They were in Miss Wyndham's bedroom.
There was a woman he'd never seen before, standing to one side, wringing her hands and weeping. There was the old woman on the bed, partially concealed from his gaze by the bed drapes. And there was Abigail.
She was standing next to the bed. She was dressed only in her white muslin nightgown. Her hair fell in rich abandon around her shoulders. In the lantern light it shimmered in a multitude of shades of auburn and red.
Gifford had time to notice how the light shone through the thin muslin, silhouetting her lush body, before she turned towards him and he saw the shocked expression on her face.
She lifted her hands in front of her, almost as if she was in prayer, as she raised her eyes to his.
'She's dead,' she whispered disbelievingly. 'Miss Wyndham's dead.'
'Let me see.' Gifford quickly recovered from his surprise. He went forward, gently moving Abigail aside with his hands on her shoulders, and looked down at the old woman.
She was indeed old, he realised, as he lightly touched the papery skin, then checked for a pulse he was already sure he wouldn't find. For some reason he'd assumed that Miss Wyndham was a middle-aged invalid, but the woman on the bed was well past her
three score years and ten. He wondered exactly how old she had been.
'Yes, she's dead,' he said gently, confirming what Abigail and the maid already knew.
Life had stopped making sense to Abigail from the moment she heard Bessie scream. It hadn't occurred to her that anything had happened to Miss Wyndham, she was afraid her suspicions about Charles Johnson had proved true and he'd chosen another victim.
She'd been struggling in the dark to move the chest of drawers from her bedroom door when she'd heard the insistent banging from downstairs. The hammering had confused and alarmed her even more, but before she'd had time to think, Bessie had come knocking and crying at her door. In her efforts to move the chest of drawers Abigail had pulled it right over. It had crashed forward, only just missing her toes.
With Bessie's help she'd pushed the door wide enough to squeeze out and had gone straight to Miss Wyndham's room. She'd barely noticed Raven's second assault on the front door, she'd been too shocked by Miss Wyndham's death. But when she'd heard him call her name she'd realised who it was.
His presence in the house made no sense to her, but Abigail was too glad to see him to question it.
For a moment she covered her face with her hands. There were orders she must give, but she couldn't think clearly enough to know what they were. She wasn't even sure if she'd be able to speak without breaking down.
For nine years Abigail's life had been spent abiding by Miss Wyndham's preferences. The old woman had been frail, but perfectly sharp-witted—and there had been little obvious alteration in her condition for years. It was hard to believe she was dead. Abigail had loved her. She felt as if she'd lost an elderly relative, not an employer.
When she looked up, she saw that every member of the household, including the cook, the footman and the two housemaids, were crowding around Miss Wyndham's open door, murmuring to each other in shocked whispers. With the death of their employer they would all shortly be without a home or a job.
Abigail drew in a deep, unsteady breath. But before she'd had time either to voice reassurances or to formulate orders, Raven took command.
He did so with such natural authority that no one questioned his right to take charge. He sent Anthony on one errand, the footman on another. The footman took a little while to understand his instructions, but Raven repeated them patiently until the manservant was clear what he was to do. Then Raven ordered the cook to make tea for everyone and sent both housemaids to help her.
Bessie, Miss Wyndham's personal maid, was determined to remain with her mistress, and Raven didn't overrule her wishes.
Even in the midst of her distress, Abigail was impressed. Raven had respected the feelings of shock and confusion that threatened to overwhelm the household, but he'd given everyone something to do and started
the gradual process of coming to terms with this new state of affairs.
He picked up one of the lanterns and ushered her gently out of Miss Wyndham's bedroom. There were always lanterns left burning in Miss Wyndham's room at night because the old lady had refused to sleep in the dark. They would not need so many candles in future, Abigail thought distractedly, then realised how foolish she was being. Without Miss Wyndham, the household would cease to exist.
'This way.' She recollected herself sufficiently to lead Raven into the front drawing room.
He lit a few more candles from the candle in the lantern and turned to look at her. She realised for the first time he wasn't wearing his eye-patch, but there was nothing particularly disgusting about his old injury. His eyelid covered an empty socket.
The intelligence and authority in his remaining eye more than compensated for his loss.
She also registered that he wasn't wearing a shirt. She'd already seen him completely naked from a distance, but it was somewhat more overwhelming to see him semi-naked when he was only a few feet away. Now she could see the curls of black hair upon his chest. His skin was smooth and firm. His torso was covered in a sheen of perspiration, and the candlelight emphasised the clean definition of his muscles. She could smell his tangy, virile scent.
He resonated with potent energy. He was more alive than anyone Abigail had ever seen. She almost forgot why he was there. Her fingers flexed with the desire to touch him, to discover if he felt as good as he looked.
'Miss Summers,' he said gruffly. 'You should sit down.'
'Oh, yes.' She blinked, then sat in the nearest chair, and gazed around the room. Everything looked so familiar yet the colours were all wrong. Too harsh and acidic. Nothing looked truly real.
'I played for her this evening,' she said blankly, as her eyes settled on the pianoforte. 'Only a few hours ago. There is so much I must do, but I can't think.' She lifted her hands and buried them in her hair, bewildered by the situation.
Raven snatched a breath and turned abruptly away from her. His hasty movement caught her attention. Her eyes fell and she noticed his feet were bare.
'Oh, my,' she murmured. 'Oh!' She suddenly remembered her feet were also bare, and that her attire was almost as revealing as Raven's.
She was horrified. She glanced around desperately and noticed one of Miss Wyndham's Indian shawls cast over the back of the sofa. She darted forward, seized it, and threw it around her shoulders, carefully covering the whole of her upper body.
She looked up and met Raven's aware gaze. She held her breath. Neither of them spoke, yet there seemed to be layers of meaning in their exchange of glances. Her heart fluttered in her throat.
He smiled crookedly, and asked the question that hadn't yet occurred to her.
'Where's Johnson?'
'I don't...I don't know.' She looked around the room in puzzlement, almost as if she expected Miss Wyndham's nephew to appear from the shadows. 'He
was here when I went to bed. He must—surely he must have heard all the commotion?'
'One would have thought so,' said Raven drily. 'Unless he's deaf?'
'I'm sure he isn't... Mrs Chesney!' Abigail said in amazement.
'Miss Summers, I'm sorry to hear your news.' Raven's landlady came briskly into the room. 'Mr Hill fetched me straightaway. Very sensible, sir,' she added, nodding at Raven.
'Oh...he shouldn't have troubled you!' Abigail exclaimed. She'd been so distracted she hadn't paid attention to the content of Raven's instructions to his cousin. 'Thank you for coming. But I'm so sorry you've been disturbed.'
'I was disturbed already by the way the captain slammed out of my house, then thundered on your door,' Mrs Chesney said, with cheerful practicality. 'Enough to wake the dead it was—begging your pardon, my dear.'
For the first time it occurred to Abigail that Raven's presence was quite unaccountable.
'Why...?' She stared at him. 'How did you know?'
>
'I didn't know Miss Wyndham was dead,' he said briefly. 'But I heard a woman scream. I thought it was you—'
'It was Bessie, when she found her,' Abigail said. 'Poor Bessie, it was such a shock. You came to rescue us!' A smile lit up her face at the idea.
Raven flushed. 'Hardly,' he said tersely. 'I have an ingrained habit of investigating unexplained disturbances... that's all.'
'Yes, sir,' said Mrs Chesney. 'I'm sure we're very grateful. But now you know Miss Summers is not under attack from the French, be good enough to put some clothes on! This is a respectable lady's drawing room. I'll take care of Miss Summers.'
Abigail blinked. Mrs Chesney had spoken to Raven in pretty much the same tone she reserved for her youngest nephew. Abigail's gaze flew to Raven's face to see how he responded to this cavalier treatment. To her surprise, he took his dismissal in good part.
'Thank you, ma'am,' he said. 'I knew I could rely on you.'
Four days after Miss Wyndham's death, Abigail escaped from the demands of the bereaved household to walk in Sydney Gardens. It was the first time since Bessie had screamed that she'd had more than a few minutes to herself for quiet contemplation.
Charles Johnson had returned to the house the following morning with no explanation for his absence. Abigail had already sent for Miss Wyndham's lawyer, Mr Tide well, and it was Mr Tidewell who'd informed Charles of his great-aunt's death.
Charles had looked momentarily surprised—then unmistakably delighted by the news. He'd tried to hide his gratification beneath a suitably mournful demeanour, but there had been no doubt that his only real interest was in discovering when he would learn the full extent of his inheritance.
Mr Tidewell had been polite, but firm. Miss Wyndham had been his client, not Mr Johnson, and it
was her wishes which the lawyer intended to carry out. Miss Wyndham's will was to be read after her funeral. Charles had tried to persuade Mr Tidewell to take a more flexible attitude to his duties, but the lawyer had been stolidly determined. Eventually a dissatisfied Charles had gone to stay with friends outside Bath until his presence was required as chief mourner. Abigail had been glad to see him go.
The servants were understandably worried about their future. One of the housemaids had already found another position. The other one had declared she was shortly to be married. Bessie and the cook were torn between their genuine grief for the mistress they'd served loyally for more than twenty years, and their fear they were too old to find another place. The footman was handsome—Miss Wyndham had always had a weakness for good-looking men—but slow-witted. Abigail felt responsible for all of them—and worried about her own prospects. She hoped Miss Wyndham had made provision for Bessie and the cook but, unlike Charles Johnson, Abigail had no great expectations for herself.
She paused in the welcome shade of a large willow tree. It was late afternoon and the gardens provided a tranquil balm for her anxious spirits. Golden sunlight filtered through the trailing willow fronds. The slender leaves shimmered and whispered in a gentle breeze. The limpid green shadows beneath the tree produced an illusion of coolness, but the weather remained extremely hot.
Abigail turned her face gratefully towards the slight breeze. Her mourning dress was outmoded and too
warm for the season, but with her future so uncertain she was reluctant to make any unnecessary purchases. She hoped Miss Wyndham would understand.
She'd first worn the dress for her father nine years ago. Sir Peter had died in the chilly late autumn, and left behind an even colder atmosphere in the only home Abigail had known. Abigail's mother had died when she was thirteen years old. Sir Peter had remarried a year later. His second wife had treated Abigail with formal correctness, tinged with triumph when she'd produced the son and heir Sir Peter craved.
Sir Peter had left Abigail three hundred pounds in his will and the earnest hope that her young brother would always treat her with generosity and affection. Since the little boy had barely learned to speak by the time of his father's death, that hope was rather optimistic.
It had become clear to Abigail that, if she remained at the Grange, she would always be the poor relation, her presence tolerated because she could be treated like an unpaid servant. So she'd chosen to find a position where, as she'd told Raven, she would at least be paid for running other people's errands.
Lady Summers had protested at Abigail's decision. She was worried that it might reflect badly upon her and, since Abigail was still a minor, her stepmother's wishes might have prevailed. But Abigail had had the support of one of Sir Peter's oldest friends. It was Sir Peter's friend who'd arranged for Abigail to become Miss Wyndham's companion. Had he still been alive, Abigail knew she could have called upon him for help, but the kind old gentleman had died years ago.
She played idly with a flexible willow wand as she considered her situation. She still had her three hundred pounds. Her father's friend had ensured she'd received it on her twenty-first birthday and she'd never spent it. She'd even added to it. Miss Wyndham hadn't paid her much, but Abigail had been very careful with her money, and interest had added to her capital. For a wild moment she wondered if she should invest it all in a London Season. Or perhaps, less ambitiously, in a Season at another watering place.
She couldn't stay in Bath. Everyone here knew her as Miss Wyndham's poor companion. But, if she went further afield...Harrogate perhaps, or...
But she'd need a sponsor. A lady of unimpeachable reputation who could introduce her into society and act as her chaperon. Abigail knew no one who could fill that role for her. And once she'd spent her money she'd have nothing. Gentlemen were notorious for preferring brides whose charms were bolstered by a comfortable fortune.
Abigail sighed. The picture of herself dancing at Almack's or visiting the theatre was enticing, but she knew it was no more than an idle dream. Her small capital was her only security in the world. If she couldn't find work, or if she ever became too sick or old to work, it was all that would save her from destitution. Most of the time, Abigail tried not to look too far ahead. She took all the reasonable precautions she could to protect her future, then she focussed on finding as much pleasure in the present as possible. When she did look ahead the vision of a lonely, impoverished old age chilled her blood and gave her sleepless nights. The
future was a black void she feared and had little control over.
She shivered, in spite of the August sunshine, and brought her attention back to her current precarious situation.
She liked children and she had most of the skills required of a young lady. Miss Wyndham had always encouraged her to practise her music and her sketching. Her embroidery was adequate. At eighteen she'd lacked the confidence to become a governess, but perhaps she'd acquired the necessary authority with age?
She saw a movement from the corner of her eye and turned to see Raven striding towards her. She hadn't seen him since the night of Miss Wyndham's death, though both Mrs Chesney and Admiral Pullen had been in regular attendance.
She felt a ripple of pleasurable excitement, modified by a certain amount of self-conscious shyness. In the midst of all her other concerns, she hadn't been able to banish the memory of Raven standing before her barefoot and bare-chested. When he'd heard Bessie scream he'd dashed to the rescue without even waiting to dress! The knowledge thrilled her. He was strong, dangerous...and kind.
He might look like a pirate, but his genuine consideration for others was beyond doubt. Abigail took comfort from the knowledge. It gave her the courage she needed to broach a very important matter with him.
'Miss Summers.' He halted in front of her and took the hand she instinctively offered. 'How are you?'
'I'm...' She hesitated. The words 'very well' hovered on her tongue, yet they weren't true, and this man
would know it. 'How are you?' she asked, ducking his question.
'In rude health.' He studied her keenly, his grip on her fingers tightening. 'I gather Johnson left Bath till the day of the funeral,' h
e said abruptly.
'That's right.' Abigail couldn't keep the relief out of her voice.
'Mrs Chesney tells me you've been cleaning the house from top to bottom,' said Raven.
'Miss Wyndham leased it,' said Abigail. 'It seems only right that we should return it to the owner in good order.'
Raven still held her hand in his. She liked it when he touched her. The physical contact was both reassuring and thrilling. It would be nice to suppose he found it equally enjoyable to touch her—but she thought it was more likely he'd simply forgotten he was holding her hand.
'I'd suggest we stroll on,' said Raven, 'but you don't have your parasol, and the sun is still quite strong.'
'Frivolous pink,' said Abigail wryly. 'I didn't think it would be quite the thing. But we could easily keep to the shady paths.'
Raven drew her hand through his arm and they began to walk slowly through the gardens.
'This is not an easy time for you,' he said. 'I know you've had Mrs Chesney and the admiral to call upon, and I'm sure they've served you well—but if there is anything I can do, please—'
Abigail stopped dead. Raven had given her the perfect opening and she had to take it, before she lost her nerve.
'Yes,' she said baldly. 'Captain...Sir Gifford...' She turned to look anxiously up at him. Her blunt statement had surprised him. He searched her face with an intently narrowed gaze.
He was so tall. Abigail realised afresh what a commanding personality he possessed. Her mouth went dry as she considered how presumptuous her request might seem to him. She swallowed and took a deep breath.
'Sir...I'm afraid...that is, I hope you won't think I'm trying to take...take advantage of your kindness to me...' she said in a strangled voice.
'Please, Miss Summers, tell me what it is you want,' he said gently.
'I...well...' Abigail pressed her hands against her over-heated cheeks. 'This is very awkward...'
Raven waited while she composed herself. To her relief he didn't seem impatient.
'I'm sorry,' she said at last, laughing uncomfortably. 'I did not know this would be so hard. Mrs Chesney has told me—I don't want you to think we've gossiped about you—but Mrs Chesney has told me that you have several estates?' She looked at him warily. She was encouraged by the fact that he didn't seem offended by her revelation.
Gifford's Lady Page 6
