Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  The cook understood instantly. “There’s some of the lovely cherry gateau I made up for yesterday’s visitors.”

  “Serve that with tea for three perhaps, or four—I’m not certain.”

  “Very good, mum.”

  She heard the front bellpull jingle and hurried back down the hall. She arrived in the main foyer just as the maid was about to answer the door. “Remain as you are for one moment, please.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  Lillian turned to the oval hall mirror. Her appearance was one of the few givens that remained steadfast in her life. It was her eyes she wanted to inspect. What precisely had Bartholomew observed? The sky-blue irises stared back at her, as lovely and placid as ever.

  Lillian was struck by a sudden urge to give the banker nothing. She studied her reflection and wondered how such a perilous concept could grip her with such wrenching force. No matter how appealing the prospect, to refuse to do Bartholomew’s bidding meant to risk everything. Were she to fail him, Lillian had no doubt whatever the banker would destroy her. Yet her mind returned once more to the utter goodness in Lavinia Aldridge. And her daughter. No matter what nonsense the broadsheets might be spouting. She had seen the young woman in her direst hour declare that she would only accept freedom if her friends were released as well. What a remarkable strength of will this young woman held. So very much like a younger Lillian, she reflected. And so very different.

  Yet with the blade hung poised over her head, what could she possibly do? Lillian found no pleasure in the fact that her features shone with the lie of surreal calm. A life of lies, she mused. Why was she growing so distressed over just a few more?

  The bell jangled a second time.

  “My lady?”

  Lillian touched a perfectly coiffed strand of hair, smoothed the collar to her frock, and turned from the mirror. “You may open the door.”

  As soon as she heard the front door’s jangling bell, Abigail knew it was for her. She had been expecting the call, had known ever since Sunday morning that it had to come. Even before Horace came trumping up the stairs and down the long central hallway, she knew it was a visitor for her. Which was why, when her brother knocked upon her door, Abigail was already at her little dressing table.

  “Come in.”

  “Nora is downstairs.”

  Abigail buttoned her collar and refitted the little cloth fasteners at the wrists. “Thank you, brother.”

  “Are you all better now?”

  That was all it took, and the tears started pressing against her eyes. As if she had not already cried enough for an entire lifetime.

  But Horace did not notice. “I hate it around the house these days.”

  Abigail could only nod her mournful agreement.

  He took her silence as license to continue. “It’s no fun. It used to be so jolly here. Why can’t things go back to the way they were before?”

  Abigail’s curls defied easy grooming. She had two brushes, one stiff enough to force its way through the tightest knots. She used the other one now, so soft it did little save polish the red surface. She picked up the powder puff and dusted her cheeks. The paleness of her complexion caused every tiny freckle to stand out like a beacon.

  Horace was ten years old and tall for his age. He wore stout corded trousers and boots and a starched white shirt. He was attending a local grammar school and was scheduled to enroll at Eton beginning the next term. He was both eager to go and frightened at the prospect of leaving home, which only added to his foul mood. He kicked at the doorframe and muttered, “Nora’s man is downstairs with her. I don’t like him.”

  Abigail turned from her dressing table and opened her arms. “Come here.”

  Horace had long been a great friend, the little man of her life. She found him utterly exasperating at times, of course. He was, after all, a younger brother.

  He allowed her to hug him, something he was growing to detest as he grew older. “Are you all better now?” he asked again.

  Abigail hugged him harder still and found herself recalling him as a baby. How he wriggled when she held him, and the way he smelled. And how much he cried. Baby Horace had always seemed to be squalling.

  Abigail released him and stood. Strange how her younger brother was the only one whose presence seemed to calm her. “Come.”

  Horace took her hand, the most natural gesture in the world. And why not? He had been doing it all his life. “Why did she have to bring that man with her?”

  “His name is Tyler. Tyler Brock.”

  “He sniffs when he talks to me. Like this.” Horace snorted like a mule with the grippe.

  “Don’t make such sounds.”

  But he had caught the hint of a smile in her voice. So he made the noise again, even louder this time. “It’s ever so annoying.”

  Abigail heard their voices in the front parlor and tightened her grip upon Horace’s hand. She would be strong. “The house is so quiet.”

  “It’s the Talbots’ half day off,” Horace said, glancing at her in surprise.

  “Of course.” She had no idea what day it was. Time had mingled together in a colorless muddle, and for the first time she could remember, the days had not seemed an hour or so too short. Now it was the exact opposite. Now the clock seemed to taunt her with the impossibly slow passage of empty minutes. Particularly the nights. She had come to dread hearing the hours chime away.

  “And Mother and Father are off on some errand.” Horace hesitated, then added, “I heard them talking before they left. It was about you.”

  But they had arrived at the parlor door. Abigail released her brother’s hand, lifted her chin, and took a deep breath.

  Horace caught the change. His worried expression returned. “Are you quite all right?”

  There was no way she could answer that honestly and not worry him further. “Do you think you could be the proper English gentleman and serve us tea?”

  “I’ve done it for Mother before.”

  “Of course you have. Don’t burn yourself with the kettle.”

  He gave her a look full of a ten-year-old’s disdain and turned away.

  Abigail opened the parlor door and entered the front room. “Hello, Nora.”

  “Well. I’m surprised you even remember my name.” Her dearest friend came over and embraced her. “Especially after ignoring me like you did on Sunday.”

  Abigail could not quite suppress the shudder over hearing the day so casually referred to. The church service had been a scalding affair. People she had counted as friends all her life long had seared her with their looks. She had been shunned.

  The same as the previous Sunday. And it was all to happen again next Sunday. And every Sunday after that.

  Abigail forced herself to confront the slender young man and his knowing smirk. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brock.”

  Tyler Brock was a fastidious man who used a pungent oil on his hair. Stray curls popped up here and there, glistening in the afternoon light. He was sharp featured and favored high collars with brightly colored foulards. His lips were a tight red line. “Miss Abigail. I trust you are well?”

  That particular question deserved no response. Abigail said to Nora, “I have asked Horace to serve tea. I fear it shall be dreadful.”

  “Oh, good heavens, Abigail. Who cares about tea?” Nora’s hands were busy, fluttering about, as though trying desperately to keep her nerves bundled up. “I came to see you.”

  “Did you?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Won’t you sit down?” Abigail hesitated, then clasped her friend’s arm and pulled her over to the sofa even while directing Tyler to the one opposite.

  “How are you?” began Nora.

  “You know perfectly well how I am.”

  “My parents were frightfully upset. I’m sure it’s been just dreadful.”

  Abigail found she could not bear it. The tearing sensation in her heart was awful. Here she sat, next to her dearest friend in the entire world, and
there were so many things she desperately wanted to share with her. But she couldn’t. Particularly while her young man sat opposite them, watching Abigail with such disdain.

  “Won’t you talk with me, Abigail? Aren’t we still friends?”

  “Of course we are.” But Tyler was such a distraction, she could not put much strength into the words. “I’m so sorry I got you into such trouble, Nora.”

  “It was rather tense around the house, I don’t mind telling you.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “My mother was so upset when she heard I’d been in Soho, she took to her bed for three days.”

  Abigail found Tyler’s tight little grin was visible no matter how she turned in her seat. So she stopped trying to ignore him and instead confronted him directly. “Did Nora’s parents insist upon your coming along, Mr. Brock?”

  “They suggested that Nora might care for some company.”

  “And you always do what your betters say, don’t you?”

  He was not to be cowed. “I find it keeps me in good stead with those in positions of responsibility. As you no doubt are fully aware now.”

  “Tyler,” Nora protested nervously, “you promised.”

  Normally such a comment would have been enough to raise Abigail’s temper to the boiling point. Today, however, she observed the young man as from a very great distance. “What about adventure, Mr. Brock?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you not find yourself yearning to be involved in the new horizons unfolding about us?”

  He removed a fleck of lint from his trousers. “Hardly.”

  Somehow the act of speaking was enough to ease the pressure in her heart. She spoke as much for herself as for Tyler. As though she plumbed her own reasons for acting as she had.

  “They say we are entering into a new age, Mr. Brock. One of great industrial might. One where inventions will transform the way we live our lives.”

  Nora seemed pleased that for once they were not quarreling. She offered, “Father is very excited by the prospects of steam.”

  Tyler Brock had developed his sniff into an exact science. “Mr. Mills, the general director of our firm, feels all this interest in steam is utter stuff and nonsense. A flash in the pan. A momentary sensation, a distraction, nothing more. The horse is as perfect a form of transport as will ever be developed.”

  Abigail waited a moment, hoping Nora might disagree. But of course her oldest friend merely sat and looked adoringly at her fiancé.

  Abigail asked him, “And what of all the great strides made in exploration? New lands being discovered, new peoples identified, the westward expansion in America. Does all this not thrill you?”

  “I find nothing quite so thrilling as the careful measure of accounts, the knowledge of a good day’s wage for a good day’s work, and the probability of a long future lived in this fair land.”

  “With me,” Nora added brightly.

  “But so much is happening, so much is changing,” Abigail protested. Yet her voice remained mild. She was too busy listening to her own thoughts being expressed to find Tyler irritating. After all, she knew his responses even before she spoke. “The broadsheets are filled with this newest land sale in America. They call it the greatest such expansion in the history of humankind.”

  Nora asked, “You read the papers?”

  Abigail turned to look at her friend. Her oldest, sweetest, and dearest friend. “Every day,” she quietly replied.

  Tyler Brock inquired, “And does your good father know of this?”

  “He observes me from time to time,” she responded, not taking her eyes from her friend. “But I doubt he is aware how avidly I study the information.”

  “I would have thought,” he paused for a sniff, “that you would have learned by now the perils of such misbehavior.”

  Thankfully Horace chose that moment to knock and enter. He balanced the tray with great diligence and had even donned a jacket to give himself a proper appearance. He concentrated so hard his forehead creased in a dozen furrows as he poured the tea and offered each a cup. As Abigail had expected, the tea was so weak as to appear almost clear. “You have done a marvelous job, Horace. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Tyler Brock sniffed his opinion.

  Abigail decided she had had enough. She said to Nora, “You might as well go ahead and tell me the bad news.”

  Her friend’s hands could not alight anywhere for long. “What—what do you mean?”

  “Here, I shall make it easy for you.” She waited until Horace shut the door upon his departure. “Your parents have informed you that I shall not be your bridesmaid.”

  “How did you know?”

  It had been clear as day at the church. How everyone looked at her, or avoided looking. Abigail could not have said which had been worse. But Nora’s mother had looked. Oh my, yes. A scathing glance that burned long after the woman had turned away. “It’s all right, Nora. I understand perfectly.”

  “I tried and tried. But they won’t budge.”

  “You can hardly expect otherwise,” Tyler Brock offered. “After all—”

  But Abigail had no interest in hearing the man’s opinion of her actions. Her own condemnation was harsh enough. Abigail rose and drew her friend with her. “I wish you only happiness, Nora.”

  “Oh, Abigail.”

  She endured Nora’s embrace as long as she was able without breaking down. She then turned to Tyler and found the strength to remain steady, simply by looking at his smirk. “Good-bye, Mr. Brock.”

  “Miss Abigail.” His mocking bow felt like a slap in the face, and Abigail took an involuntary step back.

  Nora cried, “Oh, do at least promise you shall be there with me on our wedding day!”

  She could not lie, not about this, not to her dear friend. So Abigail embraced her once more and said simply, “Be happy. For us both.”

  Chapter 10

  Once the Aldridges were seated in Lillian’s formal parlor, Samuel Aldridge told her, “I knew your late husband, the count.”

  “Did you, now? I don’t recall his ever mentioning this.”

  “No, he wouldn’t have. One of his partners approached me in regard to a venture he was entering.” Samuel Aldridge nodded his thanks to the maid as she handed him a cup of tea. “One to be based in Lisbon.”

  “I see.” Thoughtfully she stirred her tea with the little silver spoon. Samuel Aldridge was a powerfully built man. There was no sign of the dissipated living so fashionable in London these days. Stocky and stalwart, his muttonchops were flecked with gray. His chin was as determined as his gaze. This was not a man who did anything lightly. Surely he would know of just how that Portugal venture had ended in disaster.

  “They invited me to the Carlton Club and hosted a most pleasant meal. The only thanks I gave was to warn them not to become involved. I fear I upset them considerably.”

  “If only he and his partner had shown the wisdom to heed your words, Mr. Aldridge.”

  “I understand it wiped out Lord Houghton’s partner entirely.”

  “Indeed.” She nodded her understanding. The message was finally received. Samuel Aldridge intended to address the day’s difficult issues with honesty.

  At least, they would be honest. And she, how would she respond?

  Lillian studied her guests over the rim of her porcelain cup. They both bore the pale shadows of great strain. Neither had slept well for quite some time, of that Lillian was certain. Lavinia might as well have been wearing black, her face was so creased with a mourner’s lines. Samuel was scarce in better form, hunched over his cup, his eyes encircled by plum-colored stains.

  “It was this very same venture which caused my husband’s demise,” Lillian said quietly.

  Samuel Aldridge looked up. “I did not know, Lady Houghton.”

  “How could you.”

  “Forgive me for bringing up the matter.”

  “I understand why you did so.”

  “There was no ulterior motive, m
adam, of that I assure you.”

  “You wished to begin our first conversation together with my knowledge of the only other contact you have had with my family. You wished to be utterly open with me.” Lillian took a sip from her cup. “You have come because you would like to speak of some grave matter. Something so vital there could be no hint of subterfuge between us.”

  Lavinia and her husband exchanged glances. Samuel replied, “Just so, madam.”

  “Where, might I ask, is your daughter?”

  Irritation flickered across Samuel Aldridge’s features. “Who can say where my daughter has elected to while away her hours?”

  Lavinia spoke for the first time. A soft whisper, the sigh of a bereaved mother. “Abigail is at home in her room.”

  Samuel glanced at his wife, but addressed Lillian with, “I cannot begin to thank you for all you have done for my wife, my daughter, and my good name.” He dropped his eyes to his cup and added quietly, “What is left of it.”

  “None of that,” Lillian said sharply enough to lift his gaze. “We both know the broadsheets that have slandered you have never cared for any of your ilk. Those who admire you will think no less of you for the lies they have printed.”

  “They are using this matter to slander the entire Dissenter movement!” he protested.

  “Then they are desperate indeed. As you have no doubt been hearing from others who know your true worth, sir. As you would be saying yourself were it someone else’s daughter who had become so enmeshed in this.”

  “But it is not someone else’s daughter,” he retorted.

  “Indeed not.”

  “For this reason, I find myself in your debt, my lady. If there is anything I might ever do to aid you, please, I beg you—”

  “Do not speak thus, sir. It demeans us both.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Lillian set her cup aside, rose, and walked to the window. Outside was a lovely display of summer sunlight, a wondrous clear day, though rather chilly for late July. The utterly blue sky was teased by hundreds of white ribbons rising from the city’s chimneys. The townhouses across the street were of the same dressed white stone as her own, stalwart monuments to wealth and power. She studied the empty windows across from her and fleetingly wondered what lies they held, what desperation.