Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  Abigail’s thoughts drifted away, carried by Wilberforce’s soothing response. Her father’s words had become a painful litany, one she heard even when he was not around. One she heard even in her dreams.

  Then she realized William Wilberforce had spoken to her. She was so startled she looked up before she could catch herself. Her father sat across the room from her. They were as far apart as they had ever been in her entire life, it seemed. His gaze was dark and brooding, his brow so furrowed his eyes seemed to want to join together and bore straight through her. Her mother sat in a straight-backed settee and stared at nothing.

  “Forgive me,” Abigail said. She wanted to continue and say that she had not heard what had been spoken. But her throat clenched up tight.

  “I was just telling your dear parents of the conversation we began the other day. And how I had been unable to continue because of my ailment. But how fascinating it was for me, my dear. And how illuminating.” Wilberforce chatted on with the ease of one who noticed nothing whatsoever wrong with the day or the scene. “I was wondering if I might ask you to continue now.”

  She dropped her eyes and shook her head. Not that. Surely.

  “Oh, do please. It is so vexing when my illnesses lay me low. I have thought of little else since our talk. I would so very much like to know how it would have continued had I been in better form.”

  The silence dominated for a long and heavy moment. Then her father said, “Do proceed, Abigail. Answer the gentleman.”

  “There, you see? Your parents are just as fascinated with what you have to say as I.” If anything, Wilberforce sounded more cheerful than before. “Now then. Remind me what it was you said before I had to beg off and rest. I had asked you what it was you wanted most out of life. Not you, the child we all hold so dear. I referred to you as the adult you are becoming.”

  “I scarcely see how her actions grant her any such—” Her father’s voice sounded like the angry murmur of a brooding storm.

  Abigail did not need to look up to realize Wilberforce must have halted her father’s words. Her throat was so dry she could scarcely breathe, much less speak. Abigail took a sip of her tea. She tasted nothing.

  She spoke the word to the cup resting once again in her lap. “Adventure.”

  “Adventure!” Wilberforce’s repetition of her answer added the volume she could not provide. “Splendid!”

  Lavinia asked, “How can you say that? What is splendid about any urge that causes her to disobey her parents?”

  “My dear friend, you misunderstand me. I condone nothing. I seek merely to understand what is behind this behavior. Let me remind you, please. Your daughter is one of the finest people it has ever been my honor to know.”

  “Honor?” The rumbling thunder grew in force. “Honor?”

  “Honor I said and honor I meant. Hear me out, I beg you both. Look beyond the moment’s pain. We have sat together for these few minutes and already we have captured two essential elements. First, she is a child no longer. Perhaps, just perhaps, part of what we face here today has been caused by our desire to hold her within an impression that is no longer correct. So to understand what I face, because I do not know and do not understand, I have asked her. What does she want? Is this not a good manner of speech? Should we not seek understanding of such vital matters?”

  This time, the silence was not so taxing. Abigail dared not raise her eyes. But she was listening now. Intently.

  “My dear Abigail. Please tell me something. Do you believe in God? Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”

  “With all my heart,” she whispered.

  “Do you feel that what you did, these forays into Soho and perhaps elsewhere, were done as a part of your Savior’s calling?”

  “I wanted to think that.” The heat burned against her eyes once more. She blinked fiercely, willing it away. “But I was wrong to do so.”

  “So you justified actions you now acknowledge were wrong.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the justifications themselves you also accept as wrong.”

  “Yes. They were lies. The worst kind of lies.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She had to take another sip of tea to force air through the lump in her throat. “Because I was lying to myself, to my parents, and to my God. I lied to everyone I hold dear.”

  Her mother sobbed. The sound tore at her so, Abigail was forced to raise her eyes. Despite her own best efforts, she could not keep the heat from blurring her vision entirely. She spoke to vague forms she could not see. “I am so sorry, Papa. Mama. Please forgive me.”

  But her father’s thunder had not diminished. “You have severely damaged—”

  “Yes, yes, we are all aware of this,” Wilberforce chided, surprising them all. “My dear Samuel, I shall speak to you as a friend. Which I hope and pray you shall remain for all our days here on this earth, and beyond. Samuel, you are too close to this matter to see the solution.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Louder still. “Solution, you say?”

  “Just so. Samuel, everyone who knows you speaks of your abilities as a diplomat. And what is a diplomat’s key role, I ask you? Why, it is to discover a solution to matters of conflict, is it not? Yet here in this critical juncture, where you address the needs of your own child, you—”

  “You consider her lying to us and damaging our cause a need?”

  “Has she not already apologized for this? I beg you, Samuel, consider what I am saying. Allow me to continue.” Wilberforce permitted her father a moment further to object. When Samuel remained silent, their host returned his attention to Abigail. “I am confused about one point, my dear.”

  Samuel Aldridge snorted his derision.

  Wilberforce waited for silence to return without shifting his gaze. “Why have you not given yourself over to work with one of our numerous charities?”

  “I have tried.” Her voice did not seem to belong to her at all. It was scarcely above a whisper, the vague hush of a stranger. “But my parents . . .”

  “Yes? Do please go on.”

  “My parents have restricted me at every turn.” Her mother looked at her. “I’m sorry, Mama. But you know this is true. You allow me to venture forth only when I am so coddled and protected I have no chance of speaking to those in need. Or truly knowing them. Or doing anything of real value. I am held to teas and the chatter of well-intentioned ladies who do almost nothing for those in need. They only see the poor through the closed windows of their carriages. They pray for them in the safety of their parlors. They do nothing.”

  Her father demanded, “You think this excuses you for lying and slipping away and endangering yourself by consorting with riffraff in the worst regions of our city?”

  Abigail dropped her gaze. “No, Father. Nothing excuses me. Nothing.”

  “Just so,” Wilberforce exclaimed. “But we are now searching for the reasons, are we not? The condemnation has been set aside for a moment. So tell me, dear Abigail. What would you wish to do?”

  “Go where I could be of genuine help. Act in ways that make a difference to this world. Help to further . . .” The voicing of her long-held dreams had caused her to look up once more. And that first glimpse of her father’s face was enough to silence her utterly. There was no agreement there. No understanding. Nothing save disapproval.

  Wilberforce sighed. “My dear, would you be so kind as to grant me a moment alone with your parents? Perhaps you might care to walk my garden paths, such as they are. For once in a very long while, the day is at least dry.”

  Abigail rose and crossed the room. At the doorway she turned back, her heart filled with a silent plea. Nothing hurt that day quite so severely as how neither of her parents would even meet her gaze.

  Chapter 9

  The banker paced up and down the parlor carpet in a rare rage. Had Lillian been in any other position than this, she might have even been a bit pleased to see him so furious.

  “Eight days I h
ave sent word requesting this meeting. Eight days!” Simon Bartholomew spun about to aim a finger at her. “And don’t you attempt to tell me the messages weren’t received. I sent them by my best man!”

  “I shall tell you nothing at all so long as you remain in this state.”

  The finger leveled at her began to tremble. His fury was a molten force in his gaze. “Do not be so foolish as to think I am incapable of using the information at my disposal.”

  “I have every confidence you are as vile and despicable a creature as has ever walked the face of the earth,” Lillian calmly assured him.

  His face registered disbelief. “What did you say?”

  “Stop being tiresome and sit down.” She spoke as quietly as if she were discussing the weather with a neighbor. “I shall not speak with you further so long as you act like the spoiled child you no doubt were.”

  “How dare you speak to me in such a manner!”

  “How else am I to speak with you? You storm into my house without a by-your-leave, you wear a trough in my best carpet, you rail at me over all sorts of nonsense. Precisely how would you prefer I address you?”

  “As the man who holds your future, and that of your son, in his grasp!”

  “Lower your voice,” she said, speaking sharply for the first time. “Unless you wish to lose your presumed hold by proclaiming your abominable secrets to all the world.”

  He glanced at the closed door, then slitted his gaze and bore down on her. “I want—”

  “Sit down, Mr. Bartholomew.” She watched as reluctantly he lowered himself into a chair. “Now then. We are able to address one another as reasonable adults. Tell me what it is that you must have.”

  His voice held the barely controlled heat of a hissing kettle. “I want to know why I had to learn about the Aldridges’ misery from the broadsheets!”

  “None of the reports is accurate,” Lillian replied.

  But the banker was not finished. “Your task was to insert yourself into the affairs of this family and keep me abreast of anything that might be used as ammunition in my attack!”

  “What ever have they done to you to deserve such harsh measures?”

  “That is none of your concern!”

  “Really, I must ask that you take a better hold upon your temper, sir.” She picked up the little silver bell on the side table and rang it. When the maid appeared, Lillian said, “Our guest requires tea.”

  “Certainly, mum.”

  “I need no such thing.”

  “Nonsense. It will do you a world of good. Everyone knows there is nothing like good Ceylon tea for calming the nerves.”

  She did not care whether the banker had tea. She certainly had no intention of drinking a cup with him. But she needed a moment. She had to come to grips with what was happening.

  It was the strangest sensation she had ever known, this calm in the face of such fury. And such peril.

  For reasons she could not fathom, Lillian began recalling the evening with Lavinia. How despite the urgency and the worry, Lillian had found herself drawing away. She had felt split in two, one part riding in the carriage and the other deeply fearful of this man and the power he held over her.

  The maid reentered with the tray. Without raising her eyes from her lap, Lillian said quietly, “Pour our guest a cup, if you please.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  Lillian wore a day dress of blue silk so reflective it looked almost silver in the sunlight. Her hands bore two rings, both gifts from her husband. One had a central ruby the size of a quail’s egg. Around her neck were three long strands of oversized pearls. She sat upon a gilded chair crafted in what was known as the Napoleonic style, backed in a tapestry cloth embroidered with the French fleur-de-lis. Her front parlor was not the largest nor the grandest of such London chambers, but it was a fine place indeed. She was in fact one of the most envied ladies in England—for her titles, for her beauty, for her supposed wealth.

  During the previous week and a half, ever since that disastrous night marking the last time the banker Bartholomew had entered this room, she had reflected upon what it should mean to lose everything. Her looks might as well be lost with her wealth and titles, for she most certainly would be unable to use her beauty to any great advantage. She might marry another older man, someone willing to take on a scandal-riven wife with a son. But it would not be a happy marriage, and the circumstances would be meager indeed. Even so, she did not wish to wed again. But she might be forced to in order not to starve.

  And yet, despite all the fears that whispered through her dark hours, still there had been this remarkable calm.

  Lillian realized the banker had spoken. “Forgive me, sir. I was lost in thought.”

  “So I see.” Simon Bartholomew was as disconcerted as ever she had seen. Clearly the last thing he had expected to find upon his arrival was his prey so self-possessed. “I merely repeated my earlier question. Why did you not inform me?”

  “Because,” Lillian replied simply, “I was with the family that night.”

  He was so astonished he sloshed his tea. “You were where?”

  “You told me to grow close to them, did you not? That is precisely what I have done. So close, in fact, I possess information that is mine and mine alone. Were you to utilize this in any fashion, it would have revealed your source and destroyed any chance I had to be of further use.”

  “I will be the judge of that!”

  She chose to ignore the outburst. “Now it is my turn to ask a question. What precisely are your intentions?”

  The banker carefully set his cup upon the side table. He extracted his handkerchief and wiped his hands. “What an extraordinary thing for you to ask.”

  “Let us look at this arrangement logically. Surely you do not think you shall be able to maintain your grip upon me indefinitely.”

  “I do not see why not.”

  “That is unwise, sir. I shall find some way out of this. You know my history, or so you claim. You know that I am, above all, a survivor. You have me in your grip now. You shall not have this forever.”

  Bartholomew’s gaze grew piercing, and Lillian felt a strong tremor of nerves. She knew he was at his most dangerous now. She gripped her hands together with the effort to maintain her calm. “I repeat my question, sir. What is it you seek? If I am to help you, I must know this.”

  Finally the banker rose and walked to the front window. He wore his customary black suit, the long tails of his coat sweeping down to the striped black and gray trouser legs. No color at all in the man. No notion of humanity. “There are two families,” he said eventually. “The Aldridges are one.”

  “And the other?”

  “You do not know them. The woman is an American. Langston. Of Washington. Merchants. She has married one Gareth Powers.”

  “The pamphleteer?”

  “Just so.”

  The banker’s clipped manner of speech suggested something unspoken to Lillian’s attentive ear. “They have wronged you?”

  “That is not of your concern. What you must reveal to me is a means by which I can destroy them all.”

  The studied manner in which Bartholomew spoke those words chilled Lillian to the bone.

  “There is more,” Bartholomew added.

  “Yes?”

  “I have heard . . .” Bartholomew hesitated a moment. Finally he continued, “The last time we met, I told you of the ire these Dissenters and anti-slavers have raised within the royal court.”

  “Indeed.”

  “This ire is uncommonly strong. Were someone to offer a lever that might genuinely halt their reforming efforts, they would be well rewarded.”

  The awareness came with shocking clarity. “You seek to be rewarded with a title,” Lillian interpreted. “You have come out of the woodwork with your long-standing desire for revenge, over some long-dead matter. They wronged you in the past. You have done nothing to retaliate until now. But the king and his cronies are with you. Finally there is an opportunit
y to destroy your enemies and gain titles for yourself.”

  Simon Bartholomew turned from the window. The sunlight cast his features into a series of dismal caverns. “I dislike your belief that you know my motives so clearly.”

  “How else am I to serve you?” This knowledge gave her a lever. What it signified she had no idea. But she knew the tides had altered somewhat. Her calm restored, it was possible to release the tight grip her hands had kept in her lap and say, “I wish to enter into a bargain.”

  Bartholomew barked a single laugh. “Really, this is too absurd.”

  “Bargain,” she repeated. “I will seek out the information you desire. In return, you will agree to dissolve all my debts and vow never to use your knowledge against me, or my family, ever again.”

  The intent examination returned. “And if I refuse?”

  “You will not,” she said simply. “You know you cannot hold this blade poised over me forever. This gives you what I want, and vice versa. Does that not make up an ideal bargain?”

  “I will consider . . .” Something outside the window distracted him.

  “What is it?”

  “A carriage has pulled up in front of your house.” His eyes widened. “It is the Aldridges!”

  “Step away from there!” She leaped to her feet. “Did they see you?”

  He glanced out. “Apparently not. What are they doing here?”

  “Did I not say I was with them in their hour of need? Where is your own carriage?”

  “I came from the bank by transom.”

  “This way!” She opened the parlor’s rear door and said to the startled maid, “Bring the gentleman’s cloak!”

  “I had none,” Bartholomew told her.

  “Follow me.” She hastened down the narrow servant’s hallway and through the kitchen. Lillian unbolted the rear door and ushered him out. When Bartholomew stood upon the rear stoop, she said, “You risk undermining your own cause by coming here. From now on you will send written word, and I shall present myself to your premises when I am able.”

  Before he could reply, she shut the door in his face.

  Lillian turned back to face the cook and said, “It appears we are to have additional guests, these far more welcome than the last.”