Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  Her first sighting of Georgetown was a shock. Even Lillian roused from her reverie enough to ask what the matter was. Abigail replied, “I-I don’t recall it being so—so large, important looking.”

  “When were you last here?”

  “Four years ago. But most of my time was spent with my father’s family in New York.” Abigail stared at the sight drawing steadily into view. “I do not recognize anything.”

  The port of Georgetown was nowhere near as expansive as London’s eastern docklands. Yet the noise and bustle resounded across the waters and punched at her chest. Even as dusk fell upon the river and the surrounding hills, the activity continued. A constant stream of heavily laden wagons plied back and forth at quayside. Men shouted and horses neighed and an endless line of stevedores shifted cargo. Scores of blacksmiths pounded steel in a neighboring open-sided building. Farther upstream a dozen mills spouted great plumes from brick smokestacks.

  As the barge pulled alongside one of the long piers, men swiftly appeared and began off-loading cargo, shouting so harshly Abigail could not make out the words. She could not even tell if they were speaking English. Their hands and arms and faces were black with dirt and sweat, and they were never still. Everything about the place seemed frenetic and jarring.

  The passengers were shepherded up the landing and off to one side. Abigail identified all their baggage, counted the pieces a second time, then allowed one of the jostling carriage drivers to load their goods. Everything seemed to be taking place at an impossibly swift pace, as though the entire scene were driven by some unseen hand.

  Once away from the river port, however, Abigail was reassured by familiar sights. She had found herself wondering if everything would be alien. Yet here she was, traveling down a long cobblestone street that she was almost positive she had been on before.

  They turned one corner, another, and a third. And she cried out loud.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s the house.” The familiar redbrick Colonial house with its emerald green shutters welcomed her with its memories. “That is where . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Abigail alighted before the carriage had fully halted. “Hurry!”

  “Abigail, wait a moment, please.”

  She forced herself to turn back. “Yes, what is it?”

  Lillian said, “Perhaps I should have the driver take me on to a hotel. Your grandparents do not expect us, you see. As I have noted before, most certainly they are not prepared for a stranger arriving from halfway around the globe at dusk—”

  Abigail could listen no longer. The house was there and beckoning, with candles in the windows just like she remembered from childhood. She wheeled about and tossed back over her shoulder, “Oh, Lillian, I know they won’t hear of you staying any place but here.”

  A narrow brick walkway led from the street to the three-story manor. Abigail lifted her skirts and raced beneath the magnolia tree and the dogwood, the cherry tree and the dark-leafed maple she had climbed as a child. She flew up the six steps where she had danced and spun her childhood fantasies.

  She paused there a moment, resisting the urge to turn the polished brass handle and call to the house. Abigail smoothed her dress, patted her hair, and pushed her hat into place. She wished suddenly for a hand mirror to check her appearance. But there was nothing to be done about that now, nor any way to correct the ravages of wind and sea. She raised the knocker and hammered once, twice, three times. What if they are not at home?

  The wait seemed as long as their sea voyage. Finally the door was opened by a housemaid in starched apron. “Yes?”

  “Is Mrs. Cutter at home?”

  “Who should I say is calling?”

  “I . . . Please excuse me, but I’d rather it be a surprise.”

  “Who is it, Matilda?” came from behind the maid.

  “She won’t say, ma’am.”

  “Won’t say?” A slender woman with her hair pulled back in a steel-gray bun entered the front hall. “Why on earth not?”

  Then the older woman faltered. She gripped her throat with one hand.

  “Mrs. Cutter? Ma’am? Are you all right?”

  Abigail stepped into the light. But she could not say precisely what was happening, because the room now was swimming. She bit her lip and wiped at her eyes.

  A voice called, “Mother? What is the matter?”

  A man appeared in the side entryway. Abigail recognized him instantly as her uncle Horace, after whom her brother was named. “Who is this, Mother?” Horace questioned once more.

  But her grandmother did not speak.

  Abigail took a very shaky breath and said, “Good evening, Grandmother.”

  “Oh, my dear, sweet child.” The older woman came rushing forward now, her arms outstretched. She embraced Abigail with the force of one who had yearned for years. “My dear darling Abbie, you’ve grown up on me.”

  After awkward hugs with Horace, she was brought into the front parlor where her grandfather struggled to rise from his chair. Abigail recalled a burly man with a great booming voice and pockets full of sweets for his granddaughter, not this ailing man with snow-white hair and limbs that could not stop their shaking. She wept then, both for joy and for all the years that were lost to her.

  When she regained a semblance of control, Abigail was introduced to a man she did not recognize but instantly knew his name. Reginald Langston was Erica’s brother. He was a tall, strong-looking man with a handsome face. And Abigail felt her heart pierced anew by that strange mixture of sorrow and joy, for she could see in his features a mirror image of her childhood friend. Erica Langston, now married to Gareth Powers, had been the most wonderful person in Abigail’s young world. And now she stood before Erica’s brother and again felt a rushing back through the years, echoes of long discussions with Erica about her family and friends.

  But the man did not completely reflect the descriptions Erica had drawn of her brother. Both in their time together in England and in the letters that had followed her return to America, Erica had described her brother as full of joy and energy and great good humor. Yet this handsome man now stood motionless by the fireplace with a slightly haunted look upon his well-carved features. Then Abigail remembered a letter, some two years back, relating how Reginald Langston’s beloved wife had died in childbirth. The baby had died just hours after the mother. A son, if she recalled correctly. Erica had noted that her brother had taken this very hard. Even now, two years later, the stain of sorrow remained in his gaze.

  Abigail abruptly remembered Lillian. “Forgive me, Grandmother, but my companion awaits outside in the carriage.”

  “My goodness, child, why on earth did you not invite her in?”

  Abigail decided any longer explanation could wait. “She has not been particularly well. The journey was very hard on her.”

  “Even more the reason to bring her in out of the night.”

  “She was thinking that perhaps she should find lodging in a hotel. I assured her that you—”

  “After escorting my granddaughter all the way from England? And with six upstairs rooms sitting empty? I won’t hear of such a thing.” Mrs. Cutter hurried to the front door.

  Soon enough there came the sounds of protest outside the entrance. “Surely you must understand, madam. I have no wish to intrude upon your reunion—”

  “I understand nothing of the kind” was the firm response. “You are a friend of my family, and I will not hear any further discussion of your staying anywhere but with us. Now up the stairs with you, if you please.”

  Abigail’s grandmother propelled Lillian forward with a firm grip upon her arm. The woman looked to protest further, but Mrs. Cutter was busy with her own arrangements. “Horace, be so good as to see to the carriage and their luggage. Granddaughter, perhaps you might formally introduce your companion.”

  “Yes, please, I would be most happy to do so. This is the Countess of Wantage, Lady Lillian Houghton.”

  “Eh? What�
�s that you say?” A trace of her grandfather’s stout manner returned. “We’re entertaining a countess this night?”

  Abigail nodded and looked at Lillian, who stood frozen in the doorway, her hand to her throat. Abigail followed Lillian’s gaze across to where Reginald Langston stood by the mantel. If anything, he was even more still than Lillian.

  Chapter 16

  Abigail moaned in terror. She was back in Newgate Prison, crouched in the narrow recess between the empty fireplace and the side wall. The association room, the jailer called it, leering at her as he rattled his keys.

  Everything she thought had come since then had been only a dream. The surprise arrival of Lady Houghton, the anguish she caused her family, the meetings with Wilberforce, the travel to America. All a myth, a fabrication created by her fevered mind.

  She had only imagined that a countess would appear like a delivering angel to sweep her away. Abigail struggled to see the fetid room with its flickering shadows and gloomy tallow candles, and knew she would never escape. Never.

  The far door opened. The creaking hinges sounded like the wails of prisoners trapped inside forever. The stone walls glistened with centuries of tears.

  The jailer entered, his stained leather apron stretched taut over his enormous belly. He started walking toward her, jangling his keys like a snake rattling its tail. She saw in his hard flashing gaze all the unthinkable dreads that made up his daily life. And now were hers as well.

  She awoke calling out in panic.

  “Child, child, I heard your whimpers in my dressing room.” Her grandmother’s voice and hand soothed her. “I thought at first it was a kitten.” Mrs. Cutter set the hairbrush she had carried with her down on the bedside table. “There, shah now, you’re safe and sound. Open your eyes, my darling little girl.”

  “I had the most awful nightmare!”

  “Look at you, trembling like a leaf. Your nightclothes are drenched. Do you have a fever?” Her grandmother pressed the back of her hand to Abigail’s forehead. “No, you feel all right. Come, let’s get you into some dry clothes.”

  Abigail allowed herself to be treated like a young child. The nightdress was pulled over her head, and a fresh one was slipped on and buttoned up the front. She was settled back into bed and the covers were nestled under her chin. Her grandmother stroked her forehead. “There. Do you feel better now?”

  “It was the most awful of dreams, Grandmother.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  The fact was, she did. She lay there snuggled deep in the bed where she had slept as a little child. The room had been reserved for her whenever she had visited her mother’s family in Georgetown. The morning light was strong and clear and golden. It poured through the window across from her bed and vividly illuminated each detail in contrast to all the appalling memories. But it was not of the nightmare that Abigail spoke. Instead, she told of the reality that had brought her to America.

  Midway through the telling, Abigail found she could remain prone no longer and rose to a sitting position. Even that was not enough. She swung her feet around to the floor. Her grandmother seemed to understand, for she took Abigail’s hand and led her to the straight-backed parson’s bench beneath the window. The light was even stronger here and lay across her shoulders like a warming hand. Which was very good indeed, for the telling had chilled Abigail to her bones.

  When she was finished, her grandmother remained silent for a very long time. Abigail felt no urgent need for her response. Instead, Abigail inspected this woman who was both an intimate part of her life and a new person entirely. Her grandmother had aged into a slender and stately woman. Her hair was pulled back into the same bun as the previous night. A silver and black lacquered hairpin rose like a miniature Spanish fan at the back of her head. A matching brooch was pinned at the collar of her high-waisted dress made from rose-colored linen. The frock shone in the morning light like a late summer flower.

  “What are you thinking, Grandmother?”

  “That I should not call you Abbie any longer.”

  “Have I done something so awful you wish—”

  “Oh, my darling child. You have grown up. That is what I mean.” She took hold of her granddaughter’s hand and said solemnly, “I want you to know I am honored you would entrust me with such a secret.”

  “I want to ask you something. Will you please be truthful with me?”

  “I hope I have always been such, and always will be.”

  “I wish the barest of truth, Grandmother. Now that you have heard what I have done, what do you think of me? What do you see when you look at me?”

  Her grandmother had her mother’s eyes, now framed by lines and skin turned fragile as porcelain in the light. “An intelligent and adventurous spirit, who until recently was trapped inside a place she yearns to outgrow.”

  “You are just saying what you think I want to hear.” When her grandmother did not respond, Abigail pressed, “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because I know your mother,” she replied simply. “Now I want to tell you a secret of my own. When you were very young, the British invaded Washington and burned a great deal of the city to the ground. Your dear childhood friend, Erica Langston Powers, lost her father that day. The family’s business caught on fire. Her father died when a soldier struck him on the head with a musket as he tried to get through the line of soldiers to the water trough. Erica later discovered that the fire was not caused by the British soldiers who invaded Washing- ton. Instead, an unscrupulous London merchant banker used foreknowledge of the British invasion to fire the Langston business. He was holding a great deal of the family’s gold, you see, and he wanted to keep it for himself. But Erica went to England and stayed with your family and successfully forced the banker to return her family’s gold.”

  “And while she was there she met Gareth Powers,” Abigail said as she filled in the rest. “They fell in love and then returned to Washington together because William Wilberforce asked them to become involved in America’s battle against the slave trade,” she finished. “I know this, Grandmother.”

  “Indeed you do. But what you don’t know is that during the very hard years between the loss of her father and her departure for England, Erica came to me for help. And being the busybody that I am, I gave her advice as well.”

  “You’re not a busybody, Grandmother.”

  “Oh, that I most certainly am. Just as certainly as your mother, God bless her, would like to go through her entire life without making a single wrong step.”

  “Why should she need to?” Abigail felt a great lump of sadness building within. “After all, she has this impetuous daughter who will make more than enough mistakes for the whole family.”

  “That I very much doubt.”

  Her grandmother’s calm tone defeated her. How could she possibly remain upset with herself when her grandmother did not seem the least bit fazed? “I have a letter for you from Mother.”

  “In which I am sure she has been very diplomatic in explaining why you are here. Again, child, I am grateful that you would share your confidences with me as you did.”

  “I-I was dreaming that I was back in Newgate Prison, locked up forever.”

  “Well, you’re not. You are here in your family’s Georgetown home, safe and sound.” Her grandmother reached around Abigail’s shoulders and hugged her close. “You came to me for help, just as Erica did all those years ago. Shall I give you advice as I did her?”

  “Of course, Grandmother.”

  “Very well. Here is what I think. Don’t let the world ever take away what makes you unique. And of even more importance, don’t ever count your gift as a burden.”

  Abigail sat straight, breaking free of the embrace. “How can you say that? It is this very impetuousness of mine that has caused everyone so much trouble!”

  “Gift I said, and gift I mean,” her grandmother said firmly. “The deed may be wrong, but God has given you this characteristic for a reason.
There is nothing wrong with impetuousness, if tamed and correctly employed.”

  “But . . .” The concept was so novel she had to work her mind around words that could frame her confusion. “How can I use something that causes me to act before I think?”

  “I have no idea.” Her grandmother was smiling now, and she gave Abigail another hug. The sunlight seemed to be captured by her grandmother’s features and reflected back in a glow that warmed Abigail’s heart. “Why don’t you take that question to God? After all, it is He who gave you the gift in the first place. Why not see what He has in mind?”

  Abigail dressed and went down for breakfast, fearful that the entire household had heard her cries on awakening from her nightmare. She entered the kitchen hesitantly. Gazes all turned her way, inquiring, inspecting. She lowered her head and took aim at the chair her grandmother pulled out for her. A bowl of porridge was settled in front of her, then a steaming cup of tea followed by a little pitcher of fresh cream. Her grandmother began introductions. The cook stood by the stove, preparing her grandfather’s breakfast. A younger woman, the maid, stood polishing silverware by the big rear window. Abigail did not catch their names. She focused upon her bowl of porridge and remained silent after her acknowledging nods.

  The door behind her opened and another woman came in, this one introduced as a nurse employed to help with Abigail’s grandfather. He had, according to her grandmother, become increasingly doddery this past year. A man stumped into the kitchen from the rear door, wishing Mrs. Cutter a grand good morning and calling for his tea. He was introduced as the gardener. The kitchen now held six people and felt very cramped. Abigail did not need to lift her head to feel the eyes watching her.

  Abigail finished and placed her spoon in the bowl.