Chapter Two

“Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but instantly let it fall—perceiving that what it had concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless on the floor.”

Abigail’s entire world had narrowed to the words on the page. When had she last breathed? She sucked in a shaky breath, angling herself better so that the gloomy mid-afternoon light of the grey day would shine better through the window onto her book.

Her book was Mysteries of Udolpho , the second volume, and quite frankly the best thing she had ever read in her life. Emily St Aubert did swoon a great deal, particularly at moments when the story was at its most tense, but she was also courageous and had such integrity.

She was beautiful, too. Heroines always were, and Abigail did her best not to be jealous.

She turned the page with a shaking hand. Surely it would be revealed. She simply had to know what was behind the black veil. What could be so terrifying that it sent Emily into a dead faint? Perhaps…

Thudding footsteps were her only warning that somebody was coming. They sounded on the part of the hallway right outside the library door, where the carpet gave way to bare floorboards. Not enough warning, really.

Abigail gave a strangled gasp and scrambled to shove her book under the cushion of the window seat.

Not quickly enough.

The door flew open, and there stood Mrs. Harriet Atwood, silhouetted in the door frame in a manner worthy of Mrs. Radcliffe herself.

“Are you reading that trash again, Abigail?” Her mother boomed. She crossed the room in a few long strides, snatching the book out of Abigail’s slack grip.

“I told you she’d be in here, Mama,” came a smug female voice.

Scarlett, of course. She wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see her older sister in trouble.

Harriet squinted at the book, lip curling. “What absurdity. No wonder no gentleman will marry you, if you fill your head with such nonsense. Between this and that awful poetry book I caught you reading last week, I quite regret letting you learn to read at all. I ought to close up this whole library and burn all the books inside – starting with this one.”

Abigail gulped. “Please don’t, Mama. The book isn’t mine. It’s from the circulating library. I shall be fined if I don’t return it.”

Harriet tossed the book onto the window seat with utter disdain.

“Take it back directly, then.”

Abigail nodded, ducking her head. She picked up the book, carefully smoothing out the pages. A couple had been bent back, much to her chagrin.

Scarlett came scuttling into the library, looking ill at ease around the books.

The trouble was, in Abigail’s opinion, that the Atwaters were not a family of beauties .

Society could overlook any sin, so long as the sinner were good-looking. Harriet Atwater was tall and lanky, plain, but quite without a cheery personality to soften her looks. Her father, Patrick Atwater was good-natured to a fault, prepared to sacrifice everything for a quiet life, and resembled nothing so much as a little mouse with buck teeth.

Abigail had not inherited her father’s buck teeth. She had good skin and pretty hair of an indeterminate brown colour, but there her beauty ended. Her eyes were mud brown, her figure unremarkable, her features resolutely ordinary. The heroines in the novels she loved were always strikingly beautiful, and the hero noticed this immediately. No such ripples went around a room when Abigail entered it.

Her older sister Beatrix had similar features, but she was a little less timid than Abigail, and anyway had made an excellent match.

And then there was Scarlett, whom the gods had kissed.

Scarlett resembled a perfectly assembled porcelain doll. Her skin was creamy and fair, her hair a rich, glittering golden. She had a little heart-shaped face, sky-blue eyes, and a dainty pair of pink rosebud lips.

She was, in short, exquisite, and she was extremely well aware of that fact. At nineteen, her come-out had already been delayed by a year because Abigail was not married. Tempers were running short.

Harriet paced up and down in front of the window seat, gathering her thoughts. Abigail tucked the book out of sight behind a cushion, lest her mother get ideas, and folded her hands on her lap, waiting.

“This will be your third Season,” Harriet said at last. “Beatrix took only one Season to get married. We put off Scarlett’s coming out last year to spare her the embarrassment of going into company beside an unmarried older sister, but she is not getting any younger, and we will not wait any more. We can’t risk it, not on account of your folly.”

Abigail bit her lip. The timeline had been made very clear to her. She was to have her first Season at eighteen, while Scarlett was seventeen, and marry that Season. However, the Season had ended, and their nineteenth and eighteenth birthdays had respectively arrived with no marriage on the horizon. After a few weeks of fury and tantrums, Harriet had decided that Scarlett would not come out that year, and Abigail would take a second Season to secure a match.

But now Abigail was twenty, and her third Season was just beginning, and she was still unmarried.

It would be pointless, naturally, to tell her mother that she did not wish to be married, so Abigail kept silent.

That was something she was good at, at least.

“Will I not take part in this Season, then, Mama?” Abigail asked quietly.

Her mother scowled at her. “Do not be foolish. Of course, you must participate in the Season. If we were to send you away to the countryside at this juncture, you might very well find yourself unwed for all eternity, and I shall not tolerate the burden of having you as a millstone around my neck for the remainder of my days. No, you must indeed attend the Season, and this time you shall secure a suitable match. Take care not to impede Scarlett in her endeavours, however. And do not anticipate any new gowns.

Abigail ducked her head. “But, Mama, what if… what if I can’t find a match this Season?”

Harriet Atwater was not listening. She had that familiar, glazed look in her eyes, pacing to and fro.

“You must apply yourself, Abigail. If we are to take our rightful place in the nobility, work must be done. Beatrix and her Lord Townsend were a very great start indeed, but if you make a poor marriage – or worse yet, none at all – it will ruin our advantage. Scarlett is the one who will raise us up, aren’t you, love?”

Harriet paused, turning to touch her youngest daughter’s cheek. Scarlett preened, and the distant look in Harriet’s eye grew misty.

Abigail stayed quiet. She had long wondered – blasphemous though it was to think such cruel thoughts about one’s own mother – whether Harriet did not see her child when she looked at Scarlett, but rather what she could have been.

After all, were it not for a few lopsided features – an overlong chin, a mouth too wide, eyes rather grey than blue – could not Harriet have looked like Scarlett, in her youth? If she had been a little shorter, less gangly, more womanly , might she not have attracted scores of admirers, too?

As if she could sense the unfilial thoughts of her middle daughter, Harriet dropped her hand and turned to face Abigail.

“This cannot go on, Abigail,” she said quietly. “Three Seasons is a disgrace. If you embarrass this family any further, then…”

There appeared to Abigail no prospect of reprieve or salvation, as nobody in the household would dare interrupt Harriet when she was in full flow. She hadn’t counted on people outside the household.

The familiar crunch of carriage wheels on gravel made Harriet pause and crane her neck to look out of the window.

She sucked in a breath, lifting her hands halfway to her hair as if to adjust it.

“Oh, curses, she’s early. It’s your Aunt Florence. Come on, girls, hurry!”

Harriet turned and fled out of the room, followed closely by Scarlett. Abigail followed too, her heart a little lighter.

Not, of course, that she was safe, by any stretch of the imagination.

Harriet had married a plain Viscount, but her sister Florence had married a Marquess.

Aunt Florence had grown remarkably wide in middle age and had decorated her bulk with yards and yards of ruched peach silk. The dress took up an entire two-seater sofa, where Aunt Florence sat in state, letting her sister and youngest niece flutter around her. Even Beatrix’s husband was only half as wealthy as Aunt Florence’s husband had been. He was dead now, of course, and Aunt Florence was easily one of the wealthiest widows in London.

“Seed-cake, sister?” Harriet asked, smiling indulgently. “We have plenty. Scarlett, serve your aunt at once.”

Aunt Florence only smiled to herself, accepting a generous slice of cake. She had a head of vibrant red hair, now gradually fading towards white, and almost translucent eyebrows set high on a freckled face, and the same grey eyes as her sister. She had never been beautiful, and that had not stopped her catching one of the most handsome men in London.

Abigail liked her aunt a great deal, but Harriet had pulled her aside before they entered the parlour and told her in a sibilant hiss to sit quietly and let Scarlett speak to Aunt Florence.

Aunt Florence, it seemed, was not in on this plan. She glanced over Scarlett’s head – the girl had been placed on a footstool beside her aunt’s sofa – and met Abigail’s eye.

“Read any good novels lately, Abbie?”

Abigail flushed, and Harriet gave a nervous laugh.

“Oh, sister, don’t tell me you subscribe to all that nonsense? Abigail spends her days polishing up her accomplishments.”

“Accomplishments? Yes, of course. Banging around on the pianoforte or producing boring old watercolours.”

“I have some watercolours,” Scarlett piped up, clearly struck by inspiration. “I could paint you if you like, Aunt.”

Harriet beamed at her daughter for this brilliant idea. Aunt Florence only lifted one gingery brow.

“In this dress, do you think? Harriet, what do you think of this dress?”

“It’s divine,” Harriet gushed. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It must have cost a fortune.”

“It did. And you, Scarlett? Does it suit me?”

Scarlett only hesitated for a heartbeat before plunging into a lie.

“You look beautiful, Aunt. It suits you perfectly. I love it, I quite adore it.”

Aunt Florence hid a smile behind the rim of her teacup and glanced over Abigail.

“And you, Abby? Do you think this dress is the most beautiful one you’ve ever seen? Do you adore it?”

There was a pained silence. Harriet was glaring daggers at her daughter. Abigail bit the tip of her tongue. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lie, and not get scolded afterwards.

Unfortunately, Abigail had never had a great deal to say, and her tongue had never quite fitted in with the words shooting through her head. Lies did not come easily.

“N-No, Aunt,” she quavered. Harriet went purple, and Scarlett pressed a hand over her mouth.

“No?” Aunt Florence echoed, in mock surprise. “And why not?”

Better commit to it now, Abigail thought soberly. She drew in a breath.

“I… I think it looks a bit like a meringue, aunt.”

Harriet opened her mouth, doubtless to shout something at her daughter, but she was interrupted by Aunt Florence’s hoot of laughter.

“That’s my girl!” Aunt Florence chuckled, slapping one meaty knee. “Truthful as always. I ought to have known you wouldn’t fill my head with empty compliments, Abby! Honesty is a rare thing, sure enough. This is very good seed-cake, sister.”

Abigail dropped her gaze, but not before seeing the look of consternation and fury on her mother’s face. She was forced to swallow her anger back, of course, and the conversation carried on without Abigail.

She supposed that other women – Scarlett, for instance – would feel inclined to join in, rather than just listen, but Abigail had always preferred sitting back and staying quiet. People, as it turned out, were not like book characters. In novels, people said and did exactly the right – or wrong – thing. It was easy enough to work out their intentions, and the story unfolded in a satisfying and easily understandable manner.

Real life was a little more haphazard. In her mind, Abigail was a clever and eloquent person, but somehow that eloquence never quite translated itself to her actual words. If she was a beauty, gentlemen would flock around her regardless, and take her silence as sweetness.

But she was plain, and not particularly rich, and so they never even noticed her. She’d seen their gazes skip over her, again and again. It had hurt at first, but it wasn’t as if she had liked any of those gentlemen.

“I take it you intend to put out both girls into the Season this year?” Aunt Florence was saying now, voice jerking Abigail out of her reverie.

Harriet pressed her lips together. “Indeed, yes. I know it isn’t common to put out a younger daughter if her older sister isn’t married, but really, I am about ready to wash my hands of Abigail. Two full Seasons, and no marriage! I even sent her to a fine party about a month ago, and she entirely wasted the opportunity. She didn’t dance a single dance, can you credit it? Now, Scarlett, she would have set the ballroom on fire – wouldn’t you, darling?”

“I certainly would, Mama.”

Aunt Florence’s sharp little eyes glanced between them, revealing nothing.

“Well, the Season is starting in earnest, now,” she said neutrally. “We’re in the swing of it. I do hope you girls enjoy yourselves.”

“I shall, Aunt,” Scarlett promised, smiling winningly. Aunt Florence glanced at Abigail, who realized with resignation that she was expected to say something.

“I shall try my best, Aunt.”

“Try your best? What an odd thing to say, silly child,” Harriet said, with a glare and a forced laugh.

Abigail swallowed. “I…you know how I prefer my books, Aunt.”

Aunt Florence smiled, her round face crinkling up. “Indeed I do. There is nothing better than the company of a good book. I myself love Mrs. Radcliffe – her stories quite give me the chills.”

Before she could stop herself, Abigail was speaking again.

“Yes, I am reading the second volume of Mysteries of Udolpho , Aunt. Mama commented on it only an hour or so ago.”

Harriet’s gaze was boring into the side of Abigail’s face, but she firmly kept her gaze on her aunt.

Aunt Florence nodded, setting down her empty cup. “Well, I must hear what you think of the ending, when you get there. Where have you got to?”

“The black veil – Emily pulled it back and swooned.”

“Yes, I recall. I daresay you’re mad to discover what’s going on behind it, but I won’t tell you. You’ll have to find out. Now, enough chit-chat, I think.”

“You aren’t going, are you, sister?” Harriet said, managing to look relieved and doleful at the same time. Florence snorted.

“No, I am not going. Not yet. Now, I came here for a reason. Generally, I don’t come to London for the Season, but this year I find myself looking for a little excitement. I plan to stay a month or two. I know we move in different circles, sister, but one can always make time for family.”

A flicker of hope crossed Harriet’s face. “How delightful! If you find yourself in need of company, I’m sure that Scarlett would love to spend some time with you.”

In Abigail’s opinion, Scarlett would love no such thing. She could see her younger sister’s chagrin, imagining accompanying her large, outspoken, and brusque aunt to various gatherings.

However, she would be a fool to ignore the fact that she would be able to attend such soirees, if Aunt Florence escorted her. Balls with earls and viscounts and maybe even a duke or two.

If Aunt Florence chose to extend her patronage to Scarlett, she could do a great deal of good.

“Funny you should mention it,” Aunt Florence said slowly, pouring herself another cup of tea without waiting for the maid. “I did intend to take my niece to an upcoming soiree. It’s a yearly thing, the Dowager Duchess of Dunleigh’s summer ball. Everybody goes, you know.”

Oh, they did not. Abigail held her breath, glancing between the faces of her mother and sister. Their eyes were wide, jaws hanging slack. The Duchess of Dunleigh – or rather, the Dowager Duchess, as the old duke was dead and his son wore his title now – moved in the highest circles in the land, far above what the Atwaters could hope for. Oh, they might get invited to larger gatherings with the richest tradespeople, and Harriet often talked of vouchers for Almack’s, but that wasn’t the same.

But if Aunt Florence could bring them to a gathering like this, who knew where it might end? What friends might they make?

“Oh?” Harriet managed at last, trying to conceal her excitement. “How thrilling.”

“With your permission, of course, I shall take my niece with me. She can dance a little, if she chooses, and perhaps make some friends. It shall be good for her.”

And then Aunt Florence’s gaze flitted over to Abigail, before the others could say a word, and Abigail’s heart sank. Aunt Florence smiled.

“Well, Abby? What do you say? Would you like to come with me?”

There was a moment of consternation. Scarlett sagged, disappointed, and Harriet hummed and hawed, trying to find her footing.

“Sister, surely you mean Scarlett? Surely you intend to take Scarlett to the ball?”

Aunt Florence lifted an eyebrow. “Did I say Scarlett? No, I thought Abigail might enjoy it. I’m sure you have plenty of balls and good things lined up for our pretty Scarlett.”

Harriet smiled weakly. “Yes, but consider the advantages…”

“Scarlett has plenty of advantages,” Aunt Florence interrupted. “She’s a beautiful girl, with a decent dowry, sufficient charm, and a great deal of confidence. She will be fine, I promise you. It is Abigail I’d like to bring to that ball, and I believe I can choose my own guests, dear sister.”

Harriet swallowed hard. Abigail could read the thoughts ticking across her mother’s face. Her annoyance and pride would have her storm out and tell her sister that she would take Scarlett or she would take neither of the girls.

But Harriet Atwater was too sensible for that. She likely knew that Aunt Florence would simply shrug and leave, and then none of the Atwater girls would attend the illustrious gathering.

Abigail glanced over at her younger sister, who was glaring at her with loathing. As if Abigail herself had somehow done something to take Scarlett’s rightful place from her.

Don’t be angry at me! Abigail wanted to scream. I don’t want to go!

She did not say such a thing, of course. She stayed quiet, hands folded in her lap, and waited for her mother to speak.

“Well, I suppose,” Harriet managed ungraciously. “Scarlett would make a much better companion, but if you insist upon Abigail…”

“I do,” Aunt Florence said, abruptly rising to her feet. They stood awkwardly too, missing a beat. “Abby and I can talk about Mrs. Radcliffe on the way there.”

“What a treat for you, Abigail,” Harriet said, a threatening undertone in her voice. “You must be very grateful to your aunt.”

Abigail made a quick, lopsided curtsey. “Indeed, I am, Mama. Thank you, Aunt Florence.”

Aunt Florence only gave that mysterious little smile, looking away.

“I shall give you more details soon enough. I think a new dress for the occasion would be in order, don’t you, sister? Can you manage that, or shall I…”

“I will get the girl a new dress,” Harriet interrupted sourly.

Aunt Florence grinned. “What a treasure you are, sister.”

And then she sailed out of the room, never once looking back.