Gifford's Lady

by Claire Thornton

  Abigail listened to Mr Tidewell's explanation, without fully comprehending his words. She reached out, very delicately, and touched a diamond. It was hard and cold beneath her fingertip. Real. She leant over the table top, gently touching one gem after another with the very tip of her finger.

  'I've never seen real diamonds before,' she whispered. 'Sapphires. Emeralds. So big. So many.'

  'They are all gems of the first water,' said Mr Tidewell. 'I confess, I am grateful you now have the advice of Sir Gifford and Mr Anderson. I was concerned I would not have the experience to negotiate a fair price for you—when you decide which pieces to sell.'

  if Johnson behaved badly when he heard the first set of Miss Wyndham's wishes, you were to wait until

  he'd left Bath before revealing to Miss Summers the full extent of her inheritance?' Gifford queried.

  'Yes, sir,' the lawyer agreed. 'That was Miss Wyndham's idea, to avoid any possible awkwardness.'

  'Good God!' Gifford exclaimed. 'The consequences if Johnson had found out! He could have accused you and Pullen of conspiring to cheat him of his inheritance—and God knows what else!'

  'I know, sir,' Mr Tidewell said feelingly, it gave me many sleepless nights. That's why I persuaded Miss Wyndham to tell Mr Sudbury what she wanted. Mr Sudbury is a magistrate and has no personal connection with any of us—though he has a reputation of great probity. As you can see, he witnessed the list I had made up of the jewels. I hoped that would provide some protection for all of us. Not least Miss Summers, who knew nothing of what Miss Wyndham intended. Mr Sudbury was one of the magistrates who went with us to the Blue Buck a few days ago. He did not feel there was any need to accompany us to London, but he desired me to assure you he is entirely at your disposal, sir, if you—or Miss Summers—wish to discuss this matter with him.'

  Abigail barely heard the conversation. She touched one of the ropes of pearls, hesitated, then lifted them from the table. Their soft lustre seemed slightly less forbidding than the glittering brightness of the other jewels.

  'She gave them all to me?' she whispered. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. 'And I can't thank her.' Her voice quavered and broke on the words, 'I can't ever

  thank her.' She bent her head and lifted the pearls to her lips. Tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks.

  Gifford put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.

  'She was thanking you." Mr Tidewell audibly swallowed. 'She left a letter for you. She dictated it to me. I will give it to you. But...she made you her heiress in recognition that you had devoted nine years of your young life to her—willingly, and with a generous heart.'

  'But I had no choice,' Abigail protested, brushing her tears away. 'I made no great sacrifice for her. I had to work, and she was an easy mistress.'

  'But you loved her,' said Mr Tidewell, visibly moved. 'And she loved you. Well.' He cleared his throat. 'I believe my errand here is complete. I will leave you my sister's direction in case you should need me. I will be in town for a few days. Good morning to all of you.'

  'Thank you.' Gifford shook the lawyer's hand. 'Thank you, Mr Tidewell. I believe Miss Wyndham would be pleased with how well you executed her wishes.'

  The lawyer flushed. 'She was a grand old lady,' he said gruffly. 'I will miss her.'

  'So will I.' Abigail smiled at him mistily. 'Thank you,' she said.

  The rest of the day passed in a daze for Abigail. Everyone came to admire the magnificent jewels and

  congratulate her on her good fortune. Admiral Pullen was particularly delighted.

  'You are a true heiress! A worthy heiress!' he declared emphatically. 'No one could ever have doubted the goodness and beauty of your character. Now you will bestow grace upon the jewels whenever you wear them. Splendid!' He subsided suddenly, slightly red in the face after his outburst, but very pleased with the situation.

  'An heiress?' Abigail touched an emerald gingerly. She still hadn't picked up any of the jewellery apart from the rope of pearls.

  Despite their intense curiosity, in deference to her, no one else had touched them at all. Honor sat in a chair next to the table to admire the jewels, while Gifford, Anthony and Cole all bent over the tabletop with their hands clasped behind their backs as they scrutinised Abigail's inheritance.

  'Are they very valuable?' she asked hesitantly.

  Everyone looked at her in astonishment.

  'You could buy a fine country estate, throw in a carriage and four, and still have a comfortable income for the rest of your life!' Admiral Pullen exclaimed. 'If you sold them—which, of course, you won't need to now. You may wear any of them whenever you choose.'

  'Oh. Oh, my.' Abigail was too distracted to catch Pullen's meaning. 'I thought...I thought...'

  'What did you think?' Honor prompted her gently.

  Abigail shook her head in an attempt to clear it. 'It doesn't matter,' she said, 'my mind is a little muddled.' She sank into a chair beside Honor.

  She'd been thinking that Miss Wyndham hadn't given her the dresses so that she could become a rich man's mistress. Miss Wyndham really had meant for Abigail to have a Season in London just like any respectable young lady.

  Her eyes misted again. 'I wonder if Bessie knew,' she said suddenly.

  'Bessie?' Honor queried.

  'Miss Wyndham's maid,' Abigail explained. 'She was so adamant at the will reading that all the jewellery had been sold—so Miss Wyndham could lend Charles the money he was always asking for. But she never gave him that much. I know. I managed the accounts for her.'

  'Bessie may not have known how much they're worth,' Gifford said. 'As you apparently don't.' He smiled briefly, but his expression was oddly reserved, as if he didn't share in the general excitement.

  'She may not even have seen them very often,' said Admiral Pullen. 'Miss Wyndham told me she hadn't worn any of the jewels in public for forty-odd years, and not even in private for nearly thirty years. Bessie was only her maid for the last twenty-three years.'

  'She spent so much time stitching these clothes for me,' Abigail said, touching the elegant walking gown she was wearing, 'I didn't fully appreciate the extent of the alterations at first. But she must have unpicked every single gown and made it up afresh.'

  'Seems a bit of a wasted effort, if you could just go out and buy new ones as soon as you received your full inheritance,' Cole commented.

  'Of course it wasn't!' Honor exclaimed. 'It was a gift of the heart. Besides showing an excellent sense of economy.'

  'Miss Wyndham wanted me to take care of Bessie and the others,' Abigail said. 'I know Mr Anderson has already found positions for them—but Bessie could be my maid now, couldn't she?' she looked up at Gifford eagerly.

  'I've already sent for her,' he said curtly. 'Apparently she found the journey into Oxfordshire rather exhausting. She isn't used to travelling. But as soon as she has recovered from that journey she'll come to London.'

  'Poor Bessie,' Abigail said remorsefully. 'I didn't mean for her to racket all round the countryside. You've already sent for her?' she added, frowning in confusion.

  'Certainly,' Gifford said. 'You are in need of a maid, and your affection for each other cannot be questioned. It was always my intention she should continue to serve you—whatever the future holds for you.'

  On which announcement he turned and walked out of the room.

  'Has he ever considered a career on the stage?' Honor asked, in the startled silence that followed Gifford's departure. 'I've never known anyone with such a facility for dramatic entrances and exits. Has anyone told you about the grand entrance he made to our wedding?' she asked Abigail. 'Lazarus can have had no more impact on his audience.'

  'I..yes...' Abigail struggled to maintain her composure. 'Anthony told me about it.'

  She swallowed back tears which had nothing to do with Miss Wyndham's generosity. Apparently she was an heiress—but Gifford had just walked out on her.

  He'd said he would drive her around London this morning, show her all
the sights she'd only heard or read about. She'd been looking forward to spending time alone with him. She'd had such high hopes for the day—and now he'd gone. She wanted to sit quietly and talk to him about everything that had happened, marvel with him at Miss Wyndham's convoluted last wishes. But he'd gone.

  He'd left her with his relatives and her old friend, Admiral Pullen. She liked all of them. At any other time she would have found the obvious love between Cole and Honor heartwarming. Despite Cole's occasional tendency to say outrageous things which shocked his graceful wife, he took great care of her, and Honor obviously adored him. Their love had made a great impression upon Abigail—but the accord between them highlighted the confusion in her own relationship with Gifford.

  Everyone was so pleased for her inheritance. She did her best to respond appropriately to her good fortune, but it was difficult to be truly enthusiastic about the jewellery. She didn't want diamonds and rubies. She wanted to know why Gifford had walked away from her.

  After a while she slipped out of the room, leaving the others to admire Miss Wyndham's jewels.

  *fc *fc »fc

  Anthony found her later in the large drawing room, gazing up at the painting of Gifford standing on the quarterdeck of the Unicorn.

  'You've left a fortune lying on the table,' he said, smiling at her crookedly.

  'Oh.' She blinked distractedly. 'I don't know what to do with all of it. It's very splendid,' she added hastily, in case he should think she was ungrateful. 'But I never had any jewels before, and Mr Tidewell took his valise away with him.'

  Anthony grinned. 'I think we'll be able to find a more appropriate place to keep them,' he said. 'Cole is already considering how best to ensure they remain safe.'

  'That's very kind of him,' Abigail said, glancing wistfully at Gifford's picture. 'Kemp said he went out,' she said. 'I expect he had business of his own to attend to. Now he doesn't have to worry about me anymore. Now Charles is dead.'

  'Perhaps,' Anthony said non-committally. 'Perhaps this would be a good opportunity for me to make some preliminary sketches for your portrait.'

  'Oh?' Abigail looked at him doubtfully.

  'I could paint you wearing one of your new necklaces,' Anthony suggested. Abigail was still holding the rope of pearls between her fingers, almost as if it were a rosary.

  'Oh, no!' she said immediately. 'Oh, no, I don't think I want you to do that.' She bit her lip, casting another glance at Gifford's picture. Anthony waited. 'They are Miss Wyndham's jewels,' she said at last. 'Made especially for her. Mr Tidewell said so. Her

  lover gave them to her—as... as symbols of his love. I don't w-want you to p-paint me wearing her jewels.'

  'Then I won't,' said Anthony gently. 'Why don't we go into the music room? Gifford may well be right. I should paint you at the pianoforte.'

  'Very well.' Abigail let him guide her away from Gifford's portrait and out of the large drawing room.

  Gifford returned to Berkeley Square late in the afternoon. He asked Kemp to send Abigail to him in the library.

  She responded to the summons, her heart beating fast with nervous apprehension and hope. As soon as she saw his grim expression fear swamped her. She was hardly able to force a few words of greeting from her lips.

  'Sit down,' he ordered.

  She perched on the edge of an upright chair, her lands locked together in her lap. She stared up at him, filled with foreboding. He wasn't simmering with vol-canic anger, as she had so often seen him. Nor was he in a relaxed good humour. His scarred face was stern and austere. Perhaps this was how he looked when he gave orders that might lead to men's deaths.

  'Abigail, you are now an heiress,' he said grimly.

  'Yes.' She watched him carefully.

  'In a position to have the pick of the most eligible bachelors,' he continued.

  'I am?' That aspect of the situation hadn't occurred to Abigail. The only bachelor she was interested in was

  currently looming over her with a flinty expression on his face.

  'In the circumstances, I believe we should delay any official announcement of our betrothal,' he announced.

  'Delay?' Confusion added to Abigail's distress. It seemed clear that Gifford was taking this opportunity to extricate himself from a marriage that he had, from the first, openly declared he didn't want. But why bother delaying the decision?

  'Obviously, if you are carrying my child, there can be no question that you must marry me,' he said grit-tily. 'But—'

  'I'm not,' Abigail interrupted, blushing hotly.

  Gifford pinned her with a burning stare. 'It's far too soon for you to know that.'

  'It isn't!' she protested. Mortification consumed her whole body at her immodest announcement, but it was intolerable that this nightmare should be protracted any longer than necessary.

  'Oh.' Gifford continued to stare at her. 'Are you sure?' he demanded.

  'I'm not ignorantl Of course I'm sure!' she flared back at him. In truth, she wasn't sure, but it was unthinkable that they should ever repeat this conversation.

  He jerked his gaze away from her, then turned his back on her. She gazed at his broad shoulders, determined not to let the tears prickling her eyes fall onto her cheeks.

  She knew that Gifford's sense of honour had compelled him to rescue her from Charles Johnson. Then he had been overcome by his fierce passions—no doubt provoked by her own heedless actions. She was as re-

  sponsible as he was for what had happened between them the night of the thunderstorm. She'd hoped so desperately that he would come to love her as she loved him, but it wasn't fair to trap him into a marriage he clearly didn't want. She held her head up and waited with dignity for him to deliver the coup de grace.

  'Then there is no need for us to be married,' he said, his back still towards her. 'You may dance at Almack's with a light...free...heart. There will be no scandal attached to your name. As Pullen says, you will be a fine catch.'

  'I don't want to be a fine catch!' Abigail's throat burned with unshed tears.

  'You've made your objections to marriage very plain over the past few days,' Gifford said coldly, turning back to face her. 'No doubt you'll change your mind when confronted with a more personable man. In the meantime, I hope you will remain in Berkeley Square as my guest. Honor and Cole are fixed here permanently. I will be returning to sea very shortly.'

  'Returning...? You have another commission already?' Abigail whispered.

  Gifford flushed. 'I mean to visit the Admiralty tomorrow,' he said. 'I've served their lordships well in the past. I'm sure they will have work for me.'

  'So am I.' Despair filled Abigail.

  She stared at him mutely for several seconds. He stared back equally intently—then abruptly broke the connection between them. He looked down at the floor. Thick, heavy silence filled the library, oppressing Abigail until she thought she would suffocate beneath it.

  Life suddenly returned to her benumbed limbs. She stood up. 'I hope you receive a commission worthy of you,' she said huskily. 'Excuse me.'

  She hurried out of the library, terrified her feelings would overcome her before she'd escaped Gifford's presence. He didn't want to marry her. He'd never made any pretense about that. He wanted to return to sea. And she wanted him to be happy—no matter how much it hurt her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gifford walked. He didn't care about direction or destination. He had no idea where he was going. He had done what he believed to be right, but now he was anchorless and rudderless.

  Abigail didn't want to marry him. She had always been adamant on the subject. He remembered with painful clarity what she'd said to him in the apple orchard: I don't want to marry you—and I won't.

  He'd hoped she would become more agreeable to the idea with time, but virtually her first words on arriving in London had been to deny any betrothal between them. She'd never said anything subsequently to suggest she'd changed her mind.

  And now she was an heiress.

 
With every glittering piece of jewellery that Mr Tidewell had laid upon the table, Gifford had felt Abigail slipping further and further out of his grasp. She didn't need him anymore. Just as Admiral Pullen had said, Abigail now had everything a woman required to be a social success. She was brave, kind-hearted, beautiful and charming—and now she was wealthy.

  Gifford had taken the only honourable course open to him. It was right that she should be free to shine unencumbered upon the social stage. Of course, if she'd been carrying his child, that would have been a different matter...

  But she wasn't. Gifford's hands clenched into fists. In the circumstances his fierce disappointment at her confident denial was unreasonable—but beyond his control.

  He walked on.

  Hours later he found himself standing on Westminster Bridge. Night had fallen and the Thames was black beneath him. The tide flowed swiftly to the sea. His own ultimate destination. He had no desire to remain in England now.

  He leant against the bridge and briefly closed his good eye. The wind gusting along the river ruffled his hair and tugged at his clothes. It was September already. Autumn was in the air. He remembered the hot August night he'd first seen Abigail's silhouette—and she'd seen a good deal more than that of him.

  Later she'd called him a 'well-made man', he recalled. That was a pleasant memory. All his memories of Abigail were pleasant except for the moment she'd ordered him from her bed—and those occasions when she'd declared her unwillingness to marry him.

  A well-made man. He smiled at the words. Whatever else she'd said to him, he did believe she'd enjoyed his lovemaking. Horses move more. He still couldn't credit she'd said that!

  He stared unseeingly at the river, remembering all the times he'd spoken to Abigail in Bath before Miss Wyndham had died and Charles Johnson had interfered so diabolically in Abigail's life.