The Outcast Earl (14 page)

With the earl himself in the room, and Margaret remaining behind to distract, only two ladies near the door could possibly intercept Abigail as she made her exit. Charles had already identified the pair as local gossips and was preparing himself to intervene as soon as they caught her. As he’d expected, Mrs Fothergill raised her hand to get Abigail’s attention, but it was Grady who quickly turned as if he had been beckoned. Charles watched as Grady approached them on deliberate feet, bowed, and offered them refreshment. In those twenty seconds, Abigail was able to slip through and away.

Good girl
, he thought, admiring the brisk look of her figure as she escaped through the doors. She’d already had Grady at her back twice, and they’d not had luncheon yet. Charles wondered if he should feel betrayed but dismissed the idea—loyalty from Grady would serve Abigail well.

Surely, with Abigail’s aunt on the mend, Charles could claim a bit more of her time and attention later in the day. The alluring prospect was enough to grant him the patience to engage the quaint, elderly Mrs Peacock, whose small size and high-pitched voice fitted perfectly with her penchant for pink ribbons and sunny-sweet smiles. Mrs Peacock, who had been a widow for longer than Charles had been alive, had been old when Charles was a boy. He’d tolerated her then because she had frequently come out of the kitchen door of her large cottage on the edge of Meriden and handed him biscuits as he’d walked past, on his way in or out of town.

Twenty-five years later, he surmised, she must be nearly ancient and her hearing was definitely failing. Nevertheless, she clung to his coat sleeve with the clawing ferocity of a half-drowned cat. “That girl of yours,” she finally beamed, in a voice loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in the room, “she’s a sweet young thing. I trust you’ll take quite the care of her, milord.”

Charles winced inwardly as everyone—Margaret Danvers included—looked up, waiting for his response. “Of course, Mrs Peacock, and I expect you to take me to task if I fail in that duty.”

She nodded vigorously, and let him go only to take the arm of Mrs Smart, whose husband owned land adjacent to Charles’ property, between Harvest Hill and Lodge Green. They’d come together—Charles remembered that Mrs Smart, in her youth and maiden years, had come from Birmingham to live with Mrs Peacock.

“Come by for a biscuit if you’re my way, milord.” Mrs Peacock bobbed cheerfully. “I don’t think you’ve been at my gate in many a long year.”

Fond smiles definitely flitted over the nearby faces then, and Charles impulsively kissed the wizened and crinkled, but smiling, little cheek. “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed.

The last callers left just before two, and Charles let himself sink down onto a couch and sigh, even with Margaret still present. “Even without your announcing her arrival,” that lady said quietly, “every lady of standing in the area came to pay her respects, including Lady Kresley, who would normally be in London this time of year.”

“I was surprised to see the viscountess.” Charles sighed, sitting up and staring at the rector’s wife. “She did not need to call on Abigail. Precedence notwithstanding, I would have advised Abigail to call on her as soon as was practicable.”

“Nevertheless,” Margaret put in, “she was here. And who can blame her, I might add? The de Rothesays and your own family, should you wish to prime their connections, are openly welcome within a social circle to which I am sure Lady Kresley would like admission. It was well worth her time and effort to visit because Lady Abigail will feel obliged to return her call, and all the better if Lady Arlington is in paint with her.”

“I suppose,” Charles muttered. His grandmother had certainly been privy to the highest circles of the
ton
and was well remembered, he believed, but his mother had never pursued London connections and had been largely forgotten. On that thought, another arose that nearly made him disconsolate. The notion of Abigail having to go out and about in a social round, to return calls to all the women who’d been present, seemed utterly unwelcome and intrusive.

“Don’t give her grief over it, Meriden,” Margaret advised briskly, and Charles realised his thoughts must be obvious. Margaret stood and pulled on her gloves before ringing the bell for Grady. “She’ll only be representing your interests by establishing herself as the lady of the manor, so to speak, and even at such a young age she will be the most senior lady in the district—indeed, of the entire countryside between Birmingham and Coventry. Now, I must go. I am promised at home for lunch, but I wanted to congratulate you on winning the hearts of every grandmother in the room by your manners with Alberta Peacock.”

Charles might have blushed, but thankfully Grady appeared and Margaret inquired after the doctor.

Grady’s eyes flitted to Charles, who understood the message immediately and sat up. “I’m afraid Dr Franklin isn’t ready to return to the village, ma’am,” Grady said after a moment. “But I’ll have your gig brought up and one of our grooms will drive you home.”

The lady looked concerned. Charles had already risen and was preparing to excuse himself, but she struck first. “Of course, if it’s not a problem, Grady. I’ll just go up and be sure myself that Lady Abigail isn’t in need of anything.”

Indeed, Abigail wasn’t in need of any physical assistance. Lady Arlington was groggy, her memory currently on hiatus for everything that had happened since Abigail’s engagement. Her vision was unfocused and her neck didn’t seem as if it could support her head, but she knew Abigail and was clinging fiercely to her niece’s hands. It didn’t appear as if she could quite believe all the strangeness that was around her.

Dr Franklin took him outside into the gallery to explain. “She wants her daughter, who is lying-in and unable to travel. Failing that, she wants to know why the Winchesters aren’t here—Abigail told her the earl would barely have received the news and would doubtless come as soon as he heard. Abigail is hoping she’ll have remembered the entire sequence of events by then, no doubt.”

Soberly, frowning, Charles nodded. “I’ll go and write letters now, and use everything in my power to get him here. But I doubt he’ll come—he wouldn’t even leave London for Lady Abigail. Lady Arlington is a mere sister and presumably has less influence than a daughter ought. Meanwhile”—he grimaced—“try to make sure Abigail eats some lunch, would you?”

“Aye, Captain.” Franklin smiled. “It’s not going to do me any good if she becomes a patient again.”

Chapter Six

Abigail woke in the middle of the night, intensely hungry. The fire was only coals, and tonight Annie had not stayed. She sat up in bed, blinking, and realised she was wearing nothing more than her chemise. She must have fallen asleep before dinner.

Meriden had stayed away from the sickroom but Franklin had spent the afternoon, as had Mrs Carlton and two more maids. At times, all had been necessary. They’d washed Aunt Betsy and had dressed her wounds, had tested her memory and her control over her body. They’d seen the frustration in her face and voice, and the fear she’d felt at waking in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, remembering no circumstances to explain it. They’d all listened as Abigail had explained, three or four times, where Meriden Park was, why they were there, and why her parents weren’t. Abigail hadn’t been able to be completely blunt—she’d felt compelled to gloss over the brutally upsetting facts of her engagement before the doctor and staff.

Once Betsy had been heavily sleeping—sedated again—Franklin had excused himself to check on Jenna and head home. Abigail had stumbled out of Aunt Betsy’s room and across the gallery to her own door, nearly falling into the arms of the waiting maid.

After that, Abigail thought she must have fallen asleep on her bed waiting for bath water. She hadn’t bathed, dressed, or eaten.

And she was hungry.

She was garbed in the chemise—presumably, upon finding her asleep, the maid had simply drawn the covers up and tucked her under them. Coals from the fireplace were enough to light a candle and search out a dressing gown and her slippers.

Abigail had not been to the kitchens but they had to be below stairs, under the butler’s pantry. She’d sighted a staircase there the night before. She’d rather not have to wake Grady, or Mrs Carlton. All had worked a full day already and deserved their rest.

Peeking into the sickroom, she found a maid and Aunt Betsy, both soundly asleep.

She reached the head of the stairs in the gallery, her candle wavering in hand, when she paused. Through the long windows of the bay, she could see lightning in the distance. The rolling low hills of Warwickshire gleamed briefly in the background as the lightning flashed again. She stood, fascinated for a time, then headed down the stairs.

Abigail passed through the dining room, lifting the candle high to check the time. It was well after two and, although she was unfamiliar with the household arrangements, it seemed likely that they did not have anyone stay awake at night. Why, after all? No footman was needed to guard the front door from intruders, and presumably a bell pull would wake someone below stairs. After a few seconds of pondering, she finally gave in. She’d prefer to be back in bed before the storm truly arrived.

Pushing back the green baize door, she entered the butler’s domain.

Finding the stairs was easy enough. They were steep but Abigail trod carefully. As she suspected, they ended in the servants’ hall, which was dark except for the embers in the great fireplace.

She hesitated, undecided as to whether to look left or right—

Abigail nearly screamed when a stealthy presence materialised behind her and set his hand to her shoulder. The candle tipped precariously, and Meriden threw his other hand out to rescue it.

“Damn!” he exclaimed in a low tone, nearly dropping it himself as the wax spilled out. Even so, he managed to set it on the great trestle table in the centre of the room. “What are you about now?”

Abigail shivered. She’d missed dinner with him, and now he’d found her wandering below stairs. He was not likely to be forgiving. Indeed, in the flickering candlelight he looked exceedingly forbidding, even terrifying.

Still… “I’m hungry. I didn’t intend to sleep through dinner,” she objected, just as softly.

“I know,” he whispered. “I told the maid not to wake you.”

“Well, now I’m hungry,” she repeated. “I can’t go back to sleep—”

He nodded, raising his arm to indicate the direction. “This way, then. It’s not where you would expect.”

With one hand he retrieved the candle, and rested his other hand on her back, his warm fingers sinking through the fabric to press against her form. She shivered, as much from the chill of the lower rooms as from his hand, but he noticed and drew her closer to him almost automatically.

In silence they made their way through the servants’ hall and into a dark corridor, moving past several closed doors. Abigail peered around curiously but could detect nothing until, at the end, double doors opened into the kitchen.

Presumably it sat at the end of the wing, because high windows allowed natural light in on three sides, at least during the day. Now, streaks of lightning flashed through the room, reminding Abigail of the impending storm. Still, it gave her a chance to look around curiously. The room was large but divided into neat work areas, with the central space in the room reserved for a long deal table. She could see a scullery through an open door, while Meriden turned to a matching room through a door on the opposite side. It turned out to be a large pantry and storeroom. She let him go without a fuss and moved forward into the room, noting the large fireplace in the far wall, which still had warm coals that emitted a sliver of warmth into the room. A more modern cookstove was centred on the wall to her left, with the smoke piped out of the wall through a missing pane in one of the windows.

Meriden’s candle flickered light into the room as he returned, a basket in hand. Glancing at her, he headed to the far end of the deal table. Abigail was happy to see that the floor and kitchen surfaces seemed to be scoured clean, and she smiled as she noticed the bowls of dough left to rise in the warmth of the fireplace. Following her gaze, Meriden noted the row himself and smiled. “When I was a boy, I would often find Mrs Huddleston here late at night, making dough for the next day’s bread. She’s the gamekeeper’s wife, and her breads are well loved here. In a few hours, the kitchen maids will come and light the fires. In the old days, Mrs Huddleston would come back in the mornings and see to the baking of it herself. Now, the undercook is her daughter, and an expert baker herself. She’ll be here at first light to start the baking and begin the breakfast preparations.”

He set down the candle and searched the basket. “Here, one of yesterday’s apple strudels. They are a warm treat, especially at breakfast, for the cold lads who run the errands and carry milk from the dairy and generally make themselves useful about the place. I used to do chores just so I could have them myself. They’re best warm, but, as in our case, beggars should not be choosers.”

Abigail tasted the pastry, surprised by the sweet richness inside. Happily, she ate the treat, watching as Meriden wolfed downed his own, then licked his fingers. She went to do the same, surprised when his eyes fixed on her and his breathing became a rough rasp in the air. Blushing, she continued, then shrugged a bit. “We don’t have table linens, after all,” she said ruefully as his dark eyes narrowed. He reached out a finger and brushed sugar from the corner of her mouth, then drew back.

“Food,” he muttered, “as in actual food. I saw the strudels and swiped one for each of us, but—ah, here we are,” Meriden continued, finding bread, then producing a plate with sliced ham on it.

“That’s probably for breakfast,” Abigail advised, looking at it doubtfully.

“Eat it,” he returned, rolling up a piece and handing it to her.

Abigail wrinkled her nose a little. “Just bread,” she returned.

“Eat!” he insisted, his voice now demanding rather than simply conversational.