The Widow’s Secret, page 18
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at Adedayo. “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right. She does seem quite docile already. I suppose they whipped any real rebellion out of her on the ship.”
Abigail flinched inwardly at that, but kept her expression modestly sedate.
“Very well, very well,” James finally said, his voice caught between his usual bonhomie and a very slight irritableness. “But at the first sign of disobedience –”
“Yes, of course,” Abigail answered quickly. “I do not wish to be subject to any incivility, I assure you. At the very first sign.”
She held her breath as James went for the keys and then returned, barking at Adedayo to hold her hands out. She shrank back, and Abigail pressed one comforting hand on her shoulder.
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “Like this.” And she put her hands together before springing them apart, with a smile. Adedayo seemed to understand, for she held them out, and then thankfully the key was turning and the horrible, heavy shackles fell off, Abigail catching them in her hands. She wanted to throw the things away, but she knew James wouldn’t countenance it.
“There,” she said quietly, smiling at the girl while James tucked the key into his pocket.
“Any sign,” he said, a warning, and Abigail nodded.
“Yes, of course. Thank you, James. I shall begin her training directly.”
Of course, she realized after he’d left, she had no idea how to train the girl, or even what to train her for. Her main desire was to feed and clothe her, and assure her she was safe. Abigail only hoped she truly was.
A few days later, Abigail had found a routine of sorts; she spent the mornings with Adedayo, teaching her English, and in the afternoons she would read or sew or, occasionally, visit. If she was in the house, she kept the girl in the room with her; if she was out, James had insisted she be locked in the warehouse – something Abigail resisted yet knew she must give in to, and seem as if she did not mind it.
“If she is to be my personal servant, she needs a proper place to sleep,” she said one evening when they were dining alone. “How can she learn to serve a gentlewoman in the proper way if she is sleeping like the worst sort of urchin?”
“You are quite right, my dear, but if Jensen refuses to share her chamber, I do not see what either of us can do about it. Good maids are difficult to find, as you well know, and in any case I sympathize with Jensen. The girl is shaping up quite nicely, thanks to all your hard work, but she is still a savage.”
“And she will remain so if she is not taught gentle ways, including where she sleeps.” Abigail tried to keep the ire and frustration out of her voice. “I have thought upon a solution,” she said, striving to sound agreeable. “I think it will be suitable for all concerned.”
James stilled, his glass of claret raised halfway to his lips, his eyes narrowed in something almost like suspicion. He had been irritable these last few days, dissatisfied with everything. Although he said nothing of it, Abigail suspected the profit from The Pearl was not all he had hoped for, after paying his investors. He’d auctioned the sugar and rum at the marketplace, and had not seemed pleased with the price.
“A solution,” he repeated with ominous neutrality. “And what would that be?”
Abigail took a deep breath, gathering her courage even as she tried to sound light, almost dismissive. “She can sleep in our dressing room.” The dressing room was a small room adjoining both of their bed chambers; James had taken his own chamber after Abigail’s last miscarriage. It was used for bathing and hair dressing, and had a small fireplace. Abigail thought that with some moving of furniture, there would be space for a bed.
“Our dressing room?” James’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Surely you are not serious.”
“Why not?”
“So close to where we are sleeping? I could not think of it.”
“She is not a danger,” Abigail said patiently. “Surely you can see that.”
“You don’t know –”
“Why did you bring her into the house if you think her such a threat to our safety?” Abigail cried, impatience and anger and something deeper and worse reverberating in her voice.
James stared at her in disbelief. “My dear, I think you forget yourself,” he said, a cool note in his voice that made Abigail blink. It felt as if he had slapped her.
She had never been so rebuked, and she blushed with both shame and anger. How had it come to this? And why was she fighting for the wellbeing of a little girl who spoke but a few words of English, who was more than half heathen, a savage as James had said?
Wasn’t she?
“I’m sorry,” Abigail murmured, looking away. “I do not know what I was thinking of.” There seemed nothing else to say that would be acceptable.
“Indeed,” James replied, and pointedly began discussing the latest gossip – a pear tree in Mr Fisher’s garden that had borne three types of fruit, and a parrot belonging to Mr Peele, which, after being unwell for nearly a month, had laid an egg.
Abigail knew her husband meant to amuse her, but she cared not for parrot or pear. She felt sick inside, with rage and grief and something wilder than both. She could not bring herself to make comment on any of the amusing anecdotes James regaled her with.
At least she’d been able to make Adedayo’s sleeping quarters more comfortable. Much to Jensen’s ire, Abigail had insisted a mattress of straw ticking and several blankets be brought to the corner of the warehouse where the girl sadly slept, locked in every night after her evening meal of bread and water, eaten while crouched in the back courtyard because neither Jensen nor Cook would have her in the kitchen.
She’d also sewn two plain dresses for her, thankful for her passable skills in needlework. They were far from fashionable, but at least they were not made of that dreadful, rough osnaburg.
Two weeks after The Pearl had sailed into harbour with its precious cargo, Adedayo could speak a few hesitant words of English, and was beginning to learn her letters.
She was sitting next to Abigail on the settee in the upstairs parlour, pointing at letters in a chapbook Abigail had procured for the purpose, when James came in, his stride full of purpose.
He frowned as he saw them both. “Should she be sitting next to you like that? She’ll get ideas.”
“I am teaching her her letters,” Abigail answered in the calm and placating tone she’d learned to adopt with him. “Where else should she sit?”
“At your feet, or at least on a footstool. You do not want her becoming rebellious or defiant.” So far Adedayo had shown neither of those traits, but to humour James, part of her wondering even now if he might be right, Abigail gestured to the floor. After a moment’s confusion, Adedayo silently slipped off the settee and on to the floor, close to Abigail’s skirts. James nodded in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Adedayo,” Abigail said quietly.
“She is a slave. She doesn’t need to be thanked!” James exclaimed, his voice rising. “For heaven’s sake, Abigail, you shall give her ideas far above her station.”
“Surely Christian decency is available to everyone?” Abigail asked coolly, unable to keep herself from it.
“You mistake my meaning. And you must stop calling her that heathen name. I thought we agreed on Adelaide.”
They had, but Abigail was strangely reluctant to call her that. “Her name is –”
“Adelaide. Really, do you want to saddle her with such a foreign sounding name? No one will be able to pronounce it, once she can accompany you about in society. It will set her even farther apart than she already is.”
Abigail was so pleased with the thought of such a thing that she acquiesced with a stiff nod. “Very well.” Gently she touched Adedayo in the centre of her chest. “Not Adedayo. Adelaide. Adelaide.” The girl simply stared at her with wide, uncertain eyes. “Adelaide,” Abigail said again, firmly.
“I am afraid I have some news,” James said after a moment, standing with his legs apart and his hands behind his back.
Abigail closed the chapbook. “What is it?”
“The returns on The Pearl’s voyage were not all that I had hoped for, especially considering our expenses from last summer, in Bath.”
“I thought…” Abigail bit her lip, deciding not to say more. James had assured her they could afford a summer in Bath, but she’d had her doubts. “What shall you do?” she asked instead.
“I am outfitting The Fair Lady for another voyage to Africa, but I do not wish to trust the voyage to Phillips, the captain I had before, on The Pearl. He didn’t procure enough slaves, and the ones he did were far too sickly. I am sure I can do better.”
Abigail’s eyes widened. “You can –”
“Yes, I shall captain The Fair Lady,” James said rather grandly. “I have sailed in the past, as you know, although admittedly not to Africa. But I am confident in my abilities, as I hope you are, my dear. I will make our fortunes secure.”
Abigail’s hand fluttered to her throat as she considered the implication of his words. “But the voyage takes over a year.”
“I should return next summer, all being well. I trust my fate to Providence.”
Abigail wondered what Providence had to do with the capture and sale of slaves, but it was too strange and unwelcome a thought to voice out loud, or even examine in the disquiet of her own mind.
“That is a long time to be away,” she said finally. She realized she did not know exactly how she felt about James’s departure; amid the fear and sorrow was a treacherous flicker of relief – something else she did not wish to acknowledge or understand.
“Yes, it is,” James agreed, “but necessary in this case.” He strode towards her, taking her hands in his. “I will secure our fortunes, Abigail. Everything will come right. Just wait and see.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rachel
Anthony.
Rachel climbed out of the car slowly, her mind spinning. What was he doing here? Why hadn’t he told her he was coming? And why, when she so wanted to run straight into his arms and have him enfold her in one of his big, bear-like hugs, did she hold herself back so they were having a staring contest, the tension ratcheting up before they’d even spoken?
She stood by the car, wishing relationships weren’t so complicated, wishing she wasn’t. It always ended up being this way, and she didn’t know how to change it. Change herself.
“I thought,” Anthony said after a moment, smiling wryly, “if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad…”
“Right.” Rachel heard how flat her voice sounded and briefly she closed her eyes. She could do better. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Were you at the hospital?”
“This morning, yes, but I’ve just returned from Whitehaven.”
He frowned. “I thought the project was finished?”
“It was. Is.” She felt bands of tension tighten around her forehead as all the problems she’d been trying to forget for an afternoon came toppling back on to her, too heavy a weight, and she gave a shrugging sort of grimace. “I was doing some research and meeting a friend.” Which made it sound as if she’d been having a frolic while her mother languished in hospital and Anthony waited for her to come home. “I needed a break.” That didn’t sound much better. “Do you want to come in?”
“I’ll just get my case.”
“Your case? How – how long are you going to stay?”
Anthony gave another wry smile, his eyes filled with hurt. “Don’t you want me to?”
“It’s not that. I just thought you’d have work. Catering gigs –”
“I cleared my schedule for the next week.”
A whole week. That was kind of him. And yet Rachel wished he’d asked first. She didn’t intend to be here for another week. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. “Although I’m not sure it was necessary.”
“It never is,” Anthony murmured, and opened the boot of his car. Rachel walked past him to the front door, afraid they were going to have an argument, and she was far too exhausted and emotionally fragile for it. Although, in reality, she and Anthony rarely argued. It was all veiled comments and pointed remarks, followed by tense or sullen silences – just as it had been with her parents.
Was there no escaping the past? Perhaps by escaping to it, thinking about someone who died two hundred and fifty years ago, rather than dealing with her own mess. A mess of her own making, because the truth was she didn’t think she knew how to be anything other than she was, and what she was wasn’t good enough – not for her mother and not for her husband.
With a sigh Rachel walked into the kitchen, flipping on the lights and gazing around at the looming space, her coffee cup by the sink, everything else empty. Of course, there was nothing in the fridge, and she hadn’t eaten all day.
Anthony came in behind her.
“I’m sorry, there’s no food,” she said.
“That’s all right. I figured you wouldn’t have had time to shop. I brought some things.”
“Oh.” She turned around to see him put a plastic crate of food on the kitchen table – a pot of basil, a hunk of parmesan, a bottle of wine, fresh pasta. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Nothing too fancy,” Anthony said with a smile. “Just pasta with fresh pesto and a salad. Some wine. What a view.” He nodded towards the window over the sink framing a postcard-worthy vista of rolling hills and barren fells. “You could never get tired of looking at that.”
Actually, Rachel thought but didn’t say, you could. “I think I’m going to run a bath,” she said instead. “If you don’t mind.”
Anthony blinked, looking a little hurt; perhaps he’d envisioned them both downloading their last few days over a glass of wine, but Rachel knew she didn’t have the energy for it. Not yet.
“All right,” he said after a moment. “I’ll get started on the pasta.”
Upstairs Rachel lay in the bath, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why she had to be so ridiculously difficult when it came to her marriage. She reminded herself of her mother, and she hated that. Why was she so cold? So… stony? It was a default setting and she couldn’t seem to flick the switch.
Anthony was lovely. Everyone told her so; Rachel saw it herself. He was so thoughtful, bringing all the trappings for a meal tonight, knowing she wouldn’t have had time to shop. Why did it just feel like so much pressure? Why did she resent his kindnesses? Was it because she knew she couldn’t return them?
The questions circled around in her brain as they had for years now, with no answers – at least none that she wanted to accept. She didn’t know why she was the way she was, only that she was.
Except – perhaps she did know. Perhaps she was stiff and formal with her husband because that was how her mother had been with her father. And while Rachel had resented it as a child, she now found herself falling into the same trap.
He knows why.
Why had her mother said that? What could she have possibly meant? And what might it mean for Rachel – doting daughter of one parent; resented, standoffish child of the other? Caught in the middle, except she hadn’t been, really, had she? She’d chosen sides a long time ago, and she’d stayed there, just as her mother had said.
The water was getting cold but Rachel still didn’t move. She told herself that once she was downstairs she would make an effort, but she knew that even if she did it would ring false. It always did. Anthony would know she was trying, and he never wanted her to have to try.
“Loving someone shouldn’t be difficult,” he’d once said sadly, and it had made Rachel feel horribly guilty as well as frustrated. She knew this was her fault. Didn’t he realize that? And couldn’t he appreciate that she was trying, rather than be cross that she had to? Couldn’t love be about trying, rather than not having to?
Loving was easy for him – Rachel knew that. He just opened his arms and his heart, made a shedload of pasta, and called it good. And it was good. It was simple. Rachel was the complicated one.
“Rachel?” Anthony’s voice floated up the stairs, managing to sound both light and anxious. “Pasta’s ready.”
“Be down in a minute.” She pulled the plug, watching the water swirl down the plughole, the air growing cold around her. Finally she rose and wrapped herself in a towel, telling herself she was ready to make an effort, and perhaps not even seem as if she was. Tonight she’d do better than that.
Downstairs the kitchen was full of lovely smells, the table set for two. Anthony had even brought flowers – purple and white freesias he’d put in a crystal vase.
“I hope that’s all right,” he said as he caught Rachel looking at it. “I took the vase from a cupboard in the dining room.”
“It’s fine. It’s all going to be packed up anyway. The flowers are beautiful,” she added. Too much of an afterthought.
“Packed up?” Anthony raised his eyebrows as he started dishing out the pasta. “What do you mean?”
Rachel sat at the table, her chin in her hand, too weary to explain everything, yet knowing she needed to. “My mother is most likely going to sell the house.”
“Just because of the fall?”
“It wasn’t just a fall. They’ve diagnosed her with vascular dementia.”
“Oh, Rachel.” The look of sympathy on Anthony’s face made Rachel want to cry, and yet at the same time she knew she didn’t want to cry at all. If she started, she might not stop, and she wouldn’t even know what she was crying for. Too many things – things she didn’t want to have to talk about.
“What happened, exactly?” he asked. So she told him about how Deborah had been found wandering around in her nightgown; how she’d become aggressive and hit her head.
“Apparently, she’s been going to a memory clinic for a while, although she didn’t want me to know about it. But I gather this is the first time she’s had an official diagnosis, and from what I’ve read online vascular dementia is not the best kind to have, if such a thing exists.” She’d forced herself to do an internet search at the hospital, and seen that the medication for Alzheimer’s wasn’t available for vascular dementia.
