My Lord Highwayman

by Valerie King

  “You are not permitted to refuse my donation, as you very well know. This is between Mr. Clark and me.”

  Treyford bowed to her, then once more addressed the finely gowned and bejeweled assemblage. “Who will join Mrs. Marisfield?”

  Unfortunately, the crowd remained sullen and silent. Abigail’s anxiety began to mount once more. Would no one rise to support the good vicar’s orphanage?

  After several minutes of waiting, and as the very air of the room became heavy with disapprobation, Sir Christopher, nudged by his wife, finally spoke. “You have had your answer, Treyford. Now pray let us continue our festivities.”

  Abigail was on her feet before she knew what she was about to do. “One moment, Sir Christopher. I should like to contribute one hundred pounds.” A general gasp went up around the room, since it was known she was a mere governess. She heard Mr. Lavant behind her murmur a brief, “Well done, Miss Chailey.”

  Lord Treyford turned toward her. “Are you certain, Miss Chailey? A hundred pounds?”

  “Yes,” she responded, smiling. “I have been blessed in the course of my life, and I should like to give something back to an institution that cared for me in my youth.”

  He met her gaze with such an expression of gratitude that her heart seemed to expand within her breast.

  “Mr. Clark shall be greatly indebted to your extraordinary generosity.”

  “And Mr. Lavant wishes to make a contribution as well,” she added hastily. She reached down and quickly hooked her arm in her employer’s arm and tugged on it.

  “Eh, what’s that,” he said, rising swiftly to his feet and clearing his throat several times. “Yes, yes, Treyford. Another hundred pounds. If Miss Chailey can dig so deeply into her pocketbook, I suppose I can as well.”

  Treyford’s smile was crooked. “Thank you, Mr. Lavant. Who else will see Mr. Clark’s orphanage completed.”

  Abigail felt certain that with her own and Mr. Lavant’s contributions, surely some of the families would finally relent, but it would seem Lady Waldron’s influence would reign supreme. Not another person came forward to offer even a quid. Abigail sank back into her seat with a sigh. Mr. Lavant joined her. “It was too much to be hoped for,” he whispered, “that a public plea would answer.”

  “I simply do not understand. Twenty years.”

  Sir Christopher once again addressed Lord Treyford. “Now I believe you have had your answer. Will you at last behave the gentleman and permit the ball to continue?”

  “I would not prevent your pleasure on any account,” Treyford responded, offering him a mockingly low bow.

  Once more, Abigail felt her anxiety rising and sharpening, particularly since Sir Christopher’s cheeks turned a very dark red against the starched white of his shirt points. Treyford took up a position next to his sister. He leaned down and spoke to her quietly, after which his sister nodded, then he pushed her chair from the room.

  For some reason, Abigail continued to watch Lady Waldron, even though she could scarcely keep her gaze from following Treyford’s fine figure as he quit the ballroom. As he disappeared through the arched doorway, however, Lady Waldron’s expression finally shifted. She watched him leave, and a desperate longing entered her eyes. It was a very fleeting yet stunning betrayal of the true state of her sentiments, and Abigail’s earlier thought was confirmed—Lady Waldron was in love with Treyford. She was as certain of this as she was that the sun would rise on the following morn.

  Her gaze shifted to Sir Christopher. He stood expressionless, staring at his wife. Lady Waldron turned toward her husband; their eyes met and held. Sir Christopher seemed suddenly disgusted. He turned away from her and crossed the chamber to speak with Lord Adling.

  Jealousy was implicit in his countenance. Lady Waldron watched her husband leave her side, her shoulders slumping slightly.

  “Oh, my,” Abigail breathed gently.

  “Just so,” Mr. Lavant confirmed. “Now you understand it all, but I knew you would, for you are a lady of powerful perceptions.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  On the following day, Abigail sat on the small terrace that separated the conservatory from the rose garden. She was embroidering a finely woven kerchief with a lovely pattern of bluebells that Mrs. Marisfield was so good as to have provided her. The effect was proving delicate and quite exquisite, so it was that she found herself relatively content as she both set her stitches and viewed the progress of Mr. Ditchling and Sarah as they wended their way once more through the fragrant garden of roses.

  Her thoughts had turned several times to the assembly of the night before. She set another stitch in a beautiful blue silk floss, and sighed. Hetty Waldron’s expression as she watched Treyford leave the ball had become fixed in her mind. No matter how hard she tried, she could not seem to extricate the image.

  She could even see her as a woman of her own age some twenty years past. She would not have been in the first blush of youth, but she would have been quite pretty, perhaps even accounted by some as a beauty, serving as a governess at that time. She would have been visiting her sister at the Chandos country house. Treyford would have arrived and she would have fallen beneath the spell of his dashing good looks. She tried to picture him at the age of nineteen, an athletic young man, full of life and health, of wit and passion. Henrietta would have seen him as a match for herself, since Marianne was already wed.

  Abigail smoothed out the fine linen fabric, feeling the stitches beneath the tips of her fingers. She let her gaze rove the beautiful rose garden, but her thoughts were still fixed on Lady Waldron.

  If Henrietta had chanced to tumble violently in love with Treyford without his knowledge, then had to watch as he gave his heart to her already extremely well-married younger sister, what terrible lasting feelings might such a disappointment have created in her breast?

  It made perfect sense to her that young Henrietta, disappointed in love, would have sent for Chandos before Treyford could elope with Marianne.

  “Bluebells. Quite lovely.”

  Abigail was startled by Treyford’s voice coming suddenly from just over her left shoulder and turned to look up at him. “You stole upon me, wretched man. What a fright you have given me.”

  “Abigail Chailey frightened? That I should like to see.”

  She chuckled. “I admit today I would find it quite difficult to be disturbed by anything. The day is idyllic, the setting quite magnificent, and nothing could give me greater pleasure than to seeing Sarah a calmer, quieter young lady and fully capable of entertaining Mr. Ditchling. But do sit down. You may serve as Mr. Ditchling’s chaperon while I keep my eye on Sarah’s conduct, as a good governess ought.”

  He drew a chair forward so that he was seated very near her. He leaned close, as though to observe her careful needlework, but after a moment took hold of her hand. Abigail was a little surprised, not less so than when he drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them. Had it been four days since he had kissed her in Lavant’s wood?

  She met his gaze, remembering how thoroughly he had kissed her. She smiled faintly, thinking how many times she had dwelled pleasurably on this particular memory, wondering if she should attach any meaning to the kiss, or whether she should be utterly sensible and set it down to the tumultuous circumstance of Treyford having just drawn Frederick’s cork.

  Whatever she ought to think of the many kisses he had subsequently placed on her lips, her cheeks, her ears, and her neck, she knew one thing to be true—she had but to think of Treyford, and a fire would enflame her heart. Even then, as he held her gaze so steadfastly, his green eyes searching hers so intently, she wished he would kiss her again, and not just on her fingertips.

  He surrounded her hand suddenly with both of his. “Abigail, words cannot express how grateful I am for your infinite kindness and generosity at the Mermaid last night. You were magnificent. “

  She had some difficulty hearing him with her thoughts fixed elsewhere. “How kind of you to say so, but, indeed, Trey i
t was very little after all.”

  “Oh, no,” he responded earnestly. “I shall not let you believe anything of the sort. You witnessed yourself how hard the hearts of my neighbors have become over the years, and even though you knew perfectly well that your donation might cause a censorious response, still, you proffered your hundred pounds and forced Lavant to do the same.”

  She gave his hands a squeeze. “We were both so disappointed,” she said. “How could I have done otherwise than to have assisted you? Besides, I cannot approve of Sir Christopher and Lady Waldron’s conduct toward you.”

  When Mr. Ditchling called to him, waving a warm hello, he reluctantly released her hand and she resumed her stitches.

  “Whatever your motivation, I promise you I shall never forget your exceeding generosity. Only tell me that you are not bereft of your entire fortune, and I will be content.”

  She laughed and smoothed out the edges of the kerchief a little. “Not by half, I assure you.”

  “You are a mystery, you know. I still do not comprehend why you continue to be a governess, when it would seem you have no need of the income.”

  She looked up and saw that Mr. Ditchling was guiding her young charge beyond the hedge. She debated calling her back, but then felt it was not inappropriate for Sarah to have a few private moments alone with the man she hoped to marry. Lacing the needle securely into the fabric, Abigail set aside the bluebells entirely and turned in her chair, better to meet Treyford’s gaze. “Had I settled in a small cottage somewhere, in perhaps a rather obscure village or hamlet, I should have seriously limited my acquaintance. My lack of family makes it impossible for me to pay visits to other parts of the kingdom. So, I considered my situation quite carefully and felt I had the very best chance of finding—”

  “A husband?” he interjected abruptly.

  She shook her head, laughing. “No, though I daresay you will not believe me. No, I have been in search of a community to which I might happily belong.”

  “Do you think you have found such a place here at Three Rivers Cross?”

  “I am not certain. The variety of families to be found in the vale is truly a marvel. The town is quite overrun with children on any given day. These things appeal to me very much. Yet, as I said before, I cannot approve of Lady Waldron’s attitude and conduct toward you and toward all the families, for it is a great deal for everyone to bear, this war without end.”

  “You must remember, though, that I am not in residence here twelve months of the year. Only half, if that much. In which case, during those months I daresay there is no tension at all in the surrounding homes and villages.”

  She could only chuckle. “You are being absurd.”

  “I am being practical. But since we are alone, there is something I would ask you.”

  “Anything,” she responded.

  “Would you permit me to court you?”

  A small gasp left her throat for it was the last thing she expected him to say. At the same time, thoughts of the Highwayman flitted through her mind, that just recently she’d been in his arms as well. She hardly knew what to say. “You have surprised me. Are you truly serious? I mean, I know you kissed me, and it was wonderful, but perhaps you were merely caught up in the excitement of having planted Frederick a leveler.”

  At that, he laughed outright. “Only you would question my motivation for courting you. Any other lady would have been ecstatic to know that a viscount in possession of a fine property and sufficient income to satisfy the most exacting of parents had asked to court her. But you do speak boxing cant in the most delightful way.”

  Abigail felt a blush on her cheeks. “And you actually wish to court a governess? Or have you forgotten?”

  He smiled ruefully. “I believe there might be some sort of wonderful irony in that fact. Fate desired to teach me a lesson, and I hope I have learned my lesson well.”

  He leaned toward her now, and his lips found hers. She settled her hand on his shoulder and let him kiss her. A bonfire took hold of her heart, and she slid toward him, wrapping her arms fully around his neck. Oh, dear, just how deeply was she already in love with the man, and was this a good thing? After all, Treyford represented precisely what she had been hoping to avoid—an entanglement with a man who was ostracized from society. Yet, he wasn’t, not entirely. In London, apparently, his life was very complete.

  She drew back and looked at him. She understood suddenly how she might settle this difficult business. She must speak with Lady Waldron herself.

  “I vow,” he said softly, “that I am half in love with you already, Abigail Chailey.”

  “Half will not do, Treyford, and well you know it.”

  “Which is why I am courting you now, so that I might have sufficient opportunity to fall the rest of the way.” He kissed her again, only this time so powerfully that the breath felt squeezed from her in the most wonderful way imaginable. He dragged her to her feet, and for the next few minutes sealed his intentions at least a dozen times.

  Abigail felt entirely careless of the fact that Sarah could return at any moment, yet desirous only of kissing Treyford until the end of time. In the midst of it all, she realized that she had never before permitted even the gentlemen to whom she was betrothed such a liberty as this. Again, she wondered if it was possible that she had never truly loved before.

  She leaned back from him and gazed into his eyes, one palm settled on the lapel of his dark blue coat. “You have made me very happy, Trey,” she whispered.

  Ditchling’s laughter from beyond the hedge intruded sharply, and she drew back from him. Treyford leaned toward her, however, and said, “I could kiss you for hours.”

  “Days,” she responded with a smile.

  “At the very least, days,” he returned.

  A thought struck her. “I do hope you mean to inform Mr. Lavant about your intentions. For if you do not, you will deprive him of many opportunities to continue laughing at me, a pastime he enjoys prodigiously.”

  “He is very fond of you.”

  “As I am of him.” She took up her embroidery hoop and resumed her seat. He joined her.

  “In the very short time you have been here, you have quite won Lavant’s heart. I have often thought that when he looks upon you, he wishes he were a trifle younger so that he might have sought your hand for himself.”

  She smiled at the thought of it, once more plying her needle. “And I should have welcomed his advances.”

  “Indeed?” Treyford queried. “Is it possible, despite the disparity in your ages, I might have a competitor?”

  The playfulness of the conversation was very much to Abigail’s liking. “Yes,” she responded archly. “So let that be a warning, my lord.”

  “I should like to dance with you,” he said quite out of the blue. “I was sorry to have left the assemblies so early. Mr. Ditchling informed me later, however, that you had gone down several dances and that he thought you excelled in the art.”

  “Mr. Ditchling has now forever won my undying devotion for so unwarranted a compliment. If you must know, I injured his toes at least twice during the minuet and missed my steps more times than I can count during any number of the country dances.”

  “You need more practice.”

  “Indeed, you are right.”

  He lifted his gaze. Sarah and Mr. Ditchling were just emerging through the arched opening in the tall hedge. “I have an idea. Ditchling,” he called out.

  “Yes?” Mr. Ditchling returned.

  “You and Sarah must dance with us. Miss Chailey is apparently in need of practice, and it will not do to have her stumbling all over the floor at Sarah’s come-out ball.”

  Abigail was laughing by the time he lifted her to her feet. He guided her down the three shallow steps, where a brick paving was of sufficient size to allow for two couples to go down a country dance or two.

  Everyone hummed or whistled the most popular tunes, and the afternoon among the four of them was whiled away in such delight
ful activities. Mr. Lavant joined them, and after learning that Treyford meant to court his daughter’s governess in earnest, a great deal of teasing ensued, followed by strong bouts of his boisterous and at times exceedingly aggravating laughter.

  The next several days passed in just such a fashion as Sarah’s come-out ball approached. Abigail could not have known greater happiness, since the love between Mr. Ditchling and Sarah was growing daily, supported by Sarah’s efforts to both become the educated young woman of which she was supremely capable and to enter enthusiastically into Mr. Ditchling’s world. More than once, she came upon the pair discussing crop rotations or the German essayists or the pyramids of Egypt.

  For herself, she was enjoying immensely the numerous conversations with Treyford, which ensued whenever they were able to speak privately. Since having announced his intention of courting her, Treyford quickly fell into the habit of spending afternoons and evenings at Oak Hill, more times than not with both Lizzie and Sophy in attendance.

  Treyford seemed determined to know everything he could about Abigail and so she found herself telling him things that no one else knew, that she had had a sister who had died at the age of five when Abigail was ten, that she had broken her leg falling from a horse the next year and that having the leg set was so painful that she fainted, that when she married she hoped to have a great number of children.

  At that, while they had been walking again by the trout stream, Treyford had expressed surprise. “Do you tell me that none of your betrotheds knew of this desire?”

  “Not one,” she mused.

  “But why? How could the subject never have come up before, since you were promised to be married?”

  She chuckled. “I suppose you might say that the fact I was so little known to the gentlemen to whom I was betrothed was the same reason I could not marry them. In truth”—and here she looked at him—“you are the first man to have inquired about me, about my past, about my thoughts, about the books I am reading. So much so, that even though we have been truly conversing for only a handful days, I vow, you know nearly as much of me as my father did.”