by S. B. Moores
“Your parents are in the family room. They sent me to tell you they want to talk to you.”
“What?” Abigail wasn’t accustomed to receiving such a formal summons. “What’s that all about?”
“My guess is they’ve got something important to say, Miss Abby. I think it’s about you know what.” Elly gestured as though she were slipping a ring on her finger. A wedding ring. Abigail sighed. As with most of her troubles, she had confided in Elly her struggle for the right to choose her own husband. Elly’s instincts were usually right. Her parents must have come to some decision.
“How awful could it be, Miss Abby? Maybe they picked a handsome one for you.”
“Maybe I will become the Queen of England.”
Elly laughed. “Don’t forget to take me with you when you move to the palace.”
When she entered the sitting room, Abigail found her parents waiting near the fire in the hearth. Her mother sat in a straight-backed chair, while her father stood behind her, with one hand on her shoulder. They looked like they were posing for an artist, waiting to have their portrait painted. The fact that her parents were both watching her when she entered was unsettling. She expected Henry to be at his desk fretting over the farm’s ledgers, while her mother attended to correspondence.
“Hello, Abigail,” her father said. “Please sit down.”
She obliged, choosing one of the small stuffed chairs with white doilies on their arms and pinned on their backs that sat about the room.
“What may I do for you, Father? Mother?”
Her father glanced at the ceiling and appeared momentarily uncomfortable, or no longer sure of what he was going to say.
“Abigail, dear,” he started. “I hope we provided you with some level of entertainment at your recent social event.”
“Entertainment?”
“With your coming-out. I mean the birthday party. And the, uh . . . young men.”
“Oh, yes, the party.” Abigail folded her hands together in her lap. She half-heartedly searched for some way to deflect what she suspected was coming. “I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I appreciate all you and Mother have done for me. I do.”
“Well, yes,” Henry said. “You know there was a more practical purpose behind all of our efforts.”
“A practical purpose for the party?” She feigned innocent confusion. Any hope that her parents had given up finding her a husband were dashed. They were sticking to their plan. Her mind raced as she searched for some defense, but she couldn’t think of any. “You wish to see me married, I know.”
“Yes!” Her father sighed, grateful the subject had finally been broached.
“Fulton Pierce seems like a very nice man,” her mother said. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I like Fulton, but he’s so thin.” It was all she could think of. “Hardly as big around as one of my knitting needles. A stiff wind might blow him into the next valley. Then where would I be?”
“His family owns half the cattle in Livingston County.” Henry’s jaw was set. “They would be a very good match.”
“Would I be marrying the cattle or the family?” she smiled. “In any case, I understand Fulton has been in, uh, discussions with Emily Brown’s family.”
“Oh?” Her father seemed uncertain again, probably because Wooford Pierce, Fulton’s father, did a fair amount of business with Henry, and neither man would want to disrupt that relationship.
“They make such a darling couple,” she added.
Silence interrupted the discussion. Apparently her parents had settled on Fulton as the husband of choice, and they hadn’t examined many alternatives.
“Well, what about Harrington Jones?” her mother asked.
“Mother, you can’t be serious. Harrington is fifteen, no, sixteen years my senior. Besides that, he’s got to be twenty stone if he’s a pound. Can you imagine that man . . . and me ...?”
“Abby,” her mother said. “Please don’t use that kind of language—”
“It’s not about that,” her father said.
“Perhaps not for you, but it is for me.”
Her mother’s cheeks turned pink, and she fanned herself with a handkerchief.
Her father started pacing about the room. “Abby, dear. You’re seventeen years old, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Eighteen, actually.”
Her father stopped pacing. “Good Lord. Well, at any rate, it is high time you were married. You can see that, can’t you? We can’t have you living in our house forever as a spinster. There are any number of decent, honorable young men in the county or beyond, if necessary, who would make a perfectly good match for you.”
“That all depends on how you define ‘perfect,’ doesn’t it?”
“All a man needs is the right, well, circumstances to be a suitable match.”
“And what would I need?”
“Don’t be so particular. What more would you need?”
“Father, I hope to have some say in whom I marry.”
“Certainly. Of course, dear. We have always listened to your concerns.”
“My concerns? How comforting to know.” She sighed.
Her father looked briefly at the ceiling again. “Abby, dear, we want the best for you. You know that, but I feel this is a matter that may be coming to a head.”
“Coming to a head? What kind of wedding plans come to a head?”
“Stop this!” Her father scowled. “You know what I mean. We will let you know when your mother and I have reached a decision.”
The finality of her father’s statement so shocked Abigail that she reacted immediately, instinctively, and she wasn’t sure what she was saying until the words spilled out of her mouth.
“Very well, if you insist. I choose Tobias Johnson.”
Her father froze and she could see a smile forming on her mother’s lips, so she held up her hands to stop them from reacting any further. “I choose Tobias, but not for marriage. At least not immediately. This is the nineteenth century, after all, and I insist on having a say in whom I marry. And, in order to be sure of my match, I must know more about the man first.”
“You’ve known Tobias since you were a child,” her mother said.
“Known him as a friend, yes. But I need to learn the temper of the man under different circumstances. Different stresses, as it were. Ones that you wouldn’t find in a casual friendship. Only then will I know if he will be a suitable husband, someone I’d want to spend the rest of my life with. To have children with.”
“How on earth are you going to know that, Abigail?” Her father’s face had turned crimson. “Do you want to have a trial marriage? Sign a contract, perhaps?”
“I would do it the very same way you would, Father. The same way you have with Thomas Johnson. By going into business with him.”
“What?”
“Yes. It’s no secret that I want to raise horses. The Johnsons have a successful farm, although Toby isn’t principally in charge of it. I think he would enjoy starting a business with me to raise horses of our own. It would give him some practical business experience, and I would learn more about him.”
“Do you have any idea what you’d be getting into?” Her father asked. “It’s not like planning a spring social, you know.”
“Exactly my point. Marriage isn’t a spring social, either. It’s serious business. For a wife, what more serious a business can there be?”
Her mother smiled. “Henry, I think Abigail has a good idea.”
“Pish and tosh!” Henry threw his hands in the air. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Don’t worry, Father. It shouldn’t be long before Tobias and I know each other well enough. Anyway, that’s my condition. If Tobias and I can be successful business partners, we’re bound to be compatible as man and wife. If that’s what I want.”
“Now you want to put conditions on marriage?” Her father shook his head.
But her mother looked as though she enjoyed the idea more and mor
e. “Henry, think of how often you have described your business affairs to me as a marriage, good or bad.”
“Yes, dear, but that’s different.”
“I don’t see that it’s so different. Except for having children, of course.” Henrietta stood and faced her husband. “I think even you would want to know more about your business partners if you expected to have children with them.”
“Unbelievable! Completely unbelievable.” Henry glared at Abigail and her mother in turn, then stalked from the room muttering to himself.
Henrietta’s smile sparkled as Abigail had seldom seen it. She wagged a finger at Abigail. “I don’t know where you came up with this remarkable idea, dear, but I’ve always said there’s more than a little of your father in you.”
“Really?” Abigail couldn’t imagine the two of them being more different.
Abigail sat at her dressing table, studying her face in the candlelit reflection of the mirror. Yes, she had become a woman, no doubt about it. Well into the age for marrying and having children. Why, then, did she object to her parents’ insistence that she do just that? Was it only because it should be her decision, and she hadn’t yet been able to make it? When it came to suitors, her life was an embarrassment of riches. The party had proven that. But she feared being chained to a loveless marriage, and the business with Toby was all she could think of under pressure. She knew she was only buying time. Her parents would expect her to marry Toby as soon as the business was successful, if not before.
An image of Justin Sterling, bare-chested and jumping into the fish pond, came to mind and she smiled. She would love to go into business with Justin, but her father would have none of that.
She felt the trap of her own making starting to close around her, and she suddenly wanted to get out of the house. She’d go for an evening stroll to clear her head. She snatched up a shawl and started to leave her room but stopped and looked back at the dressing table. She’d forgotten to blow out her candle. Sitting next to it, glinting in the reflection of the candle’s flame, was the small, chrome pocket pistol her father had given her. He said she should keep it with her if she insisted on taking evening walks. She never thought she’d need it. Now the idea of having it gave her comfort. She slipped it carefully into her small wool purse, blew out the candle, and left.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
New Year’s Day 1835
From his comfortable chair near the crackling hearth, Justin sipped from a cup of rum and nog and listened to his neighbors’ friendly talk. He always looked forward to the Johnsons’ New Year’s gathering. The annual party provided welcome relief from the quiet isolation of winter, and through the blending of many voices, he picked out bits and pieces of many conversations. There were discussions of new farming techniques someone intended to try in the spring, rumors about who was courting whom during the fallow season, and general good-natured revelry.
Justin noticed with interest a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the wooden beam separating the large living room from an equally large and open dining room. He wondered if Abby would let him catch her underneath it and speculated on how much scandal it would cause if he kissed her. It would be an appropriate prelude to confessing his love.
He cautioned himself against acting rashly. Abby appeared nervous enough for some reason. She had left the gathering and was off somewhere in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Johnson’s servants, who provided a seemingly endless supply of cookies and punch. Abby looked resplendent in her wool skirt and high-necked blouse, which, to his mind, barely concealed the swell of her breasts. To Justin, who had imbibed more than one cup of nog, the anticipation of seeing her again made him carefully monitor the doorway leading to the kitchen.
However, it was Tobias and his father who appeared in the doorway first. They worked their way, arm in arm, through the knots of gathered friends who greeted them. Justin’s gaze settled on Toby’s smile. Seldom had he seen such self-satisfaction. It occurred to him that Toby knew something. Something important.
Abby came into the room wiping her hands on a towel, which she set on a serving tray. She looked less than satisfied, as if some sort of burden weighed on her shoulders. She smiled politely and followed Toby and his father into the living room. The sight of her so close behind Toby alarmed Justin. Perhaps the look on Toby’s face had something to do with Abigail. He did not have to wait long to find out.
Toby tapped on the side of his brandy snifter with a silver spoon to get the attention of the gathered neighbors. “Listen to me everybody. I have wonderful news.” Tobias smiled as though he were a ten-year-old again at Christmas. “This spring Abigail Whitfield and I will start our own enterprise. A sort of business, you could say.”
The hairs on the back of Justin’s neck stood on end.
Abby flashed a reproachful look at Toby. Had she not wanted him to reveal their plans?
“My goodness,” Toby’s mother said. “What sort of business?”
By way of answering, Tobias raised his snifter and said, a bit melodramatically, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you the Johnson-Whitfield horse-breeding consortium.”
Oohs and aahs spread through the group. Everyone drank to their good luck. Justin was relieved that the business wasn’t marriage, but it was as close as a couple could get without tying the knot.
“Yes,” Toby said. “I have spoken with my father, and of course to Mr. Whitfield”—a nod of the brandy snifter in the direction of Henry, who held no glass. “And we’ve decided to quarter the horses in the old Thompson barn, down by the river. We chose it because it’s about halfway between our two farms. And it’s the only barn available for now. It will have to be rebuilt, I imagine, but it will do until the venture can move on to a bigger and better location.”
He beamed at Abigail and grasped her shoulder awkwardly but enthusiastically, as if he had just announced that they were engaged to be married.
“How extraordinary,” one of the older gentlemen said.
“Between the two of you, I’m sure no luck will be needed,” Henrietta Whitfield said. The satisfied look on Henrietta’s face told Justin all he needed to know. Undoubtedly she’d been planning something like this since Abby’s party, if not before. If so, the scheme had taken shape nicely. The only thing left for Abby and Toby would be marriage. Justin suddenly felt like an awkward stranger in the house.
The younger men in the room were excited by the news and shot questions at Tobias, to see if he was serious and to gauge whether the plan could actually succeed. Abby stood to the side, and Justin noticed that all of their questions were aimed at Toby, not her.
“How many horses?” one asked.
“A half-dozen or so to begin with,” Tobias admitted. “We’ll start out quite modestly, but when we are successful, who knows?”
Other questions followed, and, as she stood to one side, Abigail was relieved they were directed at Toby, and not her. She knew that Toby, as a man, was expected to control the business. Her intentions weren’t important to the men in the room. Yes, she had always wanted to raise horses, and going into business with Toby might be the most expedient route to that goal, but the arrangement did something else. It would turn away any number of men who might want to court her or ask for her hand in marriage. And, because her parents assumed marriage to Toby would eventually follow, they would no longer pressure her to select another mate who met their rather narrow requirements. It was an awkward delaying tactic that would have to suffice until the business failed or she could explain why marriage to Toby wouldn’t work.
She searched the faces of her friends and relatives and saw that their reactions were, for the most part, just as she had predicted. Some of the older men looked askance at Henry, obviously wondering at the prudence of letting a young lady take part in the less-than-genteel practice of raising horses. Henry said nothing, but gently raised the palms of his hands, as if to signal that his daughter’s participation was only a matter of youthful enthusiasm, which would fade in time and in the f
ace of hard work. Abigail relished the idea of mortifying the old men further by proving her father wrong.
Then her gaze fell upon Justin. His eyes were fixed on the cup he held in his lap. Had the boldness of her enterprise impressed him? It didn’t look so. Something else shown on his face. Disappointment? Sadness? Of course, she realized that he, too, must think there was more to her plans than a business or her love of horses.
A wave of regret swept over her. At that moment she was tempted to stand up, stop the chattering crowd, and announce, “Toby and I are not going to be married!” She would have shouted it, but would anyone believe her?
What could she do to disabuse Justin or anyone else of the notion that her intentions were not ultimately romantic? After all, what young lady would think twice about marrying Tobias Johnson? He stood tall, and he had turned his share of the heads of the women he passed on the road. Perhaps she really should consider marrying Toby. Much as she hated to admit it, a woman could do much worse.
But the decision should be hers. She bristled at the idea that, because she was a woman, she couldn’t go into business with a man without marrying him. Why should she have to justify her actions, even to Justin? She would decide whom to marry in her own good time. For now, she would work hard to create the financial independence she might need if she truly were to decide whom she should marry.
A few high clouds were scudding across the blue winter sky, but they gave no hint that bad weather might be on the way. Abby sat, bundled in her sheepskin coat under an ancient, gnarled oak tree that had given her shade since her mother had brought her here as a child. All of the important events of her life had unfolded on the stage the view before her presented. From the oak she looked north, as she usually did, down across her father’s pastures and fields, into the distance. How many times had she admired this view without realizing those lands in the distance that made the view so spectacular were the rolling acres owned by the Sterlings? Now their neatly plowed rows, waiting for spring corn and tobacco, called to her as if they, not the Whitfield property, were her home.
