Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (5 page)

"Of course not. What would be the point? The list is to be exclusive, limited to those with good standing in the community."

Mrs. Simon's gaze landed on me, and I felt myself flushing. I told myself it did not matter. The last place I would want to go was a public gathering. I had no liking for strangers or strange situations, and I did not even know how to dance.

"Given the connections of the Planning Committee, there is like to be more than a few titles in attendance as well," Mrs. Simon continued. "We will have to put our best foot forward—new dresses will need to be made up for Sally and Charlotte and shirts and neck-cloths for the boys."

"Oh, Mama!" her daughters exclaimed. Her sons responded with a good deal less enthusiasm.

I felt an elbow nudge my side.

"Do you think the earl will come, Abby?" Mary Jane asked around a mouthful of bread.

A chill silence descended upon our end of the table.

"Mary Jane," her mother said in a pleasant way that had my nape tingling, "you must remember this will be a gathering of
good
society. Decent people. I am sure his lordship would find it not at all to his taste. Don't you agree, Abigail?"

For some reason, the set down issued to my employer set my teeth on edge. Mayhap it was the fact that he had promoted me to secretary, making me an ambassador to his good name. Or mayhap it was that he was not here to defend himself (not, I admitted, that he would have given a damn). Most likely, my irritation had to do with the fact that his lordship had shown faith in me when most others would not have. What right had Mrs. Simon to judge a man she did not even know?

"I am sure I don't know the earl's inclinations," I said.

"That would not be your place, of course, being a servant," Mrs. Simon agreed. "Yet I do regret to mention that his inclinations are a matter of public knowledge. I should not repeat what has been said amongst the good people of St. Alban—gossip being
so
vulgar—except to note that his lordship has not once stepped foot in the village chapel. Not in all the five years he has lived at Hope End."

Sally and Charlotte looked at each other and tittered.

"Perhaps he has not had the time," I heard myself saying, "being a gentleman of diverse interests and responsibilities."

Mrs. Simon's eyebrows jumped, as if upon a golden opportunity. "A responsibility greater than to God, Miss Jones? The very idea is blasphemous."

Biting my tongue, I looked down at my plate.
Do not argue with her
. I smashed peas beneath my fork.
It will only stir her hostility further.

Jack's voice came clearly from the other end of the table. "Actually, 'tis not blasphemy but scientific progress which posits an alternative to God."

There was an instant of silence, like the eye of a storm. Then ...

"I'll have none of that talk at my table, Jack Simon," Mrs. Simon screeched.

Sally and Charlotte gasped. Even Mary Jane looked a little scared. George was drawing his finger across his throat and shaking his head at his brother.

But Jack continued in calm tones, "According to Mr. Darwin's research—"

"How many times have I said never to mention that sinner's name in this house!" Mrs. Simon's chair squealed back from the table.

"Seven," mumbled Widow Simon, whom I had thought asleep.

"I'm merely trying to share the latest intellectual advancements," Jack insisted.

"First thing tomorrow, I am taking you to Father Richards," Mrs. Simon said. "I'll not have a son of mine going to hell for heathen beliefs."

A stubborn furrow formed between Jack's brows. "I'm not going to waste time with that jackanapes. Last time I saw him, he tried to convince me that the sun revolves around the earth." Jack rolled his eyes. "And he told
me
to pray to God for higher thoughts."

"You'll do well to listen to your betters," his mother retorted, "and to do a lot less thinking of your own."

"
Enough
."

We all jumped as Mr. Simon's fist pounded the table and set the dishes clattering.

Holding onto her teetering glass, Mrs. Simon said, "But Mr. Simon—"

"I said
let it be
. Jack's a man now, and a man's got a right to his own mind." Mr. Simon's thick brows lowered. At that ominous sign, even his wife quieted. "A man's also got a right to have his supper in peace."

Thankfully, the conversation returned to topics of less epic proportions. As Sally chattered on about the newest hair ribbon she'd seen in a shop, I caught Jack's eye. He still looked disgruntled, as if he couldn't understand why no one experienced the world as he did. Understanding, I risked giving him a small smile. After a moment, his lips curved ruefully. It was a quick and furtive exchange, the comfort shared by vagabonds passing in the night.

SIX

After the others had fallen asleep, I followed Mary Jane on tiptoe through the house. A floorboard groaned suddenly beneath my step. Mary Jane's gaze flew to mine; I saw my own horror mirrored in her expression. But no sudden lights or angry voices greeted us. Several heartbeats later, we continued on our way. We did not speak until we had exited the front door and were headed out back toward the barn.

Mary Jane wiped her brow in an exaggerated motion. "That was close, Abby. 'Tis getting more difficult to sneak out these days, what with Sally staying up forever writing in her diary. It's all boring nonsense, too—who cares what side Henry Wilkinson parts his hair on?"

"Mary Jane," I chided, "you oughtn't be reading your sister's private journal."

"Now that I know there's nothing interesting it there, I shan't bother," she said impishly. "Oh, I'm glad you're here, Abby! I miss you during the week. We're bosom companions, aren't we?"

Looking at the small, earnest girl trotting beside me, I felt my throat tighten. I answered her honestly. "I don't rightly know, Mary Jane. I've never had a bosom companion before. At least, not one that lasted."

When I was twelve, there had been a girl. I could still see her in my mind's eye. Miranda, the baker's daughter with vivacious hazel eyes and a rose-cheeked countenance. Though her hair had been brown like my own, her mother turned her out in bouncy, fashionable ringlets whilst my aunt twisted me into plain plaits. One day, Miranda had come round when my aunt was at work. I'd never entertained another my age before. But she'd coaxed her way in, enticing me with her new miniature tea set and infectious giggles.

Over a pretend picnic, she'd said if we were to be true confidantes, I would have to tell her my biggest secret. Something I'd never shared with another soul.

Disarmed, eager, I had.

The rumors had frothed immediately.
She's possessed by the devil's madness.
She should be locked up with the other lunatics and kept away from our children.
Once friendly eyes had turned stony with suspicion; they followed my aunt and I everywhere, as did the whispers, the growing hatred. Soon thereafter, Aunt Agnes had been summarily dismissed from her post at the school—with no explanation. In the end, we'd had to leave that county and start anew in another. Though my aunt had never blamed me, I'd learned my lesson.

Never again had I exposed my true self. My abominable secret. To do so, I knew, would bring nothing but pain and rejection.

"Well, I'll be your first friend, then," Mary Jane said cheerfully. "Don't worry, I'm good at it. I've got loads of experience."

I gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Jack was waiting for us by the open barn door. Being the eldest, he had the privilege of living in the spacious loft above the stalls. He held the lamp up as we approached.

"What took you so long?" he asked. "I almost had to start without you."

"Sally," came his sister's succinct reply.

Obviously, that was explanation enough. As he led the way past the stalls of curious animals and into the sweet hay-smelling interior, Jack shook his head.

"Girls," he muttered. "What could the silly chit possibly see in Hank Wilkinson? The fellow's daft as a brush."

"That explains it, then. Sally adores anything related to hair." Mary Jane's precocious wit drifted down to us as she clambered up the wooden ladder.

"Do you need a hand, Abigail?" Jack asked.

I looked at the broad, calloused hand he held out, and for some reason I blushed. "No, thank you," I said. "I can manage on my own."

Jack's loft ran most of the barn's length, giving him almost as much space to himself as shared by the entire family in the house. I thought the arrangement a wise compromise for all parties involved. For if Mrs. Simon ever saw her way up here, I was certain she would expire from shock. If, as she claimed, cleanliness was next to Godliness, I feared her son destined for hotter climes.

Oddities of every kind cluttered Jack's quarters. Springs of all sizes spilled from the dresser drawers; spools of wire coiled over the floor. A menagerie of half-finished wood-and- metal forms lay in wait. Along the far wall, a shelf held rows of lidded glass jars, their insides murky with floating, globular forms. I remembered Mary Jane's description of her brother's brief obsession with galvanism, and my stomach gave a queasy surge. Thank heavens that phase had passed before my arrival.

According to Mary Jane, her brother had come down with scientific fever ever since discovering a dog-eared prospectus of the Grand Exhibition. Jack loved modern ideas and especially new-fangled inventions. His newest project appeared to be comprised of two large wooden boxes. They were placed upon stools at both ends of the room, with a length of wire running between. Taking care to avoid the nails and assorted instruments littering the ground, I navigated my way to stand behind Mary Jane.

"Is this it?" The girl asked, her small hands on her hips. "Doesn't look like much, does it Abby?"

"What is it?" I asked.

"My own electric telegraph," Jack announced, a hint of pride in his voice. "Like the one used on the railway. I've been experimenting to see if I can make it faster with a stronger battery source."

I was not familiar with such a contraption. "What does it do?"

"It allows for messages to be transmitted without the physical transport of letters," Jack said. "You can communicate in short phrases of, say, under thirty words. It works best if you leave out unnecessary words like
the
and, well ...
and
."

I wondered why anyone would wish to communicate in broken up sentences of thirty words or less.

"How does it work?" I asked.

"You just enter the message on this end ..."—Jack fiddled with various keys—"and the signal is transmitted through electrical waves to the other box. The electromagnet there pulls on a pencil I've attached, which will draw out whatever code was sent. Then all one has to do is decipher it."

"Oh, do let me try!" Mary Jane begged.

After Jack taught his sister how to manipulate the keys, he went to the other side of the room to receive the message. As Mary Jane worked the controls, I smelled a faint caustic scent, like acid or wood burning.

"Mary Jane, do you smell—"

"Hold on, I'm trying to concentrate," the girl muttered. "Now was one stroke an
A
or an
E
?"

Knowing what I did of Jack and his experiments, I thought it prudent to investigate the growing odor. I went to the other side of the box and discovered a curtain hanging over its back. Lifting it up, I spied a glass jar of greenish liquid. A loose wire lay dangling above it. As I watched, the wire suddenly twitched, letting loose a rain of sparks.

"Jack," I called, "I think there's something—"

"Not now, Abby. I'm receiving Mary Jane's message." Even from the distance, I could see Jack's face tauten with excitement. "H-A-N-K ... that's Hank, right ... I-S ... is ..."

"Burning!" I cried.

Mary Jane poked her head from the other side. "Not
burning
, Abby. I was going to say he's daft."

"Not Hank—the box!"

Jack came running over just as flames began to lick at the curtain. Spying the washbasin, I scrambled to get it, tripping over wires and wooden planks in the process. I returned, and Jack grabbed the bowl from me, dumping its contents over the rising fire. The sound of sizzling filled the air, followed by clouds of billowing smoke.

When the air cleared, Mary Jane and I looked at Jack.

His hair stood in gold tufts above his soot-streaked face. "Reckon I han't got the chemicals mixed quite right," he muttered.

"Never mind, Jack," Mary Jane said in sympathy. "It still turned out better than the rock blasting. You almost blew a hole through the roof that time."

Hands shoved in his pockets, Jack gave a disgruntled nod.

"Maybe Abby should tell us a story, to cheer us up?" Mary Jane suggested.

Seeing Jack's dejected expression, I tried to think of an inspiring tale. What came to mind was my own story. My meteoric rise from being a downtrodden maid to a peer's private secretary.

After a moment's hesitation, I said, "I don't have a story exactly, but I do have a bit of good news. It's ... it's something I haven't yet shared with anyone."

"Oh, goody." Mary Jane clapped her hands. "I like secrets."

Even Jack cocked his head.

Looking at their warm, interested faces and remembering the conspiratorial smile shared over dinner, I felt knots loosening within me. Had I found at last that elusive state? Of human connection, of friendship? The good fortune I had yet to share with anyone bubbled to the surface, and I heard myself blurting, "I've been promoted! I'm to start as Earl Huxton's private secretary next week."

"A secretary? You?" Mary Jane breathed.

I nodded happily. "I'll be organizing his library. It's full of books, Mary Jane, more books than I'd wager even my aunt read in her lifetime. The earl has collections of philosophy, history, even poetry and novels—"

"Will you be working in close quarters with him, then?"

Taken aback by Jack's disapproving tone, I stammered, "H-he is my employer, Jack. I'll be taking my orders from him, yes—"

"He's a known scoundrel." With a frown, Jack crossed his arms over his chest. "Think on it, Abby. Why else would he hire a girl like you to be his secretary? When with a snap of his lordly fingers,"—Jack's thumb and finger clicked together—"he could have the most learned men of the land at his beck and call?"

Stung, I found myself at a loss for words.
Et tu, Jack?
I thought he, of all people, would understand. That some of us, try as we might, would never fit into the proper mold. We could only follow the paths open to us and pray that that would lead to what ordinary, decent folk took for granted. Meaning and purpose. Acceptance.

But apparently Jack found my decision wanting. He found
me
wanting.

In that instant, my exhilaration shriveled and vanished. Joy deflated out of me. I felt myself becoming the odd girl again. The bastard with the lunatic mother. The outcast without prospects or merit, without family or friends to turn to.

"You're a good girl, Abby, and you should know your place in the world," Jack said.

Hurt rolled through me, but I stiffened my spine. "All your talk of m-modern advancement. Of possibility. You can imagine a world without God, Jack, but you cannot imagine me making a success of myself?"

"Not as a secretary, I can't," he replied bluntly.

"His lordship is going to pay me five pounds a month for my services." The boast spouted from my lips. "
He
thinks I'm worthy of such a sum."

Jack's boyish face hardened into cynical lines. "What services does he expect you to render? Don't be a naive fool."

My face flamed at Jack's implication. I could feel my limbs trembling. It was one thing for me to have had that concern; it was another entirely for him to voice it aloud.

Before I could reply, Mary Jane broke in, "You're just as smart as anybody I know, Abby. Even if you're a girl. No one tells a story like you do."

"Thank you, Mary Jane," I said stiffly.

"If she's smart, she'll do the proper thing and keep to her station." Jack's chin lifted. "There's plenty of decent work in the village. The inns are always in want of maids—"

"Thank you, but I don't wish to be a maid any longer." Willing away the hot pressure behind my eyes, I said to Mary Jane, "I think we best go back now before anyone discovers us gone."

As we turned to leave, Jack's voice halted me. "Abby—"

I forced myself to look at him.

"I—I just don't want to see you hurt is all," he said, his hands fisted at his sides.

Giving a quick nod, I climbed down the ladder and escaped into the cold. I did not want to let him see he'd done that very thing.