Light Among Shadows Read online

  “If you are worried that your marriage will require you to move to the city, never fear. As I said, you will be the lady of Sutton Manor. Perhaps you might live part of the year in London, but most of the time, you shall be at home, managing the estate.”

  Abigail recalled Sutton Manor, a place she had visited only once, for a long-ago Christmas party. Lady Elizabeth had been in her prime and a popular hostess. A few years later, illness rendered her an invalid. In his grief, her husband became a recluse until his death only a few months ago. Abigail supposed his demise was the reason his eldest son, who had inherited the title and property, had returned from gallivanting in London.

  Not that she blamed the young earl for abandoning the house. The hideous monstrosity, with gables, columns, and gargoyles on all four wings, was an anathema. She shuddered. “But what if I do not wish to manage the Sutton estate?”

  “Don’t be a fool, you silly goose,” Griselda snapped, her sharp tongue seeming to have suffered no ill effects from the shock. “Your father has ensured a clever match. Much more clever than I ever would have expected for you.” She turned to her husband. “Well done, my dear.”

  “Well done?” Abigail nearly spit the words. “You betrothed me to a man I know not in the slightest without even asking me? And you call that well done?” Her stomach lurched with a combination of fear and anger. She clutched at the material of her dress.

  “Indeed I do.” Father leaned close again. His mouth was pursed into a thin line, an expression that meant he would brook no opposition. “This marriage will compound the fortunes of both our families. Our power and wealth will be multiplied several times over.”

  “But you never cared about your fortune before. The Lord has always blessed us with more than enough.”

  “Circumstances can change,” Griselda answered.

  Abigail narrowed her eyes at her stepmother. “Indeed.”

  Father cleared his throat. “The war with France has made times more difficult for all of us. But even if the Suttons had not a pence, their good name would be a marvelous branch on the Pettigrew family tree.”

  “Then you must be deaf to the rumors surrounding the earl,” Abigail observed. “He is a known gambler and rake. I wonder if he agreed to marry me only to secure himself more funds for his idle pleasures!”

  “That is enough, Abigail,” Father lashed back. “You will not speak to me in such a disrespectful manner.”

  “I beg your indulgence,” Abigail apologized, though she didn’t mean it in her heart. She had a feeling if she tarried over dinner, she would blurt out something truly regrettable. She bunched her napkin in the fingers of both hands. Anxiety had made them tense. “May I be excused from the table?”

  “But you have barely touched your mutton,” Griselda objected. “To waste is never wise.”

  Abigail swallowed. Her stomach felt as though it had tied itself into one large knot. She couldn’t imagine burdening it with another bite of food, so she shook her head.

  “Very well. You may be excused,” Father muttered.

  “And do not ask for more food later!” Griselda warned.

  Abigail nodded before she ran to her bedchamber. She had to escape the fate her father had in mind for her. She had to do something. And soon.

  ❧

  “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.”

  As she sat on her bed, Abigail stared at Exodus 20:12. She had been referring to that verse often as of late. Reading God’s commandment forced her to face the reality that since Father had married Griselda, Abigail’s life had become increasingly difficult. Unwanted tears burned her eyes and wet her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hands, but the motions only served to quell the tide a portion. Abigail moved her Bible so the pages wouldn’t become stained with tears.

  Heavenly Father, how can I honor such a selfish parent? I know I cannot expect Griselda to be as sweet as my own mama, but why has Father abandoned me? Why has he developed a desire to increase his fortune?

  Abigail surmised she already knew the answer. Despite Griselda’s admonitions against waste, she didn’t seem averse to spending money on whatever she pleased. Griselda hosted lavish parties for her friends. She enjoyed a stream of invited houseguests who thought nothing of enjoying the Pettigrews’ hospitality for a fortnight at a time. Griselda made certain to purchase a new gown and adornments for every occasion, along with fresh morning and afternoon dresses each season. She took quarterly journeys to Bath. Abigail didn’t wonder why the family coffers were low.

  As much as she desired to be a good daughter, Abigail couldn’t sacrifice everything for the benefit of her stepmother’s idle pursuits. At the moment, she couldn’t even imagine speaking to the woman in a civil manner. Her only option was to remain in her bedchamber for the rest of the evening. Perhaps the situation would appear less wretched after a night’s slumber.

  She drew a heavy nightdress out of a drawer and put it on over her head. The white fabric was chilly from being stored in a cold room. Seeking comfort, she pulled the two steps out from under her high bed and climbed up so she could snuggle in the mountain of blankets and quilts that clothed her mattress on these frigid nights. Soon the heat from her body warmed the sheets, and she drifted into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning, Abigail awoke before breakfast. For an instant, she felt free. Then she recalled the announcement from the previous evening. A ship’s anchor couldn’t have done more to weigh her down. “Oh, why could not Father have betrothed me to Henry Hanover? Surely his name is as fine, and his holdings seem comparable.” Her sigh was audible.

  She paused for a moment. “Why, that is it! The solution to my problem!”

  Abigail bounded out of bed and lit the candle on her nightstand. She headed for the top drawer of her bureau, where she kept a few pages of simple white linen writing paper. She gathered one sheet and an envelope, along with her quill and ink. Since her bedchamber housed no desk, she used the even surface of the nightstand’s cherry wood as a temporary writing surface. Sitting on the side of the bed, legs hanging, she leaned over the paper and began to write:

  Dear Henry,

  I must see you right away on an urgent matter. Please meet me in the back garden by the rose bushes just before dusk this evening.

  Yours,

  Abigail Pettigrew

  Abigail folded the note. Hands shaking, she used the flaming candle to melt a bit of crimson wax for sealing it. Excited, she hurried to the wardrobe and selected a blue morning dress whose deep pockets would serve to conceal the missive. Later, she would be able to slip the message to Luke, a stable boy she could trust to make such deliveries to the Hanover estate in secret.

  Moments later, Abigail’s heart beat rapidly as she consumed her sausage and eggs. Keeping quiet seemed the best way not to reveal her hidden thoughts.

  “You seem in a much more subdued mood this fine morning,” Griselda observed. “I hope that means you have accepted the betrothal.”

  Abigail didn’t respond, hoping her continued silence would be construed as acquiescence.

  “Of course she has,” Father answered for her. “Abigail is a good daughter.”

  “Good.” Griselda snapped open her napkin, causing a muted crackle to fill the air. “Since the earl has obviously returned from London, I suggest we plan a betrothal party. Naturally, we shall invite. . .”

  Abigail allowed Griselda’s recitation of her guest list and other plans to wash over her without committing them to memory. There would be no party. Not if she and Henry had anything to say about it.

  ❧

  As twilight neared, Abigail slipped out of doors. She breathed a sigh of relief when no one tried to stop her. If her stepmother thought Abigail planned to write in her diary, she would make sure to find work that would necessitate her immediate return to the house.

  Griselda had often expressed how much she hated the time Abigail spent with her dia
ry. While the given reason for this aversion was that the entries took Abigail away from her duties, Abigail surmised that Griselda also feared her entries contained unflattering descriptions of her stepmother.

  Abigail grinned to herself. As if she would waste precious ink on Griselda! Abigail recorded her thoughts about much more important events and people. People such as Henry Hanover.

  She sat on the bench by the rose bushes, which were devoid of blooms since winter was nigh. For Griselda’s benefit, she opened her diary and then dipped her quill in ink. She might as well write about her feelings as she waited for her beloved. Yet when she set quill to parchment, no words flowed. Her mind always went blank in moments of high anticipation, and this time was no exception.

  She tried not to look up too often as she waited. She saw no need to tip off any of Griselda’s favorite servants that she might be involved in some intrigue. Desperate to appear innocent, Abigail scribbled drawings of the roses she wished were in bloom.

  As dark deepened, she tapped her foot. Why was Henry late? Luke had assured her that he had delivered the message and kept his errand a secret. Her heart seemed to jump in her throat. Maybe Henry wouldn’t show at all! No. He wouldn’t treat her that way. Not her Henry.

  As though her thoughts caused him to materialize, at that moment she heard the sound of a galloping horse. She looked up to see Henry. Abigail let out a sigh of relief as she watched him dismount.

  In spite of her best intentions not to look eager, she ran to his side.

  “Henry.”

  “Abigail.” His knowing smile made her want to draw him closer. Sudden shyness and respect for propriety kept her feet rooted in place.

  “I–I hope you do not think me too forward. You know it is not my habit to write such messages to men as the one I sent to you today.”

  “Of course not. I know you never would have written had the matter not been urgent, as you said it was in your letter.” A worried look touched his face. “Why did you want to see me? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “I mean, no.”

  His expression turned indulgent. “Is it yes or no?”

  “I am in great distress, through no fault of my own. Father just informed me that he has betrothed me to the earl of Sutton.” She averted her eyes, studying her clenched hands. “I cannot marry him.”

  “I see.” Henry mulled over her words, as though absorbing the shock. “But if your father has promised, then your family’s reputation will be questioned if you disobey.”

  “It is not my desire to disobey, but—” She let out an aggrieved breath. Why were men so obtuse? “I cannot marry him.” Abigail lifted her eyes to meet Henry’s stare, hoping the distress her gaze must reveal would move him. “What must I do?”

  “Marry someone else, of course.” His cavalier answer, accompanied by a small shrug, stabbed her no less than a genuine dagger.

  “Someone else.” Abigail paused for effect.

  “Yes.” He patted his horse as though he were a spectator, not a participant, in a conversation that would determine the direction of his future—and hers.

  She cleared her throat. “You seem to think that would be easy enough.”

  “Of course.”

  He surveyed her, his bold look beginning at the top of her head. Henry’s assessment of her form ended with the tips of the shoes that peeked from underneath the hem of her dress. Abigail felt uncomfortable, but if Henry were to become her husband, and soon, she supposed he could enjoy certain privileges denied to other men.

  “Surely a young woman of your beauty and proud family name has many suitors?” he ventured.

  Though his inspection had yielded a compliment, Abigail bowed her head. “Mama was ill so many years. My life revolved around her. When she passed on, I, of course, went into mourning.”

  He nodded. “I remember. Your life has not been one of frivolity.”

  “I suppose that is why Father thought it best to find a husband for me. He never asked me whom I might like. He did not inquire if there is any man I might consider or if there is anyone I have admired for years.” Abigail dared not look up, lest she witness Henry’s scorn. Or worse, laughter.

  “Are you saying. . . ?”

  Abigail looked into his face.

  His eyes widened as his mouth slackened. “Are you suggesting—me?” His tone showed he was not insulted.

  “A lady should not be so bold.” Abigail once more stared at her hands.

  “And a man should not be such a milksop as to turn a blind eye to such charm.”

  Heart seeming to beat out of her chest, Abigail lifted her gaze to his. “I wish not to be forward.”

  “Indeed you are not.” He ogled her face, then her figure. “Although I will need time.”

  “Time is the one commodity we have not. If we are to go through with this, it must happen. Tonight.”

  “Tonight? Oh!”

  Something about his voice made Abigail cringe. She ignored her sudden wave of uncertainty. “Tonight.”

  He stood to his full height and raised his forefinger to the sky. “Then tonight it shall be. I shall bring my carriage around to the churchyard as the clock strikes eleven hours.”

  “You will?” Her voice displayed the mixture of surprise and glee she felt.

  “So I shall. Tomorrow morning, Abigail Pettigrew, you shall be my wife.”

  Three

  “My, but the air has grown chilly tonight,” Griselda commented after dinner. She sent Father a look that beckoned him to add a log to the fire, but he rattled his paper, unmoved.

  Abigail chose not to comment. The weather was the last thing on her mind. Tonight was the night she would meet her beloved! Henry, the man she had desired ever since they met at Lord Windsor’s homecoming so many years ago, would at last become her own. How bleak her life had been until the day she saw Henry for the first time. He had been escorting a rather plain heiress, but Henry had noticed Abigail among the crowd and, with a wink and knowing smile, had seemed to read her mind and soul.

  She remembered Father’s displeasure. How dare a man be so forward when they had not been properly introduced! But what did Father know? He had courted Mother so long ago, and Griselda—well!

  Abigail shivered with a mixture of disgust and not a little bit of cold, now that Griselda mentioned it. Throughout dinner, Abigail had felt comfortable. A flickering fire in the dining room had provided warmth as they feasted on roast beef. For once she agreed with Griselda. Only an hour had passed since dinner’s conclusion, but the house had already grown frosty.

  She looked at the fire in the parlor where the three of them were gathered. Flames blazed and crackled, consuming several logs. The heavy scent of pine-tinged smoke wafted through the room. Yet she still felt cold. Abigail adjusted her lap quilt so that it covered as much of her body as possible. She snuggled into the golden brocaded fabric of the wing chair, the mate to the one in which her father sat nearby as he caught up on the news in the weekly paper. Griselda reclined upon a brocaded chaise lounge, involved in a work of fiction. Abigail picked up her needle to resume the mending Griselda had assigned her earlier.

  “You are correct, my dear Griselda,” Father remarked. “The temperature has fallen considerably since this afternoon. Winter must be greeting us with full force at last.”

  “Then I hope we have plenty of fuel to get us through the season. I do so hate to be chilled,” Griselda said.

  As Father gave his assurances, Abigail returned her unseeing gaze to the shirt she was mending. She was to meet Henry at eleven, an hour after she was supposed to be in bed. Since she would be forced to walk to the churchyard by herself, Abigail knew she would have to travel lightly. She’d already packed a dress and undergarments in a leather satchel that would be easy to carry the distance. Before she departed, Abigail planned to slip into the kitchen and add two slices of leftover roast beef and a good chunk of bread to her bag. Once that was accomplished, the contents of the
satchel would be enough to see her through until she returned home with Henry by her side, triumphant in the victory of becoming his wife.

  At least, she hoped she would be triumphant. Disobeying her father was not something she considered lightly. But what other choice did she have? Once he discovered her deception, Father was likely to be angry. She would have to face that. Yet she was certain Henry would prove to be a good husband. He would not spend the family fortune at gaming tables. Of that she was sure. It was only a matter of time before Father would see things her way. Maybe he would even bless her marriage. That was her fondest wish.

  In the meantime, Abigail prayed to the Lord for His forgiveness. The transgression she was about to commit was serious. Still, she trusted in the Lord’s love. In His mercy, He would understand what she was about to do, and why. As she sewed, she recalled Jesus’ words that she had read that day during devotions: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

  Abigail braced herself and tried not to be afraid. After all, Paul had been forgiven for persecuting Christians. He had gone on to become the apostle to the Gentiles. Surely the Lord could forgive her disobedience.

  Putting her fears out of her mind, Abigail thought about what life would be like as Henry’s wife. She had loved him from afar for so many years. No wonder he hadn’t seemed amazed by her suggestion. Of course, Henry was taking a chance. Once their elopement was discovered, then he, too, would face her father’s wrath. But together they would stand. Unshakable. Victorious. Married.

  Once word about their marriage circulated, Abigail knew what the villagers would whisper. Henry’s reputation would be called into question along with her own. But together, they could face any trial. After a few months, the rumors, speculations, and half-truths would quiet, and their story would become another entry in local folklore. She imagined that when she and Henry were old and gray, people would see their impromptu marriage for the romantic story it was.

  “Look at them!” they would say. “Years ago, Lady Hanover confessed her love, and she married Lord Hanover in secret, in defiance of her father. He had planned for Lady Hanover to marry a scoundrel and a rake. Imagine that. But her love for Lord Hanover and his love for her conquered all. How romantic!”