end of the drive, I paused to look back. The sun had dipped below the massive stone structure. Limned by shadows, the Hall appeared like a dark behemoth slumbering upon its belly. Its spine was the crenellated roof line, its wing the huge pointed arch over the entrance. It had eyes of brilliant stained glass and nostrils in a pair of covered doorways. It even had a tail, pointing upright in the single crooked tower of the west wing.

All in all, 'twas a beast of gothic splendor. An extraordinary entity where beauty and darkness co-existed and fed upon one another. With a shiver, I could not help but think that master and domain were well-suited.

I was about to continue on my way when something drew my eye. The movement was too quick for me to follow, but I found myself staring at the tower. Shielded by the low-hanging conical roof, the uppermost window winked with sudden movement. The room behind it was the highest point of Hope End—and the only place where the servants were forbidden access. Like some ancient medieval keep, none but the master knew how the room was breached. 'Twas the last threshold, the ultimate protection against invading forces.

I had once overheard Mr. Donovan, his lordship's valet, chatting with Mr. Jessop, the butler, over bottles of ale. According to the valet's speculations, the earl had purchased Hope End precisely
because
it resembled a medieval keep. Back then, the master had been newly married and had planned to create a kingdom of his own. He'd spent a king's ransom, the valet pointed out, just on the countess' boudoir alone. Five master artists had worked day and night to paint the heavenly cupola above the bed.

But his bride had died before he could bring her here. In childbirth was Mr. Donovan's guess—though no one could say for certain. None of the current staff had been with the earl in Italy, where he'd been living at the time of his marriage. None, that is, except Edgar. And the groom, with his dour expression and surly manner, was as like to slit his own throat as to betray a word about his master. Mayhap that was why he was allowed to stay on during the weekend, when the rest of us were banished.

I scrutinized the window a moment longer. A dark shape swooped down from beneath the roof's overhang, and I released a breath. 'Twas naught but a crow that I'd seen. Shaking my head at my morbid imaginings, I continued toward the village at a brisk pace. The soles of my boots crunched against the winter grasses, and a chill breeze stirred creaks and sighs from the bare-limbed trees. A while later, I came upon the rock-studded stream that flowed into St. Alban, and I took its cheerful gurgle as my companion.

Soon after, I veered right at a fork in the stream and took the path that led toward the Simon farm. My steps slowed as I saw the spires of smoke rising above the tops of the evergreens. Within minutes, I came into the clearing where the cottage lay. I hesitated where I stood, though there was nothing unwelcoming in the scene before me. Shaped like a loaf, the building's two simple square windows were bright in the falling dusk, and the thatched roof lay higgledy-piggledy like a child's hair mussed by the wind. Beyond it, rows of tilled soil stretched in lines of painstaking evenness.

'Twas not the farm I dreaded, but who I knew awaited me within.

"Abby's here! Abby's here!"

Before I could prepare myself, a blur of motion barreled through the front door and headed straight for me. The air knocked out of my lungs; I lost hold of my bag and heard it thump to the ground. When I caught my breath, I found myself looking down into an elfin face dominated by eyes of mischievous green.

"You'll never guess what's happened since last you were here, Abby!"

I couldn't help but smile at the spirited ten-year-old. "I'm sure I won't, Miss Mary Jane."

"You're supposed to guess," the girl said, her red curls bobbing.

"Mary Jane Simon, han't you better manners than that?"

I jerked at the unexpected sound of the low, masculine voice. I had not seen Mary Jane's eldest brother emerge from the field where he'd obviously been working. Golden-haired and of medium height, Jack Simon had the solid, fit build of his father coupled with the refined, handsome features of his mother. I might have found him intimidating—had his eyes not the same roguish slant as his sister's. His crooked smile, too, put me at ease.

He made a bow, rather elegant considering his dirt-covered state, and I bobbed a shy curtsy in return.

"Make your how-de-dos like Mum taught you," he told his sister.

"It's just Abby," Mary Jane said with a pout. "She won't care if I curtsy or not, will she?"

"'Tis good practice," I said, "for you never know who might visit."

Just like that, Mary Jane's face lit up like a candle. "You mean like that story you told me last week, the one about the girl who slaved all day in her stepmum's house. At night, she was made to sleep in the kitchen cupboard full of mice and cinders. And one day, she opened the door"—the girl flicked her fingers—"and there was a prince!"

Jack snorted. "A tradesman looking to have his bill paid, more like."

Mary Jane lifted her chin. "He was a
prince
. Dressed all in gold and draped with
jewels
. Isn't that so, Abby?"

"Exactly so," I began.

"Mary Jane," called a shrill voice from the house, "stop spouting nonsense this instant and come finish your chores. The potatoes aren't going to peel themselves, are they—and with an extra mouth to feed tonight as well."

My cheeks flamed at the mention of the "extra mouth."

"Sorry, Mum." Mary Jane winked at me. "You'll tell me the story again, won't you, Abby? Later tonight, when everyone's asleep?"

I shifted my boots. "Perhaps your mother would prefer—"

"
Mary Jane Simon
!"

"Coming, Mum!" Getting on tip-toe, the girl whispered hurriedly in my ear, "I almost forgot what I was saying earlier. Jack's got another speriment. He'll show it to us tonight, after everyone's asleep."

Then she was off. Jack and I watched as she scampered into the house.

"Reckon she's half imp." Jack scrubbed a hand through his wheat-colored hair. "Other half's monkey."

"She's a sweet girl," I mumbled.

I was already dreading entering that cozy cottage where I did not belong. During the month I had stayed here on weekends, I'd picked up on a certain animosity from Mrs. Simon; she did not like me, try as I might to win her favor. I wished I knew what offended her so that I might remedy it. With a sigh, I lifted my satchel and headed toward the house. Dawdling when there was work to be done was
certain
not to gain her approval.

Jack followed behind me. "Abigail?"

"Yes?" I was wondering if Mrs. Simon might be won over if I tidied the house tomorrow whilst her youngest, one-year-old Tommy, took his nap.

"I was wondering, Abby ..."

If Tommy slept long enough, I could make use of the washboard as well. That might placate her. I thought longingly of the de-mangler in the scullery at Hope End—but of course, everyday folk like the Simons did not have such modern luxuries as machines to help with chores. 'Twas no matter. I was used to doing things the old-fashioned way. Aunt Agnes and I had done everything by hand.

"... have you ever been to London?"

I stopped at the front step and turned to look at Jack. Though his eyes were bright with excitement, his tanned face had an earnest cast about it.

"London?" I echoed, puzzled. "No."

"Han't you ever wanted to?"

The City rose before me, a nebulous world of fog and soot and inhuman faces. I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter. "No, never."

"Well, I do," he said fervently. "There's to be an exhibition next month, one to celebrate the most recent scientific advancements. They'll be showcasing all sorts of inventions. Everything from rock blasting to—"

The front door banged open. From the pinched look on her long, thin face to the firm cross of her arms, Mrs. Simon appeared none too pleased.

"Ma'am," I said, making a hasty curtsy.

"Miss Jones," she replied, her gaze flicking between Jack and me. "So you've come to grace our humble abode."

Not knowing how to reply, I said nothing.

"Well, come in then. I'm just getting supper on the table." She tucked a limp ginger-colored strand back under her cap. "And Jack, you best get yourself cleaned up afore we eat. All that chatter won't fill your stomach. Idleness is the devil's work, you know."

"Yes, Mum."

I felt Jack's glance slide to me, but I dared not look at him. He loped off toward the washhouse, whistling as he went. Which left me alone with his mother, whose faded green eyes raked over me with disdain. Her gaze lingered at my satchel, and belatedly I saw the bits of leaves and dry grasses clinging to its sides.

"See you clean that up before you step in." Her lip curled. "The Good Lord knows I've got enough to take care of without dragging the dirty baggage in."

*****

Supper with the Simon family was a noisy affair. Though I was used to the hubbub of the servants' table, I found the constant flow of conversation and the never-ending rotation of plates and cups a challenge to keep up with. There were a dozen Simons in all, varying in age and size. The oldest was Widow Simon, Mr. Simon's mother, and the youngest one-year-old Tommy, whose small feet I glimpsed disappearing under the table. No one else seemed to take notice of him or mind.

I occupied an end of a bench, with Mary Jane beside me and Mrs. Simon in a chair adjacent. I supposed Mrs. Simon liked to keep her eye on me. I took a scant spoonful of the creamed peas and an even smaller helping of the mutton stew, though it smelled heavenly. Apparently satisfied, Mrs. Simon turned her gaze to the other end of the table where her husband sat and the boys were busily attacking their food—and each other.

"Mr. Simon," she said loudly, "I should like to share some very exciting news."

Mr. Simon looked up from his plate of food. He had the broad, weathered face of a farmer and the quiet manner of a man more at ease with crops than people.

"I was in the village today," his wife continued, "and who did I chance to encounter but Mrs. Castlebury herself."

She waited for a response to her grand announcement; there was none. Not unless one counted fourteen-year-old George poking at Jack with the stick he wielded with clandestine expertise beneath the table. Jack growled a warning; George grinned.

"As you'll recall," Mrs. Simon said, with a glare at the two, which somehow got transferred to me, "Mrs. Castlebury is the wife of the Mayor. Like myself, she is also related to nobility; an uncle on the mother's side is a viscount, I believe. Very good people, the Castleburys."

I nodded politely. "Good people" were one of Mrs. Simon's favorite topics. I often wondered why she, who claimed a distant connection to a baron, had deigned to marry the prosperous but unassuming farmer at the other end of the table. Mrs. Beecher had mentioned something about Mrs. Simon's family coming "down in the world."

Never mind her complaints, Abigail
, the housekeeper had said with a snort.
Stella Simon sleeps in a bed of her own making
—
and a fruitful one at that
.

"What's so exciting about that, Mum?" George asked. "You see Mrs. Castlebury all the time."

"The proper address is
Mama
, George. How many times must I remind you?" Mrs. Simon gave her son a reproving look. "The difference is that this time Mrs. Castlebury has invited me to be on the St. Alban's Parish Ladies' Planning Committee."

"Planning? For what?" George asked.

"There is to be a spring assembly." Mrs. Simon's eyes lit up with triumph.

The news elicited gasps and excited chatter around the table. Only Mr. Simon stayed quiet, continuing to cut away at his roasted joint without looking up.

"Oh, Mama, will there be dancing?" This came from Sally, Mrs. Simon's eldest daughter, who was near my age.

"It will be sponsored by the Church, so it will be a very decent affair. Perhaps a few country dances," Mrs. Simon allowed. "I will be amongst those in charge of preparations—deciding upon decorations, refreshments and, most importantly, who shall receive invitations."

"Not everyone will be invited?" George asked.