Woman in Black (3 page)

He placed her hand over the thing poking up, rigid as a tent pole, over the elastic waistband of his briefs. “Yeah, that's it … like that,” he whispered as she began to stroke it, tentatively at first, then with increasing boldness. Moments later, she felt it spasm, and something warm and wet spilled over her fingers.

He drew away, muttering, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen.” He sounded almost angry.

Was he angry at
her?
she wondered. Had she given in too easily? Had he expected her to be more demure?

“It's okay.” Abigail knew about such things from Sex Ed, but experiencing it was something else altogether. She felt embarrassed, not sure how she was supposed to act. Were there rules of etiquette about this sort of thing? When he didn't reply, she managed to stammer, after an awkward moment of silence, “I … I guess we should be going. It's getting late.”

Neither of them spoke as they got dressed. There were none of the affectionate touches or kidding remarks she was used to from Vaughn. Had he belatedly come to his senses and realized what he'd be getting into? God knew she was nothing like the girls he normally dated. Like their neighbor Ginny Clayson, the daughter of a state senator … and last year that pretty blond he'd met skiing with his dad in Aspen, who'd come for a visit, some sort of heiress whose father owned half the oil wells in Texas. Maybe Abigail was only good enough to be his friend but not his girlfriend. After all, she'd been willing to go all the way without so much as a halfhearted protest, which made her little better than a common slut.

Driving back, though, he acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary. They talked about their favorite scenes in the movie, the trip he was taking to St. Simons Island with his family on Labor Day weekend, and what his football team's chances were of making the division playoffs next year. Before she knew it, they were pulling into the driveway. The only indication that a profound change had taken place came when Vaughn, as he was saying good-night, brushed his lips over hers instead of giving her the usual peck on the cheek.

Now, as Abigail carried a plate of bacon and eggs out to Vaughn on this first morning of her new and not necessarily improved life—a life like an upended boxful of puzzle pieces scattered every which way—she thought,
What now?
She was trying to remain cool, but it was difficult with her heart racing a mile a minute and her cheeks on fire.

But Vaughn had his head buried in the newspaper; he wasn't even looking at her. She wondered what he was thinking, or if he was thinking about her at all. Maybe he just didn't know how to act. It was an awkward situation, the two of them all but living under the same roof and having to pretend everything was normal. Some might say it was downright
weird
.

Her hand trembled as she poured his juice, and some of it dribbled onto his place mat. “Sorry,” she murmured. Vaughn glanced up from his newspaper then, and she saw, from the expression on his face as his gaze met hers, that he'd only been pretending to read. As she reached for a napkin to mop up the spill, she felt the light brush of his fingertips against the inside of her wrist. The same fingers that last night had fondled her breasts. That had pushed her damp panties down around her thighs.

“You don't have to do that,” he said.

“I don't mind.” She aimed for a normal tone but couldn't hide the quaver in her voice. Her cheeks were so hot, they felt scalded.

“Well,
I
do. Don't you have anything better to do than wait on me?” He spoke in a playful tone no doubt meant to break the tension. But all it did was remind her that it was her
job
to wait on him. And what had he meant, anyway, by touching her like that? Had it been some sort of secret signal, his way of letting her know that last night was only the beginning … or merely a way of telling her he was sorry, that it wouldn't happen again?

He stayed at the table just long enough to bolt his breakfast before heading out. Minutes later, Abigail heard the roar of his pickup's engine in the driveway. She let go of the breath she'd been holding and turned her attention to preparing Mrs. Meriwhether's tray.

“No, not like that. Do it the way I showed you,” Rosalie gently corrected as Abigail arranged toast triangles on a plate. Abigail suppressed a sigh. Her mother had schooled her so well that by the age of twelve, Abigail could iron a collar that would stand up and whistle Dixie. She knew that old linen, made from flax grown tall and stout, was more durable than new, that soaking a tablecloth in milk got out red wine stains, and that ants wouldn't cross a chalk line drawn across a stoop or windowsill. But her mother still didn't trust her with this simplest of tasks.

Rosalie fussed over Gwen Meriwhether as she would a child in delicate health. When Gwen was laid up with one of her “headaches,” Rosalie brought her breakfast in bed. The rest of the day she tiptoed in and out of Gwen's room bringing cold compresses and warm solace.

When she wasn't looking after her employer, she was filling in for Gwen by acting as surrogate mother to Lila and Vaughn. She'd been the one to remind them when they were growing up to take their vitamins and to zip up their jackets on cold days, to phone home if they were going to friends' after school. Abigail knew her mother secretly worried that Ames would one day leave his wife. Wasn't that what men did? When Rosalie was just nine, her pa had gone out for a pack of cigarettes one evening, never to return. And hadn't Abigail's father left Rosalie when he'd found out she was pregnant?

“Like this?” Abigail rearranged the toast triangles in a fan shape. Rosalie nodded in approval, maintaining a careful watch out of the corner of her eye as Abigail spooned homemade strawberry preserves into a little porcelain dish, fragile as an eggshell. Alongside it she placed a small sterling spoon engraved, in worn but still decipherable curlicues, with Mrs. Meriwhether's initials. The spoon gleamed as though newly minted in the sunlight that filtered in through the curtain sheers. It might have been Rosalie's own wedding silver for the pride she took in keeping it polished.

When everything was to her satisfaction, Rosalie lifted the steaming kettle off the stove and poured boiling water over the two heaping teaspoons of Ceylon tea in the Limoges teapot. The final touch was a single pink rose, its petals still beaded with dew, tucked into a sterling bud vase.

Had Rosalie ever verbally declared her devotion to the Meriwhethers it would have been an embarrassment to all concerned. It was the care she took in anticipating their every need that expressed her sentiments more eloquently than any words. Like Gwen's breakfast tray, with its attention to every detail, down to the crisply ironed linen napkin tucked into a silver napkin ring. It was Rosalie's way of letting the Meriwhethers know that she considered them more her family than she did her own kin. Sixteen years ago, they'd taken her in, pregnant and penniless, and when Abigail was born they'd embraced her as well. How could she feel anything but love for them?

“Why don't you have something to eat while I take this up to Mrs. Meriwhether,” Rosalie said, hefting the tray with a faint, musical chiming of the porcelain teacup in its saucer.

“I'm not hungry,” Abigail replied in a lackluster tone. Her stomach was still in knots over the encounter with Vaughn, which had left her more confused than ever.

Rosalie paused to smile at her in a way that made her feel suddenly self-conscious. “It won't always be this way, you know.”

“What?”

“Boys.”

Abigail blushed, realizing how transparent she was even as she replied innocently, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Her mother's calm, steady gaze gave no quarter. Clearly she hadn't missed the way Abigail had been mooning around Vaughn. What she didn't know was that it had since crossed over into another realm. “But don't let it worry you. Before long you'll have them eating out of your hand. And believe me,” she said, her tone turning ominous, “that's when your real troubles begin.”

Rosalie's expression was that of a woman who knew all too well where that kind of trouble could lead. Pregnant at seventeen, she'd been cast out by her deeply religious mother and stepfather and probably would have starved, or worse, if she hadn't happened into this job. Now, at thirty-four, she professed to be done with men and all their “nonsense.” The one time Abigail had floated the idea of her mother's getting married one day, Rosalie had scoffed at it. “What do I need with a husband?” she'd said. “Don't we have everything we could possibly want right here?” She seemed to go out of her way to discourage any potential suitors by downplaying her looks. While still relatively young and pretty, with eyes the color of the aged bourbon Mr. Meriwhether had a glass of every night before supper and thick brown hair shot through with coppery highlights, she dressed like a spinster, in below-the-knee skirts and sensible, low-heeled shoes, blouses buttoned to the neck, and little or no jewelry, her one good dress reserved for church and her only makeup the occasional touch of lipstick.

“It doesn't seem to have hurt Lila any,” Abigail observed grumpily.

Lila was popular with boys and girls alike. Never mind they were only six months apart in age, Abigail felt like a kid sister in comparison. A
dorky
kid sister, half a foot taller and with none of Lila's social graces. If it hadn't been dark when they'd stripped down last night, Vaughn probably wouldn't have looked at her twice.

“It's different for everyone,” Rosalie said gently, meaning that not everyone was as blessed as Lila.

Abigail sighed. “It's not fair.”

Her mother's expression settled into one of flat resignation. “Well, life's not fair. The sooner you accept it, the better.” With that, she pushed her way through the swinging door into the stairwell beyond.

When she returned a short while later, one look at her ashen face told Abigail that something was terribly wrong.

Rosalie dropped into a chair at the table, burying her face in her hands.

Abigail rushed to her side. “Mama! What is it? What's happened?”

Rosalie only shook her head, too distraught to reply.

Was it Lila? Abigail wondered. Could she have suffered a fall while out riding? At the image of Lila lying crumpled on the ground, Abigail felt as if she'd had the wind knocked out of
her
. But the notion was quickly dispelled. “It's … it's Mrs. Meriwhether,” Rosalie said haltingly when she'd finally recovered her voice. “You know the diamond necklace Mr. Meriwhether gave her on their anniversary? Well, it's missing. She … she seems to think I took it.” Rosalie lifted her head, and the look in her eyes was awful to behold, for Abigail saw more than the shock and horror of someone wrongly accused. She caught a furtive glint. There was more to the story than her mother was telling.

Had
her mother taken the necklace? Not intending to keep it, of course. Maybe she'd only borrowed it, planning to put it back before it was discovered to be missing. But even that was so completely out of character, Abigail immediately dismissed the idea. If her mother found so much as a nickel in a pants pocket while doing the laundry, she returned it. She would never have borrowed anything without asking, especially something so valuable.

“She must have misplaced it,” Abigail offered. “It's got to be somewhere in the house. I'll help her look for it.”

She was turning to go when Rosalie seized hold of her wrist. “No! It's too late for that.”

Abigail eyed her in confusion. “Mama, what are you saying?”

“The police are on their way over.” Her mother's eyes were like two holes burned in parchment.

The police! Oh, God, this was more serious than she'd thought. All at once Abigail felt deeply afraid. The feeling that her mother was withholding some vital piece of information became stronger than ever. “Mama, what on earth is going on here? Whatever it is, I want to know. Please.”

“Yes, why don't you tell her, Rosalie?”

Abigail spun around at the sound of Gwen Meriwhether's soft, lilting voice. Her mother's employer stood in the doorway, dressed in a pink satin robe and matching slippers, her platinum hair, normally smoothed into a pageboy, sticking out in stiff clumps. Her face was pinched and grayish, the way it got when she was having one of her migraines. A fine-boned, aristocratic face that, however pretty it had been in her youth, showed the ravages of time and ill health. From this distance, Abigail could see its myriad of fine lines and the tiny broken veins that webbed her patrician nose like the cracked glaze on the Limoges teacup that had graced the tray so lovingly prepared by her housekeeper.

Rosalie jerked to her feet, her cheeks flushing a hectic red. The beseeching look she gave her employer was that of a family dog that's been kicked, wary but still steadfastly loyal. Abigail cringed inwardly, silently vowing to never, ever subordinate herself that way before another human being, however much she might love that person. “Abby was just volunteering to help look,” Rosalie offered timidly.

“Well, then, perhaps we should start with the cottage.” Gwen's normally honeyed voice was cold. Abigail had never heard her address Rosalie in this manner. The effect was chilling. She realized that, though she'd been around Mrs. Meriwhether all her life, she didn't really know her. Gwen was the distant sun around which the rest of the household orbited: at once constant and removed.

Rosalie just stood there clutching her elbows and shivering, as if it weren't 90 degrees outside.

An awful suspicion crept in: Could this have something to do with her and Vaughn? Mrs. Meriwhether might have gotten wind of last night's activities and decided to nip it in the bud by firing Rosalie. It was one thing to bestow the honorary status of “family” on hired help and another to risk their one day becoming just that. She might have concocted this setup as a sure way of getting rid of Abigail. But how could she have known? It was inconceivable that Vaughn would have confided in her. Unless …