Abigail Moor (6 page)

Slowly she
retraced her steps back down the narrow wooden stairs, trying not
to catch her bonnet on the low ceiling rafter. She returned to the
settle in the bar parlour by the open fire, pondering her future,
whilst Martha returned to Ezekiel in the lower one. Abigail stared
at the dying fire embers in the grate, her new life, vulnerable and
exposed to a world she hardly knew nor understood; contemplating a
life where she had to make all the decisions for herself. But try
as she might, she had no answers as to how she could survive like
that, as her knowledge was so limited. She was also restricted by
her appearance as a young woman of standing; as such she stood out
in such humble dark surroundings. She stared at the worn down muddy
flagstones and then at the low beamed doorways. No chandeliers or
fine candles made of quality wax lit wide corridors here. Suddenly,
her naivety of the world which would have been seen as a virtue,
had sufficed to blinker her from truth – reality itself. One
thought permeated her gloom: I shall learn. “Like a phoenix,” she
muttered to herself, “I shall rise from this moment to face the
challenge.”

“Lass! What
will I do with you? Honestly!” Martha cut across her gloom as she
bustled across the cold floor and picked up a poker from its stand
by the fire. She prodded the ashes and rekindled the subsiding
flames, placing fresh wood on top. “Could you not see that that
needed doing? Sat there muttering to yerself, you better had stop
that or else you’ll end up in the funny house! I don’t know what
we’re to do with you.” She sighed.

Abigail was
distracted, but could tell Martha was flustered. “Well there was no
one else to talk to, Martha. You left me alone!” She did not look
at the man who had returned with Martha, but let the woman’s rebuke
pass over her, and instead stared curiously at the lower parlour
door.

Ezekiel stood
boldly in front of her. He smelt of sour sweat and ale, his figure
was grubby, unshaven and solid as it blocked her view. “You best be
changin’ your ways and quick, miss. Life has done you a bad turn,
but you’ve got to look out for each other now. You can’t be leaving
everything to Martha. She is going to need your help too. Life is
tough for women with no men folk around. Keep your sights on what
is happening about you, and to you – around the both of you that
is, and off that what is none of your concern. That way you just
might survive to see your way to being a full grown woman.” His
voice was deep and gruff.

Abigail was
going to reply in kind to the man for talking to her so bluntly,
and showing her little, if no respect. He was not her father – she
already missed Lord Edmund Hammond a great deal. She glared at
Martha for leaving her and telling a stranger the details of her
current situation. She did not take kindly to being advised as to
how to behave or what to do by a common innkeeper. Nor the
confidence that Martha had shared with this, the first stranger
they had come across – a stranger to her, that is.

“Don’t look at
me like that, Abigail,” Martha answered, seemingly more shocked
than annoyed.

Abigail noticed
that she was already being addressed as an equal or subordinate. It
annoyed her, but she was no longer on her father’s estate, so she
had to adapt her ideals.

“Ezekiel and I
go back a long way,” Martha continued, and winked at the man, a
knowing grin appeared on her face. “If we can’t get on that coach
tonight then it is he who will arrange our transport to safety. We
mustn’t be found by the young Mr Hammond, not now. It would be
devastating for the both of us. That Blackman man would treat you
like... Well never you mind. Bad, though, and I’d be thrown into
the asylum or the lock up. No, believe me, lass, his sort don’t
like losing. They is bully boys, no more, no less.”

Abigail glanced
at Ezekiel. It was a description which she felt would have fitted
the landlord, although she did not voice her opinion. Martha
replaced the poker and sat down next to Abigail placing the young
woman’s hand in her own. Abigail looked straight at the man, dirty
and rough as he was, and tried to think of him as a ‘friend’. She
found the idea difficult to come to terms with. Martha had always
been hers – her maid, her friend, her servant. Abigail had not
known she even had a man friend. Abigail took a deep breath and
graciously offered him her hand. “Then I am both thankful and
indebted to you.” She smiled pleasantly at him.

Ezekiel took
her kid-gloved hand in his and kissed the back of it, bowing low as
he did so. His accent was subdued, trying to form polite words as
he spoke, “It is I who am honoured, miss.”

Martha laughed
and Abigail managed a smile in what had been so far the most
traumatic night of her life, although she had to admit there was
something about the man that could be good-naturedly humorous –
when he tried to be.

“Ez’, it’s
coming.” A little old lady with only one tooth visibly left in her
head peered around the corner of the doorway. A floppy cloth bonnet
framed her craggy face.

“Thanks,
Maude.” Ezekiel sighed deeply and looked at them both. “Whatever is
to become of you, Martha? I wish you a good and safe journey.
You’ve been a precious sight for my poor failing eyes.”

“Get away, man,
you always was a flatterer and I bet you’ve sight like a hawk.” She
patted his arm, but there was a longing in her eyes that was plain
for Abigail to see. Martha truly loved this man.

“It’s been too
long.” He kissed her full on the mouth.

Abigail looked
away, not able to cope with this new side of Martha that was being
revealed to her. Her relationship with Martha was special to her.
Abigail had never known a life without her being there and she
realised she was jealous of this man, because of the open fondness
that Martha showed him in her every gesture. Jealousy was an
emotion she felt quite ashamed of. There was so much about Martha,
like her own past, that Abigail did not know. Everything that had
been solid as a rock in her life seemed to have become lucid. She
no longer knew what or who she could rely on other, that is, than
herself.

“Aye, that’s as
maybe,” Martha answered him, “I’ll be back one day, honest, Ez.”
Martha gave him one last hug.

He stared at
Abigail with no hint of humour. “Have you any idea what this woman
gave up for you?”

For a moment
Abigail wondered what he meant, but guessed the answer would be
‘him’.

“Now, now, Ez!
I’ll have none of that.” Martha waved a finger at Ezekiel in
rebuke. “Best be on our way,” she said, looking around fondly at
Abigail.

Abigail tried
to return an affectionate smile, before she walked into the passage
and waited by the threshold as the great stagecoach thundered to a
halt outside the inn. Abigail was aware of a strange fluttering
feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her new life started here.

“May God be
with us all.” Martha was staring at the darkening sky.

Abigail watched
the concern on her maid’s face. “It’s all right, Martha, only a
storm, no more or less,” Abigail whispered to her.

“You don’t
understand. There are things out there, on the moors. Strange
goings on. Tis not fit for a Christian to be out on a night like
this.” Martha looked pale, her eyes darting left and right, peering
into the darkness.

“Then have more
faith in God than the things ‘going on’ and we will be fine.” She
heard the sharp intake of Martha’s breath in disgust at Abigail’s
dismissal of her superstitious ways, but could not reply as Abigail
had stepped outside the inn into the night air, glad to be free of
the dusty gloom of the stale air within.

Abigail
considered that there was enough for them to worry about with what
they could see in this world, without looking for ghosts and demons
or whatever it was that filled Martha’s imagination. Abigail had no
time for such notions. They were fantastic tales made only to scare
children with, and she was no longer a child.

She saw Ezekiel
hand a flagon of ale to the driver. He held out an oil lamp in
their direction. At first Abigail thought it was to light their
way, but then she realised it was to show the driver who his new
passengers were to be. Reluctantly, the man nodded and drank a swig
of the ale before climbing down.

He opened the
door of the coach and leaned in slightly. “We has two ladies
needing seats. Could one of you gents go up top and let them
inside?” The driver turned to Ezekiel. “They can pay to be inside,
can’t they?”

“Of course –
I’d hardly ask you now, would I, if they couldn’t?” Ezekiel smiled
affably.

A soldier of
the militia looked out of the carriage window. “Let the maid go
atop. That is no place for a gentleman to be seated. We have all
paid our full fare as agreed!” The man sitting next to him
nodded.

Ezekiel stepped
forward, but Abigail spoke out. She knew the man’s mentality all
too well – servants should be visible when needed, yet invisible
when not. Their needs were unimportant, their duty to ‘serve’.
“I’ll sit above. Napp, you ride inside.”

“No, miss,
you’ll catch your death.” Martha held onto her arm, concern etched
upon her face, as she looked anxiously up to the full height of the
stage, yet still glancing out to the darkness of the moors. Abigail
did not cherish the thought either, but it was a chance to shame
the gentlemen, and hopefully spur one of them into a more noble
action.

A figure
alighted from the other side of the carriage. Abigail saw as he
came around the back of the coach that he was tall and wearing a
caped greatcoat and hat. The gentleman strode over to where Abigail
and Martha were standing. He had a slightly uneven step to his
gait.

“There is no
need for either lady to catch a chill this night. I will ride
above.” He spoke with an air of authority - a confident and
educated voice.

Abigail looked
straight at the man. However, between his hat and the high collar
of his coat there was little enough visible of his features that
she could see clearly in the dimness of the light. She thought he
might have very dark hair, or it could have been a trick of the
lamp’s light. Abigail could not tell for sure. He nodded at them as
he passed, his voice pleasant yet strong. With sure foot he climbed
above to take his position on the upper seat.

Thank you…
sir,” Abigail shouted up to him. “You are truly a kind and
thoughtful gentleman!”

She thought she
heard him chuckle. He raised an acknowledging hand to his hat then
asked, “Now can we please continue on our journey?”

Abigail glanced
up before entering the carriage. She sensed that he was smiling
back at her despite the few drops of rain that had just started to
fall.

The driver
walked over to the other side of the road which surprised her as
she thought he too was keen to be on his way.

“Where’s he
going, Martha?” Abigail whispered to her before using her sense of
reasoning.

Martha shook
her head, glancing at Ezekiel, who was opening the coach door. Two
passengers climbed down from the top of the coach and followed the
driver. Abigail blushed as she realised they were relieving
themselves. She hoped that, in the gloom of night and rain, no one
had heard her question or noticed her discomposure.

Once seated in
the coach, she suddenly felt the full force of the commitment she
was making. Abigail felt the hard seat against her back, choosing
to look out of the window rather than at the faces of those in the
carriage. Staring into the emptiness, she swallowed silently. For a
moment she thought she saw something move in the gloom. Martha’s
fears must be rubbing off on her. She must not cry, must not panic,
she had to be strong for the both of them. Martha squeezed inside
the carriage, half falling onto the narrow seat next to Abigail.
Opposite her, a man wearing the poppy coloured jacket of the
militia stared pompously back, his plumed hat nestled on his lap.
Martha looked down at her own lap and straightened her slightly
damp skirt. Abigail was faced by a traveller wearing a fashionable
coat. He smiled, moving his legs slightly to accommodate hers, but
in the process his knees rubbed against hers in what seemed an
intrusive gesture. He smiled. Abigail tucked her feet as neatly as
she could under her seat to avoid any further contact. She rested
her head against the side of the stagecoach, smelling the wood and
leather polish, hoping it would not affect her on the long journey.
The only other passengers, a married couple, stared accusingly at
them but uttered no word of protest.

The driver
shouted and they moved off at great speed along the rutted road.
The stale smell of old smoke from the gentlemen’s clothes made
Abigail feel uncomfortable. She was used to a great deal of space
and open air. She felt as though she were imprisoned in a moving
cell with total strangers.

“He drives
recklessly,” the militia man spoke out in a concerned voice.

“He is anxious
to make up time,” the man of fashion answered. “We have been
unexpectedly delayed,” he paused and looked pointedly at Abigail
and Martha, “and the storm that was promised will soon be upon us I
fear. This was not supposed to be a pick up!”

Indeed, within
minutes the storm arrived. Thunder, lightning and heavy rain
ensued. Noises echoed in and around the stagecoach, making
conversation difficult which, to Abigail, was a blessing, because
she had no wish to explain her position to the militia man who eyed
her suspiciously. She felt sorry for the man who had nobly given up
the relative comfort of the carriage to sit atop a moving coach in
the midst of a storm. The sooner they arrived at York the better,
and then she could disappear into the background of the city and
hopefully on to… Well, that would be decided when she had read the
letters and visited her father’s solicitor.