The Devil's Love (11 page)

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.

Sometimes she even allowed herself to imagine the Michael of her memory roaming

the ruins. Try as she might, she could not get past the tendril of longing she

had held for years, a tendril for the memory of him that was so inextricably wound up in the real man. The real man looked like the Michael of her memory,

moved like him, and even sounded like him. But the words that came out of the

real Michael’s mouth were so wrong, so unlike the memory. Fortunately, at the

ruins, she could substitute her own words in place of the heartless ones.

At night, after an early supper, Abbey retired to her new sitting room. She always had Sarah in tow, sometimes even Cook, and they would wile away the hours

much as she had in Virginia. When two younger maids had come with fresh linens

and the weekly papers from London one evening, Abbey eagerly invited them to

stay. By the end of the week, Abbey played hostess to a sitting room full of

female servants from Blessing Park.

They tried to teach her needlework, but to no avail. Undaunted, Abbey began to

embroider a picture of Blessing Park for a draught screen. None of the servants

had the heart to tell her how poor her skills were. When her patience with the

needlework wore thin, she would read outrageous on dits from the London papers

that had the women laughing hilariously. Or she would read from the history

books that graced her room and private library. Apparently the Almighty Darfield

enjoyed purchasing expensive volumes of history and in a matter of days, the

women were quite well acquainted with Persian history.

She also played her violin for them. The first time Abbey had produced the instrument, she claimed she was rather a mediocre talent compared with the great

virtuosos and could not sing or play the pianoforte as might be expected.

But

the beautiful strains of music that lifted from her strings kept the women in awe and brought a tear to Sarah’s eye. Every night after that, the same luscious

strains of music would drift through the house, and before long, Sebastian, Jones, and the master’s valet, Damon, would hover about the hallway, along with

an occasional footman, enraptured. Sebastian remarked one morning that there was

nothing the marquis enjoyed more than music. Abbey had wrinkled her nose at

that; she would have sworn they had absolutely nothing in common.

Several more days passed and the Devil of Darfield still did not return.

Abbey

was proud of herself for almost forgetting the King of Rude and settled comfortably into the world she had created for herself. It was a bucolic and simple existence, one she found more and more to her liking as the days passed.

She began to relax for the first time since coming to England, and decided that

she could very easily make a life at Blessing Park if she were forced to do so.

She convinced herself that the absence of a loving husband—and naturally,

children— would not be so hard to bear as she feared, as long as she had Blessing Park and the many diversions it offered her.

One morning she received two letters. The first, much to her delight and surprise, was from her second cousin, Galen Carrey. Even though she had not

heard from him in some years, she recognized the handwriting immediately. Quite

excited about receiving a note from her dearest—and only— male cousin, Abbey

danced a little jig about her sitting room before carelessly breaking the seal.

My dearest Abbey, greetings and salutations. I had intended to visit you in America but received word of your father’s untimely demise just prior to departure. I am greatly saddened by the news, as I harbored the most

tender of

feelings for the captain, much like those for my own father, may they both rest

in peace. I learned from Aunt Nan that you have gone to England. As business has

kept me on the continent till now, I have not had the opportunity to see you as

I have desperately hoped to do. However, I find my circumstance has changed, and

I shall very soon be on England’s green shores again. I should very much like to

see you, as there is much I would tell you. Hoping this letter finds you well, I

shall look ever forward to our reunion. Fondly, your cousin, Galen.

Abbey was thrilled with the prospect of a visit from Galen. She remembered him

very warmly. The son of her father’s cousin, as best she could recall, Galen,

who was just a few years older than she, had spent a few summers aboard the

Dancing Maiden. She had worshipped him; he had paid special attention to her,

particularly on those long voyages to the East. It was Galen who had given her

her first and practically only kiss beneath an Indian Ocean moon. She sighed at

the memory, wondering absently why she had not heard of him in the last few

years.

She shrugged happily as she reached for the second letter which was from a

neighbor inviting her and Lord Darfield to Sunday dinner after church services.

Delighted, Abbey returned word that if they did not mind, she would attend alone, as Lord Darfield was away.

When Sunday came, and a rather plain carriage was brought to the front of the

house, Michael still had not returned.

Wringing his hands, Sebastian followed Abbey to the door like a fretting governess. “Lady Darfield, I would be remiss in my duty if I did not tell you that the marquis will not care for you dining at the Havershams’ without him. He

was quite insistent you not leave Blessing Park.”

Abbey smiled sweetly at Sebastian’s reflection in the mirror as she adjusted her

bonnet. “I am only attending church services and a friendly dinner, Sebastian.

He should not care in the least.”

“He expressly bade me to keep you at Blessing Park until such time as he has the

honor of introducing you!”

“Ha!” Abbey snorted and turned to face Sebastian with her hands on her hips. “I