Julia London (10 page)

On the ground floor, Sarah reached the corner room well ahead of her, and when Abbey crossed the threshold, she was busy at the sideboard with Jones. Sebastian, the Devil’s secretary, sat at the table sipping a cup of tea. The nook was brightened by the sun streaming through a long bank of windows. A large, round table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by four chairs upholstered in yellow damask that matched the fresh-cut tulips in the center of the table. A fire warmed the room from a marble hearth, and a sideboard full of food was set across a long wall. On any other morning, in
any other circumstance, Abbey would have delighted in the cozy room.

She was glad to see Sebastian; at least he seemed to care about her welfare. He had looked in on her twice the previous evening, each time looking terribly concerned when she had sent him away. She told herself to shore up and inhaled a deep breath.

“Good morning, Mr. Sebastian,” she forced herself to call.

Sebastian greeted her with a cheerful smile. “My lady! You are looking quite refreshed after your long trip,” he said, artfully skipping any reference to her so-called wedding and solitary evening. “Shall Jones pour you some tea?”

“Perchance, have you any coffee?”

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard Americans prefer coffee,” he remarked with a smile.

Abbey settled into a seat next to Sebastian as Jones placed a cup of coffee in front of her, a caddie of toast, and a plate of fruit. “I am not really an American, sir. I lived there for some years with my aunt, but I was born in England, near York.”

“Pardon me, madam,” Sebastian apologized. “Your accent causes me to forget.”

“Oh. That. Well, I gather it’s because I have not been to England in a very long while.”

Sebastian smiled politely as Abbey took a sip of the hot coffee. She managed to keep from gagging; she could have stood a spoon upright in it. Sebastian smiled and very breezily launched into a story about his digestive system and the coffee of the Orient. After a while, Abbey had lapsed into comfortable dialogue with the secretary and was trading stories with him.

“Sarah said that Lord Darfield has left for the day?” she asked nonchalantly.

Sebastian glanced surreptitiously at Jones’s back before answering. “He has gone to Brighton,” he replied disapprovingly. “He shouldn’t be gone more than a day or two.”

Brighton! Abbey was surprised by her sudden anger and by the fact that it made her angry upset her even more. “He said nothing of going!” she blurted. But he
had
. He had told her
very clearly he intended to live there and leave her at Blessing Park. But would he go without so much as a cold good-bye or even a well-deserved I-told-you-so?

“The master has a ship in port there and some business to attend. It was unavoidable,” Sebastian clarified.

Abbey pushed the plate of fruit away and sagged against the chair, unconsciously wadding the napkin in her lap. The fact that he had left her one day after their wedding infuriated her. He might despise her, but to leave her like some dockside wench without a word was reprehensible. He was not only an arrogant, snobbish boor, but a rake as well!

At just past ten o’clock, Abbey bundled up and wandered outside. Contemplating her circumstances, she decided that her best course of action was to ignore this damnable situation and carry on as she normally would. She could not very well flee this rural estate and board a ship to America; she would have to wait for his very exalted lordship’s return for that. For the time being, she was stuck at Blessing Park, and therefore, she should try to make it as pleasurable a visit as was humanly possible. The Devil of Darfield was not going to keep her locked away in some room, pining for her aunt.

She would draw from the most pleasurable time of her life—America. Four women overseeing a small farm brought freedom that none of them would have enjoyed had they been married. They spent their days working and their nights gathered around a fire engaged in a variety of unsophisticated activities. They did not entertain, they did not go to town to meet eligible young men. They just existed. Peacefully, freely, and without restraint. If she was going to survive this awful predicament, then she would do the same here. Why not?
He
would not be in attendance, and apparently he did not care what she did with her time.

Abbey trudged out onto the snow blanketing the great circular drive, bashfully declining the offers of help from various servants who seemed almost alarmed that she was outside at all. She shrugged off their concern as she introduced herself
and asked each their names. Looking warily at one another, they reluctantly responded. Abbey then asked each of them to show her what work they did at the estate. Completely astonished, the groomsmen pointed to the stables.

Inside, they exchanged anxious looks when Abbey climbed into the stalls and cooed to the horses, then marched over to a very pregnant milk cow and lovingly patted her sagging belly. The groundsmen, who had followed their new marchioness with great curiosity, convinced her they could not show her the estate’s park land because of the snow. And they steadfastly refused to take her to the hothouse when she asked, swearing Withers would have their heads if they so much as stepped inside.

So Abbey insisted on being taken to the kennels next. Dismayed, the kennelmaster looked on as she befriended a hound that had been mangled by a trap. The master had told him to put the dog down, the kennelmaster told her, but Abbey would not listen to him and soon had the maimed dog following her about. She even went so far as to announce the name Harry would be bestowed on the hound in honor of a sailor she once knew with a similar gait. At that declaration, the kennelmaster exchanged a frantic look with a groom. Lord Darfield
never
, under
any
circumstance, named his hounds.

After spending the morning with the animals and a group of very confused, very enchanted servants, Abbey decided to visit the hothouse by herself. She laughed at their pleas of caution and, with a jaunty wave and a promise to return—alive, she assured them—she set out across the wide expanse of a winter wonderland that was obviously the garden. It appeared to cover several acres. A tall wall of hedges shaped into various characters bordered the garden all around. Wide paths allowed access between carefully manicured plots. In the very back were two large lawns with iron benches placed around the perimeter. Abbey was certain she had never seen anything so grand, and imagined it was quite spectacular in full bloom.

She gasped with delight when she stepped inside the hothouse. A riot of color greeted her: roses in full bloom, asters,
geraniums, gardenias, and tulips were everywhere. Terribly pleased, Abbey stroked the petal of a pristine white rose.

“You there! Don’t be handling me roses!” a deep voice barked. Abbey whirled around to face one of the biggest, ugliest men she had ever seen. He had a thick patch of gray hair atop his enormous head. Beady little eyes glared at her from folds of flesh. His nose was terribly misshapen, and his lips thick and wet. His hands, which rested on a shovel in front of him, looked like two hams. His shirt and waistcoat strained across his barrel chest and protruding belly.

Abbey recognized him immediately; she remembered her father’s first mate very fondly. He always had a dour exterior, but he also had a heart as big as the ocean.

“Withers!” she cried with glee, and impetuously threw her arms around his neck.

Surprised, Withers dropped his shovel and stumbled backward. “Come now,” he said gruffly, and pulled her arms from his neck.

“Withers, don’t you recognize me? I’m Abigail!”

“Who?”
He searched her face, then slowly, a rare smile began to crack his thick lips.

“I’ll be. Little Abigail? The terror of the high seas?”

Laughing, Abbey nodded furiously. “The very same! Oh, Withers, how
truly
delightful to see you again!”

A slow blush crept into Withers ruddy cheeks. “It’s ain’t
you
Lord Darfield married?” he asked uncertainly.

Abbey flinched. “Uh … well. As a matter of fact, it is,” she said as cheerfully as she could.

“Well, I’ll be. Heard he was marrying but I had no inkling …” he remarked thoughtfully. “Never thought I’d see that. No, sir, never thought I’d see that,” he marveled, chuckling. “When you were but a wee lass, the marquis didn’t care for you a’tall! Always on him, you were. Why, I think if your papa hadn’t put you off the ship, he’d’ve jumped overboard!” He laughed.

Abbey felt the slow creep of embarrassment stain her cheeks. To have it confirmed that he had despised her even then was humiliating.

“That was a long time ago!” she declared shakily.

“Aye, it was indeed. Well, look at you now, lass. As pretty a lass as I ever did see!” he said fondly. Then his expression turned stern. “Now see here, Miss Abigail, I don’t work from sunup to sundown just so’s you can come in here and handle the flowers to death.”

“I am truly sorry, Withers, but they are so beautiful!” Abbey exclaimed. Withers’s fleshy cheeks jiggled like jelly as he shook his head in furious disagreement.

“I don’t care if you be the Queen of England, you ain’t allowed to touch me flowers without asking!”

Abbey could not help smiling broadly. She had always admired the gruff old man, and his adamant protection of his garden was something she understood very well.

“I will not touch your flowers without permission, Withers,” she said agreeably.

“See that you don’t,” he mumbled, and pushed past her to examine the rose she had touched. Satisfied that it was not damaged, he turned around and swiftly eyed her up and down. “So you be the marchioness now.”

“I suppose.”

“Didn’t expect that.”

“So you have said.”

Withers raised a wiry gray brow. “Still know how to whittle?”

“I haven’t in a long time, but I don’t think I’ve forgotten. Do you?” she teased.

Withers scowled. “Course I do,” he grumbled, then retrieving his shovel began to move down the graveled aisle. Abbey followed closely behind.

“You know, Withers, I could help you here,” Abbey suggested hopefully as she stopped to examine the waxy leaves of an ivy hanging overhead.

“Don’t let just anyone in here. Bailey and Hans been with me a long time,” the man responded quickly.

“I shall be quite careful. I am not without experience, you know. I had quite a large garden—well, not as large as this, of
course, but large by Virginia standards. It was quite successful too.”

Withers settled back onto one hip and perched his great hands on top of the shovel. “Virginia don’t have the same climate. We grow roses almost year round here. They are a hardy strain, and I won’t have any practice that will weaken them.”

“Of course not,” she agreed cheerfully.

“They ain’t easy to grow. Takes work.”

“Absolutely. Hard work.”

“Can’t do it part o’ the time, either. Got to be committed.”

“Yes, of course. One must be
very
committed. Rain or shine, they need their care.”

Withers scratched the thick patch of gray hair as he considered her. “Well,” he said with a growl. “I might let you visit me here. But you got to mind that you do as me or Hans says. And don’t listen to Bailey; he’s so simple no telling what he’d say.”

“I promise.” Abbey nodded and smiled brightly.

Withers’s gruff facade melted, and he straightened. “Got work to do. See that you don’t touch anything,” he muttered as he walked away.

Abbey smiled at his great departing back and gleefully went about exploring the whole of the hothouse, being extremely careful not to touch anything. She was aware that Withers watched her closely, just as he had done aboard her father’s ship so many years ago, but he never said a word. When Abbey finally began to make her way back to the house, he appeared from nowhere at the entrance of the hothouse and thrust a white rose in her face.

“Here,” he said, then stalked away.

Abbey smiled fondly as she brought the rose to her nose. The heavenly scent had a soothing effect on her. In here, it was possible to forget her circumstances, forget that Michael apparently had despised her even as a child. She would not think of that now. She had arranged her day so that she would not have to think of him, and so far, it had gone very well. She certainly was not going to start now. Stuffing the rose behind
her ear, she marched back to the house, determined to rearrange that godawful chamber they called a sitting room.

Michael did not return as expected, which was just fine with Abbey. The next few days flew by as she delighted in exploring her surroundings. She attended the stables every morning with her maimed dog Harry always on her heels, and finally extracted a promise from a stableboy to teach her to ride one of the fabulous horses. Although she had spent a little time on the back of a mule in Virginia, she had never learned to ride, but reasoned it could not be very different. She also took a great interest in the pregnant milk cow. She made the boy who tended the dairy to promise to send word when the cow showed signs of birthing. She had, after all, helped birth other calves, and she could be counted on to assist when the time came. The color had drained from the boy’s face when she had volunteered, but he had solemnly given his word.

In the afternoons, Abbey visited the hothouse. Withers had given her a small section of roses to work with—under his strict supervision, of course. Every day she appeared in a black skirt and simple white blouse and an outrageously decorated straw hat that looked something like a misshapen fruit basket. She patiently explained to anyone who looked particularly pained by it that her cousin Virginia had made it specially for her, and therefore, she was obliged to wear it. Even though she knew it was perfectly hideous.

By the middle of the week, the weather turned warmer and drier, and she took to exploring Blessing Park. It was more beautiful than any land she had ever seen; lush carpets of grass and tall, stately trees abounded. Beyond the walls of the expansive garden were a small lake and a gazebo, and behind the lake, soft, rolling hills fell away to small dales. One day Abbey happened across the old ruins of a castle in her exploration and spent the next two days exploring every nook and cranny while Harry slept in the sun.