by Cheryl Holt
“It never crossed my mind that he would dare.”
“I won’t permit him to slink in, and you must never meet with him behind my back. Swear to me you never would.”
“Gad, no. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I won’t give him a second opportunity to hurt you.”
“You don’t have to worry. He made his bed by becoming engaged. We can let him lie in it.”
“I hate that you’re so sad,” he said.
“I’ll survive.”
“I hope so. I’m too used to having you around and annoying me. If you died of a broken heart, I’d be furious.”
“A cad like Lord Pendergast could never truly break me.” Her expression was cool and detached as if all her emotions had fled.
“How can I make you feel better?” he asked.
“You can’t. I just need some time to figure out what I should do with myself.”
“You should start painting again.”
“That won’t happen. There’s no point to it.”
“What an absolutely ridiculous remark. I’ll have to pester you until you relent.”
“It will be a wasted effort.”
“No effort on your behalf could ever be wasted,” he said. “Where is Abigail? I stopped by the cottage, but her things are gone. The twins’ too. Are they off on a holiday?”
Faith glared at him as if he was the stupidest man alive.
“You have no idea where they are? Seriously?”
“No. I’ve been in jail in London. How would I have been informed of their plans?”
“I knew it,” she muttered.
“Knew what?”
“It was all fake. I warned Abigail not to trust her.”
“Trust who? What are you talking about?”
“Ask Camilla—if you can get her to admit to her mischief.”
A sinking sensation swept through him. “What did she do?”
“She snuck in while you were in town. She claimed you wanted Abigail to leave immediately and never return.”
“Oh, no.”
“And—if Abigail would depart at once—she could have permanent custody of the twins. Apparently, you had supported them long enough, and the Henleys should assume their share of the burden.”
“I never said that!” he huffed.
“I didn’t imagine you had. I tried to convince Abigail that you wouldn’t have acted that way, but she was too aggravated to listen.”
“Where are they?”
“In London.”
He tsked with irritation. “Doing what?”
“I can’t begin to guess. Camilla gave her some traveling money that was supposedly from you. In order to receive it, Abigail had to promise she’d never bother you again. She agreed, and she left.”
“But…but…this is insane,” he stammered. “She doesn’t have friends or relatives—or a job—in town!”
“I realize that. I begged her to stay here, but she was upset, and she wasn’t about to allow us to keep the twins.” Faith shrugged. “I don’t blame her.”
He rubbed his temples, a fierce headache forming behind his eyes. “I have to ride back to London right away. I have to find her.”
“Why? Isn’t it best that she left—and that she took them? Let her have them, Alex. They’ll be better off with her.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Of course they will be,” she scoffed. “Don’t be an idiot. They’ll need some financial assistance though. If you don’t chip in, they’ll be in very dire shape.”
“I didn’t want them to go. Not her or Mary and Millie.”
“She couldn’t remain, Alex. Not after you rebuffed her. She’s a very proud woman who’s been battered by life, and you simply made it worse. She was extremely aggrieved by how you denigrated her brother and her family.”
“I didn’t mean it,” he insisted.
“Yes, you did. Don’t lie. We have a different view of Hayden Henley, but he was her brother. He’s her deceased brother whom she adored, and your slurs were painful to her.”
“I intended to apologize for my behavior.”
“It’s too late, and I’ll wager we never hear from her again—even though I told her she’s welcome to come back if she suffers any difficulties. But I doubt she’d lower herself.”
“When I spewed all those insults, I was angry, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m eager to marry her.”
“You are not.”
“I am, and she can’t run off like this.”
“Well, if you don’t like what transpired, I suggest you have a talk with Camilla.”
“I will—after I locate them.”
“London is a huge city, Alex. How will you?”
“I have no idea, but I won’t stop searching until they’re home where they belong.”
* * * *
As Abigail staggered out of Mrs. Ford’s office, she was actually quite alarmed.
She wasn’t sure why she’d believed Camilla Robertson. Faith had advised her to watch out. Why hadn’t she listened?
Alex hadn’t met with Mrs. Ford. He hadn’t paid money to smooth over any ruffled feathers. He hadn’t requested she find a new situation for Abigail, hadn’t vouched for her reputation.
But Miss Robertson had met with Mrs. Ford, and she’d been plenty vociferous. Abigail’s character had been completely maligned, and it didn’t matter that she’d been employed through Mrs. Ford’s agency for the prior decade. She hadn’t previously given Mrs. Ford a single instant of concern, and it was galling that her years of ethical probity counted for so little.
She’d like to strangle Alex Wallace until he was dead on the floor. She was that incensed. Would the catastrophes he’d unleashed never end?
He’d shot her brother in their duel which had sent Hayden and her parents fleeing to Italy. In a roundabout way, he’d brought about their deaths at sea. Now it seemed as if she’d dueled with him too. She had fought him and been defeated so she was another Henley casualty whom he’d destroyed.
“What to do, what to do,” she mumbled as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
She was desperate to speak with her sisters, but when she’d asked Mrs. Ford where they were working, the older woman had refused to apprise her. Due to Miss Robertson’s interference, she was too notorious to even visit her sisters. From the hints Mrs. Ford had leveled, it sounded as if her sisters’ posts might be forfeit too. All because of rich, aloof, pompous Alex Wallace!
Ooh, she was so angry!
Of a certainty, she would write to her cousin, Jasper, at Middlebury to inform him of where she was. She and her sisters had an emergency plan that—if they lost touch—they would contact him if they experienced problems so the other two would know about it.
If conditions became too hideous, she might travel to Middlebury and demand Jasper help her. If he wouldn’t, the local vicar had been fond of her father. Perhaps he would aid them. If nothing else, he could persuade parish officials to let them move into the poorhouse until she could determine a better path.
Hadn’t she landed herself in a grand conundrum! And she’d only been away from Wallace Downs for two days!
There was no hope for it, but she’d have to write to Faith and tell her what had occurred. Then she had to get herself hired at another job, but London was a brutal place, and there were so many poor, dispossessed females seeking positions. How would she ever succeed?
Her thoughts were so conflicted she was dizzy with trying to ascertain the best course of action. First and foremost, she had to hide any upset from the twins. They deemed the trip to be a fun adventure, and it hadn’t dawned on them that calamity might result instead.
They were sitting on a bench and observing as the crowd rushed by. As she approached, they jumped to their feet.
“Was Mrs. Ford glad to see you?” Mary asked.
They had a peculiar view of Mrs. Ford and considered her a sort of motherly figure who baked cook
ies and brewed tea.
“Yes, she was very glad,” Abigail lied.
“Did she have a post for you?”
“Not yet. I’ll have to wait until there’s an opening.”
“But it won’t be long, will it? You’re such a good governess. I’m positive there’s a family that will want you very soon.”
“Yes, I’m positive there will be too,” Abigail lied again.
They’d taken a room at a boarding house where Mrs. Ford’s girls stayed when they were between assignments. It was clean and quiet with a clientele of respectable females who toiled for their wages.
Abigail had paid a month of rent so their bags were safely stowed in their room. It was a lengthy walk there, but she was anxious to immediately pen the note to Faith about their trouble. Then they would stop by the prior homes where her sisters had worked to learn if they had provided forwarding addresses. After that, they would locate a reading library so she could look at the newspaper advertisements.
There had to be people hunting for a competent governess with excellent references. Mrs. Ford couldn’t be the only person who sent out candidates. Maybe there was another agency in the same field.
They trudged to the boarding house, and she composed and mailed the letter to Faith. Then they were all starving so they left again to find a place to eat. The landlord wouldn’t serve supper until eight o’clock, but that was hours away so he’d recommended a tea shop a few blocks down the street.
They headed off, but Mary and Millie were flagging a bit. Her energy was definitely fading too. They hadn’t gone far and were passing a restaurant when someone on the inside knocked on the window to get their attention.
They halted and stared, and Abigail blanched on discovering that it was the twins’ mother, Eugenia Pennywhistle. She was seated with a man whom Abigail supposed was her husband, Bertram Pennywhistle.
London was a large, bustling city. What were the odds she would bump into the awful woman? And so quickly after arriving too!
“Look, Aunt Abigail”—Mary had no emotion in her voice—“it’s our mother.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Must we talk to her?” Millie slipped her hand into Abigail’s. She was trembling slightly.
It would be horrid to chat with Mrs. Pennywhistle so her initial impulse was to say no, they wouldn’t speak to her, but how would Abigail do that precisely? Mrs. Pennywhistle was their mother. She was smiling at them, gesturing for them to join her.
“We’ll talk to her,” Abigail said, “but just for a moment. We’re very busy today, remember? We’ll greet her politely, then we’ll be on our way.”
“We won’t have to…to…remain with her, will we?” Millie nervously inquired. “We can stay with you? No matter what?”
“Yes, you’re staying with me. From now on, we’re a family.”
The twins exchanged a significant glance, and an entire dialogue seemed to swirl between them. As to Abigail, she was rapidly realizing she should have demanded some documents from Alex Wallace so she could prove she’d been granted custody.
If anyone questioned her authority—their mother for instance—she had no evidence to confirm that Alex had let her trot off with them.
They went in, and the establishment was overflowing with customers so it was loud and hectic. They wound through the crowd to Mrs. Pennywhistle’s table, and while she appeared excited to see them, there was always something a tad off with her. Her skin was patchy and she was thin as a rail. There was a distinct odor of alcohol on her breath.
“Girls! Girls!” she crooned. “What are you doing in London?”
“Hello, Mother.” They were very glum and didn’t rush over to hug her. Mrs. Pennywhistle made no move to hug them either.
“You can’t have forgotten Mr. Pennywhistle,” she said to them.
“No, Mother.” They added, “Hello, Mr. Pennywhistle.”
“Miss Barrington!” Mrs. Pennywhistle gushed. “What brings all of you to town? My ex-husband is such a miserly fellow. How did you convince him to give you the time off?”
Abigail didn’t intend to comment about Alex or about her not being a Barrington, but before she could formulate a reply, Mary responded with, “Her name isn’t Miss Barrington, Mother. Guess what it is?”
“What?”
“It’s Miss Henley. Isn’t that funny? Our father, Lord Henley, was her brother. She’s our aunt.”
Mrs. Pennywhistle studied Abigail very carefully. Ultimately, she raised a brow. “Miss Henley, is it? I recall my darling Hayden having three sisters. Which one are you? I’m betting you’re the oldest. Abigail, isn’t it? Who are the others? Sarah and Catherine? You look like Hayden, don’t you? Yes, the resemblance is very clear.”
Abigail was taken aback by her blatant endearment toward Hayden, by the woman knowing details about Abigail’s siblings. It hinted at an affection Abigail hadn’t wanted to admit. Since she’d first learned of the liaison, she’d hoped her brother and Mrs. Pennywhistle had passed like two ships in the night, that it had been a fleeting and trivial amour.
Obviously, they’d been much friendlier than Abigail had presumed.
“This is my husband, Mr. Pennywhistle.” Mrs. Pennywhistle pointed to him, but he didn’t stand or indicate that he’d heard himself being introduced.
He was thin too, balding, dissipation showing on his face, and he was a dodgy character. His rheumy eyes kept scanning the restaurant as if he was on guard in case of attack.
“We have to go, Eugenia,” he said to her.
“In a minute, Bertram.”
“I have no desire to coo over Henley’s sister or listen to your brats chattering. Wrap this up, will you?”
He rose and threw down his napkin, then he stomped out.
Mrs. Pennywhistle laughed—as if his behavior was perfectly normal. “Men! They can be such beasts.”
“We should probably be going too,” Abigail said.
“You haven’t told me why you’re in the city.” She gestured to the empty chairs. “Sit! Sit! Tell me what brought you.”
They eased down, and Abigail placed her bag under her chair so it would be out of the way.
She didn’t imagine the reason for their being in town needed to be a secret, and Mrs. Pennywhistle would find out sooner or later. “We’re living in London now. With me being their aunt, Mr. Wallace felt it would be appropriate for me to have custody. We’ve only just met, but we’ve already grown very close.”
Mrs. Pennywhistle smirked. “Yes, we have a passion for you Henleys, don’t we, girls?”
They didn’t respond, but gaped at her as if she was an exotic animal at the zoo.
“I’ll have to speak with Alex of course,” Mrs. Pennywhistle primly stated. “I wasn’t consulted about this, and I’m not sure I agree with it.”
“Yes, please speak to him,” Abigail replied. “He’ll explain it.”
They were saved from further conversation by Mr. Pennywhistle rapping on the window and motioning for his wife to hurry.
“He gets so impatient,” she complained, “so I must be off, but I will talk to Alex about this. You and I, Miss Henley, will have to have a lengthy discussion too.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Abigail fibbed, swiftly deciding she would arrange her affairs so she never crossed paths with the unlikable woman ever again. If they were residing in the same neighborhood, Abigail had to move out of the boarding house at the earliest opportunity.
She started to stand so they could leave too, but Mrs. Pennywhistle pointed to the table. There was a basket of muffins and a pot of tea that she and her husband hadn’t finished.
“We couldn’t eat it all,” Mrs. Pennywhistle explained. “Why don’t the three of you finish it? I hate to have it go to waste.”
“All right.” If Abigail didn’t have to spend money on their afternoon meal, it would be a benefit. “Thank you.”
“We paid the bill,” Mrs.
Pennywhistle said, “so consider it my treat. Welcome to London, my dear daughters! I’ll see you shortly. I’m still planning to have you live with me. Perhaps after Miss Henley is weary of you, Mr. Wallace will allow me to have you again. I’m certainly eager for it to occur! I know you are too!”
She stood, but dropped her reticule on the floor. She crouched down to retrieve it, and after searching around for a bit, she stood again. She leaned over and whispered to Abigail, “Camilla Robertson sends her regards.”
Then she swept out.
A chill slithered down Abigail’s spine. What had she meant by the remark? Why would Alex’s mistress have conferred with Mrs. Pennywhistle on any topic?
Mary and Millie watched their mother as she dashed out of the restaurant and sauntered off with her husband. They needed a minute to regain their equilibrium.
Finally, Abigail forced a smile. “I’m starving, aren’t you? Your mother was correct. These muffins shouldn’t go to waste. Would you like some tea?”
They nodded, and Abigail waved to a serving girl to bring more cups. They dug into the food and were enjoying themselves when a man approached and introduced himself as the proprietor. He appeared grouchy and incensed.
“I don’t intend to insult you, Miss, but the pair who departed? I don’t like them to patronize my establishment, but they snuck in without my realizing it.”
“I’m sorry.” What other reply would be suitable?
“I’d like to believe you are an honest and decent sort of female, but in light of the company you were keeping, I have to demand payment from you. I can’t trust that you won’t walk out.”
“Walk out?” Abigail scowled. “We would never do that.”
“We never would,” Millie chimed in.
“That’s all well and good,” the man said, “but might I please be paid?”
“Mrs. Pennywhistle took care of the bill,” Abigail told him.
“No, she never does. It’s why I don’t let her in here. Her husband either.”
“Are you sure she didn’t?” Abigail asked. “Could there have been a mistake?”
“There’s no mistake.”
He extended his hand, expecting Abigail to put some coins in it. She didn’t mind terribly much—after all, they were eating the food themselves—but it was deceitful, petty conduct by Mrs. Pennywhistle and probably precisely what she could have predicted.
