Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (7 page)

NINE

Mrs. Beecher came for me the next morning. Her lips a tight seam, she shoved a note into my hands. My glance flitted to the folded paper and back to her again.

"Well, open it," she said.

I hesitated before doing so. I scanned the boldly scrawled summons. With hands that trembled, I folded the paper and placed it in my apron pocket.

"He wants a response," Mrs. Beecher said.

My words came sluggishly, due not to uncertainty, but regret for what was to come. "A quarter hour, if it pleases his lordship."

The lines around her mouth deepened, but she said only, "You've thought it through?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have." Seeing the earl, so alone in the dark, had made the decision for me. "Please, you must understand—"

Any hope I harbored that Mrs. Beecher might soften in her stance vanished as she turned heel and left without another word. With a heavy heart, I used the handful of minutes to gather myself. I neatened my appearance as best as I could before heading to the library.

I found Earl Huxton pacing before the bookcases. He paused when I entered. His bright gaze latched upon me, as if surprised by my entry into the room. Confused, I dropped a curtsy. "Good morning, my lord. Mrs. Beecher conveyed that you wished my presence."

He gave no indication that he wished anything of me. After a moment, he issued a terse wave toward his desk. I managed to make my way there without stumbling and took the chair on the opposite side. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Titian-haired woman smirking.

He continued to examine the shelves I had begun to organize. No longer were the precious volumes stacked in mish-mash style. All the spines stood outward, gleaming and free of dust, a proud regiment for his inspection. As he surveyed my handiwork, I did the same of him from beneath my lashes.

There was no sign of the tortured man I had seen the previous evening. He appeared his usual impeccable self with his dark, wavy hair brushing his collar, his lean jaw smoothly shaven. There were no shadows to mar the austere perfection of his face. He had shed his morning coat (I winced to see the fine charcoal fabric slung so carelessly over his leather chair). Clad in a ruby-hued waistcoat over dove-grey trousers, he was every inch the fashionable gentleman.

"You have been busy."

It might have been a compliment or criticism, so tonelessly were the words uttered.

"Yes, my lord." When he said nothing further, I added, "I've begun to arrange the shelves by subject and alphabetically by author and title."

He stopped in front of the Ancient Rome bookcase. "In the works by Pliny, you have placed
Naturalis Historia
before
Epistulae
. Why?"

Leave it to his lordship to hone in upon the one issue I had struggled with.

"The former is attributed to Pliny the Elder, the latter to Pliny the Younger," I said. "
E
before
Y
. I thought it simplest. However, I do see your point, my lord. If one is to consider the full Latin names of the authors, one would place
Gaius Plinius Caecilius
before
Gaius Plinius Secundus
—so Younger would precede Elder, and therefore
Epistulae
before
Naturalis Historia
."

The earl turned to look at me. One dark eyebrow was raised, and his expression I could only describe as bemused. I had the distinct feeling he found my explanation amusing, though for what reason I could not fathom. Perhaps I did not convey my logic in a clear enough manner. Or perhaps he thought me impudent for rattling off so—or worse yet, too prideful of my work. Aunt Agnes had oft chastised me about that last part.

Clever is as clever does, my girl. Mind you remember that. Most folks don't like to be outwitted
—
and especially not the men folk. Keep your head down, but your mind sharp.

"I will arrange it in whatever way suits you, my lord," I mumbled, my cheeks reddening.

"You are an unusual creature, are you not, Abigail Jones?"

"No," I said quickly, "I am not."

He advanced in my direction, and I squirmed against the hard back of the chair. "She spends her nights raiding libraries, cozies herself with Aeschylus, and is on a first-name basis with ancient Romans. And she does not consider herself odd."

"As I said, my aunt—"

"Yes, the esteemed schoolmistress who raised you." I was relieved to see him go to his side of the desk and lower himself into his chair. His fingers formed a steeple. Above his snowy collar and grey silk cravat, his mouth ticked upward at one corner. "We've heard about her already. Tell me about someone else. Your parents, for example."

"My parents, my lord?" I repeated the question, not out of idiocy but out of desire to buy time. The sudden change of course in our conversation had caught me unprepared. Though I was loathe to lie to my employer, I was yet more loathe to reveal the truth.

"I had not realized the term required definition," he said dryly. "Allow me to clarify: he who sired you and she who bore you into this world."

I was now ready with my answer. "My mother died shortly after my birth. I did not know her." 'Twas the truth; I merely omitted the fact that prior to my birth she had been making her living as a prostitute and that she had bore me whilst imprisoned in an asylum for the insane. But there was no getting around the next part. "I did not know my father either. She and he ... they were not married, you see."

I forced myself to hold his gaze in the silence that followed. Beneath my plain cotton collar, I felt the gentle weight of the gold cross. I came from love, and for that, I would not be ashamed.

But his lordship's blood was blue, heralding (if the servants' gossip was to be believed) all the way back to William the Conquerer. He could not be counted on so liberal a perspective concerning the circumstances of one's birth. The precariousness of my situation struck me; why had I divulged my origins to him? I felt a surge of panic. Would he scorn me, dismiss me out of hand—

"You were born a bastard," he said quietly, "and that is no failing of yours. 'Tis what you make of yourself that matters, Miss Jones."

I nodded, too relieved to do anything else.

"Which brings us to your current position. You have made good progress on your first task. Now I give you another." So saying, he reached for a bundle of correspondence and tossed it at me. I caught the thick stack. Tied up in string, there had to be thirty letters, mayhap more, in that pastel collection. The scent of expensive perfume tickled my nostrils, and I wrinkled my nose.

"Not squeamish, are you, Miss Jones?" Earl Huxton smiled faintly. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and the morning light glinted off the silver at his temples.

"No, of course not," I said stiffly.

"I didn't think so. Your sensibilities have proved remarkably sturdy in our interactions." Realizing what he was referring to, I caught my lower lip between my teeth. I could see the devil of mischief in his blue eyes; I would not let him goad me into embarrassment. His mouth twitching, he continued, "It was one of the reasons why I hired you on. The position I require is not for the faint of heart."

"What are your instructions, my lord?" I said in the brisk tones I had heard Mrs. Beecher use.

He smiled suddenly. Although its charm tugged at my breath, I kept my expression neutral—the first lesson any servant learns. "'Tis fortunate I have taken on a secretary equipped with her own shield and spear. Goddess of war, as well as wisdom. It will come in handy indeed."

His teasing drew a pleasurable confusion. The rejoinder popped into my head,
'Twill require Athena's shield to stave off your adoring female hordes.
But I caught myself, saying in a neutral voice, "What shall I do with these, my lord?"

"Sort out the invitations and decide functions which to attend. As for the others, pen them responses or throw them in the trash. I care not."

I did feel panic now. I knew nothing about what went on in the upper echelons of society. When I read the papers, I skipped over the social columns, finding them dull compared to articles on politics or the latest technological advances. Mr. Darwin's emerging theory of mankind's existence, for instance, captivated me more so than Lord So-and-So's marriage to Miss What's-Her-Name. Unfortunately, this meant I did not know a fashionable salon from a flat-bust affair. "But, my lord, how shall I know which ones you'll wish to go to—"

"Toss a coin, throw a dart. It matters not—I never stay long," he said in a bored tone.

"But my lord—"

"And that is another thing," he said, leaning back in his chair. "All this
my lord
-ing and
Miss Jones
-ing—I grow weary of it. If we are to work in close quarters, we must dispense with the formalities. What do your friends call you?"

Thinking of Mrs. Beecher, I felt my throat constrict. I had few friends left in the world. "My Aunt Agnes, she used to call me Abby."

"Abby, then. And I shall be Huxton—or Hux, if you prefer."

"Oh, no, my lord," I said, appalled. "What would people think? You are my employer, my better—"

"I am better than no one and you least of all."

There was a harsh quality to his voice that I did not comprehend. Still, the thought of Mrs. Beecher or Mr. Jessop or any other of the house staff hearing such impropriety fueled my anxiety, prodded me to plea, "Please, I cannot. Call me Abby, if you wish, but allow me to address you as I should. As befits our stations, my lord."

He gave me a brooding look. "You really care what the world thinks, Abby? About morality. Propriety?"

I remembered Jack's disapproving frown. Then Mrs. Simon's pinched countenance materialized before me. And behind her, a circle of similar genteel faces, all of them censorious, accusatory, their voices rising as one:
The Ladies' Planning Committee declares Abigail Jones a no good person. No good, and cursed by the devil's own thoughts
...

Swallowing, I pushed the images away. I gave a quick nod.

He braced his arms on the desk. "You'll learn. Until then, I suggest a compromise. You may
my lord
me to high heaven—"

I smiled in relief.

"—whilst we are public. Alone, I shall be Hux. I shan't respond to anything else. Is that acceptable?"

'Twas apparently the best I could hope for. "Yes, my lord."

In the silence that followed, he studied his perfectly trimmed nails. Then he yawned and stretched his long arms, as if he hadn't a care in the world. When I realized what he was doing, I had to restrain the upward impulse of my eyes. Working for this man was clearly going to test the limits of my temperance.

"That is ... yes, Hux.'" To my consternation, the intimate syllable rolled smoothly off my tongue.

"Excellent."

"Is there anything else, or may I leave now?" I asked.

"You may go."

I had made it to the door, envelopes tucked beneath my arm, when his voice stopped me. Hooked me from behind, much the way Punch did Judy. "By the by, Friday morning—be prepared to leave at eight sharp."

"Leave, my—I mean, Hux?" I tilted my head. "But where are we going?"

"Shopping," he said. "In London."

London
? My pulse accelerated at the thought of the dangerous city. And shopping? Definitely not one of my fortes. I was certain Lord Huxton employed many others better suited for that task. "If you inform me of the purpose, perhaps I could suggest another one of the staff to accompany you—"

"Well, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it, seeing that the shopping is for you."

In that instant, I forgot my servant-like composure.

"What?" I squeaked.

"Tell me, are all the garments you own like this one?"

Cautiously, I nodded. The truth was I had only one other dress, and this, the untrimmed dark bombazine, was the newer of the two. Since I could no longer wear a maid's uniform, it had been my better option. For decoration, I had pinned a plain white kerchief over the high collar.

"No secretary of mine is walking around dressed like that," he said decisively.

I flushed. "But my lord, I cannot afford—"

"I shall cover the expense." He cut off my protestations with a hand. "As your employer, I require it. Think of it as another uniform. You will be seen in public as my secretary—you would not wish to reflect badly on me, would you?"

I had no choice but to shake my head.

"Eight o' clock Friday." He picked up his paper and shook out the ironed folds. It was clear that I was being dismissed. "Do not be late."

TEN

For the rest of the week, I attended to my new tasks and tried not to be distracted by the looks and whispers aimed in my direction. News of my rise in position had spread throughout the household, and I was greeted with mixed reactions from the other staff. Mrs. Beecher had already made her opinion clear; the frost emanating from her might have frozen a lake (mayhap the Thames itself). Despite my on-going efforts to make amends, it seemed only time might rekindle the warmth of her friendship.

Ginny, on the other hand, fairly bubbled over with excitement at the news. Over and again during breakfast, she made me tell her of the events leading to the promotion. Out of necessity, I provided a tailored version. When I explained that I could read and write and his lordship had discovered this fact, she wrinkled her nose. Clearly, she'd been expecting a far more stimulating reason for my rise than mere literacy.

The other servants' responses fell somewhere in between the two extremes. With the exception of Ginny, my shyness had prevented me from hitting it off with the other maids. My position was now made even more awkward. My duties no longer fell under the auspices of either Mr. Jessop or Mrs. Beecher; in truth, I was no longer a household servant. My present responsibilities were more in line with those of his lordship's professional men. His land steward, for example, or his man-of-business. However, I was neither male, nor did I boast professional credentials. And I continued to live in the maids' quarters.

In the efficient colony below stairs, I was the one worker who marched out of line, who had no clear place in the household hierarchy. This fact seemed to irk some of the other staff. The second footman, in particular, began treating me with chilly disdain. Just yesterday, I'd taken the servant's corridor on the way to the kitchen and come upon Derrick cozying up with Nan, another of the chamber maids. At my approach, he'd looked up and drawled, "Lost your way, Miss Jones? This 'ere path is fer the servants." Cheeks throbbing, I'd hurried past, the sound of their laughter ringing in my ears. There had been similar incidents with others, in which my presence triggered a sly smothering of conversation, or a subtle exchange of looks.

I told myself I did not care. I had weathered worse. I would keep my head high and do my work as God intended.

However, in a turn that brought me selfish relief, another scandal emerged which usurped the whispers about me. Silver had been discovered missing. 'Twas the third instance of theft in a mere two months: the earl's cufflinks and a set of antique candlesticks had previously been pilfered. With grim faces, Mr. Jessop and Mrs. Beecher questioned the staff one by one. Rampant speculation buzzed, and my promotion was temporarily forgotten.

Friday morning, however, I awoke to a feeling of dread. Instantly, I knew why.

Shopping day.

Taking care not to disturb Ginny, I completed my simple morning ablutions, washing my face in the basin and cleaning my teeth with peppermint tooth powder. Cook and the cook maids nodded sleepy-eyed to me as I passed through the kitchen. Snagging a wedge of cheese and a hunk of yesterday's bread, I headed up the stairs to the library. I hoped work would soothe my ruffled edges.

But even sorting Greek poets did little to calm me. Nibbling on the cheese, I contemplated the mires ahead. First of all, I would be seen leaving with my employer in his carriage. I cringed to think what the other servants would think—especially Mrs. Beecher. No doubt I would be seen as uppity and not knowing of my place. Perhaps if I could exit through the servant's entrance, skulk around the back of the house, and meet the earl at the carriage without being seen ...

'Twas fiddle faddle, and I knew it. We servants saw everything. I sighed, rubbing my neck. There was nothing for it. I could do little to influence the opinion of others. What I ought to be concerned about was the prospect of being in debt to the earl. He might call it a requirement, but I was not so naive as to believe that most employers paid for their secretaries' wardrobes. I would have to draw the line, I decided. A simple dress. Decent and more to current standards, if necessary—but definitely inexpensive. I would insist he take it out of my future wages.

I worried my lip between my teeth. 'Twas a good plan—except for the part where I had to set firm limits. My employer did not seem a man hindered by others' notions of right and wrong. Indeed, in the short week I had spent as his secretary, I'd already gleaned that he cared not a whit about conventionality. Indeed, it
amused
him. His wit I could only describe as subtle and perverse. 'Twas as if he had seen too much, done too much, to take ordinary concerns seriously. He oft goaded me, as if he found strange enjoyment in trying to breach the proper and professional manner I was determined to uphold.

But, in truth, I had a larger worry than the earl's bizarre sense of humor. With hands not quite steady, I made methodic piles of the ancient Greeks. Aeschylus, Euripides, Hesiod. The temptation grew in me to open the book, any book, and lose myself in its pages. For today I would be leaving the security of this house. Venturing forth from the haven of Hope End into the unknown city. I had no idea where the earl planned to take me, but I could picture the crowded streets. The invisible dangers. Specters of madness poised to awaken at the slightest touch.

Jack Simon had spoken of London as adventure. I thought of it as hell.

In the past, Aunt Agnes had protected me. I'd never left our cottage without her, and we'd stayed within the radius of our village. After her death, there had been a month where I'd ventured out not at all, subsisting off rations of boiled potatoes and jars of pickled vegetables. Then the lease had come due, and there'd been no other choice. I'd had to leave and look for work. Like an angel, Mrs. Beecher had answered my post and invited me into this household. I had not left during my month's tenure save the week-ends with the Simons.

I feared the world beyond this house; I hoped eight o'clock would never arrive.

But it did and with little fanfare. The earl met me in the entrance hall. As usual, he appeared the epitome of the aristocrat in his navy frock coat, embroidered waistcoat, and buff trousers.

"Ready, Miss Jones?" His tone was brisk, all business.

"Yes, my lord."

I followed my employer out of the grand vaulted entryway. Pausing on the top step, I blinked in the bright watery light. I don't know what I expected. Certainly there was nothing out of the ordinary on this quiet February day in the country. Save for the carriage, the courtyard was still and devoid of activity. The main fountain, a triad of nude nymphs with vessels held judiciously below the waist, would not be turned on for another month. Beyond the circle of gravel, the grounds spread smooth and chill-bitten toward the distant stone and wrought-iron gate.

His lordship looked back at me; the four magnificent chestnuts below stamped and huffed, as if echoing his impatience. I hurried forward, keeping my gaze lowered. Even so, I caught Edgar the groom's scowl as he held open the gleaming black door. Heat flamed my cheeks. Then I was inside, and shame was replaced by a sense of awe.

This was as cozy and luxurious a world as I had ever seen. The squabs of green velvet and gold-rimmed accents made me think of the faerie tale princess in her magical pumpkin. As the carriage rolled off, the motion was so smooth it could scarce be felt. From the opposite corner, my employer stretched his long legs before him, his feet crossing at the ankle. He had his elbow propped upon an arm rest, his jaw between thumb and index finger.

His vivid gaze turned to me. "Why are you nervous, Abby?"

His question—or more to the point, his perceptiveness—startled me.

"I'm not n-nervous," I said in shaky tones.

The daylight highlighted rather than relieved the saturnine quality of his features. His profile was cast in harsh silver: the brooding mouth and stern jaw, the dramatic pale streaks amidst midnight. "Have you forgotten the condition of your employment already, Abigail?"

"Of—of course not, my ... Hux."

"As
Your Hux
, as you so charmingly put it, I expect the truth. At all times. I repeat, what causes your disquiet?"

Sitting in a carriage with you. Going into the City. Being prone to bouts of lunacy.

I might have named any one of those truths, had they been nameable. Instead, I mumbled, "I don't like shopping, my lord."

'Twas no lie—though mayhap not the greatest truth.

"You don't
like
shopping?"

My employer sounded so stunned that I had to stifle an inopportune snort of laughter. If
this
news shocked him, what might his reaction have been to my other thoughts?

"No, I do not," I said. "Aunt Agnes and I rarely did it beyond what was necessary."

"Trust me, this is necessary," he drawled. I felt my ears burn as he raked his gaze over my brown cloak, heightening my awareness of its threadbare state. "Besides, there is not one female in my acquaintance who does not relish the opportunity to feed her vanity."

"There is one now," I said, with a touch of asperity. In my mind, I added,
One amongst the legions of your lordship's experience.

In the past week, I had sifted through the majority of Hux's correspondence. There had literally been dozens of letters from paramours—or ladies who wished to hold such a position in his life. Far from deterring female interest, it seemed that his reputation as a rake caused the opposite effect. And 'twas not only the light-heeled sort penning those invitations: respectable widows, even married matrons—they all wanted a taste of Lord Lucifer's fire. The recollection of the innuendoes and promises inked into those perfumed sheets caused my cheeks to throb with heat.

Long, sensual lashes lowered on a gleam of blue. "Jealous, Abigail?"

The soft, knowing question ratcheted up my embarrassment.

"Of course not," I said in a strangled voice. "Your ... a-affairs are none of my concern. If you wish to c-conduct yourself in such a ... an
immoderate
manner, then 'tis on your soul not mine."

A pause. Then his lips made that dashed quirk upward again. "If I am to understand correctly, I am now lacking in moderation, as well as judgment and wit. I confess I find these observations of yours most refreshing. Tell me, secretary mine, what other failings do you see?"

Pinning my lips, I fixed my gaze on the cushions in front of me. I could feel the furious thumping in my chest, the intemperate beat bridling at my good sense.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are quite charming when you are annoyed, Miss Jones?" the earl drawled.

A person—even a secretary—could only take so much.

Without thinking, I retorted, "Has anyone ever told
you
that you are quite annoying when you're charming, my lord?"

Heavy silence greeted my words. My eyes widened, my hand flying to my mouth. Dear Heavens, what had I just said ...?

For a moment, his eyes seemed to blaze in his severe, angelic face. Then he turned his head to look out the window. Dazed, I fumbled to think of an apology, some explanation for why I had just seen fit to give my employer,
the earl
, a blistering set down.

"M-my lord ..." I croaked.

He held up a hand, keeping his face averted to the window. My stomach sank. Definitely not a positive sign. I saw that his shoulders had started to shake, and my heart felt as if it might leap from its home.

Dear God, had I driven him into a physical rage?

The muffled sound pierced my panic. Was he trying to say something? The sound came from him again, low ... gasping ... almost like ...

I caught a flash of devilish blue. The next instant, rich, masculine laughter reverberated in the carriage. Shocked and relieved, I tried to gather my senses. Tried to bring my scattered pulse to equilibrium. Eyes narrowing, I saw with no little irritation that his lordship seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath.

"Oh, Abigail," he said at last. "Thank you for that."

"I live to oblige," I said tartly.

One corner of his mouth shifted upward—lazily, this time. "Oblige me, will you?" he murmured. "No, little one, I don't think you're quite ready for that."

The seductive innuendo of his words, of his gleaming eyes, rendered me hostage. Awareness prickled over my skin and ruffled my nerve endings. Pleasure suffused me at the sound of his velvet-wrapped voice, at his spice-tinged nearness. Inhaling sharply, I tore my eyes away.
'Tis just his dashed peculiar sense of humor
, I chastised myself.
Do not be taken in by the devil's charm.
Aiming my gaze out the window, I resolved to keep it there for the remainder of the trip.

Sometime during the ride I must have fallen asleep, however, for I awoke to a strange landscape. There were no verdant fields here, or friendly tumble-down cottages. Instead, an enormous black specter filled the sky; like a shroud, it hung over the city, obscuring humanity from view. All I could see was a ghostly topography of tall, jutting edges, of shifting shadows and smoke. Shivering in my thin cloak, I peeped over at Hux. He appeared lost in his thoughts and paid no attention as we plunged into the hellish haze.

As we penetrated the city, I saw the source of the fog. 'Twas not inhuman in origin, but quite the opposite: the product of man's progress. Fields upon fields of smoking chimneys choked the skyline. Burning coal stung my nostrils, its sooty aftermath coating my lungs. All around us, the streets swarmed with industry. People and conveyances vied for space. Everyone shouted in London, it seemed. The buildings of brick and wood huddled close together, leaning inward over the narrow, crooked streets.

After travelling through a maze of activity and noise, we turned onto a street lined with elegant shops. Everything became muffled here, insulated by obvious prosperity. Well-dressed ladies and their escorts ambled along the wide walks, and there was even an elm or two to provide a graceful canopy on a sunny day. I wondered where we were.