The Widow’s Secret, page 7
None of those qualities or lack of them seemed to deter Mr Fenton, who danced both the minuet and a country reel with her at the assembly rooms on Howgill Street in February, and then at Mr Watson’s assembly room on Albion Street in March.
Later in the month, much to other mamas’ chagrin, he took her and her mother to see his ship, The Pearl, laden with coal for Ireland, and wool, clay pipes, and iron for the Americas.
Abigail had stood on the slippery dockside, a chill wind blowing off the harbour, as she’d stared at the huge ship with its many sails and ropes, the rough-looking sailors scrambling over boxes and barrels on the deck with nimble ease, all of it strangely unfamiliar.
She’d lived her whole life in Whitehaven, with only summers in the country, and she was used to ships. She saw their bristling masts from her window; she smelled the exotic and sometimes foul stench of them that wafted from the harbour on a breeze-laden day – spice and sweat, sticky-sweet sugar, and the clogging scent of coal. She knew the oft-treacherous tides of fortune surrounding the trade that had built Whitehaven into a prosperous town; its relentless ebb and flow that could both make and undo a man’s fortune.
Yet despite all this, she’d never been this near to an actual ship, had never stood on the seaweed-slimed stones of the old quay, never smelled so close and thick the fetid air of the docks, mixed with the sugary scent of spice and rum and the hint of ever-present coal smoke, as well as the unwashed humanity that hefted and heaved along the quays. She felt quite taken aback by it all, by its uncomfortable nearness, its brutal rawness. This was a merchant’s world, a man’s world, not hers.
“She’ll sail this evening,” Mr Fenton told her with obvious pride, as he nodded at The Pearl. “It will take three months to reach the Americas, and another three back. With luck and Providence’s hand she’ll return in September, laden with tobacco to sell at market.”
“I thought tobacco was going into Glasgow now,” Abigail remarked, more to make conversation than anything else. She knew that the Scottish city’s position near the North Atlantic trade winds could cut a journey to the Americas by as much as twenty days, and so the trade was trickling away from Whitehaven. Mr Martin was one of the last to deal in it. For a second after she spoke, Mr Fenton’s expression became shadowed, before he gave her a jolly smile.
“Not all of it, surely! There is plenty of desire for the Virginia leaf farther south, I assure you. I have had no trouble thus far, never fear. Come, the quay is no place for a lady.” He put the tips of his fingers on her elbow as he guided her and her mother away from the busy wharf, back towards the house on Duke Street where Caroline had invited him to take tea.
He took tea three times at the house over the next few weeks, and danced a minuet with Abigail again in April. Later in the month they walked to Holy Trinity Gardens, with Jensen trailing behind, and the outing was noted by every lady’s maid in Whitehaven who had been sent down the street, and every elegant curtain along Lowther Street twitched as they walked along.
“He will offer soon, I know it,” Caroline vowed that afternoon, when Abigail had returned both exhilarated and afraid, as well as exhausted, by Mr Fenton’s attentions.
She thrilled to his presence even as she feared putting so much as a toe wrong. When he made conversation, her head too often emptied, or even worse she said something that could be considered abrupt or uncouth as her thoughts flew out of her mouth without the necessary careful consideration.
Still he would return to visit her again, favouring her with his smile, the courtly bow that was a touch brash; he held a teacup clumsily, his laugh was a guffaw rather than a titter. Abigail knew these things, and found she did not mind.
As Caroline paced the morning room, Abigail could see how edgy she was becoming. Two dances, three takings of tea, several walks – it was enough to set the tongues of the entire town wagging and everyone wondering when he would declare his intentions. Abigail knew that if he did not propose, she would be utterly ruined.
And then he did. He called on the house one morning in late April, when the sky looked freshly washed and fragile blue, and the first-floor drawing room, the best room of the house, held a damp chill because her mother had seen no reason for a fire. He asked to see her alone, and Caroline had given her daughter a look that was both triumphant and terrified before scurrying away.
Abigail led Mr Fenton into the chilly room, the curtains drawn against the morning sunlight to keep the carpet from fading. The room felt dark and unfriendly, empty and austere, hardly the place for a proposal, if indeed that was Mr Fenton’s intention, because even now, alone with him, Abigail could not be sure and did not dare hope.
“I’m pleased to see you, Miss Heywood,” he said formally once they’d entered the room, the door a little ajar for form’s sake.
Abigail bobbed a curtsey, hiding her hands, damp with nerves, among her skirts. “Likewise, Mr Fenton, I assure you.”
He nodded, standing with his legs spread apart, his hands clasped behind his back, as he gazed into the empty grate, swept clean of yesterday’s ashes. Abigail waited, barely daring to breathe, to hope.
“I have enjoyed these last few months of our acquaintance,” he said at last, and her heart tumbled over.
“As have I,” she managed to whisper.
“And it would be my greatest pleasure to deepen it,” he continued, finally turning to look at her.
Abigail waited, unsure how to respond to this rather oblique statement, needing more before she framed a reply.
“I am a man of humble beginnings,” he continued, his blue eyes gazing at her with that slightly unsettling forthrightness. “And modest means, compared to some, I must confess. But I have ambition and the hope to trade and prosper, and I believe I could provide for you quite adequately, if not even admirably in time.” He paused, swallowing, and Abigail put one hand to her throat. She felt dizzy all of a sudden, overwhelmed by the moment, by its surprising sweetness as well as its magnificent importance. “So what I am asking now, Miss Heywood, is will you consent to become my wife?”
Abigail opened her mouth to assent, undoubtedly, assuredly, blessedly, yes, of course! Yet somehow the simple yes that she so longed to say would not come.
Mr Fenton frowned at her, a new unease creeping into his expression as she stared at him, open-mouthed and silent. “Miss Heywood?”
“Why?” she finally blurted, before mortification scorched through her at her idiotic shamelessness. Why had she not simply said yes when he’d asked? What a fool she was.
“Why?” he repeated, his frown deepening. “I am afraid I do not take your meaning.”
“Why me?” Now that she’d said it, she knew she needed to know, even if it cost her – and it could cost her everything. “Why have you set your sights on me with such determination, Mr Fenton? I confess I have been flattered and pleased by it, indeed I have, truly, and yet…” Her heart pounded and she bunched her skirts in her fists as she forced herself to go on. “Why me?” The words were stark and painful in their honesty. “I am plain, I know that well, and my wit is far from sparkling. I can hardly have charmed you.” She bit her lip. “And I know you have heard about Harrogate, much to my own mortification.”
Mr Fenton stared at her for a long moment, and miserably Abigail wondered if she’d lost all chance at a marriage, at happiness, with her ill-thought remarks. Why had she felt the need to point out the unfortunately obvious? Why had she been so foolish, again?
Yet she still wanted – needed – to know.
“Let me address your concerns in order,” Mr Fenton said after a moment. A small smile lurked about his lips, giving her the faintest, most fragile ray of hope. “To the first, I do not find you plain. You are no simpering blonde miss, it is true, and I am glad for it. Your looks are strong, and they please me.”
“Oh!” The syllable escaped softly from her as the flush of humiliation began to turn to the faintest pinking of pleasure.
“As to the second, your wit is not sparkling, I admit, and I am glad for that as well. I do not favour the arch comment, the gentle mockery that is so in vogue among polite society but leaves me quite cold.” He shook his head firmly. “Your wit is dry, like mine, and your manners are honest and plain – far more plain than your looks, if I may be so bold as to say so!” He smiled then, and Abigail smiled back, her heart becoming lighter and lighter as realization unfurled inside her like a flower. He liked her – he actually liked her.
“As to the third,” Mr Fenton said, his tone becoming sombre, and she tensed, expectant, afraid again. “Harrogate. You were both honest and bold in drawing the poison from that place upon our first conversing. You had been right in your assessment – I had heard of it, and of you in that regard, I am most sorry to admit.” Abigail looked away, unable to face the censure she was sure would be in his eyes. “And what I know is this,” Mr Fenton continued. “The man in question – for I cannot call him a gentleman – abused your trust as well as your innocence. And you are innocent, Miss Heywood, of that I am quite sure.”
Her startled gaze flew to his, and she nearly wept at the compassion she saw softening his features. How could he be so understanding? “But I was so foolish –”
“No,” Mr Fenton said gently, “you were naive. There is a vast difference.”
Abigail swallowed, still near tears. “How can you say such things, when you have heard –”
“What I have heard is that a man of suitable means and family made your acquaintance and showed you favour, and asked you to walk with him alone when he should not have, considering his caddish intentions.”
Abigail closed her eyes briefly as she recalled the charming, slightly mocking, smile of George Darby, the younger son of a country squire in the West Riding, and how he’d lavished her with attention for a fortnight, asking her to dance, whispering in her ear, making every head turn, including her own.
When he’d asked to walk with her alone among the pleasure gardens of the spa town one afternoon after they had taken the waters, she’d foolishly thought a proposal would be forthcoming. Instead he had tried to kiss her, and after enduring a moment’s horrid embrace, she’d pulled away from him, and he’d called her names she could not repeat even in the disquiet of her own mind – names she had not even heard of before.
Horrified, heartbroken, Abigail had stumbled through an explanation of her misbegotten hope that he’d been about to propose, and George Darby had laughed in her face. “What? To you?”
The words had rung in her ears as she ran from the gardens in tears, her bonnet askew, her robe in disarray, and her petticoats spattered with dust. The gossip had swirled around her since that awful moment, the blame heaped upon her and never upon the ne’erdo-well Mr Darby, who had shortly afterwards become engaged to a York heiress, and she had never felt free of it – until now.
“Truly?” Abigail whispered. “Truly, that is how you see it? Even after all that has been said to you? Because I can only imagine –”
“Don’t,” Mr Fenton said quietly. “Don’t imagine it. It is not worthy of your attention, or mine, from this day forward.”
“But…” Abigail shook her head, tears she could not hold back spilling down her cheeks, embarrassing her further. “I never thought…” She shook her head again, and then Mr Fenton was before her, raising her hand to his lips as he brushed her knuckles with the barest of kisses.
“Shall I ask again?”
“Ask?” Abigail felt too overwhelmed by everything even to remember what the question was.
Mr Fenton’s mouth quirked in that lovely smile. “You to marry me.”
“You don’t need to ask again!” she cried. “Of course I will. It is an honour, Mr Fenton. Truly, an honour.” She was overcome with emotion, with gratitude, with hope.
He was suitable, but more importantly he was kind, and his gentleness had made her fall in love with him. She would have married him regardless, but how much sweeter it was to approach that so very blessed state of matrimony with happy eagerness, and not to trudge towards it with mere weary resolution. How fortunate she was, after feeling so forgotten by God, so cursed by fate. Abigail wondered at it all, wondered and wept, as Mr Fenton kissed her hand again.
“Then I shall speak to your father in all haste, and we shall make the arrangements as quickly as possible.”
Abigail’s head spun at this. “Quickly, yes.”
“There is no reason to wait,” he confirmed. “I have already looked at a house on Queen Street that I hope you will find agreeable.”
“Oh.” A smile broke across her face like a wave on the shore at the thought of her own house; mistress of her own home at last. At last. “Oh, yes.”
“Then I will not delay. Your father is at home?”
“Yes.” She did not add that he was no doubt waiting eagerly in his study, ready to spring out the moment the door to the drawing room opened and Mr Fenton emerged.
“I am so glad.” Briefly he took her hands in his and squeezed them; it was the most they’d ever touched, save for when they’d danced, and she thrilled to the feel of his callused palms, his strong fingers. “And I hope, my dear, that now we are to be wed, you might, in private at least, call me James.”
“Yes, of course I shall,” she whispered. “James.” It sounded strange and exciting on her tongue.
“And I shall call you…” he prompted gently.
“Abigail.” She squeezed his hands back. “You may call me Abigail.”
He turned from the room, and Abigail pressed one hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter as she heard the creak of her father’s step, the alacrity with which he spoke.
“You wish to speak to me, sir? But of course! I am most glad to converse with you upon such a personal matter. Most glad indeed!”
A month later, with the banns having been read the necessary three times, they were wed at St Nicholas, where her family had sat in the fourth pew every Sunday for twenty years. Abigail emerged from the church hand in hand with James, flush with both victory and love, a triumphant, married woman, on the cusp of everything.
She had done it; she had rescued herself from ruin, and her family’s reputation from being forever maligned. She’d married a man who was perfectly respectable, admirably hard-working, and would now be invited to all the social events the town had to offer.
She would be mistress of her own household – a modest townhouse, it was true, only half the size of the home she’d grown up in, but still very comfortable. Jensen was coming with her, and James had promised to employ a cook and laundry maid as well. They would be well established, and in time who knew how he might prosper? He had ambition, for sure, and a ship; he was already in negotiation to buy a second, which he had promised to name after her.
But most importantly, she thought, as she turned to share a loving smile with her husband, she had found a man who was gentle and kind and good, and she loved him. Of that she was sure, and it was a certainty that sent her sailing through their wedding breakfast, still flushed with happiness and triumph, raising her glass and drinking deeply, eager to embrace a future she had once thought quite beyond her.
When the rolls, buttered toast, ham and eggs had all been devoured by their gossipy guests, and the wedding cake was parcelled into careful pieces to send to relatives, Abigail and James set off in their hired carriage towards Keswick, where they would spend the evening before travelling on to York for their honeymoon. Abigail did not think she could have been any happier. She felt as if she might burst with it; her smile could not contain her joy, her whole body humming with a tune she’d never thought to sing.
Everything was ahead of her, shimmering like a promise, golden and perfect, as the sun sank beneath the fells, and twilight stole upon the world.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rachel
Rachel’s stomach cramped as she drove up the sweeping gravel drive, now clumped with weeds, to the imposing house of slate-grey Lakeland stone four miles outside of Windermere.
The house had always seemed forbidding to her, with its blank windows and dark stone, the steeply pitched slate roof. In every direction, there was nothing but the lonely sweep of fells, punctuated by the occasional miserable-looking sheep. A steady rain was falling, obscuring the horizon, and shreds of cloud lay low in the sky, matching Rachel’s mood.
When had she last visited her mother? Deborah Barnaby had not been invited to Rachel’s wedding in Florida; it had been too hurried, and in any case, she hadn’t thought her mother would want to go or even care.
She’d left a voicemail with the news, and then reluctantly brought Anthony for a stilted visit one dark winter, when they’d come up for Christmas after their wedding. There had been thimblefuls of sweet sherry in the sitting room, the fire barely throwing out enough heat to ward off the icy chill that pervaded the huge house with its ancient heating system, and Anthony had done his best to be jovial, while her mother had remained tight-lipped and cool-voiced, as had Rachel herself, because as always they’d played off each other to no one’s benefit.
Had it always been that way, or had it started when her father died and it felt as if all the joy had drained out of the house, the glue that had held them together as a family finally coming unstuck?
Except that couldn’t be true, because they hadn’t felt like much of a family even when her dad had been alive. Even then her mother had been cool and remote; it had just been offset by her father’s wonderful, effusive love – bear hugs and bass-toned chuckles, the sound and feel of him filling the now-empty house.
With a sigh Rachel climbed out of her car, ducking her head against the rain before heading to the front door, where she lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall once, because even though she’d spent eighteen years in this house she still felt like a guest, and an unwanted one at that.
“Rachel.” Deborah opened the door dressed in a pressed button-down shirt and corduroys, her grey hair held back with a velvet Alice band. She let her cheek hover near Rachel’s for a moment, in lieu of a kiss or, heaven forbid, an actual hug.
