Chapter Four

Two Days Later

“I just thought it was a one-night thing, Aunt,” Abigail murmured. The roll and lurch of the carriage was making her feel ill, or perhaps that was her tightly laced corset.

Her mother had insisted on that. Scarlett’s corsets were always laced as tight as possible, giving her a fairy-thin waist. Abigail was a little thicker in the trunk than her sister and was decidedly uncomfortable.

Aunt Florence chuckled. “Bless you, child, no. Some people are only invited to the ball, sure enough, but people like you and I attend for several days at a time. Don’t worry, it’ll give you plenty of time to settle in!”

Abigail highly doubted that.

There hadn’t been time to get her new dresses for every day, so she was obliged to wear one of Scarlett’s today – hence the tight-lacing – and the dress was wretchedly uncomfortable. Aside from being too tight, it was rather frillier than Abigail could have liked, and the shade of lilac did not, in her opinion, become her as well as a more muted colour would have done. Besides, Scarlett’s dress was a fraction too long for Abigail, and she had to keep kicking out the hem as she walked.

Too late now. The expensive concoction that had been ordered specially for her was already packed up and waiting, and she would undoubtedly have to wear it tonight.

Aunt Florence’s carriage was large and well-padded, a stark contrast to the Atwater carriage, which was in great need of respringing and reupholstering. Aunt Florence herself was sprawling out over one side of the carriage, looking very comfortable and rather satisfied with herself, and Abigail hunched over on the opposite side.

She wished, not for the first time, that she could be back in the library, or back in her own room, following the adventures of the unlucky Emily St. Aubert.

“You worry too much, my dear,” Aunt Florence said suddenly. Abigail glanced up, eyes wide.

“I… what, Aunt?”

“You heard me,” Aunt Florence responded, smiling wryly. “It’s just a ball. You’re just my quiet, reserved little niece, here to enjoy herself with everybody else. Nobody will expect anything of you.”

Abigail flushed. “I wish I could believe that. I… I’m afraid of doing something wrong. Embarrassing myself, you know?”

“I shouldn’t worry about that.”

“Won’t the authors of the gossip sheets be here?”

Aunt Florence sighed. “Probably. The wretched creatures keep themselves anonymous – knowing, probably, that Society would shun them if they were ever discovered – and they seem to be everywhere.”

“Well, what if I do something silly, and they write about me?”

Aunt Florence tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a possibility.”

Abigail sucked in a breath. “Aunt!”

“Don’t look at me like that! I’m not your mother. I don’t pretend you don’t exist when it’s inconvenient, but neither will I tell you reassuring little lies. The fact is, dear, very few people are ever mentioned in those scandal sheets. Only the shocking people. And you are not shocking, are you?”

“No,” Abigail muttered. “I’m not much of anything.”

Her aunt narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like defeatist talk, Abby.”

Abigail straightened her spine, steeling herself. “Why did you invite me, Aunt? Why put out my mother in that way? Why not bring Scarlett? She’s much prettier than me.”

“On the outside, perhaps. My dearest niece, you might as well know that I do a great many things just because that is how I act . I like your company, and I thought you deserved a little treat.”

“A treat would be sitting at home with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels,” Abigail countered, before she could think twice about it, “not attending a ball where I don’t know anyone and watching gentlemen pass me over for prettier ladies.”

She immediately clamped her jaw shut, wondering what had come over her. Aunt Florence, however, gave a great gurgle of laughter.

“That’s my Abby! Save some of that razor-sharp wit for the ball, please! Be yourself, my dear, and you’ll do fine.”

Abigail did not bother to point out that being oneself only worked for pretty, charming, interesting women.

And rich men, of course.

The carriage took a slow, ponderous turn into a wide gravel drive, well-raked and trimmed with green hedges and towering oaks on either side. It was the grandest drive Abigail had ever seen, and she began to feel just a little ill.

She bunched her fists in the side of her gown – embroidered with delicate white flowers on the hem, another addition to an already gaudy gown that Abigail did not feel comfortable in.

The carriage turned out of the green driveway and into an open, circular courtyard in front of a terrifyingly grand house. People were milling about in the courtyard – servants, mostly. Gardeners, footmen, the occasional maid scurrying to get out of sight. At the front of the house was a set of wide, well-polished marble steps, leading up to an immense porch and a high door. The carriage slowed to a halt, the driver managing to stop without a lurch. Again, this was something that the Atwater driver could never manage.

“Out we get, then,” Aunt Florence said brightly. “You first, dear. It always takes me an age to haul myself up.”

There was nothing for it. Abigail’s heart pounded and she felt almost dizzy with fear, but her body made her move.

Getting out of a carriage was never particularly dignified, but she was used to it. Being the last one to climb out, the single footman who came out to help was usually already occupied with Scarlett or Harriet, leaving Abigail to hop down herself.

Swinging the door open herself, Abigail noticed with a pang of anxiety that footmen were already hurrying towards her, three of them, all of the same height and dressed in identical, grand-looking livery.

In her hurry to climb down before she had to accept their help, Abigail’s too-long skirt caught under her foot.

She realised her mistake at once, but it was already too late. Bent over to step through the carriage’s narrow entrance, momentum behind her, and nothing to grab onto, Abigail stumbled, overbalanced, passed the point of no return, and toppled forward onto the gravel drive.

Not quite, actually.

She thumped against a broad, firm chest, cheek sliding against what felt like a fine silk brocade waistcoat. A large pair of hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her, and her feet landed squarely on the gravel. She gave an unladylike oof .

“I beg your pardon,” Abigail stammered, not daring to look up at the unfortunate footman who’d caught her. “I am rather clumsy.”

“Think nothing of it,” responded the man, in tones too airy and confident to be a footman.

Swallowing hard, Abigail shuffled back and made herself look up at her saviour. His hands dropped from her arms, but she could still feel where he’d touched her. Perhaps that was a trick of the dress material.

The man smiling down at her was certainly not a footman. He wore an emerald-green suit, shockingly bright and certainly not livery, and there was a gold-coloured brocade waistcoat underneath. His skin was olive, he had thick and glossy chestnut hair, and the most beautiful hazel-green eyes Abigail had ever seen.

In short, he was shockingly handsome, a fact which Abigail was aware of in a way she had not before. She’d met handsome men before, surely? Not all of them made her chest clench. None of them, in fact.

“I am sorry,” she repeated, since he seemed to be waiting for her to say something. “It was an accident.”

The green-eyed man laughed. “It’s lucky I was here. It would be an inauspicious start to your stay to land face-first on the ground. Ah, this is Lady Caldecott’s carriage! Can I assume you are the infamous niece?”

Abigail opened her mouth, not entirely sure what to say. The wit which her aunt had praised only a few moments ago had deserted her. In fact, all of her words had. The green-eyed man lifted his eyebrows, obviously expecting some response.

A Society Beauty would respond with some witty and ever-so-slightly flirtation sally, something to make him laugh, but not clever enough to make him feel silly.

Unfortunately, Abigail could think of absolutely nothing to say. She could practically see the boredom creeping over the young man’s face. No doubt he thought her dull as well as ugly, and probably wished he’d simply let her fall.

Where was her aunt ?

On cue, the carriage gave a groan of relief, and she heard the thud of her aunt stumbling down onto the gravel.

“Ah, it’s wonderful to be out of that wretched thing,” Aunt Florence sighed. Abigail took the opportunity to turn away from the green-eyed man who made her feel so very inferior, and scurried over to her aunt, taking her arm.

The green-eyed man and Aunt Florence eyed each other warily.

“Lord Alexander,” Aunt Florence said, voice strangely shielded. “I had it in my head you’d be away.”

“You know me, Lady Caldecott. I’d never miss my mother’s summer ball. This is your niece, I assume?”

“Yes, yes,” Aunt Florence said, smiling weakly. “Miss Abigail Atwater. I’m terribly fond of her. I daresay I shan’t let her leave my side for our entire stay.”

Was it Abigail’s imagination, or was there a hint of warning in her aunt’s voice? Aunt Florence cleared her throat, nudging her niece.

“Make your courtesies and say how-do-you-do to Lord Alexander Willenshire, my dear. He’s the youngest of the Willenshire siblings.”

Abigail murmured a greeting, dropping into an ungraceful curtsey. His lordship bowed back.

“Shall I escort you in?” he asked. Aunt Florence’s arm tightened in Abigail’s.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I know my way well enough. Oh, and I see the Duchess at the top of the stairs! Don’t let us keep you from your business, my lord. Good day to you.”

And with that decidedly unfriendly greeting, Aunt Florence towed Abigail forward, towards the wide marble steps. Behind them, the footmen were untying their boxes and bags from the carriage, taking them in through a servants’ entrance to the side.

That made a change, too – Abigail was generally the one to bring in their bags at home.

Unable to stop herself, Abigail twisted to look around over her shoulder. The green-eyed man – Lord Alexander Willenshire, she now knew – was standing there, staring after them curiously. He smiled when he caught her looking and lifted a hand in a half-mocking wave.

Flushing, Abigail turned to face away.

“Steer clear of him, won’t you?” Aunt Florence whispered, once they were mostly out of earshot.

Abigail flinched. “What, Lord Alexander? But he’s a Willenshire, isn’t he? We’re staying with the Willenshires.”

“Indeed we are, but I reckon we won’t see much of him. I don’t object to the boy himself. There’s no real harm in him, but lately he’s taken to bad company and worse decisions. He’s a rake, you know. Ladies steer clear of rakes, if they’re sensible.”

Abigail bit her lip. Was that disappointment she felt? That was silly beyond reason. It wasn’t as if Lord Alexander was going to be hungering for her company anyway.

“Whatever you say, Aunt.”

“Good,” Aunt Florence squeezed her arm. “You’re a good girl, and a clever one. I’m sure I won’t have to keep a close eye on you.”

Abigail smiled tightly and said nothing. It seemed safer.

***

They reached the top of the marble stairs and were ushered into a cavernous hallway. The floors were highly polished stone, the walls hung with fine old tapestries and portraits of austere men and women, and Abigail’s footsteps seemed to echo louder than they should have done.

A faded woman beyond middle years waited to greet them. A tall, severe-looking man stood behind her, arms tightly tucked behind his back. He had the same olive skin as Lord Alexander, and the same chestnut hair. There was enough family resemblance to mark them out as brothers.

“Florence, my dear!” the faded lady fluted, coming forward, arms outstretched. “It has been too long.”

“Too long indeed,” Aunt Florence agreed, kissing the woman on both cheeks. “This is my niece, the one I mentioned, Abigail. Abby, this is her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Dunleigh.”

“You may call me your Grace ,” the dowager said encouragingly.

“And this gentleman is William Willenshire, the Duke of Dunleigh. He’s only recently taken up the post, you see, on account of his father passing away.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” was the only thing Abigail could think of to say. She immediately regretted it. It sounded silly.

The Duke turned his cool gaze on her. He did not smile, or make any response to her condolences, which now that she thought about it, were probably at least months too late.

Before the conversation was allowed to grow cold, Aunt Florence stepped in. They exchanged pleasantries and small talk, and Abigail tried not to shift from leg to aching leg. Her back hurt from the long carriage journey, and she was beginning to feel embarrassingly tired.

Better wake up soon, she warned herself. There’s a ball tonight. Do you want to be sent back to Mama and Scarlett in disgrace? I don’t know what would make them angrier – me embarrassing myself here, or me being chosen in the first place.

Oh, Aunt Florence, why didn’t you just choose Scarlett? I could have had a few days of peace!

She jerked herself back to the present with an effort. Another carriage was rattling down the drive now, bringing more guests.

“You must be exhausted from your journey. I’ll have you shown to your rooms right away.” the Dowager said, smiling at them both. There was something oddly hollow about her smile, but Abigail didn’t want to think about that. These great ladies always had a host of tragedies in their pasts. And that wasn’t just a conclusion which she’d drawn from novels.

And then the first conversation was over, and Abigail was able to climb the red-carpeted stairs behind Aunt Florence. A maid led the way, head down, hair covered by an old-fashioned mob-cap. She didn’t speak.

“Will I have a trundle bed in your room, Aunt?” Abigail asked.

Aunt Florence laughed. “Heavens, no, girl. You’ll have a room of your own. And since you don’t seem to have your own maid already, I’ve brought a girl from my house to wait on you.”

Abigail swallowed reflexively. “That’s not necessary, Aunt. I can dress myself.”

“I’m sure you can, but Lucy will see to you anyway.”

The maid silently led them down a long, quiet hallway, carpeted wall to wall. She stopped before a door marked The Orange Room and stood aside for Aunt Florence to step inside.

“Ah, my usual room, I see,” Aunt Florence said, sounding satisfied. “I take it my niece is to be on the same wing?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid responded quietly, looking uneasy at being spoken to. “The Blue Room, ma’am.”

“Very nice, very nice. Well, go and get settled in, Abby, and I’ll come along and see you before we go down again. Lucy will come along when it’s time to dress. She knows what’s what.”

Abigail hovered in the doorway, struggling to speak. Aunt Florence paused, lifting an eyebrow.

“Thank you, Aunt,” Abigail burst out at last. “For everything. For bringing me here, mostly. I know I haven’t seemed very grateful. But I am. Thank you.”

Aunt Florence smiled, reaching out to pat her niece’s cheek. “I have great things in mind for you, my darling Abby. Now, off with you and rest.”

Thus dismissed, Abigail followed the maid further along the hallway, to a room marked The Blue Room .

Just like before, the maid stepped aside and let Abigail go in first. The deference made her uncomfortable.

The Blue Room was, as the name indicated, mostly blue. There was flowered blue-and-white paper on the walls, thick carpets of patterned blue, a rich sapphire bedspread, and a powder-blue canopy hanging around the huge bed. It was at least twice as large as Abigail’s bed back home. In fact, her whole room could have fitted into this one twice over.

She stepped inside, turning in a little circle.

“Oh, it’s beautiful! Thank you so much.”

The maid blinked. “Y-You’re welcome, Miss. I did clean it myself.”

“It’s impeccable. You should see the cobwebs in my room back home.”

The maid gave a little laugh, which she hastily turned into a cough. Gaining a little confidence, she spoke again.

“There’s a bell-pull in the corner, Miss. I just thought I’d say, seeing as you haven’t stayed with us before. Ring whenever you want tea or anything, or if you want to see your maid. And there’s a key in the door, in case you want to lock yourself in at night. Some people do, you know.”

Abigail nodded. “Thank you very much. I think I’ll like it here.”

The maid beamed, and retreated, closing the door softly behind herself. Abigail flopped backwards onto the bed, which was just as delightfully soft as it looked.

Maybe it won’t be all bad here, she thought with a smile.