by Amy Sandas
Lady Blackbourne insisted they make a few rounds on Bond Street when they got to London. Abbigael and her father had purchased several trunks full of gowns, underclothes and accessories before leaving Dublin. Even so, apparently by London standards she was still quite far off the mark for an heiress debutante.
The day before they were set to leave the country, Abbigael was in her bedroom packing up some of her smaller personal items when her father gave his customarily curt knock at the door. She hadn’t seen him much at all in the days since they had reached Silverly. At her call to enter, he came into her room like he always did, as if he were unsure what he would find. Abbigael almost smiled as the imposing Sir Felix Granger stepped hesitantly over the threshold and closed the door behind him. His keen brown eyes swept over the details of the room. He clasped his hands behind him and thrust his shoulders back as if he were facing down his opposition in the Privy Council of Ireland. In politics, Sir Felix was known for his impassioned and articulate speeches and steadfast defense of native Irish rights.
But when it came to his daughter, he became nearly mute, as if he were afraid to say the wrong thing and so said nothing.
Abbigael waited for her father to speak. He rarely did anything without a specific purpose so she knew his visit to her room was not for idle chitchat.
Sir Felix crossed the room to stare out the windows she had thrown open earlier to let in the country air. At home in county Donegal, she often had the windows open far into the colder months, preferring the chill of a winter wind over the stuffiness of too much close confinement.
“I am returning to Dublin this evening.”
Abbigael blinked at her father’s broad back. Tonight? She’d known he had professional commitments that would prevent him from participating in her London debut, but Abbigael hadn’t expected him to leave England quite so soon. Though she was disappointed, she wasn’t exactly surprised by his swift departure. Since her mother’s death, his personal passion was securely tied to Irish politics.
She nodded silently behind him, knowing he would not appreciate any expression of distress.
Turning at the window, her father faced her squarely. Tension encircled his mouth and pulled at the center of his forehead.
“You will be in excellent hands with the Earl and Countess of Blackbourne. They know what needs be done and seem graciously willing to do so. For my part, I will only be in the way and there are matters that need my attention back in Ireland. I expect you to take the advice and direction of Lady Blackbourne to heart. But follow your better judgment,” he added quickly, then hesitated as if he wanted to add something else but changed his mind. “Lady Blackbourne is a bit unconventional. A fact that may work in your favor.”
He approached Abbigael as she stood next to the small vanity table where her meager collection of jewelry was laid out in preparation for the trip to town. He unclasped his hands from behind his back and set them heavily on her slim shoulders.
“You will do well here, Abby. Lord Blackbourne has agreed to send word to me as soon as you receive a proposal you find amenable. I insist upon approving any match.”
“Yes, Father,” Abbigael responded, knowing he expected her agreement on that point at least. As if she would have the courage and desire to elope with some gentleman of whom he wouldn’t approve.
She smiled at the ridiculous thought. She was likely to be far more discerning than even her very cautious father.
Seeing her smile, Sir Felix started to smile in return, then he glanced to the side and his entire demeanor altered in an instant. His hands dropped from her shoulders and he took a step back. Abbigael watched as he suddenly found reason to look anywhere other than directly at her.
Her spine stiffened so severely her muscles ached in protest, but she kept her chin up and refused to lower her gaze. She didn’t know what had ruined the brief moment when she had felt as if they were father and daughter again, but the distance he put between them was familiar enough.
Sir Felix crossed the room to her door, turning back to face her just as he opened it.
“You will do well here, Abby,” he repeated, as if he were trying to convince himself of that fact. His brown eyes swept from her face to the jewelry beside her then back to her face. “Send for me if you need me,” he added, and then he was gone.
Abbigael stood without moving, the click of her door echoing through her mind. It had been this way with her father since her mother died more than seven years ago.
That was when everything in her world had been torn apart.
Abbigael had been alone when she got the news of her mother’s death. One of her father’s tenant farmers had run up to the house shouting about an overturned phaeton and the lady lying in the road. Her mother walked that lane every day. Filled with fear so great it blocked out all other thought, Abbigael had started running as fast as her young legs could carry her. She ran with her heart blocking her breath until she came around the bend in the road and saw the figure dressed in pale blue motionless in the dirt.
In an instant, it felt as if the sun had been ripped from her existence. Gone in a flash was everything warm and bright and loving. She had been thirteen and had grown up as close to her mother as any daughter could be. She didn’t need to be told her mother was dead. She knew it the second she saw her lying in the road, perhaps even before. And in that moment, her entire world became a drowning blackness that covered her from all directions and suffocated all remembrance of joy. She distanced her mind from the painful reality and effectively lost connection to anything that existed beyond the fury and pain and loss that stretched her life into one long dark night.
When Abbigael finally came through her grief-stricken oblivion, it was to the realization that her father had sent her to live with her mother’s family in the far north. Initially, Abbigael was relieved, assuming her father would be back for her soon enough. Being around the people who had known her mother so well made her feel more connected to her memory. But it didn’t take long for her to realize that the people who cared for her kept a certain distance and often looked at her with fear, crossing themselves when they passed by.
After a couple days she built up the courage to ask her mother’s aunt, the lady who seemed the least bothered by her presence, why she was treated so strangely. That was when she found out that although inside she had been grieving in a silent blackened void, externally she had been anything but.
Her aunt told her of how she had screamed for hours straight after seeing her mother’s lifeless body. Screamed until the only sound that came from her throat was a wretched croaking groan. No one had been able to comfort her. Even her father, when he had gotten home, had met with flailing limbs and furious snarls. After weeks went by and she still refused to eat anything that wasn’t forced upon her, didn’t sleep beyond short dream-troubled bouts and wouldn’t talk to anyone, her father had decided to send her north.
Her mother’s family, though loyal and compassionate to the daughter of Mary Curran, were a superstitious people who believed that on the day her mother died, a part of Abbigael’s soul went with her. They could not fully trust the girl with haunted eyes who did not speak for months. They believed anyone who had resided so long in such darkness surely retained some of it within her.
All her life, Abbigael had had an exceptional sensitivity to the nuances of other people’s emotions and intentions. She knew when someone was upset or uncomfortable no matter how they tried to hide it. She felt people’s fear, their excitement and guilt as if it were her own.
Her mother used to tell her that her ability to empathize so acutely was a gift to be cultivated. But in the horrific aftermath of her mother’s death, surrounded by the sadness and dread of those closest to her, Abbigael wished only to retreat from it all.
As time went on, Abbigael learned to hold herself more distant. In order to save herself, she had to shut away the part of her that felt things most deeply. She couldn’t completely block out the way she intuite
d other people, but in separating her own emotions, she learned not to take it too far into herself. She secured her sorrow deep inside and began to recover.
Day by day she claimed a bit more of the light, and though she did not carry the same beliefs as those who cared for her, she did understand that she had been changed by her grief. And when her father came to visit her the first time, Abbigael saw the uncertainty and the fear in his eyes and knew she would not be returning home with him.
Her father loved her, but he was not an emotional man. Though he never showed it, she knew he grieved in his own way and she understood with instinctive certainty that he was not capable of taking on the weight of her grief in addition to his own. They never spoke of her mother’s death or Abbigael’s emotional break. She saw how her mother’s death had changed him as well, and as more time went on, for his sake she pretended to be content with his seasonal visits and their guarded conversations.
The rare and glancing moments when Abbigael was reminded of how close she had once been with her father were more painful in that they never lasted very long.
She looked down at the vanity, wondering what it was this time that recalled her father to the devastating memories of the past.
When she saw it lying amidst her pearls and gold, her heart swelled to aching and tears pricked behind her eyes.
Her mother’s broach. It was an ancient and heavy silver piece that had been passed through dozens of generations in her mother’s family. Designed in an intricate Celtic knot with tiny emeralds and amethysts nestled amongst the twining silver, it was the only thing of her mother’s that Abbigael possessed. Lifting the broach from amongst the other less significant items, she held its heavy weight in both of her hands and brought it to her heart, then closed her eyes and whispered a fervent prayer.
“Please, Mother, help me to find happiness here so Father may also find some peace from the dark shadows of the past. I love you. And I miss you.”
She stood for a moment, wishing she had her mother’s strength and stubbornness. Then she opened her eyes, set the medieval broach in the velvet lined box and closed the lid.
She refused to allow the dark weight of familiar loneliness to crowd out the bright spark of hope that had flared to life when the Blackbournes had agreed to sponsor her London season. And when the morning arrived for the household to load up the carriages and set out for town, Abbigael awoke with a sense of excitement and adventure that she hoped would carry her through the certain challenges ahead.
The day of their departure from Essex dawned bright and sunny and it was no surprise that Lady Blackbourne, being the accomplished horsewoman she was, chose to ride horseback to London. The shocking part was when Abbigael saw the woman vault astride onto the back of a towering roan gelding wearing a riding outfit that included breeches like those worn by young men.
Abbigael barely recovered from the amazement of seeing a gentlewoman dressed in such a manner when she realized she would not be making the trip alone in the carriage. Lord Blackbourne, rather than riding horseback alongside his wife, chose quite happily to ride in the carriage with Abbigael and his two-year-old son, Brian.
Without the benefit of a nurse or other servant to attend to the small child’s needs.
During the short time with the Blackbournes, Abbigael had come to understand that as a rule they did not typically do things as most aristocratic families would. At first glance, the earl appeared to be a quintessential example of English aristocracy. An entitled, confident, leisurely gentleman. But beneath the surface of his refined manners and easy-going attitude, his inner spirit and world views were as unconventional as those of his wife. And when it came to their son, they both took an unusual amount of personal interest in his upbringing. To the point that the child was rarely in the nursery and more often could be found following on the heels of his mother as she went about her daily tasks or playing quietly in his father’s study as he managed the vast Blackbourne holdings.
While the ride from Essex to London was not a long one, with a two-year-old child it could be an excruciating trial. Yet the earl handled every whine and whimper and complaint from his son with relaxed and gentle sternness and still managed to keep up a witty and amusing stream of conversation with Abbigael.
They arrived in London as the sun was setting. Young Brian had just fallen asleep in his father’s arms and the earl was content to let the conversation drift into a companionable silence and they entered the city. Abbigael experienced her first views of London in quiet observation. She craned her neck to stare through the carriage window at the passing city scenes and allowed herself to be overtaken by the excitement of the adventure ahead.
Here was her future.
Now was her final and best chance to break free from the fetters of the past. She had an opportunity to create herself in any image she wished. She did not have to be the politician’s lonely daughter or the girl who had been devastated by her mother’s sudden death. She could be bright and charming. Someone people actually wanted to know.
She would find a way to create the life she craved. One full of the warmth and light and love that had been absent for far too long.
Chapter Four
“Are you all right, dear? You look a bit pale.”
The question came from Lady Blackbourne. Abbigael nodded quickly and took a deep breath as she turned.
“Yes, I’m fine. It is all just a bit overwhelming.”
The countess nodded and waved a dismissive hand toward the crush of people that filled the enormous ballroom. Though the Carmichael’s ballroom was spacious and well lit with modern gas lights, it did not succeed in lightening the oppressive atmosphere caused by several hundred people standing nearly elbow to elbow.
“I suppose it can be. You just have to remember that all of these people have their own bothersome insecurities, personal motivations and in most cases…dark little secrets,” she added with a sly wink. “For all the pomp and arrogance members of the ton like to surround themselves with, they are no different than other human beings. Perhaps just a bit more practiced at hiding their humanity behind a façade of wealth and privilege.”
The countess smiled with calm assurance, but Abbigael still wasn’t convinced that any of the glittering beautiful people surrounding her were anything at all like her.
“Ah,” Lady Blackbourne said with a slight stiffening at the edges of her broad smile as she gazed out into the crowd. “And here is someone to prove my point exactly.” She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Perhaps the most arrogant of them all.”
Abbigael turned to see an elegantly dressed gentleman approaching them.
He was a passably attractive man in his mid-thirties or thereabouts with dark hair and dark eyes and a tall, broad-shouldered form. What he lacked in outright handsomeness, the gentleman more than made up for with a dashing air of genteel sophistication. In spite of the fact that his coat fit him without a wrinkle and his neckcloth was tied with immaculate artistry, he emanated a certain athletic strength in his movements. He strode forward with no acknowledgment of the crowd that scrambled to allow him a path, and Abbigael suspected his stiff and perfect posture was as natural to him as the faint look of boredom that hovered about his mouth.
“Lord Rutherford, what a pleasure,” Lady Blackbourne said with the tiniest bit of sarcasm in her voice.
Abbigael decided the countess didn’t particularly like Lord Rutherford. Having come to trust the woman’s opinion on most matters, Abbigael felt a prick of disappointment. Even though his large size and aristocratic bearing were somewhat intimidating, she might have considered him as a potential suitor.
“Lady Blackbourne,” the fine lord replied as he gave a modest bow of his head and a smile that was just polite enough. “You are lovely as always.”
“Thank you, my lord. May I present Lord Blackbourne’s cousin, Miss Granger. She is here from Dublin to enjoy the season.”
Lady Blackbourne turned to Abbigael to continue the
introduction.
“Miss Granger, may I present the Marquess of Rutherford, an old friend of Lord Blackbourne. At large events like this they are virtually inseparable. I suspect they use each other as a shield against having to socialize with anyone else.”
The distinguished lord ignored the countess’s comment to execute a perfectly tempered bow to Abbigael’s curtsey.
“Don’t let Lady Blackbourne fool you, Miss Granger, she dislikes these overdone social functions more than her husband and I combined.”
“That may be so,” the countess retorted, “but I appreciate their purpose…when it suits me,” she added somewhat testily at Rutherford’s raised eyebrows.
The ennui slipped a little from his expression and his dark eyes flickered with amusement. It was a very subtle shift that Abbigael may have missed had she not been studying him as a means of distracting herself from focusing on the intimidating crowd.
Despite the note of animosity that existed beneath their interchange, Abbigael got the impression there was a reluctant respect between the two.
Lord Rutherford cleared his throat. “Tell me, Miss Granger, are you enjoying your visit to London?”
“Yes, very much. The city is quite something. I hope to have the opportunity to see a great deal more of it.”
Abbigael was only about halfway through her response when the imposing lord’s attention was drawn away by something beyond her shoulder. By the time she finished speaking, a scowl of irritation had settled between his brows.
His reaction was somewhat explained when she heard someone approaching their group and a devil-may-care voice sounded from behind her.
“My Lady Blackbourne and the indubitable Lord Rutherford. What confounded luck to find a woman I admire above all others in the company of a gentleman whose only admirable quality is the title with which he was born.”
The second he spoke, Abbigael recognized the caramel warmth of the dashing rogue’s voice and a sudden desperate stillness overtook her body. She couldn’t seem to move. Not even when he came to stand so close behind her she felt the brush of his coat against her bare shoulders and his feet disturbed the fall of her skirts. She caught a whispered scent that was too faint to define its parts, but recalled to her a chance meeting on her first day at Silverly.
