Light Among Shadows Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 1-58660-772-3

  Copyright © 2003 by Tamela Hancock Murray. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  One

  “Abigail Pettigrew! Get in this house right now or you’ll catch your death of cold!” Griselda Pettigrew’s shrill voice, calling from the verandah, cut through the autumn twilight.

  Sitting with her back against a great oak with shriveled brown leaves still clinging to its branches, Abigail looked up from writing in her diary. “Yes, Mother,” she shouted. Abigail tried not to wrinkle her nose when she used the familiar name.

  Obviously satisfied that Abigail would obey, Griselda shut the heavy front door behind her. As soon as the woman’s soot black curls disappeared from view, Abigail stuck out her tongue. The gesture gave her a sense of satisfaction even though her stepmother couldn’t see it.

  Once Abigail’s dearest Mama had been taken home to the Lord after a prolonged illness, Griselda had wasted no time in becoming the second Mrs. George Pettigrew. As soon as Father’s new bride had set foot on the estate, she’d insisted Abigail call her “Mother.” Never mind that Griselda had been brought into the world only a decade earlier than her new stepdaughter.

  When Abigail had protested to her father that she’d prefer to call Griselda by her first name, he’d dismissed her wishes. “Better to make your new stepmother feel welcome in our home, Abigail. As high-spirited as you are, she’ll have her hands full teaching you to be a proper lady.” Then he’d chuckled.

  As his head moved with the rhythm of his laughter, Abigail had noticed how his graying hair shone in the light of the oil lantern. Not so long ago, his hair had been a burnished brown, so deep in color that it appeared almost black. Since he had wed Griselda, gray hairs had appeared with increasing frequency.

  “My Griselda will earn the right to be called your mother before all is said and done,” Father had admonished her.

  As she sat remembering the determination that had filled his words, Abigail quivered with anger.

  “No, she won’t! Never!” Abigail muttered, banging the diary against her bent knees. An angry breath filled the air in front of her, forming a thick whiff of steam that quickly dissipated against the frigid temperature.

  “My, but are we not peppery on this fine evening!”

  Abigail gave a start at the sound of a horse’s whinny. A stranger had stopped in front of her, a fine figure of a man perched high upon an ebony steed. Since night was falling in haste, Abigail could barely make out his straight nose and smiling lips. Blue eyes bored through her as a steel hook pierces the mouth of a fish. Though she felt as stunned as a captured trout, somehow she knew if this stranger were the fisherman who caught her, she would not object.

  The way he unabashedly studied her, Abigail could see that her captor sought to prolong the sport. “And are we not bold on this fine evening, Sir?”

  “Perhaps,” he said with a hearty laugh. “Are you the lady of this estate?”

  “I am the daughter.”

  His eyes fixed their gaze upon her face. “Then I must warn you not to linger in such close proximity to the road. You wouldn’t want to be taken away.” With another laugh and a “Giddyap, Midnight!” the stranger galloped away.

  “Indeed!” she huffed, though by that time he had ventured too far away to hear. “Who is he to tell me what to do? Yet I wonder why he hurries so?” She rose from her spot. At that moment, she realized the seat of her green dress had become moist from the damp ground. A tickle in her throat caused her to cough. “Maybe Griselda was right to call me in. But I shall never concede such a thing to her!”

  She clutched the diary inside the crook of her arm, against her chest, and secured in her fist the quill and sealed bottle of ink. Shivering, Abigail used her free hand to wrap her cotton shawl around her shoulders. With a quick pace, she headed toward the house. As she passed the kitchen, which occupied a small building separate from the main house, the rich smell of roasted mutton and freshly baked bread enveloped her nostrils. Her writing had been interrupted, but at least Mattie’s delicious meal would be her reward.

  Abigail remembered the times she’d helped Mattie churn butter and create delectable cakes. But those times were to be no more. “You’re a Pettigrew, not a cook,” Griselda reminded her. “I know your mama was too ill these past years to train you properly. I shall teach you to oversee the operations of the home, not to engage in work that is far below your station.”

  “But Mother, I like churning butter. And on chilly days the kitchen fire beckons me with its warmth.”

  “The kitchen fire, indeed! What is the matter with you, Abigail? You are to the manor born, not the prodigy of a scullery maid and a stable hand. Many other girls would gladly give up their families to be in your position.”

  “Then perhaps I shall exchange places with one of them.” Abigail’s rash statement wasn’t sincere, but the shocked look on Griselda’s face had been worthy compensation.

  Abigail focused her attention on the present. She was careful to shut the front door slowly so it wouldn’t creak as she entered. She wanted to deposit her diary in her bedchamber before dinner, away from Griselda’s prying eyes. Pleased that she wasn’t spotted in the foyer, Abigail slipped up the winding mahogany staircase. Her slim figure easily navigated the steps without causing a sound. Hastening to the second door on the right of the hallway, she stole into her bedchamber and fastened the heavy wood door behind her. Once safely inside, she let out a contented sigh. She would have a few moments alone with the thoughts she had recorded in the little leather-bound book before the gong sounded to summon her to appear at the dinner table.

  Cold cinders in the fireplace offered no relief from the chill. Funny, but not long ago, the servants never would have let the fire go out so early. Abigail kept her shawl about her shoulders. She made a straight course for the bed but stopped short when she remembered her moist dress. Abigail ran a hand over the back and discovered to her dismay that her dress held the damp. Sighing, she plopped down on the rug beside her bed. If she stained her quilt, a lecture was sure to follow.

  Abigail forgot how the rug offered little cushion against the hard floor as she opened her diary and read:

  October 29, 1819

  Dear Diary,

  Today was most spectacular! Henry—handsome Henry—spotted me picking apples in our orchard. He stopped to inquire after my health. Any gentleman would have done the same, certainly, but I know Henry is considering me as a prospective wife. You ask, Dear Diary, “How can you tell?” Because he looks me up and down—oh, the thought is enough to make me blush! And when he does, his eyes sparkle with interest. Much interest. I do wonder when he will inquire of Father about courting me? Oh, to be Lady Hanover! The thought is too pleasing to bear!

  Abigail let her gaze wander to the bright green ceiling. To be the lady of Hanover Manor! With Henry by her side, nothing could make her happier. Her Henry wasn’t so impudent as that strange man who galloped by, calling her—what was it? Peppery? Peppery!

  “Well, I never!” she muttered.

  Abigail picked up her quill and dipped it in ink. She had an addition to make to the day’s entry.

  A most appalling m
an stopped and spoke to me today, Dear Diary. Eyeing me as I sat beside our favorite oak, he had the nerve to call me peppery! Peppery! I’ve never been so insulted in all my twenty years!

  When I challenged him, he laughed and then galloped off as though the whole of England were afire and he was the one who had to save her! Dear Diary, I hope I never see the likes of him again—even if he does have eyes bluer than the bluest sky.

  ❧

  Tedric Sutton galloped toward his family estate. So the girl he had just met was none other than Abigail Pettigrew. He had heard only small tidbits about her from his brother. Tedric recalled Cecil’s description. Abigail was young and untried in the ways of the world, Cecil had informed him, his voice scoffing with each turn of phrase. Knowing that Cecil intended to take the Pettigrew girl to be his wife, Tedric cringed. If not for her esteemed family name, Abigail would never have gained Cecil’s notice.

  No wonder Tedric had been astonished to discover his future sister-in-law was so, so—peppery. A smile tickled his lips. She certainly had been indignant at the description. His brother would have his hands full keeping her reined in at the estate.

  Tedric recalled the fiery young woman. She glowed with beauty, the type of unaffected loveliness he hadn’t seen among the sophisticated ladies of his acquaintance in London society. They were experienced at batting their eyelashes and using smooth words to flatter men. Even though he was the second son and not heir to the estate, Tedric never lacked for their companionship when he attended social gatherings in the city. He recalled the last party he’d attended. A flock of women took notice of him. Why, in their eagerness, did they seem jaded?

  They were nothing like Abigail. From their short encounter, he’d developed the distinct impression that Abigail believed in the power of romantic love. He somehow knew she wanted to be swept off her tiny feet into the protective arms of a man she could lavish her affections upon forevermore.

  He felt his smile fade. His brother was not that person. Nor would Cecil ever be that man. Not for Abigail, not for anyone. Cecil didn’t know how to cherish a woman. His idea of marriage was to make a successful match with the most beautiful and wealthy woman available, a woman who would look the other way as he wasted money on games of chance. In return, she would live at the impressive Sutton estate. She would bear the highly regarded Sutton name, as would her children. The match Cecil wanted would be considered successful in worldly terms, not spiritual. Tedric wondered if his brother had a spiritual bone in his body.

  “Father in heaven, forgive me,” he muttered. “I am not my brother’s judge, nor any man’s judge. Yet I know my own brother all too well. Lord, change Cecil’s heart, for Abigail’s sake.”

  By the time Midnight turned into the road leading to the front lawn of the Sutton estate, Tedric’s mood was pensive. The betrothal between Cecil and Abigail was already arranged. He couldn’t protect Abigail. His only power lay in being the best brother-in-law he could be. A feeble role, to be sure. But one he was determined to mine for all its abundance.

  ❧

  “Abigail!” Griselda shouted from the bottom of the stairs, interrupting her dreams. “Come to dinner this instant!”

  The girl shook her head in wonder. Griselda only shouted like that when Abigail missed the sound of the gong. Apparently, her writing had immersed her in another world and left her oblivious to that earlier summons to dinner. “Yes, Mother,” she called in answer.

  Sighing, Abigail secured her quill and ink on her nightstand and slipped her diary underneath her mattress. She poured fresh water from the white pitcher into the basin on her cherry wood dresser and washed and dried her hands and face well enough to pass Griselda’s inspection. As she took to the stairs, Abigail didn’t mind if a couple of the boards creaked. Once Griselda called, each moment was of the essence.

  “What was the cause of your delay?” Griselda queried when she saw Abigail enter the dining room.

  “I apologize, Mother. My toilette before dinner took longer than I anticipated.” Seating herself, Abigail concentrated her gaze upon her plate.

  “That is but a feeble excuse,” Griselda said. “A proper lady is always prompt.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Abigail’s eyes remained downcast and focused on the intricate pattern of roses painted on the plate.

  “There now. I think our mutton will still be hot enough, regardless of my daughter’s tardiness.” George Pettigrew’s voice was kind. “Let us have our blessing.” After uttering a word of thanks to the Lord for His bountiful provision, Abigail’s father waited for the meal to be served.

  As soon as the servant had performed her duties and exited the dining room, Griselda flipped her ivory-colored, linen napkin open and set it upon her lap. “Do you see this table? How well it is set? The food that is cooked and served to perfection? Do you see, Abigail?” Griselda swept a woolen-clad arm over the table.

  “Yes, Mother.” Abigail unfolded her napkin. Laying it over her knees, she noticed a seam had become frayed.

  “Managing the meals is but one of the duties of a lady. Why, if I did not make it my business to watch the comings and goings in the kitchen, the cook would throw away half the food, let it spoil, or give away all our leftovers to her ne’er-do-well relations. And the chambermaid would be flirting with the deliverymen and the stable boys instead of performing her duties. Without me, this manor would be in perpetual disorder, just as it was when I first arrived.”

  “You have performed superbly, my darling,” Abigail’s father said to his wife.

  “I seek not praise, but to try to make your daughter see what she must learn as a lady of her station.” Griselda’s thin lips turned downward. Her eyes took on a chilly cast. “Unfortunately, her appearance will not entice any suitors. She looks too much like her departed mama. Hopeless hair. Brown eyes that are too big for the rest of her face.” Her look of appraisal traveled to Abigail’s bodice. “And I have abandoned all hope that her spindly figure will ever fill out properly.”

  Abigail willed herself to keep from crossing her arms over her chest.

  Griselda looked down her long nose at Abigail’s face. “At least your skin is unblemished.”

  “And so was Mama’s. Her skin was the most beautiful I ever seen. And Mama had a sweet disposition too. Did she not, Father?” Abigail couldn’t resist asking.

  “That will be enough, Abigail.” Father’s voice was firm. “Griselda is only doing her best to teach you what shall be expected of you once you become a wife and mistress of your own estate. That is her duty to you and to me.” Still, Abigail felt mollified to see him cast a warning look Griselda’s way.

  Griselda lifted her overloaded spoon halfway to her thin lips. “So what business did the earl of Sutton have with you, Abigail?”

  Abigail stopped her fork in midair. “The earl of Sutton?”

  “Yes. I saw you speaking with him just before you came inside.” Griselda’s tone indicated her disapproval.

  Taken aback by the unexpected inquisition, Abigail stalled. “The light was so dim I could barely see him myself. How could you tell from so far away the man was Lord Sutton?”

  “I could see by his black horse,” Griselda answered. “Are you not aware that the Suttons are renowned for breeding horses with coats the color of midnight?”

  “I suppose I had not contemplated such.” Abigail remembered the name the man had called his horse. Midnight.

  “You never contemplate anything of consequence,” Griselda opined. “You spend too much time writing in that book of yours, daydreaming instead of learning how best to oversee the daily operations of a manor house. If you want to be a fine lady, these things you must learn. And learn well.”

  To Abigail’s surprise, Father rose to her defense. “But surely the child is entitled to a bit of leisure. And if she uses her time to practice writing, all the better. Perfect penmanship is of great value to a lady.”

  “As if anyone can tell whether her penmanship is perfect or as irregular a
s the scratching of a hen. No one is allowed to read that diary but she.” Griselda’s stare bored into her stepdaughter. “I wonder what she writes in it?”

  Abigail’s only answer was to take a delicate sip of hot tea.

  “She is but a child.” Father shrugged.

  “I beg to differ. I was betrothed when I was her age.”

  From the corner of her eye, Abigail saw her father pat his wife upon the hand. “Now, now, Griselda, my darling. Your worry is needless. Did I not tell you I have plans for my little pet?”

  Abigail returned her cup to its saucer and looked at her father. She could feel the rapid beating of her heart.

  What plans could he possibly have for me?

  Two

  “Plans? You have plans for me?” Abigail knew her shrill tone betrayed her shock.

  Father smiled. The look of kindness in his eyes comforted Abigail. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “And they involve the earl himself.” He leaned closer to her and paused as was his habit when conveying important news. “Abigail, you are betrothed to the earl of Sutton.”

  Betrothed to that awful man who called me peppery? But I do not love him! I love Henry Hanover! Please, I beg you, no!

  As much as Abigail wanted to shout these words to her father, they remained stuck in her throat.

  A self-satisfied smile took over Father’s features as he tilted back into his chair, settling himself into it. He passed the linen napkin over his mouth, even though no food was evident upon it. “By this time next year, you will be the lady of Sutton Manor.”

  Her stepmother gasped. Abigail looked over to see that Griselda had stopped chewing. The shocked expression on her face seemed as frozen as January ice on a pond. At that moment, Abigail realized her own mouth hung open, yet she remained mute.

  “Betrothed? When did this happen?” Griselda asked.

  “The arrangement became official two days ago, when I received his reply from London.”

  “London? He lives in London?” Abigail asked.