Cheryl Holt (43 page)

Proceeding down the hall, she entered the chamber, then stopped in her tracks as Angela Ford whirled around. Beautiful as always, Mrs. Ford was dressed in a flowing, scarlet gown meant to shock and turn heads. The manner in which it sculpted her voluptuous figure was almost sinful.

“There you are!” she said, smiling and rushing forward. “I was going to give that snooty butler one more minute, then I was prepared to search this mausoleum myself.”

Angela Ford was here? In her drawing room? Feeling as though she were having a bizarre hallucination, Abigail shook herself in an attempt to clear her vision. “I must say,” she remarked, thoroughly disconcerted, “that you are the very last person I expected at Marbleton, Mrs. Ford.”

“Call me Angela,” she suggested. “And it’s Mrs. Stevens now.” She jovially waved her fingers so that Abigail could view her large diamond.

“Since when?” Abigail was smiling, too, and moving across the salon until they met in the middle. Astonishingly, Angela opened her arms and gregariously hugged her as though they were two long-lost friends. Abigail had never had much experience with people who were so flagrantly demonstrative, so she didn’t know what else to do but to react with an embrace of her own. Hands joined, they sat together on the small sofa.

“Two days ago,” Angela glowed. “ ’Twas so romantic. We didn’t tell anyone. We just sneaked off and did it.”

“I’m utterly thrilled,” Abigail said. “Is Edward with you?”

“No. The stick-in-the-mud refused to accompany me. If you want my opinion, he’s become entirely too stiff-necked in the years we’ve been apart. I’ll have to break him in all over again.” But the gleam in her eye belied her complaint; she would obviously welcome every minute of
retraining
Edward to her liking.

“Where is he?”

“At the tavern in the village.”

“But why? I would love to have seen him.”

“Didn’t I say so?” She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of men. “But he isn’t about to do anything that would put your brother into more of a state.”

“Jerald is
that
upset?” Abigail was unnerved to learn that he was still so angry. Such a high level of continuing aggravation didn’t bode well for her future. “Surely he’s calmed a little by now.”

“I’m not talking about your predicament. I’m referring to what happened last week. With Caroline and Charles.” Angela hesitated, observing Abigail’s confusion. “You haven’t heard!”

“Heard what? I haven’t had any news since I’ve been here.”

“Your brother was all set to marry Caroline to some half-wit, so she eloped with my stepson, Charles Stevens. The scandal is all over Town.”

“Caroline’s eloped?”

In all the hours she’d passed contemplating her prospects, she’d barely dared consider her sister and what fate Jerald might devise for her. It was clear that he intended to punish Caroline for Abigail’s sins, yet Abigail hadn’t been able to devise a single method of rescuing her. Not when Jerald was Caroline’s legal and financial guardian.

While she was relieved that Caroline had ended up with Charles, she was saddened anew by all the damage she’d
wrought on her unsuspecting family. If she hadn’t initiated her affair with James, Caroline would be at home where she belonged, planning a grand wedding to close out the Season, instead of hiding in some strange city, secluded and furtively commencing her new life.

Just then, the butler poked his nose in the room, and Angela informed him, “Lady Abigail is shaken by the tidings I’ve related. Bring us a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Straightaway.”

The man huffed at being ordered about by the strong-willed, flamboyant woman. “Madam,” he snarled, “Lady Abigail doesn’t drink hard spirits.”

“She does now. Go get some!” Angela snapped, and he shuffled away in a snit while she sympathetically massaged Abigail’s back. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Abigail admitted candidly. “I’m completely stunned. I had always envisioned a magnificent celebration for Caroline’s wedding. But to discover that my actions drove her to such a drastic resolution!”

“I wouldn’t feel too badly if I were you,” Angela advised sagely. “That Charles Stevens has the look of the devil about him, and he’s about the age my Eddy was when I first tied myself up with him. She’ll not be regretting her choices.”

The butler reentered, carrying a tray laden with the items Angela had demanded. She crossed the room and snatched it from him, while pushing him into the hall and closing the door in his face. Pouring them both a glass of the strong liquor, she held one out, and Abigail reached for it with trembling fingers, drinking and letting the potent elixir burn its way to her stomach.

More calm, she queried, “How did they accomplish it?”

“James arranged it all.”

“James?” Abigail gasped, loving and hating the chance to speak his name. “Why would he? He and Charles aren’t even acquainted.”

“I didn’t realize they were, either, and Eddy insists not, so I’m not certain how it came about. Supposedly, James
snatched Caroline from a party right under Margaret’s nose, then she and Charles fled to Scotland in James’s carriage.”

“Where are they now?”

“No one knows, but word has it that James is concealing their whereabouts.” She took a long taste of her libation. “If he is, he’s not saying. Eddy wants to wring both boys’ necks, and Jerald is fit to have an apoplexy, so that’s why Eddy ducked the opportunity to visit you. Considering Jerald’s condition, Eddy deems it best if all of us Stevenses stay clear till this latest storm blows over.” She smiled naughtily. “Personally, I think we should all tell Jerald to go f . . .”—she paused, then chuckled. “Well . . . never mind.”

Angela downed her whiskey while Abigail sipped hers, then the older woman refilled both glasses as she casually mentioned, “Aren’t you going to ask me about James?”

“No.” Abigail shifted uncomfortably. “Why would I ask about James?”

“I just thought you might be wondering how he’s been, what he’s been doing with himself.”

“Besides orchestrating his brother’s elopement, you mean?”

“Yes . . . besides that. . . .”

Both women smiled, but Abigail’s faded, and she stood and walked to the end of the room. Unable to face Angela, or the topic she intended to address, she stared out the window, becoming keenly interested in one of the gardeners who was kneeling in the grass and pruning a hedge. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“When you appeared on my doorstep in London”—Angela’s skirts crinkled as she rose and crossed the room, as well—“you said that you loved him. That you loved him ‘more than life.’ Those were your very words.”

Abigail shrugged. “Foolish sentiments,” she murmured, “from a naive, stupid girl.”

“I know he cared enough to meet with you even though I urged him not to. What did he tell you?”

“Nothing at all. You had warned me that he felt no attachment
to me—or any woman, for that matter—and I should have listened.”

Angela rested a gentle hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “Did he actually say that he didn’t love you?”

“Yes,” she choked out on a hitched breath, recalling every hateful, mortifying comment that had sprung from his lips on that dreadful afternoon, “he said exactly that.”

“And you believed him?”

“How could I not?”

“Don’t you understand anything about my son? He assumed he was being noble!” She grumbled low in her throat, then clutched her fists to her bosom, as though enacting a melodramatic scene on the stage. “He sent you on your way, because he is so
unworthy
of you.”

“I
never
thought he was undeserving!”

“Well, James certainly supposes that’s how you feel. And why shouldn’t he?” she inquired angrily. “What did you ever do that might cause him think differently? You initiated a clandestine affair; you were embarrassed to be seen with him, unwilling to let others know you’d been together—”

“That’s not true!” Abigail broke in indignantly.

“The one occasion you could have recognized him—that night at the theater—you gave him a vicious public cut. How else should he regard your behavior?”

“I never meant to treat him badly!”

“Didn’t you?”

The damning question hung in the air, and Abigail blushed with shame, unable to lie to his mother. She’d never done anything to show James how important he was to her. At every juncture, she’d denied him.

“Tell me the truth: Do you still love him?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Abigail confessed.

“Then why are you here, cowering in this house?”

“My brother ordered me home!”

“So?”

“I couldn’t refuse!”

“Why not? How old are you? Twenty-five? With your
own fortune and your entire life ahead of you!” She grumbled sarcastically, “Oh, that I had been able to start out with some of your horrid luck!”

Abigail wished she could explain how apprehensive she was over all these alien, drastic alternatives. The future seemed to be a huge, dark hole, yawning loudly, anxious to suck her in and pull her down. “ ’Tis not so easy as you imagine!”

“Isn’t it?” Angela asked in disgust. “Jerald is treating you like a babe. He decreed that you go to the country, and you scurried away as fast as your feet could carry you!”

“There wasn’t any reason to tarry in London! James didn’t want me!”

“Oh, you are wrong,” Angela said, clucking in dismay. “You are so bloody wrong. I’d like to shake the pair of you!” She took Abigail’s hands in her own. “Abigail, dear, what are your plans? Will you stay here until Jerald tosses you out? Until he selects some fishwife of a husband whom you will loathe till your dying day?”

“I don’t know what’s best,” she mumbled dejectedly. “I’m so confused.”

“Honey, you don’t need to be,” Angela consoled confidently. “Let me tell you something: When I was your age, I left Eddy. I was stubborn and vain and completely convinced that I was right, even though when I first became entangled with him, I knew that he would have to marry someday—and it wouldn’t be to me. I
knew
how it would go, yet I couldn’t stop myself. Then his destiny hit the two of us like a powerful sea wind, and I let arrogance be my guide. We were separated for twenty-five years, and I’m so lucky that fate has given me a second chance. We rushed off and married without even inviting our children to witness the ceremony.”

“None of them?”

“No. We were tired of their whining. And guess what? I don’t care a fig that they weren’t with us. I’m just so relieved that he’s returned. Nothing else matters so long as
Eddy remains by my side. The rest of the world can jump off a cliff.”

“But I’m not like you,” Abigail persisted. Angela had had a lifetime of practice at reaching out and grabbing for what she desired, while the only singular act Abigail had ever committed had been loving James. And look where that had landed her! “ ’Tis frightening to consider throwing all caution to the wind. I’m afraid of what might happen.”

“What is there to be afraid of? The very worst conclusion is that you couldn’t turn James’s heart around and you’d wind up with a broken one yourself. But you’re already there! Taking a chance can’t make things any worse!” She tenderly patted Abigail’s cheek. “Will you sit here on your laurels while Jerald organizes a life you couldn’t abide? Or will you seize what you genuinely crave?”

“I don’t know how,” Abigail declared softly.

“Yes, you do,” Angela asserted. “ ’Tis simple. Just swallow your pride and go to James. Because he’s not going to come to you! You’ll have to risk that initial step. I realize it’s scary, but if you succeed, won’t the gamble have been worth it? For what is your other option?” She gestured around the perfectly appointed, sterile salon. “Will you forgo a home of your own? Children? No James to love?” Quietly, fervently, she stated, “I traveled down that road, Abigail, when I abandoned Eddy and fled to Paris with our boys, and it wasn’t a pretty trip. Not a single day of it.”

The clock down the hall chimed the hour, and Angela straightened and sighed. “I must be off; Eddy will be starting to worry.” She went to one of the side chairs, lifted her wrap, and pulled it over her shoulders. “Please promise me that you’ll consider what I’ve said.”

“I will.”

“If you decide to journey to London, my man Arthur is still at the house, watching after James for me. I’ve informed him that you might show. He’ll let you in and help you get settled.” She laughed bawdily. “Move in the damned place; I don’t care. You’re already a
fallen
woman; go ahead and
fall
a bit further. Just swear to me that you
won’t leave until James has the opportunity to ask you to stay.”

“Where will you be?” Abigail’s voice was quaking as badly as her legs, and she eased herself down on a nearby chair.

“We’re bound for the Italian coast and our honeymoon. I’d hoped we could visit Paris so Eddy could see where the boys and I had lived, but with all the national upset, we can’t stop there. I offered to write to Bonaparte—”

“You’re friends with Napoleon Bonaparte?”

“Of course,” she answered, looking at Abigail as though she were addled. “I was the
darling”
—she batted her long lashes—“of Paris for nearly two decades. He’d have granted us safe passage, but Eddy wouldn’t even discuss it. His
position
and all. That man and his stuffy convictions!” She winked wickedly. “I’ll have to work my wiles on him during our lengthy sea voyage. He’ll come ’round.” She leaned down and kissed Abigail on the forehead. “Goodbye, my dear.”

“Good-bye, Angela. Godspeed to you both.”

Angela gazed down upon her, then placed her open palm on Abigail’s head, as if bestowing a benediction. “Be happy, Abigail. Decide what it is you want and go after it. Don’t be timid! You’d be surprised by the small miracles that might occur.”

In a swirl of skirts, she departed. Abigail lingered in her chair, too overwhelmed to escort her to the door. Sensing the woman’s light perfume, her fullbodied laughter, her charismatic presence, she sat in the stunned silence Angela had left in her wake, and in the blind void enveloping her, she could only focus on one thought.

James! James was alone, and in London, and missing her! Angela claimed it was so.