Surrender to Sin (17 page)

She had just come down from checking on Paggles—Dickie-bird’s new striped muffler was progressing nicely—when Mrs. Spurgeon, Vera, and Evans returned from church. Mrs. Spurgeon had found the journey very tiring; she wished to go immediately to bed.

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Abigail. While she had her doubts about Mrs. Spurgeon’s need for a full-time nursemaid, she thought the lady appeared genuinely fatigued. When Vera came out a few minutes later, Abigail asked whether she thought they should send for the doctor. Vera assured her that her mistress would be quite well after a long rest. Unconcerned, the dark-haired woman walked down the hall and stopped at the door to Cary’s study.

“Time to feed Cato. Evans won’t go near the beastly thing, so the task falls to me. Unless, of course,
you
would like to do it?” Vera’s eyes twinkled at Abigail.

“No, indeed,” Abigail said, hurrying back to the banquet hall to continue her work. A few minutes later, a noise, which she assumed to be the servants returning from church, brought her out of the east wing. As she passed the staircase, she collided with Cary, who had come down the stairs almost at a run.

“Abigail!” He put out both hands to steady her. “Good God, I’m sorry. Are you all right?” He looked down at her with concern in his steady gray eyes. The force of attraction gripped her anew, as if this were the first time she had ever seen that lean, dark face.

“I’m all right,” she said quickly. “Nothing broken.”

“Shall I send for the doctor?”

Abigail shook her head to clear her thoughts. He must have been inquiring after Mrs. Spurgeon’s health, she thought stupidly. She had only imagined that his concern was for her. “Vera thinks all she needs is rest.”

“What? I take that as a sign of delirium. Come here and sit down.” He put her on the steps, and she sat down obediently. “Have you had any fever?”

“Do you mean has Mrs. Spurgeon had any fever?” she said slowly.

“Mrs. Spurgeon be damned,” he said cheerfully, laying the back of his hand across her forehead. His hand felt beautifully warm. “You’re quite cool, thank God, but I’m not taking any chances. You’re going back to bed, and I’m having the doctor.”

Abigail jumped up. “I don’t need a doctor,” she said firmly.

“Well, you’re ill aren’t you?” he demanded.

Abigail shook her head, confused. “Ill?”

“Mrs. Spurgeon said you were ill. Aren’t you?”

“No,” said Abigail. “No, indeed. Why would she say such a thing?”

“You were not in church,” he pointed out. “Headache? I hope it’s better now.”

“No, I’m perfectly well,” Abigail protested. “I never had headache. I don’t attend Church of England services, that’s all. I’m Presbyterian.”

For a moment he appeared incredulous. Then he laughed aloud. “Poor Mr. Temple—he had such high hopes! This will be a great scandal in the neighborhood, Cousin,” he added with mock gravity. “Worse than the Scandal of the Lady’s Pint. I had no idea the Derbyshire Wayborns have turned Presbyterian.”

“They haven’t,” said Abigail. “My mother was Church of England. My father is Presbyterian, though I must confess, we are not very devout. I believe I’ve been to church no more than a handful of times in my life. I don’t see why you’re laughing.”

“I don’t see why I am either,” he said, sobering. “I’m going to catch hell from the Vicar. He’s already after me to turn off my groom, who is Irish and a Catholic. Now, it seems, I have rented my house to a mad Calvinist maiden.”

“I’m not a Calvinist,” said Abigail, annoyed. “And I don’t see what business it is of the Vicar’s if I’m not Church of England. We do live in a free society, after all.”

“I wouldn’t call Cousin Wilfred’s parish a free society, exactly,” said Cary, laughing. “Come, I’ll introduce him to you.”

“He’s here?” she cried, forgetting her brave words on religious freedom.

“He insisted on coming,” Cary said grimly. “Horatio too.”

“Oh, dear,” Abigail murmured in dismay. “I wish Mrs. Spurgeon had not told them I was ill. I’m sorry if they were worried.”

He looked at her coolly. “
I
was worried.”

Abigail flushed hotly.

“To be fair, Horatio expressed the most elegant concern. I daresay he has no idea you’re a Presbyterian. I can’t wait to tell him,” he added gleefully. “Shall we?”

Abigail began, haltingly, “I believe I must check on Paggles—” but Cary took her firmly in hand, saying, “Nonsense. I just looked in on her, and she is in a state of perfect happiness.”

In the next moment, she was standing in front of Horatio and his father, the Vicar. Both men climbed to their feet when Abigail entered the room. Before Cary could do so, Horatio performed the introductions.

The Vicar was an elder, paunchier, bespectacled version of his son. Abigail found it difficult to believe he was responsible for denying smallpox vaccines to parish children. “My dear Miss Smith, I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are feeling better,” he said in the ringing voice of a true veteran of the pulpit.

“She’s not sick, Cousin Wilfred,” Cary said traitorously, standing behind her. “She never was. She just don’t go to Church of England services. Never has.”

The Vicar’s blue eyes blinked rapidly. Sir Horatio appeared quite taken aback, too. “Never goes to—!” stuttered the father.

“Surely she’s not a Papist,” the son said stiffly.

Abigail wished she could run away, but Cary had planted himself behind her. “No, Presbyterian,” he said helpfully.

“Good God!” the Vicar whispered, staring at Abigail almost in horror.

“Cheer up, Cousin Wilfred,” Cary said irreverently. “At least she’s not a Druid.”

“My mother was Church of England,” Abigail said, hoping this might prevent the Vicar from dropping dead of apoplexy. It did seem to help; the Vicar’s color began to return to normal. “My father’s Presbyterian, so I’ve never been quite sure what that makes me. I shouldn’t like to go against my father, but then again, I shouldn’t like to dishonor my mother’s memory.”

“Oh, I see,” said the Vicar, with an air of immense relief. “I daresay the matter will be decided when she marries,” he went on, apparently talking to his son. “If she marries a Presbyterian, I expect she will be lost to us forever. But if she were to marry an Episcopalian…”

“Now, Papa,” Horatio interjected, with a little self-deprecating laugh. “You mustn’t try making any matches for Miss Smith.”

“No, indeed,” said Cary, brutally suppressing the subject. “You are not here to find Abigail a husband, Cousin Wilfred. You wanted to see all the bits and bobs coming out of the Dower House. Well, come and have a look. Abigail has been working very hard in bringing it all to some kind of order.”

The older gentleman was instantly diverted. “Yes, indeed,” he said earnestly. “I do think, if it’s at all possible, that our family treasures should stay within the family.”

“It’s a disgrace that we must even think of selling them,” declared Horatio. “But if you must sell, you should at least allow the family to go through the things first. I understand you sold quite a few paintings from the Manor without telling anyone. There was a Crad-dock landscape I particularly wanted. We are not without means,” he added, smiling at Abigail. “We can certainly afford to give you some money, Cousin Cary, if you are in desperate straits.”

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Cary,” Abigail interrupted. “I’d like to offer you some refreshment, but I don’t think the servants have returned yet. They are walking, I think.”

“Yes,” said Horatio, with triumph in his blue eyes. “In former times, there was a wagon to take the servants to church. Nowadays, they must walk.”

He never seemed to miss an opportunity to belittle his cousin. Abigail could only hope she had not sounded quite so pompous when she’d criticized Cary for letting some of his kitchen crockery get broken. Dismaying thought! She silently vowed never to criticize Cary again.

“Do not trouble yourself,” said the Vicar, patting her hand. “I doubt there is any tea in the house worth drinking anyway. Now, as I recall, there were a number of valuable portraits…”

Abigail would have preferred entering the room last, or not at all, but she was swept ahead of the three men. At first glance, the room seemed a disordered jumble of odds and ends. Embarrassed that all her hard work had not yielded a better presentation, Abigail quickly led the Vicar over to the corner where she had grouped the paintings into portraits, landscapes, and still lives. The Vicar seemed to know exactly what he was looking for.

“Here it is!” he said, summoning Horatio to help him separate one large portrait in an elaborate frame from the rest. “Cary, I’ll give you ten pounds for it on the spot. I have it on me.”

“I trust it’s not money from the collection plate,” Cary replied.

“It’s a Sir Peter Lely,” Abigail protested as she saw the painting. “I shouldn’t sell it for less than two hundred pounds, Mr. Wayborn.”

The Vicar sputtered, and Horatio loudly protested, but Abigail remained firm.

Cary eyed the portrait dispassionately. He liked pictures of pretty women, preferably innocent of clothing, and he liked pictures of horses. Beyond that he had little interest in art. “And who is Sir Peter Lely? One of my moldy old ancestors?”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “Sir Peter Lely is the artist, Mr. Wayborn. The sitter, as I’m sure you must know, is Oliver Cromwell. Are you descended of Oliver Cromwell?”

Cary guffawed. “Is
that
the old regicide? What on earth is he doing in my house? And worth two hundred pounds, you say?”

“I should think,” Horatio began loftily, “that since we are family…”

“You ought to be allowed to cheat me?” Cary finished, smiling. “Cousin Abigail says I mustn’t take less than two hundred pounds for it, so, you see, I have my instructions.”

“What a vile man Cromwell was,” said Abigail, shuddering. “And yet so ordinary in appearance. It makes one feel ill.”

“Come now, Miss Smith,” Horatio rebuked her. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. He was what England needed for the time. A strong hand on the till.”

Abigail turned on Horatio angrily. “Oliver Cromwell murdered our king because His Majesty disbanded Parliament. Then
he
sat on a stolen throne, and did the very same thing. He ruled like a tyrant, murdering anyone who got in his way. What England needed! I suppose you think
Napoleon
was good for the Continent, too.”

Horatio smiled tightly. “Of course I will not argue with a lady,” he said with forced calm, “but I make certain that, if Miss Smith knew anything whatever of historical fact, she would agree with my opinion, which is, of course, the only reasonable opinion on the subject.”

“Perhaps I’ll give it to my groom,” said Cary thoughtfully. “He’s Irish. He’ll want to throw darts at it. He can hang it up in the stables.”

“It’s far too valuable for that,” said Abigail regretfully. “It must be sold.”

“I will give you one hundred pounds for it,” said Horatio. “It ought to remain in the family, as it has for over a hundred and fifty years.”

“You’re certainly welcome to go to London and bid on it at auction,” said Cary magnanimously. “Indeed, Cousin Horatio, I hope you get it.”

“Come, Papa,” said Horatio coldly, drawing himself up to his full height. “He is not going to be reasonable. He cares nothing for the family.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayborn,” Abigail breathed, when they had gone. “I did not mean to make trouble for you with your family. But ten pounds was not a serious offer.”

“No matter,” he said. “They will always find fault with me. You see, they had some right to expect Tanglewood would belong to them one day. Rather unexpectedly, my grandmother left it to me.”

“They have no right to criticize you. You may dispose of your property as you wish.”

“And pack my crockery however I wish?” he teased her. “I deserve much of their criticism. I have been a poor landlord.”

“That is in the past,” she said quickly. “You are making amends now.”

“If I am to make amends I shall need money.” He sat down on the edge of the banquet table and picked up a small figure carved of ivory. Abigail thought it might be the queen from a chess set, but she had not managed to locate any other pieces. “Do you really think I could get two hundred pounds for the old regicide?” he asked.

She nodded. “Some people think highly of the so-called Lord Protector. You might even get more. Personally,
I
wouldn’t give you five pounds for it.”

He grinned. “Not even with a view of re-selling it later at a tidy profit?”

“I do have some standards, Mr. Wayborn,” she said primly.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder about your taste in men. First you reject me—that alone shows a want of proper womanly feeling. Then you cut a swathe through the local population. Messieurs Pimple and Buttocks will never be the same. Now my cousin Horatio seems to have fallen beneath your fatal spell. Oh, and I mustn’t forget poor Hector Mickleby. You see, I cannot even keep score, your conquests are so fast and furious. Who will be Cousin Abigail’s next victim? Whose heart will she break next?”

“Your cousin!” Abigail exclaimed indignantly.

“So it’s to be Horatio, is it? And you claim to have standards.”

“I do, sir. And
he
is most assuredly beneath them.”

“I daresay he had much to say about me, and none of it good,” Cary said idly.

“Actually, he gave you a sterling character,” Abigail replied, “though, to be sure, he meant to do the opposite.”

“A sterling character,” he mused. “Do you think mine is a sterling character, cousin?”

“Certainly not,” said Abigail, smiling. “You are impulsive and imprudent. Your language is quite shocking at times, and of course, you do take insufferable liberties.”

“You sound like Horatio,” he said. “Except for the taking liberties part.”

She made a face. “If you ever compare me to him again, I shall make you very sorry.”

He chuckled softly. “And how would a gentle little thing like you make me sorry?”