Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  Her mother arrived then, with half a dozen of her own finest frocks bundled in her arms. “What are these, Mother?”

  “Items you will need far more than I.”

  Abigail spied a hint of palest lavender at the bottom of the pile. “Mama, I can’t take that one.”

  “Why not, may I ask?”

  “It is your favorite day dress!”

  “And one which looks far better on you than it does on me.” Briskly Lavinia began folding the items and stowing them away. “The day you wore it to the tea dance, I thought my heart would seize up, you were that lovely.”

  Abigail was wrenched by a pair of sudden realizations. The barrier that had separated her from her mother was gone.

  And she was going away.

  “Oh, Mama.”

  “Don’t—don’t, my daughter.” Lavinia’s actions grew swifter still. “We have wept all we need to.”

  “I’m so—”

  “You needn’t say it again. Not ever. Not to me, the one who loves you more than life itself.”

  They hugged then, a clumsy affair with dresses spilling at their feet and the remaining pile cascading off the bed. Abigail felt pierced anew, this time with relief. “It’s over.”

  “Over and gone,” her mother agreed, stroking her hair. “My dearest darling child.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t go.”

  “Shah, now, none of that. My heart isn’t strong enough to keep from agreeing if you were to start with any such suggestion. And we both know it’s a good decision.” Lavinia released her and stooped to retrieve the dresses. She repeated in a determined fashion, “A good decision.”

  Abigail felt sick with conflicting desires. She was thrilled to be going, yet she longed to stay. “But why?”

  Lavinia’s response was interrupted by a knock upon the open doorway. “Perhaps I should be the one to answer that,” Samuel Aldridge said. “May I come in?”

  Abigail could not halt the sudden flood of tension. “Of course, Father.”

  “You’re home early,” Lavinia said. Her own voice had heightened in tone, as though sharing her daughter’s strain.

  “Ah, well.” Samuel Aldridge held to such a preoccupied air he no doubt did not notice the change in the room’s atmosphere. “Further work proved impossible. I found myself missing my little girl so fiercely.”

  The admission from her stalwart father was utterly unexpected. Abigail’s response rose from the core of her being of its own accord. “Oh, Father,” she said as she pressed into his outstretched arms.

  “The office seemed so bare, don’t you know. And the day so empty of the joy you have always brought me.”

  Abigail nestled into her father’s strong embrace. She felt her mother’s hands upon her shoulders. Finally she managed to whisper, “Then I shouldn’t go.”

  “I’ve been busy trying to convince myself of that very same thing,” her father intoned. “And I have come to see it not only as selfish but wrong.”

  “And I the same,” Lavinia agreed. “Though it breaks my poor heart to say so.”

  “Our dear friend William Wilberforce has been the mirror to my own soul,” Samuel said. “He has illuminated a truth I have tried very hard not to see.”

  Gently he pushed his daughter back to where he could peer into her eyes. “You have grown up on me.”

  Abigail tried hard to seize the moment and hold it fast, as a proper lady should. But the image of her father’s face swam in and out of focus, and her words emerged broken and ill formed. “I’m not—not sure I want to.”

  “You have become a fine young lady with a will and a strength all her own. Who has only done what she has because I refused to accept her as she is.”

  “I’m so sorry, Father.”

  “And don’t I just know that.”

  Lavinia whispered, “Could we not perhaps wait a while longer?”

  “Whenever would we find a better moment? The church is still reeling from the so-called scandal. This will take time to die down. They are currently making too much fuss over a young woman’s innocent mistake, as did I. They need time to see the error of their accusations.”

  “Father, I—”

  “Shah, my beloved child. We have spoken of this enough. It is no longer your actions which concern us. The king’s court and their broadsheets have turned this into a scandal based upon lies. Soon enough the church will see what William has already recognized, and now I have as well.”

  Lavinia sniffed loudly. “And that is?”

  “Were it not this, it would be something else. They attack us not because of our dear daughter. They attack us because they oppose everything we stand for.” His own voice trembled at that point, and drawing a new breath seemed to take great effort. “So you will go to America, and you will go now. You are my lovely young daughter who will go off on her adventure of serving God. And you will make us all very proud.”

  PART

  TWO

  Chapter 14

  Lillian was enjoying the most splendid dream.

  She was lying not upon a bed at all, but rather she was inside her carriage. Not the one she had used in London. The one her late husband had acquired just before his financial disaster. Lillian had ridden in the new coach only three times. It was gilded in real gold leaf and had seats of leather with headrests of softest suede. It was gone, of course. She knew this even in her dream. Yet for this blissful moment her world was undisturbed by debts or foreclosures or bankers or the constant fear of loss. Here she lay, surrounded by quilting soft as the clouds she admired outside her carriage window.

  The vehicle sparkled with new varnish. Lillian snuggled into her coverlets and gazed through the small window. She would never have lain so in a coach. It was hardly a proper position for a lady, particularly a countess in such a lovely carriage as this. But just then it did not matter. Dawn touched the sky overhead with a wan gleam. Then she saw her coachmen lead six high-stepping horses past her window. She wanted to cry out with delight, for she had bought and named every one. They had been lost to her and yet here they were again. Their hooves clipped sharply against the stones as they stepped friskily toward their stations, their breath misting in the early chill. She listened to the belts and buckles being fitted into place and the soft chatter of men whose only role was to do her bidding.

  They set off. The carriage gave a glorious ride. Back and forth it swayed, gentle as a cradle. She knew this road so very well. It was a journey she had feared she would never make again.

  Another milestone swept by. This one marked their final turning. How she could see this while lying down mattered not a whit. A trio of horse patrol, known as Redbreasts for their bright hunting jackets, fell in to either side of her carriage. They served as the only protection against highwaymen in the outlying districts and were drawn from retired cavalry regiments. They tipped their hard felt-covered hats to her as she lay there in the gently swaying carriage, then sped on to take their proper stations just ahead.

  She had the most remarkable ability to lie down and yet see all she wished. They swept past fields heavily laden with crops of wheat and rye and barley. None of the recent unpleasant summers of rain and cold and want pervaded this perfect scene. Hedgerows grew to either side, dusted white by the passage of her fine carriage. The coachman blew his curved horn, signaling a village up ahead, warning all who occupied the lane to give way. The carriage swept grandly through a hamlet of stone houses and laughing children.

  Soon after the hamlet, the wall began. Lillian cried with joy at the sight. The wall was shoulder high and ran for just under two miles, marking the front of her estate. The one now occupied by that vile banker. The one she had promised herself she would never return to unless it was hers free and clear. Yet here she came, which could mean only one thing. Lillian snuggled deeper into her coverlets and reveled in the sight of that lovely stone wall.

  The carriage slowed and the horn blew again, this time warning the occupants of the house that the mistress
was returning.

  They turned through tall stone gates, carved as a miniature triumphal arch. The gates were open, of course. The horn blew again, and Lillian wanted to rise. She should be properly seated for her return. But she could not. And somehow it was all right. Sunlight flickered in and out of the tall poplars bordering the entranceway. The light played with her eyes. If she could but lift her hand and shield her gaze from the flickering light, then she might catch a glimpse of the manor. The horn blew once more, and the light grew stronger still.

  Then she sneezed.

  Lillian opened her eyes and stared in dismay about the cramped cabin. “Oh no, tell me it is not so.”

  “Good morning. How do you feel?”

  “Oh, let me sleep. Please let me sleep.”

  Instantly Abigail was by her side. “Here, won’t you take a bit of cold tea? You know it settles your stomach.”

  “No thank you.” It had been a dream. Lillian felt like weeping. Just a dream.

  “Are you ill? What a pity. You’re usually at your best in the morning.”

  “No, it’s not that.” Lillian knew it was not a horn at all she had heard in her dream, but rather the boatswain calling to the watch high in the riggings.

  She recognized the swaying now as well. How could she not, after two weeks and two days at sea. The boat pitched and yawed in steady yet jerking motions. She had come to consider the movement as among her worst enemies.

  “Here, let me help you up.”

  Lillian raised her arm to the customary position for Abigail to take hold. She had been continually ill, almost from the moment the ship had left the Thames estuary. She had never thought an illness could be this severe and not mortally fell its victim.

  “The captain says we continue to make astonishing time.” Abigail had been her constant nurse, day and night trying to ease her distress. Always cheerful, always patient, she had been a true angel. “He assures us we will be close to breaking the record for a late summer crossing.”

  The days had been endless hours of nausea and agony. Although her anguish was less severe in the morning, these early hours remained distressing because ahead of her stretched another dismal day. Abigail would force her to eat a morsel of something before the nausea grew worse. Then she would do her utmost to ease Lillian’s descent with cheerful talk and reading from Byron’s last letter.

  Two days prior to their departure, Lillian had traveled up to Eton to visit with her son one final time. Byron had surprised her with a gift. One of his schoolteachers had explained to the boy the journey his mother was taking and how it might be several months before letters could be exchanged. Only then had Byron truly understood the distance and the time that would soon separate them. He remained fiercely adamant that he wished to stay at school. But he had conjured up a parting gift that continued to touch Lillian deeply.

  At that final meeting, Byron had presented Lillian with a vellum packet containing the longest letter her son had ever written. It was a journal, really, a glimpse into the life of a boy at the cusp of manhood. He had walked her through several of his days, describing his mates and his teachers and his sports and his life. But it had been more than mere descriptions. Byron had sought to examine his own changing heart. He had stumbled often and slipped into formality and even chastised himself for writing as he did. But that he had tried at all had reduced Lillian to tears. And his boyish open-hearted charm had proved a wonderful balm to her body and spirit on the long sea journey.

  But today was to prove quite different. For Lillian abruptly realized that something had changed, and at a fundamental level. The sensation was so alien, Lillian was halfway across the cabin before she realized she felt no nausea. “Let me go, would you?”

  “I’m not certain that’s a good idea. The ship is pitching something dreadful this morning.”

  “Please. I’d like to stand unaided.”

  “But you were so ill when you first awoke. I’d hate to see you fall again.”

  “It was a dream.”

  “Truly?”

  “I cried out over a dream I was having. I thought it was real, but it was only a dream.”

  Abigail released her arm but remained hovering nearby.

  Lillian was almost flung flat by the ship striking a great wave. She caught herself on the bunk’s railing.

  “Shouldn’t you sit down?”

  Lillian said in disbelief, “I’m all right.”

  Abigail could not believe it either. “Are you certain?”

  Lillian looked at the younger woman and said in wonder, “I’m hungry.”

  Abigail gasped, “Really?”

  “I can scarce believe it, but I feel absolutely famished.”

  Abigail cried, “You wait right there!”

  Abigail hurried from the room. Lillian remained as she was, protecting herself against the ship’s violent rocking motion with one hand on the bunk. Yet the motion was no longer an enemy. She was so weak her head spun. But there was none of the horrid nausea and cramps that had devastated her every waking moment and turned the past sixteen days into endless torment.

  The cabin had a small window in the wall opposite the narrow door. Gingerly she made her way across the cabin, wrenched the lever, and opened the window wide. She took draughts of the air and stared out at the heaving blue waves. The ocean was no longer her foe. She laughed out loud at the morning’s liberty.

  Steps hastened down the hall and the door was flung back. “Are you ill yet?” Abigail asked anxiously. “Do you still feel—”

  “I have never been better.”

  Abigail’s eyes sparkled with a joy so great the ailment might have been her own. “All I could find was this morning’s gruel. But I persuaded the cook to part with a bit of honey.”

  Her stomach seemed to reach across the cabin with her hands. “Please give it to me. I feel the hunger in my bones.”

  This statement caused both women to laugh out loud, for the few scraps Lillian had eaten during the journey had been forced upon her, and most came back soon after.

  She sat on her bed and devoured every bite.

  Lillian set the bowl aside and declared, “That was the most splendid meal I have ever enjoyed. A six-course meal at the Berkeley Hotel could not be any finer.”

  The two ladies shared yet another laugh. Lillian gathered enough breath to say, “I have been such a dreadful burden.”

  “You have been no such thing.”

  “I most certainly—” Her words were halted by a knock upon the door.

  Abigail stepped to the door and cracked it slightly open. “Lieutenant, I had not expected you to deliver the water yourself.”

  “Captain’s compliments, Miss Abigail. He is heartily glad to hear the countess is better.” The young officer’s voice sounded both formal and mildly flirtatious to Lillian’s ear. “I am to say this is the officers’ entire Sunday allotment of shaving water.”

  “Lady Houghton will no doubt be most grateful. Thank you for your kindness, sir.”

  “It is nothing, Miss Abigail. Will we be seeing you on deck?”

  “Anon, sir.”

  Lillian waited for the door to shut and the footsteps to retreat to comment, “Miss Abigail, is it?”

  Abigail set the steaming wooden pail down by her bunk. “He is quite handsome. And he has gone to great pains to explain his prospects.”

  Suddenly the two were giggling like schoolchildren.

  Lillian gathered herself and reached for Abigail’s hand. “Thank you, dear sweet girl. Thank you. You have saved my life. I must apologize for all the trouble I have caused you.”

  Abigail’s gaze was as direct as the light coming in through the open portal. “Do you recall how you refused to accept my own apologies and gratitude?”

  “Vividly. And with great shame.”

  “But you were right. It is as my mother predicted. Already I have gained such wisdom from our time together.”

  A swift pain came and went, one that scraped across he
r heart and vanished.

  “It’s not the nausea, is it?”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” Lillian forced herself to smile. “Really.”

  “Do you feel up to joining us on the deck for the Sabbath service?”

  Lillian could see the younger woman expected her refusal. And in truth she had no desire whatsoever to endure the ceremony. The memories would no doubt resurface. But Abigail had done so much for her over the past two weeks, it was hardly possible to refuse her anything.

  “Let me put this water to good use,” Lillian replied brightly, “and see if I can repair some of the damage these weeks have inflicted on me.”

  “You’ll join us?”

  The delight was so evident on Abigail’s features Lillian knew she had made the right choice. “I should be honored.”

  The church Lillian’s uncle had overseen had been a dismal and cold affair, dating back to the eleventh century with a thirteenth-century tower. He and her aunt had been so proud of the fact they made a point of mentioning it to everyone they met. Lillian had thoroughly disliked the building. It had seemed much smaller inside than out, and no wonder, for the walls were four-and-a-half-feet thick at the base, built at a time before pillars and supporting columns and the like. The windows, narrow slits set far back, meant that the church’s interior always resided in shadows, even on the sunniest day. The exterior was a mottled yellowish brown, the color of dried mud. The slate roof was ancient and buried beneath a growth of lichen and moss. The edifice sat in a medieval graveyard, with the tombstones so lashed by wind and rain and time that the names were unreadable.

  The congregation had all seemed as gray and stone-faced as her aunt and uncle. No one ever smiled at her. They knew her dark little secret even before she had heard it herself. As a child, all she knew was they had looked at her askance, and whispered behind her back, and refused to let her play with the other children. Lillian’s early years had become peopled by the ghosts she had made up, her invisible friends with whom she played hide-and-seek among the weather-beaten tombstones.