Chapter Fifteen

In the morning, Abigail found herself with a slight headache. Perhaps it was her punishment for claiming a megrim the night before.

Daylight brought a newfound sense of confidence, if it could be called confidence. The sugar-pink gown hung up in her cupboard, looking as pretty as ever.

Perhaps the problem isn’t the dress, Abigail thought wearily. Perhaps it’s just that I am wearing the dress.

A tap on the door made her jump. As always, Aunt Florence came in without waiting for a reply. She glanced down at Abigail’s nightdress and frowned.

“Goodness, girl, you aren’t dressed! We’re going out strawberry picking this morning.”

“I don’t feel like eating strawberries very much, Aunt.”

Aunt Florence sighed. “It’s not about the berries, you silly girl, it’s about the social element. Lord Donovan will be there,” she added, as if that might tempt her.

It did not. Abigail pressed her lips together and avoided her aunt’s stare.

“Why don’t you go ahead, and I’ll find you all out there?”

Aunt Florence’s eyes narrowed, as if she knew fine well that Abigail did not intend to come out to the strawberry fields.

“Humph. Well, do as you like, I suppose. I shall save you some strawberries. The nice ones, at least.”

Abigail smiled weakly. “Thank you, Aunt Florence.”

The older woman withdrew, and Abigail listened to her footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Only five or ten minutes later, she heard voices outside. Peering out of the window, being careful to stay tucked away behind the curtain, Abigail looked out.

A stream of guests was making their way across the lawn towards the distant fields, most of them with baskets hanging from their arms. She saw Aunt Florence and the Dowager leading the way, deep in conversation. Graham was there too, looking bored, and Diana walked by his side, turned away. She didn’t see Lord Alexander. Perhaps that was for the best. He didn’t seem like the type of man who’d enjoy strawberry-picking very much.

She dressed quickly after that, throwing on an old check dress that generally wasn’t suited for such finely dressed company, but was comfortable and entirely suitable for rambling around the garden.

Snatching up a book, Abigail ventured out of her room.

It was already hot outside. The sun burned right through her straw bonnet, making her skin prickle and itch under her gown.

Thank heaven I’m not picking strawberries.

Abigail imagined that the heat and unrelenting sunshine would drive the strawberry-pickers home soon enough, at least to sit on the shaded part of the terrace and eat their strawberries. And then Aunt Florence would come looking for her.

Still, she would get an hour or two, at the very least, to herself.

At home, time by herself was a given. Abigail was used to being alone. Generally, her company was neither wanted nor needed, and she could spend as long as she liked in reading, taking walks, and resting in her room.

It got rather too much after a while. Time by oneself was pleasant, but loneliness was another thing altogether. At the moment, it was almost a novelty to be tired of company and having to seek out time to be alone.

Abigail walked quickly, keen to get out of the sun. Head back, shoulders squared, she breathed deeply, enjoying the clean air and the warm breeze. A few gardeners moved around the grounds, some nodding and smiling as she passed by. Nobody demanded to know where she was going, and why she didn’t have a maid with her.

She walked in the opposite direction of the strawberry fields, not entirely sure what it was she was looking for.

And then, abruptly, she found it.

An area of woodland flanked a particularly nicely manicured lawn, bursting with wildlife and undergrowth in a stark contrast to the smooth grass. Abigail had intended to walk along the tree line, not wanting to risk getting lost in an unfamiliar forest, but soon saw something that made her pause.

A little clearing sat only twenty or thirty feet beyond the line of trees. She could just glimpse it between the trunks. It was mostly overgrown but had clearly once been well-maintained. The remnants of a little rabbit path wound through the trees towards it, and inside the clearing, Abigail could see a swing.

Intrigued, she pushed through the trees.

The swing was a simple one – just two rough, well-knotted ropes wound around a tree branch high above her head, and a plank hung below for a seat, smoothed with age. There was a patch of bare earth beneath the swing, no doubt a testament to many years of children’s swinging feet. It was obvious the swing had been well used, although not perhaps in recent years. Moss was beginning to grow on the wood, and the swing itself was gradually beginning to list to one side.

Taking a risk, Abigail took a seat. The swing creaked but did not give at all under her weight. Encouraged, she swung back and forth, just a little. More creaking, but the swing was clearly sturdy and well built. There was enough room in the clearing to make a good swinging arc, although Abigail did wonder whether her legs were long enough to skim the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.

She wasn’t in the mood for a swing, but it was a delightfully idyllic spot. And private.

Sighing in contentment, she took out her book. The words wouldn’t focus in front of her eyes, however, and Abigail found herself looking at the little border of flowers around the base of the trees. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d taken a stub of pencil out of her pocket and began to trace the outline of the soft petals in the blank flyleaf of the book.

It was her book, so it didn’t matter if…

A twig cracked behind her, and Abigail froze. Swallowing hard, she twisted around slowly.

When she saw who was standing behind her, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified.

“My lord,” Abigail said neutrally. “I… I didn’t know you were here.”

“I could say the same,” he responded, gaze flickering around uneasily. “I came from a different direction. Forgive me, I thought no one was here.”

He made no move to leave, though. Abigail did not ask him to leave. His eyes dropped to her book.

“Would it be terribly rude of me if I asked to see your drawing?”