Light Among Shadows Read online

  Abigail pictured herself looking out upon the rolling hills of the Hanover estate. Despite Griselda’s doubts, she would maintain the manor to perfection. Henry would be pleased.

  She allowed her thoughts to wander to another grand house—Sutton Manor. The estate of her betrothed. Without her to look after that home, what would be its fate? Certainly the house would remain fine for a time, but as the years passed, the main house, the herb house, the kitchen, the smokehouse, the stables, the barns—everything—would fall into disrepair, each structure a victim of neglect.

  “The Suttons were once the wealthiest among the local aristocracy,” the villagers would say. “But the earl gambled away their fortune. What a shame!”

  She thought of what the earl would look like decades into the future. He would be decrepit, gray, gnarled, and gout-ridden, and the light would have long since disappeared from his blue eyes. Abigail felt sorry for the elderly man she pictured. Then she remembered. . . .

  She shuddered. With the sudden motion, Griselda looked upon her. Abigail shifted in her seat, hoping to deflect any comments from her stepmother. When Griselda returned to her reading, Abigail sighed inwardly and resumed her fantasies.

  Why had she thought of the earl’s blue eyes? The image of the strangely handsome gentleman, erect in his saddle, wouldn’t leave her mind. Obviously the beau her father had chosen for her was no monster in appearance. But to marry a man of such low character—a gambler and a rogue? She couldn’t.

  The sound of a newspaper crinkling caused Abigail to wake from her daydream and look at her father.

  “Time for bed,” he announced.

  Abigail wasn’t tired, but she was in no mood to argue. After knotting the thread to secure a wayward button, she folded her father’s shirt, readying it for the laundress the following day. Griselda snapped her book shut. Father folded his paper and set it beside the chair. Ordinary motions to bring to a close another day. Motions she would no longer witness. Now that the time to meet Henry was near, Abigail felt an unwelcome surge of nervousness tinged by a sadness in knowing this would be her last evening spent in the home of her childhood.

  “Good night, Mother.” Abigail made her way to her father’s chair. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night, Father.”

  He gave her a wistful smile. “Good night, my little Abigail.” Extending his hand, he took hers and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

  Her answer was a quick nod. She turned away and headed up the stairs quickly, lest tears begin to fall. The moment of truth was upon her. In only a few hours, her life would be changed forever.

  ❧

  An icy drizzle began to slice through the air as Abigail made her way down Pickett Road. Night had fallen in all its ebony glory. Thankfully, her eyes had adjusted enough so she could discern the path in the darkness. Without warning, the wind changed direction. Whereas before the moisture had fallen against the side of her hooded velvet cape, now the frigid droplets smashed her full in the face, prickling before they melted against her soft flesh. Shivering, she pulled the cape closely around her. She wished she had worn a more substantial coat instead of giving in to vanity. The black velvet cape looked dramatic but offered only the slightest protection against freezing rain.

  As soon as she had walked a few more yards along the small dirt road, Abigail would find herself at the local church. The agreed-upon meeting place. On Sundays when she looked forward to worship, Abigail felt her journey to the building brought her closer to the Lord. Tonight, her errand was much different. Each step seemed to take her farther from Him. Suddenly, Abigail wished that she and Henry had agreed upon a different place to meet.

  “Lord, forgive me,” she muttered under her breath.

  At that moment, she stepped into a puddle of mud. Dirty water saturated the kid leather slipper and silk stocking that offered her foot meager protection against the elements. At least she could change her other clothes later.

  She patted her hip, looking for the satchel. There was none. She paused in midstep, letting out a gasp. How could she have forgotten it? Never mind. Henry could buy her fresh clothing on the morrow.

  Abigail lifted her skirt, grateful that only the hem of her garment had suffered from the mishap, as evidenced by a thin line of water on its front. Discouraged from battling precipitation, she wanted to stop. But she couldn’t. She had to keep going.

  The designated meeting place was in sight. That knowledge gladdened her heart, if only for a moment. She looked expectantly for a carriage, one that would keep her warm and sheltered after her fight with the elements. There was none. She stared as far as her eyes could see. Henry was nowhere, not even riding on a lone horse.

  Where could he be? She was not early. Indeed, she was closer to being tardy. He should have been there, waiting for her. Did he not realize the danger of her being out alone, walking along the desolate road so late at night? He should have been eager to protect her from the weather, if nothing else.

  Anger turned to fear. What if he had been detained for a reason beyond his control? What if he had been taken ill? What if her father had discovered their plans? What if at this very moment, Father stood before Henry at the Hanover estate, threatening him?

  She shook her head. No. That couldn’t be. If her father had discovered their plans, someone would have been sent to retrieve her, even if only to allow Father to punish her upon her safe arrival home.

  Abigail slowed her steps, no longer eager to set foot upon the churchyard. The stalwart structure, comprised of stone, seemed to be passing judgment from its sturdy perch. The double oak doors she passed through each Sunday seemed to be sealed—as though she would never again be permitted to enter. Even a grove of trees, the site of so many church socials, seemed to mock her. Unable to ease her guilt, she turned away, casting her eyes upon the dirt path.

  Only moments before, she could fight her feeling of cold with thoughts of Henry. Now she was conscious of her discomfort. Through the stone gate and into the churchyard she stepped. Pale white stones on her right marked the resting places of long-deceased ancestors. She could almost feel their judgment as she imagined their souls looking downward from heaven.

  Well, they would just have to judge her. She was not about to give up. She stood erect, proud to meet her new fiancé. The man who would soon be her husband.

  “But what if that does not happen? What will I do if Henry decides not to meet me? How will I face Father?” Shame flooded her being. She didn’t want to think about the consequences should her plans to marry in secret fail.

  “What am I thinking? Of course Henry will meet me. He has just been detained.” She looked at the church. “I know. I shall see if the vicar left the doors unlocked. I shall seek shelter there. And until Henry arrives for me, I shall pray.”

  At that moment, she heard a horse galloping toward her.

  “Henry!” she called.

  The man on the horse did not answer, but neither did he slow his approach.

  “Henry?” Her voice quivered.

  Still, no answer.

  Panic seized her. The stranger had seen her. Why didn’t he answer? Who was he? Was he a neighbor who would sully her reputation with word that he had seen her alone, obviously waiting for someone? Or was he a bandit with robbery in mind? Or worse?

  Fear clenched its icy fingers around her heart. The stranger was approaching with lightning speed. She had to get away!

  Abigail tried to move her feet, but they stayed frozen in place. Uncooperative, her knees weakened and then lost their capacity to hold her weight. They bent. Abigail knew she was falling. Her world was collapsing with her. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Heavenly Father, please help me!”

  At that moment, she lost consciousness, her mind shutting out the nightmare she had made of her life.

  Four

  Tedric Sutton witnessed the caped figure falling to the ground in a faint. He stared in wonder.

  “Th
is must not be a bandit or troublemaker. But who?” He reined in his steed, leaped over the stone wall, and then rushed to the fallen body. The slight frame, cloaked in black velvet, obviously belonged to a woman.

  “What possessed a woman to be out this late at night?” he wondered.

  Her garment showed her to be a lady of means. But who could it be?

  He placed his forefinger underneath her nostrils. Slight breaths warmed his flesh. Relieved that she lived, he lifted her cloaked head from the hard ground and held it in cupped hands. For the first time, he observed the woman’s face. Lustrous dark blond curls surrounded pleasant features. Long lashes protruded from heavy, closed lids. Despite the cold, her lips were full and the color of roses.

  He gasped. “The girl! This is the girl from the Pettigrew estate!” In spite of his reluctance to remain in the cold drizzle, he took a moment to drink in the beauty of her countenance. She looked so peaceful, as if in a deep, dreamless slumber.

  A pang of guilt pierced his heart. “I must have frightened the poor thing out of her wits! Maybe that is why she fell.” He drew her close to his chest in hopes of warming her frigid cheeks, reddened from harsh winter elements. Warm breath penetrated his coat and vest.

  At that moment, he realized he shouldn’t linger. He needed to take her safely home. And quickly, lest she catch her death.

  As he lifted her full weight from the ground, he noted with amazement how light she felt. Just a slip of a girl. He continued to question her presence at the churchyard so late in the night.

  “Dear Father in heaven,” he prayed, “I have no thought as to why she is here, but I thank You for sending me here at this moment to provide this young lady with assistance.” He shuddered at the thought of what could have happened if he had not appeared to rescue her.

  Mounting his steed while holding a listless body, no matter how light, was difficult. All the same, he managed to place her awkwardly in front of him, holding on to her as if his very life depended upon her safety.

  She stirred. “Henry?” She turned around, a little smile lighting her face. Eyes whose color he was unable to ascertain in the dark opened slightly. “Henry. You came for me.”

  Henry! The only Henry of his acquaintance was Henry Hanover. Tedric hoped Abigail hadn’t come here to meet such a notorious rake. Henry’s reputation was even worse than that of his own brother, the man to whom Abigail was betrothed. He swallowed. Was Abigail so desperate to get away from Cecil? Or had Henry, known for his smooth tongue, made promises too sweet for such an innocent to resist? Anger rose in his chest. Why, the next time he saw that cad, he would. . .

  “Henry,” she muttered.

  Disappointment filled Tedric’s being. “I shall take you home now,” he whispered.

  “Home? No!” She shook her head sleepily. “You promised. Please do not take me home. I never want to go back again. I want to be with you.” Her lips puckered, and she tilted her head closer to his.

  The temptation to seize the moment struck him mightily, but he resisted. He moved his head enough so her lips would miss his and urged her face to nestle on his shoulder. Clicking his tongue to signal his horse to trot, he headed in the only direction he could.

  ❧

  Abigail awakened. Not wishing to depart from the pleasant state between dreamless slumber and total consciousness, she kept her eyes shut. The down pillow under her cheek offered her head a soft place to rest. Heavy blankets were cozy from the heat of her body. The air in the bedchamber was brisk, but that was to be expected since last night’s fire had long since dissipated.

  Already she dreaded the prospect of rising for the day. No doubt Griselda had made out a long list of tasks for her to do, ostensibly to train her to be the lady of her own manor one day. If only the work could wait until spring. Oh, how she hated winter! To keep warm, she would have to leap out of bed quickly and grab undergarments and a dress from the wardrobe. Frigid air enveloping her face suggested she would need to wear her heaviest wool. Letting out a soft groan, she threw the covers over her head. Maybe if she pretended to be asleep, Griselda would have mercy and delay her summons to breakfast and the day’s tasks.

  What day was it, anyway?

  Inexplicably, her stomach felt as though it were leaping to her throat. Why?

  She remembered. Last night she had been waiting to meet Henry, but he was late.

  Henry!

  Ignoring the chill, Abigail threw the covers off her head and sat upright.

  Where was she?

  The room she saw wasn’t her own. Rather than a windowless cubby painted the color of greened copper, she had apparently spent the night in a magnificent chamber. She looked for her amateurishly carved cherry wardrobe. In its stead stood a large cabinet consisting of wood the color of strong black coffee. The wardrobe was decorated with intricate carvings, polished until they shone. The elaborate piece of furniture occupied a space between two large windows dressed in velvet. Beside the adjacent wall, a marble-topped nightstand housed a plain basin for her toilette. How peculiar that she didn’t remember washing her face the previous evening. A stone fireplace bearing the remains of the preceding night’s fire occupied most of the north wall. Abigail studied the wallpaper with its scenes of fox hunting.

  Had she slept in a man’s quarters?

  A man’s quarters! She drew the thick down covers up over her chest as though the masculine owner of the bedchamber were standing nearby, staring at her flesh clad only in a nightshift. A scratchy wool shift that didn’t belong to her. How odd!

  She noticed the covers. Attracted to the deep green color, she touched the fabric. The woven filaments felt soft yet durable. Silk? Green dyed silk? Surely she must be in a bedchamber of a fine home or inn.

  Her thoughts returned to Henry. Henry! Her beloved Henry! The mere thought of him caused a warm glow to pass through her body. Had he spent a day’s wages to provide her with a new nightshift and a superior room? Or had he brought her to his estate and ensconced her in guest quarters with which she was not acquainted? No matter. Henry had made certain she would be comfortable.

  Uneasiness poured over her, replacing her feelings of love with fear. How could Henry have secured them a room at an inn or brought her to the estate? She recalled walking to meet Henry, but she had no memory of what had happened after that. Certainly she didn’t recall a church, a ceremony, or a vicar pronouncing them man and wife.

  Why not? Surely she had not partaken of stout ale so that her memory had been dulled or even eliminated. A gasp escaped her lips.

  A sternly thin woman in the attire of a chambermaid entered. “Well, mercy me! Ye’re finally awake, I see.”

  Disappointed to see a maid rather than her beloved, Abigail snapped, “So it would appear.”

  The woman’s grim chuckle filled the room. “I see ye’re not in much of a humor first thing in the mornin’. Are ye always like this?”

  Always like this? Who would enjoy being greeted first thing in the morning, in a strange bed, in an unknown room, in an undisclosed location, by a total stranger?

  Forgetting her distress and puzzlement, Abigail recalled her own station. “You are the impudent one, whoever you are. If you continue in your disrespect, I shall inform the housekeeper.”

  As though the maid sought to spite Abigail, she flounced to one of the windows and drew back the drapes. Sunlight poured into the room.

  Abigail squinted. “Close those curtains immediately! Do you not realize I have yet to get dressed?”

  “Dressed? Ye shan’t be gettin’ dressed, M’lady. Ye’ll be in bed for some time yet.”

  “In bed? You shall not tell me what to do!” Abigail leaped out of the high bed, forgetting that her feet would object to making contact with a cold floor. As her toes touched the wood, Abigail realized her extremities were the least of her problems. A wave of dizziness unexpectedly attacked. Too late, she clutched the covers. Instead of lending the support she needed to keep standing, they flew off the bed with her as sh
e descended to the floor.

  The maid ran to her side. “Don’t ye be doin’ such a foolish thing no more!” She took Abigail by the arm and helped her back into bed. Abigail realized she was too weak to object.

  “What is the matter with me?”

  “Ye’re sick, that’s what’s the matter with ye.”

  “Sick?”

  “What do ye expect, goin’ out by yerself all times of night, with hardly enough fabric over ye to keep out a summer shower, much less the cold of a winter’s eve?” Although with her dewy eyes and brilliant brown hair, the maid appeared younger than Abigail, she clucked like a mother hen. “And now here ye is, makin’ more work fer me.” The maid patted the edge of the covers firmly as if to emphasize her distress.

  Abigail summoned up her remaining strength to issue an order that sounded adequately threatening. “You shall not speak that way to me. Whether I am causing you more work or not, you shall not reprimand me.”

  “I do remember my station and well at that, M’lady. I may be in charge of ye, but I work fer me own master.”

  “I beg your pardon. You must understand that I have no idea where I am. That fact, along with the great desire for a hot breakfast, is causing me to be in a foul temper.”

  “All is forgiven, M’lady.”

  “Thank you.” Abigail knew she had been unsuccessful in keeping all traces of sarcasm from her voice. Seeking answers, she softened her tone. “Your own master? Do you mean Lord Hanover?” Abigail’s heart began the beating so familiar when Henry’s name fell from her lips.

  “Lord Hanover?” The girl shook her head as though the very name were peculiar. She tucked Abigail back into bed, pulling the covers over her shoulders. “This Lord Hanover ye’re speakin’ of ain’t my master.”

  “Then who is your master?”