Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (6 page)

SEVEN

The rest of the weekend passed in a similar dismal fashion. Jack seemed to be avoiding me, which was just as well, for I had little to say to him. His mother, however, dogged me like a terrier. At every turn, Mrs. Simon barked her disapproval at me. The laundry was not strung tight enough, Tommy had not been washed properly behind his ears, the turnips were overdone—it seemed I could do nothing right in her eyes. I thought Sunday evening could not arrive soon enough.

But when it did and I found myself back at Hope End, a different source of trepidation grew within me. I dreaded telling Mrs. Beecher of my change in circumstance. Given Jack's reaction, I fretted. What might she think? What might she assume had transpired between Earl Huxton and me? My worries did not prove unfounded. Not a quarter hour after my return, she came into my room and shut the door behind her. Her hands planted at her waist.

"The earl informed me that you are now his secretary," she said in a voice that climbed with agitation. "His
personal
secretary. Is this true? Have you taken leave of your senses, Abigail Jones?"

I could do nothing but nod. She was correct, likely on both counts.

"Oh, Abigail, what would dear Agnes say, God love her soul?" Mrs. Beecher's words emerged in a moan. "She is weeping, I tell you, weeping from where she watches above. The shame of it, her only niece become a fallen woman."

"No, Mrs. Beecher," I protested, finding my voice. "It isn't true. I am to be his secretary, that is all. I shall merely be organizing his personal affairs—"

"His personal affairs! What do you know of those? I have kept much from you, silly girl, for your own protection."

Squaring my shoulders, I said, "I have read the papers. I understand the nature of his lordship's reputation, and it matters not to me. He is my employer. Wasn't it you, Mrs. Beecher, who told me to do my work as God intended and not judge my betters?"

"Do not throw those words back at me, Abigail Jones," Mrs. Beecher snapped. "Back then, I could keep an eye on you and see that you stayed out of trouble. But now—you will be exposed. God's mercy, you will be
alone
with his lordship. With his wealth and power, he need have no regard for decency, but what of you? Who will want you when he tires of this nonsense? You, an unmarried miss, who has had intimate relations with Lord Hellfire? You will be ruined the moment this begins. And I will have had a hand in it. Oh, how I regret ever taking you on!"

The words hit me like a slap. First Jack, and now this. Since Aunt Agnes' death, Mrs. Beecher had been my most stalwart ally. The one I had turned to and who had supported me in my darkest hour of need. I trusted her. I owed much to her. Yet now she felt I had betrayed her.

Mrs. Beecher took my shoulders and gave me firm shake. "You trust me, don't you, Abby?"

"Yes." I wiped a tear that slid down my nose. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Beecher, I do. You have been kindness itself."

"There's only one thing to do, then. You must leave immediately and never turn back."

"L-leave?" I looked at her blankly. "But where would I go? How would I live? Mrs. Beecher, you can't—"

"I have twenty pounds saved. You will take it, and you will never return."

"I cannot take your money, Mrs. Beecher. It is your livelihood. And besides, I have nowhere else to go." Anguish bloomed in my chest. "I do not want to leave again. I do not want to leave you."

Her sharp eyes dug into me. "Is it me you'd miss, or the master? Foolish, foolish girl! I thought you sensible, but instead you fall into the devil's arms at the first opportunity."

"He is not the devil," I protested, "and I am not falling into ... anything but a chance to better myself."

"
Not the devil
. You think you know him, do you? You know
nothing
of what has gone on before."

Her pallor and the vehemence of her words finally permeated my denial. Chills crossed my nape. Was this about more than propriety and reputation? "Wh-what do you know, Mrs. Beecher? Why are you so concerned for me?"

Behind her lenses, I saw the housekeeper's eyes take on a distant sheen. They flickered with anxiety. With palpable fear. Her pale lips quivered.

"Mrs. Beecher?" I asked again.

"I—I cannot say." The words seemed torn from her. "I owe him my loyalty. Though I did not know it at the time, he purchased my soul the day he hired me on. All I will say is this, Abigail: if you have any respect for my judgment, you must leave. Straight away, before it is too late."

I felt my pulse quickening, my fear mounting. The earl's requirement of allegiance echoed darkly in my head; what mysterious hold had he upon the upright housekeeper? But with trepidation came a flooding sense of exhaustion. Where would I go? What place would welcome one such as me? At least at Hope End, I had a place to stay. A chance to build my own future.

"With the wages he promised, I could have a savings, Mrs. Beecher," I said. "I could one day make something of myself. Mayhap we—you and I—could leave here one day." In my eagerness to win her over, I rushed on, "We could buy that cottage you and Aunt Agnes used to dream of.  She told me of your plans together, of opening a school for young girls. You could teach them housekeeping, practical things, and I could instruct them as Aunt Agnes would have. We would live in servitude no longer—"

"Is this how you see our work? As servitude? Too humble for your refined soul?"

Her words cut through my fantasy like a splash of acid. The bucolic images sizzled, vaporizing into smoke. There was only the housekeeper in front of me. Her weathered face and age-mottled hands, her jaw trembling with an emotion I could not name. Too late, I remembered to shake my head: to deny her allegations, to stave off what I feared was to come next.

"Ah, my girl, you have much to learn. How like Agnes you are—an idealist, with your nose in books rather than the real world. She, too, thought ordinary life not good enough. She thought she could live outside reality, change what could never be—" Mrs. Beecher broke off. When her voice re-emerged, it was choked, thickened with pain. "Agnes Jones was the smartest woman I ever knew; she was also the most foolish."

"Aunt Agnes was brilliant," I said in a trembling voice.

"Your aunt thought to shelter you from the woes of the world, and she protected you overmuch, I daresay. Well, I shan't make the same mistake." Mrs. Beecher removed her spectacles, polished them carefully against her apron. "You have but two options before you, so listen closely. You can take my money, and we shall depart as friends. Or you can go with the devil and God save you, my girl, if you choose that path, for you will walk it alone."

"
Please
, Mrs. Beecher—"

She paid no heed to my pleas nor to the moisture trickling over my cheeks. She just stood there, her shoulders slumped, but her voice ringing high and clear.

"Take a day to make your decision, Abigail Jones. Use it well, for you will sleep in a bed of your own making forevermore. Freedom or sin—what shall it be?"

EIGHT

The day passed in a blur. My head throbbed with indecision, and the only thing that saved me was work. Shutting myself in the library, I stared at the volumes lying haphazardly upon the shelves. Once again, books were my only companions. In their disorder, I saw my own agitated state of mind; in their neglected, dusty condition, I felt acutely my own sense of abandonment. Wiping my eyes, I set forth to tend to them. To give them the care so that, one day, someone might recognize their worth.

But when the night came, there was no escaping my demons. I lay in darkness as one circled. I could see her, hovering on the edges of wakefulness. Her face was white, blurred, beautiful. She was oddly familiar. I had seen her before, yet never seen her. A stranger I passed again and again in a dream. Her presence fell upon me, raining softly like petals from the sky. She was singing too, low and sweet, her voice smooth as blackberry wine. A velvet river dragging me deeper, deeper ...

The sound ripped into my head. My eyes flew open. For several moments, I remained frozen, my heartbeat scattering within my chest, my hands clammy and clutching flannel. Then it came again, from the other side of the room—the noise of a saw grinding into lumber. Looking over, I released my breath. Ginny emitted another deafening snore before settling into a raspy, even rhythm. I brought shaky hands to my face and wiped away the moisture coating my forehead and cheeks.

One of my hands drifted lower, to the hollow beneath my throat. I touched the small cross which hung there, a simple crucifix of gold no bigger than my thumb. My one prized possession—the one that would not be sold for any price. It had belonged to my mother. Aunt Agnes had passed it to me and told me never to remove it. A reminder, she said, of where I came from.

You came from love, Abby. Never forget. And never be ashamed.

I touched the charm, imagined how it once had lain against my mother's soft skin. The place I could not recall resting my own cheek against. I had no memory of the woman who had brought me into this world and departed herself soon thereafter. Turning on my side, I buried my face into the pillow. I knew this particular demon. This one who also walked at night, but who strutted in the bright beam of consciousness. I knew her well. I knew her by name, and it was Loneliness.

You can go with the devil and God save you if you choose that path, for you will walk it alone.

I had been alone since Aunt Agnes died. Mayhap longer than that, though her presence had obscured that fact. I turned onto my other side and wrapped the blanket tighter. There was no comfort to be found in my current situation. If I did as Mrs. Beecher instructed, I would be out in the cold again. Alone, with her generosity in my pocket, yes, but little else to insulate against the storms. And if I stayed ... I would lose her. Fullness gathered in my chest; I bit my lower lip against its swelling tide.

A new noise interrupted my thoughts, and I was grateful for it. I listened, detecting the heaviness of the front door in the soft
whoosh
and
click
. It must be the earl returning from his evening out. My breath quickened at the thought of my employer, whom I had not seen since our last interview. And who I might never see again, should I do as Mrs. Beecher bade. For some reason, that very thought struck a chord of despair. Was the housekeeper correct again? Would I indeed miss he whom I had reason to fear?

But he had given me his word: my virtue was safe. Besides, I reasoned, what interest could he have in me when he consorted with the most celebrated beauties of the realm? Case in point: 'twas the daughter of a duke he'd escorted this evening. Mr. Jessop had informed us loftily of the fact as he'd polished the best crystal for the pre-prandial drinks.

Passing by the drawing room, I'd caught a glimpse of her through the open door. She'd been elegant as a rose, the hothouse kind, without a blemish to mar her fair skin or eyes of  guileless blue. Her dress had been unspeakably fashionable. Literally, I had not the words to describe the tiered, silken wonder of it. I'd heard my employer's appreciative murmur and her melodious, cultured laugh before I scurried past.

No, I assured myself, I was not so foolish as to have such thoughts about his lordship. 'Twas only the security he offered: money and a place to belong. Suddenly, I heard the soft thump of footsteps—not growing fainter, as I would have predicted, but louder. Someone was coming into the kitchen. The steps did not echo the flat sound made by a servant's shoe; they possessed a richer tone, a resonance of layered leather and wood.

My pulse quickened. The steps paused at the kitchen threshold, then brushed against the tiles in a pace of measured stealth. I sat up and looked over at Ginny. A lump in the dimness, she did not stir. The steps came closer, past the hearth, past the servants' table. Heart pounding, blanket clutched to my breast, I stared at the pitted grain of the door, as if I could see to the other side where the steps had come to rest.

All the hairs on my nape tingled; I could
feel
him there. Impossibly, the clean, spicy scent of him drifted to me. I pictured the tension held in his great, elegant frame, the burning of his eyes against the wooden partition. There was a rustle—of a sleeve, of a mouse—I had no way of knowing. My heart thudded. A delirious thought took hold:
He is going to open it and come for me
...

But the silence continued, so thick it coated my throat and I found myself working for breath. How could Ginny slumber on so? My body was shaking, moved by impulse against its immobility. I saw myself rising from my cot and reaching for the handle. Felt the slide of the cold metal knob beneath my palm a moment before I exposed myself to flame ...

The footsteps started again. Stunned, I struggled to hear above the loud rush of blood in my ears. But it was true; he was leaving, his steps clipped, more certain in their departure than in their advance. I listened as he went up the stairs and crossed into his own world again. The steps grew faint. I pictured his hand gripping the walnut banister I had once polished, the smudges he might leave there.

He stopped. On the second floor, I guessed, from the count of his steps. There was no sound of a door opening or closing, and the sudden creak of a certain hallway floorboard disclosed his location. What was he doing just standing there in the gallery? Minutes ticked past. The silence persisted. There was no other noise, no other indication of where he had gone. My curiosity was overwhelming. Donning my robe and slippers, I left Ginny to the peace that eluded me.

I took the servants' corridor. I had no need of a lamp; that was how well I knew the hidden maze by now. I stopped on the first floor. Groping carefully for the latch, I cracked open the panel, no more than the width of three fingers. I aimed my gaze upward to the second floor. He was there, above me and across the way in the open gallery. With his back turned to the stairwell, I could only see the silhouette of his upper half. The glow of his lamp revealed the broad span of his shoulders, the narrowing path to his trim waist. The rest of him was obscured by the railing.

I saw, then, what he was doing. Puzzled, I could not countenance it at first—so at odds was his intense concentration, his absorbed stillness with the object of his regard. But it was true. He was standing there, his lamp raised to the wall, staring at the painting.

I had passed the small canvas dozens of times. The piece had struck me as odd—a humble and dissonant tone amidst the otherwise decadent landscape of his lordship's domain. From what I surmised of my employer, the portrait in the library—the one of the woman combing her hair—more suited his taste for the sensuous. But he remained there, seemingly riveted to this painting in its simple wood frame.

Myself, I liked its sentimentality. The brushstrokes told a tragic story. It depicted a dog, head upon its paws, lying alone on the nursery floor. No mistress or master was in sight. There was only the cradle, empty and half-visible through the swath of black gauze. This was the sort of narrative art currently
en vogue
; it was for this reason alone I had thought it to grace my master's walls. I could not imagine Lord Hellfire, sophisticated libertine, being captivated by such naïve emotion.

My employer turned suddenly, and in that instant I glimpsed his profile. My jaw slackened. Almost I did not recognize him. In the reddish glow, his face was transformed. His elegant beauty ravaged by lines of grief, by fury so great it spurred the beat of my own heart. He gripped the banister with one hand, his figure bowing to some internal anguish. A single sound was ripped from him, muffled, held-back. Yet I knew it for what it was.

I closed the panel. Sitting back in the darkness, my arms hugging my knees, I let the tears come.