Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (25 page)

The words echoed through the vast emptiness within her. Lillian had not recognized it until that very moment. But confessing to Reginald the day before had left her hollow inside. Now the words were filling that inner void.

Sun of Righteousness, arise,

Triumph o’er the shades of night;

Dayspring from on high be near;

Day-star, in my heart appear.

Only it was no longer just a hymn, nor words merely sung by those standing around her. Lillian remained seated by Mr. Cutter, who hummed a tuneless cadence. Now they were words she spoke inside herself. Words spoken to a God she had never truly known until now.

Dark and cheerless is the morn

Unaccompanied by Thee;

Joyless is the day’s return

Till Thy mercy’s beams I see;

Till they inward light impart,

Glad my eyes, and warm my heart.

No doubt it was not a proper prayer. But it was all she could think to do. Her own words seemed so feeble, so marred by all the failings of a squandered life. Yes, even after she had been rescued and refined for polite society, her inner being remained damaged and unclean with selfishness and sin. Why not find comfort and assistance in words she had never truly heard until now?

Visit then this soul of mine,

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief.

It seemed to her that she was both returning home and entering a realm she had never before experienced. And in the spreading sense of comfort that came with her silent voicing of these words, Lillian heard something truly remarkable. A little girl’s voice echoed faintly within her.

Fill me, Radiancy divine,

Scatter all my unbelief;

More and more Thyself display,

Shining to the perfect day.

Chapter 20

After the service, Abigail remained in the pew. Her mind held to a sort of Sabbath clarity. She was able to examine herself and the past, even the most painful bits, with ease. People were crowding in about her, but she made no motion to rise. They soon left her alone, assuming that she was still praying. And perhaps in a strange way she was.

The night in Soho had marked a turning point in many ways, she reflected. Some of the changes she was only now beginning to glimpse. Before that night, she had viewed the world . . . how should she put it? Abigail tried to shut out the voices around her by tensing her closed eyes. Yes. She understood now. She had looked at everything as though she were the center of the universe. She had justified her actions simply because they were what
she
wanted. As though that were always enough. As though that made things right.

It would be painful to acknowledge that God’s hand may have been directing Lillian’s illness during the voyage. But from where Abigail sat, that was how it seemed. Looking back, it appeared to Abigail as though she had spent those long days and nights learning to put herself aside.

Her mind drifted back to the recent afternoon in Erica’s office. Abigail had sat and listened to her exclaim over the letter from William Wilberforce. Erica had explained how they had been planning just such a journey west. Not only that, but her brother Reginald wanted to establish a Langston’s Emporium in Wheeling. This city was the end of the newly opened National Road and the jumping-off point for pioneers headed to the Indiana and Missouri provinces. Abigail had sat and watched as Erica’s previous weariness had dropped away, and she had come alive before her very eyes.

Erica’s brother was not known for original ideas. Erica related how there were myriads of reasons why Erica might have dismissed his notion. They were doing exceedingly well with the Georgetown emporium and their trading business. They had entered into a partnership with Horace Cutter, now director of the trading company established by Abigail’s grandfather. What need was there, Erica had wondered, for them to take on more? And yet, because it was Reginald’s idea, the man who previously had been content to follow someone else’s vision and direction for the firm, Erica had been reluctant to object. It had felt, Erica said several times as she related the situation to Abigail and Mrs. Cutter, as though God had been urging her to remain silent. And now, finally, she understood.

Abigail had sat there between Erica and her grandmother and felt thrilled over being the herald of such glad tidings from their friend Wilberforce. Abigail had spent an afternoon talking and making plans. And her thoughts had been directed toward the needs and wishes of
others
.

Abigail now noticed that the commotion around her was beginning to dim. She knew it was time to depart. Her grandfather needed to be getting home. But she was reluctant to let go of the moment. God felt so close just then. Abigail clasped her hands in her lap and prayed,
Help me, oh my God, to make this a real change. Take these little seeds and help them grow. Make me into someone thou might truly use. Make me into someone thou can indeed call a good and faithful servant. Amen
.

She rose and walked down the central aisle. As she stood in the vestibule and fastened her mantle about her neck, a single ray of sunshine managed to pierce the day’s gray cloak. Motes sparkled and danced in the air about her, and the church’s peaked doors appeared framed in heaven’s holy light. Abigail took a deep breath and stepped outside.

Momentarily blinded, she realized she was staring at the young man from Erica’s office. Tall and straight, he stood rail thin in his poorly fitting clothes, and with an almost bashful air he spoke with Reginald Langston. Yet the two men seemed to fit together somehow. Reginald said something and the young man laughed out loud, for a moment seeming to drop his hesitant air.

A group of young ladies stood to one side, waiting for his conversation with Reginald to end. Abigail noted their flushed excitement and the way they whispered among themselves, their eyes never leaving the young man. She found that very odd. She looked at him again and decided he could be handsome, with his dark wavy hair, if someone could take him in hand and attire him properly.

“Ah, there you are.” Horace approached the bottom of the church stairs. “Are you ready to depart?”

Her uncle led her to where Lillian and her grandmother stood by the wheelchair. “There have been so many people wishing to speak with you I have forgotten all their names.”

Her grandmother asked, “Did you enjoy returning to our old church, my dear?”

“Yes, thank you. So very much.” Abigail fell into step with her family. Behind her came a peal of girlish laughter. For reasons she could not explain, Abigail found the noise grating. Which was silly, of course. She had never paid attention to girlish flirtations before.

She matched her pace to that of Horace as he pushed her grandfather’s chair. Lillian remained both silent and withdrawn, walking alongside the wheelchair. Further feminine laughter behind them drew her grandmother around. “The young gentleman from Erica’s office seems to have a way with the young ladies. What was the young man’s name, Horace?”

“Abraham Childes. But we call him Abe. It was so kind of you to invite him to lunch today, Mother.” Horace eased the chair over a rough spot in the walk. “A finer young man it has never been my privilege to meet.”

“And so very handsome,” her grandmother said. “Don’t you agree, my dear?” she added, turning to Abigail.

“I really wouldn’t know.” Abigail could not keep herself from glancing back. Abe, surrounded by the young ladies, smiled at something one of the girls said. Abigail shrugged and turned around, wondering why she had never found any man so interesting as to hang upon his every word.

She asked her grandmother, “Do you think God has a sense of humor?”

“What a remarkable question, granddaughter. I should certainly hope so. Sometimes I find myself in situations where I am forced to choose between laughing and raging at the heavens above. It is only because I hope God is laughing with me that I am able to bear it at all.”

Abigail slipped her hand around her grandmother’s elbow. “You are such a wise lady.”

“Thank you for thinking so. I should hope I would have learned something after all these years!” Her warm laugh drew a similar chuckle from Abigail.

The table was crowded with Horace and his wife along with Erica Powers, Lillian, Reginald, her grandmother, and across from Abigail sat Abraham Childes. Mr. Cutter had retired to his chambers, fatigued from the morning outing. Horace’s four boys and Erica’s daughter took places at the kitchen table, where Cook could keep an eye on them while they enjoyed a meal liberated from adult formality. Every time the kitchen door swung open, their soft chatter and laughter emanated with the fragrance of each dish.

Now that she was seated across from the young man, Abigail could not say precisely why she had been rather dismissive of him. He was remarkably self-contained and seemed most comfortable watching others and having no attention paid to him at all. He said nothing unless he was directly addressed. Then he replied in a soft, agreeable voice, using the sparsest words possible.

As Reginald sliced the glistening brown turkey, he said, “I was hoping to hear you sing today.”

For an instant Abigail thought Reginald might have been speaking to her. Then she realized it was Lillian, and she turned to look at her companion. Lillian’s face was flushed, and she spoke softly to the plate in front of her, “Oh, no. Certainly not.”

“Do you sing, my dear?” Mrs. Cutter asked.

“Not for years. Not since . . . not since before my son was born.”

“But why not, may I ask?”

Lillian still had not lifted her gaze. “I couldn’t possibly.”

Reginald sounded contrite. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken.”

Mrs. Cutter looked from one to the other in bewilderment. “What is secret about being able to sing?”

Abigail realized the attentive silence was painful to Lillian. She turned to the young man opposite her and spoke the first words that came to mind. “Where do you hail from, Mr. Childes?”

He looked at her for a moment with eyes of palest blue-gray. He replied in his soft voice, “That is a difficult question to answer, Miss Aldridge.”

“Why is that?”

“I was orphaned when I was five. My family were farmers along the Shenandoah. My parents and my two sisters all fell ill with scarlet fever. None survived.”

“Oh, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It must have been so very painful.”

“I fear I do not remember them very well. It frightens me at times, forgetting my mother’s face. But I know of nothing I can do about it.”

“I do.” Abigail knew she was speaking without proper thought. But only two things mattered just then. First, the table was now observing their exchange and not Lillian. And second, she thought she had an idea to address the pain in those eyes. “Every time you feel the connection to your parents fading, you must inspect your own face very closely in a mirror. When you do, realize that your mother and your father must be so very proud of you.”

Abraham’s jaw clenched hard for a moment, but his gaze did not waver. “How—how can you say that, ma’am?”

“The fact that you are seated with us here today, sir, bears witness to how you are a credit to your beginnings. I know my family well enough to know that is why they invited you.”

“Hear, hear,” Horace agreed.

Lillian lifted her gaze and gave Abigail a look of purest gratitude. Abigail heard Reginald’s sigh of relief from his place beside her. Which gave her the courage to continue, “Where did you live after that?”

“I lodged with an uncle who had three boys and farmed a piece not far from Georgetown. He had lost his wife to the same fever. When I was twelve he married a woman who had two children of her own. She felt I was old enough to fend for myself.”

A plate piled high with sliced turkey was placed in front of Abigail. Someone spooned vegetables onto her plate, but she paid them no attention. “Where did you go?”

“I lodged for a time in a shed behind the church. The pastor’s wife saw to it I had enough to eat. I did odd jobs around the place.”

“What a sorrowful beginning,” Abigail said softly.

He gave a shrug. “Lonely, perhaps. But I had ample time to read.”

“You enjoy books, do you?”

“For the longest time, ma’am, they were my only friends.”

“He’s never to be found without a book on him,” Reginald added. “Devours them, Abe does.”

“Are you reading something now, may I ask?”

“In my coat pocket in the hall, ma’am, I have two books.”

“And they are . . . ?”

“Homer’s
Odyssey
. And a Greek grammar.”

“Do you mean—well, are you teaching yourself Greek?”

“I have so loved the hero’s tale, ma’am. I would like to read it in the writer’s own words.”

“Four years back, this young lad appeared at the warehouse door asking for any work I might have,” Reginald told the table at large.

“The pastor and his wife had moved on,” Abe explained as the looks turned his way again. “The new pastor didn’t think it was fitting for me to stay in their woodshed.”

“Not fitting?” Abigail asked, appalled.

Reginald continued, “This lad did whatever task I set to him. Nothing was beyond his ability. If he did not understand something, he asked for an explanation.”