Surrender to Sin (20 page)

“Ladies do not keep bottles of
liquor
in their rooms,” Mrs. Spurgeon informed her.

“Where do they keep them?” Cary politely inquired. “I’ve often wondered.”

Abigail refused to be diverted. “You stole my scotch!” she accused him. “And used it to humiliate my—Mr. Ritchie! You still owe him that money. And now you owe
me
a case of scotch as well.”

Cary sighed. “How excessively awkward. Obviously, if I’d known it was
your
scotch, Cousin, I would never have touched it. Please accept my deepest apologies. If I could get it back for you, I would. As it is, would you accept cash? I believe the price was thirty pounds.”

“I couldn’t possibly accept money,” said Abigail. “It was a gift from my father.”

Cary sighed. “Then I have no choice but to confess the fell deed to your father and reimburse him for the full amount.”

“Why could you not simply pay your bill?” she demanded in exasperation.

“I told you, I don’t like the man,” he replied. “I don’t suppose your father would give me a little time to come up with the money?”

“What do you mean? You said you sold the Cromwell picture. Where’s the money?”

“The fellow at the auction house would only give me thirty pounds,” Cary explained.

Abigail stared at him. “Thirty pounds! I told you it was worth at least two hundred. For pity’s sake, Horatio offered you a hundred!”

“Considering it was worth precisely
nothing
to me, I think thirty pounds rather more than fair,” Cary replied. “Indeed, I felt like a cheat taking thirty pounds for something I heartily despise. I felt I ought to have been paying
him
to take it away.”

“You are not meant to
sell
it to the auctioneer. You are meant to give it to him—”

“How very generous of me,” Cary smiled.

“Then
he
sells it at auction, and
you
get the money. You pay him a small percentage.”

“That hardly seems fair when he does all the work,” Cary said, unperturbed. “Let us say I paid him a
large
percentage, and leave it at that. In any case, I no longer have the money.”

Abigail was stunned. “How could you be so foolish and irresponsible?”

Vera Nashe tried in vain to catch Abigail’s eye. “My dear Miss Smith,” she murmured.

“Calm yourself, Cousin,” he said lazily. “I have rid myself of an execrable painting that never gave me a moment’s pleasure, and gotten a little money for it besides. I have invested this money in a little project which I expect will be infinitely more rewarding than two hundred pounds. Believe me, I am well pleased with the bargain.”

This time Abigail heeded the gentle warning in Vera’s eyes, and bit her lip.

“I wish you the very best of luck in your investments, Mr. Wayborn,” Vera said placidly.

He smiled. “My cousin is sure I will end my days a sad bankrupt, but while she is counting her pennies, I shall be counting my blessings. Look at her, Mrs. Nashe. Can we not guess her thoughts? ‘A fool and his money are soon parted,’ perhaps?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Abigail said stiffly. “It is no concern of mine how you choose to dispose of your property.”

Over the next few days, Abigail avoided Cary at all costs. She was so successful that, by the week’s end, she began to suspect that her success in avoiding him was due in part to his success in avoiding her. It was a lowering thought, but as she went over their last conversation in her mind, she could scarcely blame him for not seeking her company. How shrewish and judgmental she must have seemed to him.

As she sat before her mirror brushing out her hair before bed, she told herself she did not care if he had lost his taste for her. After all, her attraction to him was scarcely based on his character. He was a hedonistic spendthrift who neglected to pay his bills. He had treated her father in an infamous manner. Without so much as a declaration of love, he had taken the liberties of a husband, and, worse yet, he gave no sign of wishing to repeat the exercise.

The courtship will continue at a brisk pace
. My foot, she thought bitterly.

“Cary Wayborn, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth,” she said aloud.

The face in the mirror appeared wholly unconvinced, and the voice trembled. She loved him, she knew. She loved him even though he was foolish with money, or perhaps even because of that. In her sheltered view, it took great courage and daring to live beyond one’s means. Beyond that, he was the only man who had ever responded to her as a woman. To be kissed breathless by a man was quite a new and precious experience for her, and one she had never supposed would come her way. That he had shattered her lifelong tranquility in a careless manner, without any serious design on her, pierced her to the quick, but she could not hate him. She loved him to distraction, and the fact that there wasn’t the least chance of her ever marrying him hurt more than anything.

On the following Sunday when the others went to church, Abigail went for a long walk. The snow was melting, and the slush in the paths was liberally mixed with mud, but in the quiet solitude of the woods she found that she could think more clearly.

Her position in Hertfordshire had become unbearable, she decided. She would have to return to Kensington. If the mess with Lord Dulwich hadn’t sorted itself out, she would find another hiding place. Aunt Elspeth in Glasgow seemed more desirable to her now. She resolved to write to her father. Red could scarcely object to her removal from Tanglewood, once she informed him that the house he’d leased had been rendered uninhabitable by a fallen elm. Somehow, she would forget Cary Wayborn and recover her lost tranquility.

Arriving at this decision brought her little comfort, however. She had no idea how long she walked or how far. To avoid the dirt in the well-traveled areas, she turned deeper into the trackless woods, climbing higher to the places where the snow remained untouched and the icicles in the trees might have been carved of rock crystal. She had no fear of being lost; she could always follow her own footsteps back; but as she emerged from the other side of the silent woodland, she realized that she was exhausted. There were no benches or stones on which to sit, but, as she wandered further across a field of snow, she found a fallen log. As she sat down, she heard a loud noise. At first she thought it might be the crack of a huntsman’s rifle, but it was followed by such a barrage of raps, taps, and claps that she supposed it must be a woodcutter hacking at a tree. Perhaps she had wandered near the Dower House and what she had heard was the sound of workmen clearing away the fallen elm. As the noise subsided, a man wearing an Oxford scarf emerged from the wood. Abigail recognized him by his close-cropped thatch of barley-white hair. It was Mr. Maddox. The young man was so deep in thought that it was only Abigail’s greeting that prevented him from stumbling over her.

“Good morning, Mr. Maddox!”

Startled, he halted in front of her and sketched a bow. “Good
afternoon
, Miss Smith.”

“Is it so late?” cried Abigail. “I only meant to go for a short walk. I seem to have lost all track of time, Mr. Maddox.”

“Are you alone, Miss Smith?” he asked. He seemed puzzled. “You’ve strayed a bit, haven’t you? You’re less than a hundred yards from the top of the Cascades. Just on the other side of those trees,” he added, pointing the way.

Abigail did not know the local geography enough to realize this meant she had walked nearly four miles in the slushy snow, but she was surprised to learn that the Cascades was so near the Manor. “Is that where you’re going?” she asked the young man. “To the Cascades?”

He nodded glumly. “It’s Rhoda—Miss Mickleby, that is. She is determined to go down the Cascades on a tray like her younger sisters did. She won’t listen to reason. She won’t listen to threats! I can’t put her off any more. What will Mrs. Mickleby think of me if I can’t stop her?” he fretted. “I’m at the end of my tether with that girl, Miss Smith.”

“Mr. Maddox, you must put her off,” said Abigail in alarm. “The ice will have thinned considerably in the last week. I cannot imagine that it would be safe.”

He cast her a look of annoyance. “I know perfectly well it’s not safe,” he said. “Just try convincing
her
of that. I had no idea she was so irrational. I’d like to wash my hands of the silly nit. But the thing is, Miss Smith, I made a sort of pledge to her, if you see what I mean.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “You mean you are engaged to her, Mr. Maddox?”

He shuddered. “And she still wants to go to London! I told her she ought to give one of her sisters the chance, but she won’t hear of it. Now all I can do is hope she finds someone she likes better. Then she might release me.”

Abigail pitied him. Without knowing Miss Mickleby well enough to determine her character, Mr. Maddox had committed himself to her. Now he was beginning to realize the extent of his mistake, but was trapped by honor in the unhappy engagement. Fortunately for her, women were not bound by such strictures, and she had been able to break with Dulwich.

“I am very sorry for you, Mr. Maddox,” she said sincerely. “But you cannot leave Miss Mickleby at the Cascades when she is likely to injure herself.”

“Well, she hasn’t got a tray,” he said. “I told her I’d go and get her one, just to put her off. She promised not to do anything foolish until I return, if one can trust a word she says. I say, Miss Smith! Would you come with me and talk sense to her? She might listen to you.”

Abigail doubted this very much, but she could not refuse Mr. Maddox’s appeal.

They found Rhoda sulking against a tree. “You abandoned me,” she accused her young man. “What’s
she
doing here?” she added petulantly as she saw Abigail.

Mr. Maddox’s lips thinned. “Do please forgive Miss Mickleby’s rudeness, Miss Smith,” he said angrily. “She’s a sullen, ill-mannered child. I’ve no doubt that when she grows up, she will be a sullen, ill-mannered woman.”

Two hot spots of color appeared in Rhoda’s plump cheeks. “Where’s the tray, John?” she demanded. “I have been waiting here these two ages at least.”

“Couldn’t find one,” he retorted.

Her lip curled in scorn. “You promised,” she complained. “You’re perfectly useless!”

Though ordinarily shy, Abigail was incensed by Rhoda’s gall. “Now, look here, Miss Mickleby,” she said sharply. “You will stop this nonsense right now.”

“You stay out of this,” Rhoda snapped.

“Indeed, I won’t,” said Abigail. “Mr. Maddox is right. You are behaving like a naughty child. I know your mother has forbidden you to go anywhere near the Cascades.”

“
You
did it! You all did it, except me. It’s not fair, I tell you!”

“
My
mother didn’t tell me not to,” Abigail pointed out. “In any case, it’s no longer safe for anyone. The ice is melting. If it were to break, you would certainly drown.”

“Perhaps I
should
find a tray,” Mr. Maddox said darkly.

“Coward!” Rhoda replied. “I’m not afraid.”

“If you persist in this nonsense,” Abigail said sharply, “I shall have no choice but to—to write to my mother’s friend, Lady Jersey!”

The threat effectively terrified Miss Rhoda. “Oh, Miss Smith! You wouldn’t!”

“I certainly shall,” Abigail stoutly lied. “And you know what that means. No vouchers to Almack’s. When you get to London, you will be shunned by all decent society. You might as well not go to London at all, if Lady Jersey is against you.”

Rhoda darted forward and clutched her arm. “You won’t set her ladyship against me, will you, Miss Smith? Dear Miss Smith! Kind, thoughtful, generous Miss Smith.”

Mr. Maddox turned his face away in disgust.

“Well, I won’t,” said Abigail. “If you go straight home, and never even think of disobeying your mama again.”

“I’ll see that she gets home,” said Mr. Maddox.

“I’m not speaking to
you
, John Maddox!” said Rhoda, knocking into the young man as she stomped past him. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. I consider you a traitor and a talebearer! You had no right to tattle on me to Miss Smith. I hate you!”

“When we are married, I shall make you very sorry for that,” said Mr. Maddox.

Rhoda swung around. “Married?” she shrieked, her eyes bulging. “I shouldn’t marry you, John Maddox, not if you were the last man in England! I’m quite finished with you. You were only
practice
anyway. I want a
real
London beau.”

To her extreme annoyance, the young man threw back his head and laughed. Rhoda sputtered indignantly. “I shall find a better husband in London!” she shrieked.

“No doubt,” he said cheerfully, taking her firmly by the arm. He grinned at Abigail. “Miss Smith, if you follow the river for half a mile, you will come to a little bridge. Follow that path, and it will save you an hour’s walk in the woods.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maddox,” Abigail said gratefully.

Rhoda Mickleby snatched her arm away from her escort, and marched to the east, towards Squire Mickleby’s estate, excoriating Mr. Maddox in a shrill voice as she went. Now free of any obligation to marry the girl, the young man seemed to take great pleasure in the young woman’s diatribe, chuckling almost continuously, which only served to deepen her anger.

Abigail followed the river north, guessing that the bridge Mr. Maddox had mentioned must be the one where Cary had discovered her painting. Her feet ached, but she forced herself to go on, eager to get away from the tiresome sound of Rhoda’s voice as quickly as she could.

She had just come within sight of the bridge, and the rough-hewn stone bench on the bank, when she heard a dog barking. Two pointed ears appeared above the brown, bedraggled reeds on the other side of the river, followed by a pair of round black eyes and a long foxy nose. Abigail stopped in her tracks. She liked the corgi, but she had no desire at present to see his master. Angel howled joyously. “Hush!” she whispered urgently. “Hush, Angel! Go away!”

The corgi took this for a welcome and threw himself off the bank, landing with a smack in the middle of the frozen river. Instantly, more than a dozen white cracks appeared all ’round the dog as the ice began to break. Horrified, Abigail recognized the sound she had heard earlier. It was not huntsmen or woodcutters. Up and down the river, the ice was breaking.

The corgi’s impact had cracked the ice under him, but not broken it. “Angel!” Abigail cried. “Angel, stay! Stay!”

Heedless of the command, the determined corgi scrabbled for a foothold, growing increasingly desperate as the ice cracked under him. His hindquarters went under first as a patch of thin ice suddenly gave way under his weight.

Abigail screamed for help as the corgi slipped under the ice. To her relief, Angel’s head reappeared. His front paws paddled at the edge of the ice, breaking off more and more of it, until he was swimming in a hole, struggling to keep his head above water.

Abigail watched helplessly from the bank. She knew that, if she tried to help, the ice would never hold beneath her weight, but she couldn’t bear to watch the little beast drown. She broke off a long, thin branch from a nearby tree, and, with a prayer on her lips, she surged down the bank on her hands and knees. The ice close to the bank held, but as she crept out onto the river, she sensed it fracturing under her knees. To distribute her weight more evenly, she dropped onto her stomach and inched forward like a worm, swinging the stick across the ice towards the dog. For what seemed like an eternity, she crept forward, praying silently, until the end of the branch was within reach of the dog.

“Get the stick, Angel,” she panted softly, moving the branch back and forth to entice the dog. “Come on, boy. Chew it. You love to chew. It’s very tasty, I promise.”

Without even a groan of warning, the ice beneath her simply disappeared, plunging beneath the river, and carrying her down with it before snapping in two. Abigail’s mouth filled with icy water, and the weight of her winter clothing pulled her down. The current was unexpectedly strong beneath the deceptive tranquility of the ice. She felt herself swept and dragged along by its force. Later, she would realize that the savage current had saved her; had it not been for its strength she would simply have been dragged to the river bottom by the weight of her skirts. But for now she was skimming beneath a layer of ice, fighting for her life.

Abruptly, the current drove her into an unmovable object, pinning her against it. Flailing around in a frenzy of panic, she was able to break the ice above her head. She surged upwards into the hole, but she was unable to find anything to hold onto, and went under again. The vicious current was again her friend, pushing her up when her weight sought to bring her down. This time, as she came up, her hands flailed against something that did not give way when she grasped it. Its sharp edge cut into her palms, but she refused to let go. For the first time, she felt the cold air crystallizing on her wet face and head. “Angel!” she cried out in anguish.

The hole she had created was not big enough to allow her shoulders through. With just her head and hands above water, she clung to the spur on the rock, vomiting water as the current continued to pound her lower body.

All at once she knew where she was. The current had carried her all the way back to the Cascades, and she was clinging to the top step without being able to see over it. She tried to pull herself up, but the ice in which she was wedged refused to budge. By contorting her body, she was able to work one arm and shoulder through the opening, but that was all. The edge of the stone step cut into her armpit. Beneath the water, her foot probed the stone, and found a chink. Instinctively, she pushed her foot in as far as it would go. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably as the water in her brows and lashes froze over. She wasn’t going to drown, she realized. She was going to freeze to death.

Faintly, as if from a great distance, she thought she could hear Angel barking.

“Abigail!”

It was Cary’s voice, but she could not see the speaker. She had just decided she must have hallucinated it, when Cary’s dark head appeared above her. As he edged onto the step on all fours, the sight cut her to the quick.

“Oh, Cary—you’re crawling,” she murmured inanely.

His eyes blazed. “You damned fool! You might have been killed!”

“Angel was drowning,” she protested. “I had to—”

“That bloody beast!” he said savagely. “Remind me to strangle him.”

“He’s drowned,” cried Abigail.

“Not he,” Cary snorted. “Who do you think brought me here? Frightened the life out of my horse. Now give me your hand. I’ll pull you up.”

Abigail bit her lip. “Cary, don’t. You’ll fall!”

“That’s my lookout. Your hand, Abigail.”

“Couldn’t you get a rope or something?” she stalled.

“I haven’t got a rope,” he said, assuming an air of patience. “And I’m not leaving you here while I toddle ’round to the shops and buy one. Your hand. Quicker, if you don’t mind.”