The keeper found that most humorous. “What did I tell you. There ain’t a guilty one among ’em.”
Quietly Lillian said, “Let us be rid of this place while we are able.”
But Abigail held Lillian closer still. “What of my companions?”
Thankfully, the keeper spoke before Lillian could. “There ain’t been nothing said of any others.”
Lillian inspected the face before her. Flaming red hair tumbled about features that remained strong and defiant, even when terrified. The eyes were impossibly clear, the expression alight with an innocence Lillian had never known. Certainly not by the time she had reached this woman’s age.
Abigail protested, “I can’t just leave them here to rot in this vile place!”
Lillian thought swiftly. This young woman was not going to come easily without her companions. There was nothing to be gained by arguing. She turned to the keeper. “Surely you noticed the other names written upon the magistrate’s document.”
The keeper gaped at her. “Other names?”
“The Reverend Derrick Aimes and his assistant, Peter Wise,” Abigail offered quickly. “They did nothing wrong either.”
“Of course not. Why should they be any different from all the others jailed here?” He kneaded the grip of his weapon. “You’ll be paying for them as well?”
“I will.”
He said nothing more. The keeper locked the door behind them, then left them standing in the press yard as he entered the north wing, where the men were kept. The wait was endless. The two women stood and clutched each other, surrounded by their own private worlds of fear and calamity.
Finally the keeper reappeared, leading two other figures. Lillian could not make out their faces in the misty gloom. But as soon as the keeper’s lantern fastened upon the two women, one of those following the man cried out, “Abigail?”
“Pastor Derrick!”
“Praise be to God above!”
“Are you all right, Reverend?”
“Why should I not be, when our gracious Father has released us from our shackles and wrought another miracle?”
“One paid for by this woman’s gold,” the keeper said, his eyes fastened meaningfully upon Lillian.
She was already reaching for her purse. “Let us be free of this vile realm.”
Chapter 7
Six days later, Abigail sat in the very same chair she had claimed as her own the first time she had come to this house. It had a high, curved back, a chair intended to nestle the occupant within its padded comfort. Abigail recalled that first visit to the Wilberforce manor very clearly. She had been nine years old. Her parents had been invited to come and have lunch with William Wilberforce in his home. During the carriage ride her mother had warned repeatedly not to speak out of turn or discuss matters which should be left until they were alone. She was to be a proper young lady, her mother had said, and for once Abigail had sincerely agreed, for she had seen how important this meeting was to both her parents.
They had decided to bring Abigail along that day, because William Wilberforce had been such a dear friend of Erica Langston. Erica and Abigail had grown extremely close during Erica’s stay in England, despite an age difference of more than ten years. Erica had recently returned to her home in Washington, accompanied by her fiancé, Gareth Powers. Abigail had missed her terribly. Introducing Abigail to Erica’s dear friend Mr. Wilberforce was her parents’ way of trying to make her feel better. And it had. Oh, how much better she had felt after the visit. William Wilberforce had not been anything like Abigail had expected. She had imagined a great and powerful man after everything she had heard. Instead, the little man’s eyes had fastened upon her with such gentle intelligence she had felt as though she had known him for years. He had spoken for a time with her parents, then selected the seat closest to Abigail. He had taken her hand in both of his, looked deep into her eyes, and said how he imagined she missed their mutual friend quite as much as he did.
The memory was enough to bring on new tears.
Fortunately, Abigail was the only person in the front parlor that day. Normally it bustled with visitors and guests and the quiet murmur of discreet conversations. Today, however, the drapes were partly drawn upon a rain-swept garden. The entire house seemed swathed in a muted light. Abigail forced herself to regain control and used her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Occasionally people passed before the doors leading to the rear offices and the rest of the house. A few cast glances her way, swift looks that did not linger.
The previous few days had been the most wretched of Abigail’s entire life. Her nights were riven by fearful dreams. Her days were filled with silent condemnation. When her mother had asked for details about her forays into Soho, Abigail had responded with the resignation of one who was beyond all desire to hide. Her mother had said very little more, not even asking how Abigail had come to lie to her parents. Which of course was precisely what Abigail had done. One falsehood piled upon another. The worst were the ones she had told herself. How she was doing this for a higher purpose. How she was behaving this way for God.
Her mother’s silence was more profound than anything she could have said.
Everything else would wait until her father returned from Brussels. The thought of this had added a feverish edge to her nightmares and filled her every morning with dread.
Then the broadsheets with the awful headlines had appeared, and there was no way they could wait any longer for her father.
She knew why Wilberforce’s household was avoiding her. For two days now, the newspapers loyal to the Crown had spouted the most scurrilous lies. Articles claimed a leading Dissenter had been captured in a raid on a notorious bawdy theatre. “One Aldridge,” the newspapers said. The articles made no mention that she had been the visitor. In fact, one implied that it had been her father who had actually been a member of the audience. They claimed this Aldridge had been captured in a general sweep, one carried out by the Crown at the public’s demand for decency and reform. They suggested this Aldridge had actually been on the verge of entering the stage itself. A stage where most of the performers were without clothes.
Abigail buried her face in her hands. The shame was just too much to bear. Her father was due back in three days. She did not know which meeting she dreaded the most, that with her father or with Mr. Wilberforce.
Notice had come this morning, a written request from Wilberforce himself. When Abigail had read the note, she had resisted a sudden urge to break into hysterical laughter. No matter how awful the situation was, it insisted upon becoming worse still.
“Miss Aldridge? Mr. Wilberforce will see you now.”
Abigail was once more filled with a desperate desire to flee the dark house and these hushed people. But where was she to go? She forced herself to rise and follow the young gentleman she scarcely saw. They entered the front hall and passed through the main gallery. She noticed people to either side, but no one spoke. People moved in funereal solemnity. And perhaps this was appropriate. She walked toward her own public humiliation.
The young gentleman opened one of the sliding doors leading to the formal library, the chamber Wilberforce used as his personal office. “Miss Aldridge, sir.”
“Ah, Abigail. What a delight it is to see you again.” The voice came from within a room darker than the rest of the house. “Forgive me for not rising. Do please come in. Will you take tea?”
“N-no thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Herbert. That will be all.”
“Very good, sir.”
When the door closed, the room’s only light came from a tight slit in the window drapes. Abigail remained where she was, allowing her eyes to become adjusted.
“A wretched state of affairs, I do agree. Can you see where to put your feet? Perhaps I should have Herbert bring you a candle.”
“No, sir. Thank you.” She saw him now, a small figure reclining upon a daybed in the far corner. He wore his customary dark suit, but as she approached she
saw his coat was being used as a pillow and his shoes were off. “Are you all right, sir?”
“I shall not begin this conversation with a lie. I am unwell. I have these dreadful attacks of pain in my forehead and temples, you see. They come without warning and wreak the most awful havoc upon my hours. Then they depart, and for a day I am weak as dishwater. After this it is as though the pain had never appeared.”
“I am so very sorry, sir.” Of course. She had heard her parents speak of the vengeance with which such attacks lay the ever-active Wilberforce low. They came, they left. There was nothing anyone could do but move softly and wait for the attack to cease. Sometimes they lasted for a few hours, other times for days. It was only as she started across the floor that she noticed the older woman in the far corner. She knitted with the calm certainty of one who had done this task for so long she scarcely needed her eyes at all. She glanced up and nodded at Abigail, then returned to her work. And said not a word.
“I am sorry for the dark,” Wilberforce said. “It is the light, you see. I am so sensitive to the light during these weak times.”
Weakness. Abigail bowed her head as she sat in a chair close to his. Her own weakness was there on glaring display. And now their enemies were using it to attack this good man.
“You are sad.”
Her head was bowed, such that her tears fell upon the hands in her lap as she nodded.
“And I have so cherished your visits because of your joy. It hurts me to see you in such a state of sorrow.”
This was just like the man, to be suffering himself and to have his life’s work threatened by her own errors. And all he spoke of was her happiness. Her sorrow. Her tears fell faster still.
Wilberforce said nothing more until she managed to regain control. His voice held none of its normal strength and timbre when he said, “Life is so difficult at times, is it not? We feel so wronged. If only we could see and understand in advance just where we are headed, what lies in store. But do you know, the Scriptures say that all the Lord our God promises is to be a light unto our feet. One step at a time. Do you see? Perhaps it is not our charge to be looking further ahead than this one step, this one day.”
“I am very, very sorry for all the trouble I have caused,” Abigail whispered.
But Wilberforce did not seem to hear her. “Perhaps our task is to look upon this one day alone. Perhaps we must concentrate upon the one thing that is clearest in our mind and heart. This one duty. This one problem. And trust that our God can make sense of the grand scheme, the long road of days and tasks ahead.”
“How can God make sense of all the woe and trouble I have brought?”
“Ah. Well. Were I to be a perfect man, with all the strength and wisdom in the world, perhaps I might be able to answer that for you. As it is, I fear I am just another humble servant. I am far too aware of my own failings to condemn you for being who you are.”
“I am such a foolish child.”
“Indeed, we all act foolishly from time to time.” Wilberforce shifted slightly and pressed one hand to his left temple. “Would you be so kind as to pour me a glass of water?”
“Certainly.” She then discovered it was necessary to help steady him so that he might straighten and drink.
“Thank you, dear child.” His weary smile beckoned through the gloom. “I suppose I should stop thinking of you as such. For a child you are no longer.”
“How can you say that, after all the damage I have caused?”
“Tell me,” he said, again acting as though he had not heard her at all, “tell me who you are.”
The strangeness of the question somehow drew her away from the dull pain in her heart. “Sir?”
“Oh, I know who you were. I know the child you are no longer. Tell me now, who are you becoming? Who is the woman, this Miss Abigail Aldridge?”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“I know, I know, it sounds like the vague ramblings of an ill old man. But indulge me, if you will. Were you able to speak of your heart’s deepest longings, what would you say? Above all else, Miss Abigail Aldridge, what do you seek?”
The question took her breath away. Breath and tears both, and the pain besides. Which was so remarkable a sensation that it took a silent span of several minutes for Abigail to realize what she was feeling. It was forgiveness. Abigail found herself thinking of a word she had often heard in church but never understood until that very moment. The word was shriven. The burdens she had carried since that dreadful night were stripped away. The guilt and the pain and the sorrow were gone.
She looked at the man supine on the couch before her. He looked so frail, this gentleman. So very small for all the burdens he bore. His eyes were closed, and he seemed asleep. The only sound in the room was the soft click of the knitting needles. Abigail knew that Wilberforce was waiting. What an astonishing man he was.
Abigail took the first free breath she had drawn since all this had begun. What did she yearn for above all else?
She spoke a word she had scarcely admitted even to herself.
She said, “Adventure.”
Chapter 8
The sun was a brilliant gift the afternoon of the Aldridges’ return to Wilberforce’s home. It was five days since Abigail had visited, and the first since her dreadful night that it had not rained. There was an air of welcoming charm to the Wilberforce manor. The gardens were a shambles, as always. The weeds stood almost waist deep in places, and the trees were burdened with overripe fruit. The manor itself rambled in a rather haphazard manner. Everywhere Abigail looked she saw things in need of repair.
She sat in the carriage beside her mother with her father on the seat opposite. Her brother was playing at a friend’s house. She took careful note of the outside surroundings because it kept her from staring at her father’s stonelike expression.
Three other carriages waited in the forecourt as they pulled up and halted. Abigail waited while her father helped her mother down, then slipped out unaided. She moved around so she stood behind her parents. She kept her eyes upon the ground. It was safer thus. She followed them up the stairs and into the entrance hall. She recognized the young aide’s voice, though she saw nothing more than his shoes and trouser legs as Herbert greeted them. She followed her parents into the front parlor and moved swiftly to the far corner. The padded high-backed chair embraced her in the same way it had when she was a child. The sunlight played over the carpet by her feet. She settled her hands into a tight ball in her lap and forced away the warm memories of another time. She would not cry.
Today was only the second time she had left her room since her father’s return. He had spoken to her once since his arrival. It had been far from a pleasant conversation. He had stood over the chair where she had sat in their own front parlor. He had asked her questions, most of which she could not answer. How had she ever thought of doing such a thing? Was it true she had repeatedly lied to her parents? What had they done to deserve such treatment? Abigail had responded with little more than an apology, repeated over and over. Then as now, she had struggled hard and remained dry eyed. Why she felt it was so vital not to weep, she could not say.
The first time she had emerged from their home had been for church the previous day. The only time she had threatened to break down was when she had gazed into her young brother’s eyes. Horace had been so hurt, so confused. She would never do anything to harm him, yet he now suffered through these tense hours because of her. She had turned away, unable to look at him. Church had been most dreadful. She had avoided the shocked and angry glares cast her way by seeing nothing more than the few steps ahead of her own feet. But she could feel their ire. Of course they were upset. The broadsheets loyal to the Crown were using her presence in the theatre to condemn them all. The king’s allies within the press continued to lambaste the Dissenters for the actions they claimed she had done. The congregants at the chapel she had attended since childhood treated her as a stranger. As one who did not belong.
Now the parlor doors creaked open. The voice she had known since childhood exclaimed, “My dear Samuel, how good it is to see you again.” And Wilberforce himself came into the room, obviously fully recovered from his recent bout of illness.
Abigail rose with the others but kept her face downcast. She heard her father say, “I wish I could say I am glad to be home, William.”
“Yes, yes, I do understand. Lavinia, my dear. How lovely to have you back in my home once more.”
“How are you feeling, William? I understand you have been unwell.”
“Indeed, yes, but it has passed, as it always does. So let us not dwell on it any longer.” The diminutive figure moved over to where his bright eyes could peer up into Abigail’s own. He patted her arm and said simply, “Hello, my dear.”
She bit her lip and curtsied. His unspoken sympathy was a lance to her heart.
“Come, come, are we not friends? Let us relax and talk as such. Look, here is Cook with tea. And she has made her special shortbread. I find it quite the most delicious shortbread I have ever tasted. Lavinia, perhaps you will be so kind as to pour for us.”
Abigail accepted her cup but did not taste it. She could not have swallowed just then. She could not capture all of what was being said. Mostly she heard the tones. William Wilberforce spoke in a warm and diplomatic manner. Her father responded with hard dignity. Her mother sounded resigned and sad.
Her father’s words abruptly came into focus. “I am mightily surprised that you would ask such a question, William. How has she damaged me? What am I without my reputation, without my standing in the community?”
“Forgive me, old friend. But it seems from where I stand that the foment is being caused by His Majesty’s minions and rumormongers, not your dear daughter.”
“Only because she has supplied them with ammunition.” Samuel Aldridge’s words thudded like stones in the sunlit room. “They are attacking you and all our causes as well because of this. A fact certainly you are aware of.”
Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine Page 6
