Surrender to Sin (14 page)

“But is your account with Mr. Ritchie paid or not?” Abigail demanded.

He frowned at her. “That isn’t the point. I owe money all over London, to better men than Red Ritchie, too! But Mr. Weston isn’t sending me dirty letters. Mr. Hoby ain’t threatening me with debtor’s prison. I simply can’t get any more coats or boots from them until I settle my accounts. I accept that, and no harm done. This Ritchie fellow is an uncivilized cur. How dare he hound me like a criminal? I’m an English gentleman.”

“You took a case of his scotch,” she pointed out. “Has he no right to demand payment? And if you don’t pay him, how are you any better than a thief?”

“How am I any better than a—!” he choked, unable even to repeat the last word. “Obviously, if I could pay him, I would. The stupid man sends me a bill every week. It’s like being pecked to death by chickens. Glaswegian chickens.
That
, Cousin, is one bill I shall never pay. If I had a
thousand
pounds in my purse, I would not do it. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“The principle!”

He stared at her for a moment, then said despairingly, “I have much to teach you, Cousin. But first, the Micklebys’ party. Do you dance, or must I teach you that as well?”

“Mrs. Mickleby and I are in perfect agreement, sir; we neither of us want me to go.”

“Nonsense. She mayn’t have wanted Mrs. Spurgeon’s dogsbody there, but she certainly wants Lord Wayborn’s niece. It will be judged a resounding failure if you don’t go. For starts, if you don’t go,
I
can’t go, and if I can’t go, they may as well call the whole thing off. Poor little Rhoda will cry her eyes out.”

“You may certainly go without me,” said Abigail. “If I am first in consequence, as you say, then let me exercise the privilege of my rank, and stay at home.”

“You have no such privilege,” he told her dryly. “Your privilege is to take your place at the head of Tanglewood society, such as it is. Mrs. Mickleby will be mortified if you decline her invitation. Really, Abigail, she’ll be hurt. I know that you are shy in unfamiliar situations, but shyness, you know, is no excuse for rudeness.”

“I wasn’t rude,” said Abigail, appalled. “Pray, how was I rude?”

“Mrs. Mickleby is a silly woman. She made a blunder. It was my fault, anyway. If I had made it clear from the start that you are my cousin, she would never have insulted you. She would have fawned over you quite shamelessly. In any case, she’s apologized, and ought to be forgiven. You would not want to hurt her feelings?”

“No,” said Abigail. “Of course not. If you think her feelings would be hurt…”

“She’d be crushed,” he assured her. “And, of course, Paggles would have to be informed of your un-Christianlike behavior.”

“Very well, then!” she said crossly. “You may tell her I accept the invitation.”

“I have already done so.”

Abigail frowned at him. “Have you indeed?”

“Yes, monkey, but this is absolutely the last time I do your dirty work for you. Next time, you’ll tell her yourself, and be very gracious in your supercilious condescension.”

“In my
what
?”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds; being gracious and condescending and supercilious all at once. I’ll have to teach you; I’m quite good at it. But that is a lesson for another time. For the nonce, I must leave you,” he went on blithely. “Strange men with hatchets are meeting me at the Dower House—something about an elm tree. Unless of course you wish me to stay? I could come in and close the door. We’d be quite private, if that appeals to you.”

“No, indeed,” she said repressively. “Tell me, Mr. Wayborn, when you say I should give way to no one in this neighborhood, does that include yourself?”

“Certainly not,” he replied, grinning. “I am your nearest male relation. Also, older and wiser than yourself. This gives me natural authority over you. I am your guardian, in fact, and you are my ward. You must do as I say.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes; certainly. And if you had not extracted that asinine promise from me never to kiss you again, I would give you a practical proof of my power over you.”

Abigail stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Speechless? Good. You talk too much. I’ll see you at tea.”

It was Mrs. Spurgeon’s habit to retire to her room directly after luncheon and nap until tea. Abigail certainly did not seek to detain her. Vera went with her mistress, but promised to return within an hour for a game of backgammon with the younger woman. Abigail took the opportunity to visit Paggles in the nursery. When she returned to the sunny front parlor, Vera was setting up the game. “How is your nurse, Miss Smith?” she asked politely.

“Sleeping—and please call me Abigail.”

“Our old women seem to be on the same schedule,” Vera remarked, passing Abigail the dice cup. “Well, my dear? How deep shall we play?”

Abigail sat down reluctantly, looking out the window at the sparkling white day. “As deep as you like,” was her careless reply. “But would you not rather go for a walk, Vera? I don’t deny it’s cold, but there’s something exhilarating about walking in the snow, and, look, the sun is out. We will not have very many days like this. The snow will soon melt, and there will be no walking in the sludge.”

“I’ll do my walking in the summer, I thank you,” said Vera laughing. “I’ve not the least intention of spoiling my shoes. I haven’t as many pairs as you.”

Without much enthusiasm, Abigail rolled the dice. It was soon very clear that backgammon was not her game. She had neither luck nor strategy. “Shall we play cards, then?” Vera asked as she gathered up her winnings.

“We shall have cards enough after dinner,” Abigail replied. “I should like to go up to the Cascades again, but my cousin is gone away. It was such fun going down.”

“Why, there he is now,” said Vera, looking out the window.

“No, it is only Mr. Mickleby,” Abigail said immediately. “My cousin’s coat is purple.”

“And what do you think of him now?” Vera asked, smiling.

“Of Hector Mickleby?”

“Mr. Wayborn. You enjoyed his company this morning, I think.”

“I don’t know what to make of him,” Abigail confessed. “Just when I think I hate him, he does something kind, or silly, or just plain strange. He says that I am first in consequence in the neighborhood. Do you think that is true?”

“My dear, I’m sure of it. Was not your grandfather a Peer of the Realm?”

“Yes, but what can it signify? My uncle has made it clear he wants nothing to do with me. Indeed, I have never met him.”

Vera chuckled. “No one else here who can boast so much. Amongst such humble neighbors, an estranged uncle who is an earl must be counted very grand, indeed.”

“Grand! I much prefer London, where I am of no consequence whatever.”

“I’m sure that cannot be. You are the daughter of Sir William Smith, are you not?”

“Good heavens,” said Abigail. “You mustn’t believe everything Mr. Wayborn says. He has such an odd sense of humor. It’s true my mother was Lady Anne Wayborn, but my father is not a gentleman, Mrs. Nashe. He’s a merchant. I don’t know what that makes me. A gentlewoman, or a tradesman’s daughter?”

Vera’s dark eyes twinkled. “A man may take whatever rank he pleases, but a woman is only as good as her mother.”

Both women started in surprise as Hector Mickleby suddenly rapped on the window with his knuckles. “Open the window, Miss Smith,” he shouted, pressing his face against the glass.

Abigail obediently opened the casement. “Would you not rather come through the door?” she asked uncertainly as Rhoda Mickleby was lifted up through the window. The girl climbed nimbly onto the window seat. Abigail, who was quite unused to such events, became flustered.

“We always come through the window when Mr. Wayborn is in London,” Rhoda explained, laughing as she hopped down from the seat. “You see, we haven’t got a key.”

“But Mr. Wayborn is not in London,” said Abigail, jumping back in dismay as Hector, and Mr. Maddox, to whom she had been no more than barely introduced, each vaulted in turn over the windowsill. “He’s gone to the Dower House to oversee the removal of the fallen elm.”

“Oh, we haven’t come to see him,” said Hector. “We’ve come to see you!”

“Oh.” Abigail felt a vague panic beginning to stir. “Mrs. Nashe,” she said quickly. “These are Mr. Wayborn’s neighbors, Miss Mickleby, and her brother, Mr. Mickleby. This is Mr. Maddox, Mr. Mickleby’s friend.”

“Backgammon?” said Hector, as Vera hurriedly put the game away. “Bit of a bore, eh?”

“Oh, Miss Smith!” cried Rhoda. “You
must
come with us to the Cascades this minute. Say you will! Hector says he won’t go down with me at all, and I’m too frightened to go alone. He went down with Ida and Lydia,” she added resentfully.

“Much good it did them,” her brother retorted. “Mama is sending them to bed without any supper. And it’s to be the last of the turtle-feast Maddox brought from London.”

“But Ida said it was quite worth the punishment!” said Rhoda, seizing Abigail’s hands. “Mr. Maddox has been good enough to offer to go down with me, but Hector says it would be most improper.”

“So it would be,” said Hector. “You ain’t engaged to the man.”

“Hector says if you will go down with
him
, Miss Smith, then it would be quite all right if
I
went down with Mr. Maddox. No one can say it is improper, if
you
do it. Say you will. I’m the only one who didn’t have a chance to go down. It’s not fair!” She pouted quite childishly.

The thought of Hector Mickleby’s arms around her made Abigail feel slightly ill. “I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question, Miss Rhoda,” she said firmly.

“You would have gone down with me, Miss Smith,” Hector said, frowning, “if Mr. Wayborn hadn’t butted in. But I suppose he wants you all for himself. I might have guessed.”

Abigail felt as though she had been set down in the middle of a circus performance and was somehow expected to be ringleader. “I couldn’t possibly have gone down with you, Mr. Mickleby,” she said. “I could only go down with Mr. Wayborn because he is my cousin.”

Hector scowled savagely. “He has that advantage, and he uses it, too! If the two of us were on equal footing, Miss Smith…”

Abigail was glad he did not complete his thought; the notion of Hector ever being Cary Wayborn’s equal was patently absurd.

“But Miss Smith!” cried Rhoda, as the conversation turned away from her nearest concerns. “If you won’t go down with Hector, then I can’t go down with Mr. Maddox! And I must go down with Mr. Maddox. It’s very important.”

“I am very sorry, Miss Mickleby,” Abigail stammered.

“No, you’re not!” said Rhoda stoutly. “You don’t care! No one does. It’s all so unfair. You’re all against me. I shall
die
if I can’t go down the Cascades on a platter.”

“You may go to hell on a platter for all I care,” responded her brother. “Any chance of tea, Miss Smith?” he added. “Or, if Mr. Wayborn’s got any rum, we could make punch.”

“Nobody wants your horrid punch!” said Rhoda.

“Calm yourself, Miss Rhoda,” Mr. Maddox murmured in embarrassment, smiling at Abigail. “We can not ask Miss Smith to do what she thinks improper.”

His deference made Abigail as uncomfortable as Rhoda’s bullying and Hector’s incivility.

“In any case, your mama would never approve of such a thing, Miss Rhoda, if she has punished your sisters merely for going down with their brother,” Abigail pointed out. “And your mother’s wishes must be more material to you than anything which I might do or say.”

Mrs. Grimstock came in at that moment to announce Mr. Temple’s arrival.

“What’s
he
want?” Hector snarled, flinging his body into a chair.

“Shall I bring in the tea, Miss?” asked Mrs. Grimstock.

“Yes, Grimstock,” said Rhoda without Abigail’s ever realizing the housekeeper had been addressing
her
. Mrs. Grimstock withdrew, and when Mrs. Nashe left the room, murmuring it was time to wake Mrs. Spurgeon, Abigail felt utterly abandoned. She was glad to see Mr. Temple.

The tall thin man in the clerical collar seemed embarrassed. “You did say I might come and have a look at your Blake, Miss Smith. I didn’t realize you were entertaining, or I should never have presumed…”

Hector snorted. “By that he means he followed our footprints here, Maddox,” he said spitefully. “Horning in on another fellow’s territory, what?”

Most people of Hector’s acquaintance dismissed his rudeness as youthful high spirits, but Abigail thought him abominable. “I am not having a party, Mr. Temple,” she said firmly. “And you are most welcome, sir. I hope you are feeling better?”

“Four pints only, sick as a dog,” Hector explained in an aside to Mr. Maddox. “What the Vicar will say is anyone’s guess.”

“I’ll just go and get the book,” said Abigail. Any guilt she felt in abandoning Mr. Temple to the Mickleby wolves was entirely swallowed up by her own relief. In her room, she unlocked her portable writing desk and took out the illustrated
Songs of Innocence and of Experience
she had bought in London. Having located the volume, she was in no hurry to rejoin the young people downstairs. She could always claim there had been a difficulty finding the book. If she stayed away long enough, Mrs. Spurgeon would come out for her tea, and that lady’s strong personality would be more than equal to the Micklebys. And if she stayed upstairs for a very,
very
long time, there was even a chance they would all take the hint and go away.

She ran up the stairs to see Paggles. There was no clock in the nursery, but, as Abigail was accustomed to having her mid-afternoon tea at the same time each day, she felt she could gauge when she might safely go back down again and not risk being alone with her “guests.”

Polly came up with Paggles’s tea a short time later.

“The master do be looking for you, Miss,” she said, surprised to see Abigail.

“The master,” Abigail repeated. “You mean Mr. Wayborn?” She picked up her book, kissed Paggles’s pleated cheek, and ran downstairs. As she closed the door that blended into the hall wall, Cary Wayborn stepped out of her room. They confronted each other at almost the exact spot where he had kissed her that morning.

“What were you doing in my room?” she demanded angrily.

“Looking for you, Cousin,” he replied so cheerfully she almost felt ashamed of her bad temper. “Have a look at this,” he added, pulling a miniature in an oval frame from his pocket. “Found it in the Dower House. Could this be our missing Catherine, do you think?”

Abigail took it from him, but was obliged to go into her room and stand at the window to see it properly, and he followed her. “Sophia, Electress of Hanover,” she said, handing it back to him. “When you
do
find Catherine of Aragon, there will be no shoulders on display, I promise. That wasn’t here before,” she added suddenly, noticing a little silver-gilt clock on the mantel.

“No, I brought it from the Dower House for you. You needn’t thank me.”

Abigail frowned. “I wasn’t going to,” she said. “I was going to ask you to stay out of my room. Just because we are cousins—sort of—doesn’t mean you can run tame in my room.”

“And I might ask you not to leave people lying about my house like discards,” he retorted. “Your guests downstairs seem to think you’re coming back. Shall I tell them you are hiding with your old nurse until they take themselves off? Does Paggles know her young lady is in the habit of leaving her guests unattended?”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Abigail said untruthfully. “I’ve been looking for the book I promised to show Mr. Temple.”

He snatched the volume from her, then sat on the windowsill and opened it. “The Blake?” he said incredulously. “You bought it? You don’t even like Blake,” he complained. “You’re not allowed to buy things you don’t like.”

“As I explained to Mr. Temple,” she said primly, “sometimes I make a purchase, not for pleasure, but as an investment.
I
don’t like Mr. Blake, but other people do. In a few years, it may be possible for me to sell it at a handsome profit.”

He stared at her. “Sell it? At a profit? That’s downright cold-blooded. If Mr. Blake were here, he’d fling you out the window for talking such rot. The man don’t pour his heart and soul into his art so that you can turn a profit, madam!”

“I daresay Mr. Blake is glad of the money I paid for his work!”

“Are you always so mercenary?”

“I am practical,” she said indignantly. “There’s nothing wrong with being practical.”

“How very odd,” he said quietly, returning her book to her. “In general I feel a keen animosity for people like you. There are some remarkably
practica
l people downstairs, as a matter of fact, whom I dislike rather a lot. Shall we join them?”

Abigail was puzzled. No one she had left downstairs seemed to meet the description. “To whom do you refer?” she asked, as they began making their way down to the first floor.

“Why, to your devoted admirers, of course. Hector Mickleby, Mr. Buttocks, and even poor Mr. Pimple. In your absence they have been fighting over you like a gang of thieves; more so since you cannot be equally divided among them. Miss Rhoda is quite put out.”

“You needn’t mock me,” she said angrily. “Mr. Maddox is devoted to Miss Mickleby, Hector is a menace, and Mr. Temple only stopped by to see my rare combined volume.”

Cary burst out laughing. “I’ll bet you my
head
that Mr. Pimple asks you whether or no the paper of your rare combined volume comes from your father’s mill!”

Abigail gasped. “Are you saying Mr. Pim—
Mr. Temple
is a fortune hunter?”

“Well, he ain’t a paper mill hunter!”

“Mr. Temple is a curate,” she protested.

“I can see how that might add to a young man’s desperation,” he replied. “Poor Mr. Pimple—he’d marry anybody, and for considerably less than your ten thousand pounds.”

“Thank you very much,” Abigail said tartly, outstripping him to the end of the hall.

To her relief, Mrs. Spurgeon, golden turban in place, was in possession of the teapot. More chairs had been brought into the room, and Abigail slipped quietly into hers. Rhoda instantly attempted to enlist Mr. Wayborn in her cause. “I don’t see the harm,” she cried passionately, “if Miss Smith will go down with Hector, Mama couldn’t possibly object if I go down with Mr. Maddox. Or I might go down with
you
, sir,” she added treacherously.