Chapter Nine
All around her, there was kerfuffle and talk.
Movement and chatter. Hours had ticked by, but it felt far more like mere minutes for the tortuous amount of time it was all taking.
Now the soft light of early dusk was falling, and Abigail could not believe that such a day could last as long as it had.
Every time she closed her eyes, she recalled in vivid, unpleasant detail the sensation of the darkness all around her, oppressive and complete.
She had been sure she would die, and then through her fears she had heard his sweetly accented voice calling her name, and it meant she could force herself not to panic.
Abigail doubted she could ever forget the sound of her name on his lips. Needful, strong and eager for her, that musical lilt of a warrior’s cry, telling her to not give up. It would stay with her forever, as would the feel of his hand closing over her fingers and pulling her free.
His shout of her name in the dark was a claim and it beat through her now.
A soft, feminine touch brought her back to the parlor, alongside the kindly offer of tea or toast. Or both, should she want it.
Her pillows had been fluffed. A prettily patterned Indian shawl that Sophia had left behind was fetched and draped over her legs.
Her position on the settee downstairs was discussed before being arranged again and again, until Abigail wanted to scream at both Miss Schillers and Judith, who could not stop with their fussing and talking.
Milton, his purring a reassuringly normal noise, was in fact the only creature Abigail was grateful for.
The cat had curled up on her feet and had promptly fallen asleep, oblivious to the drama of the day.
Abigail gained a great deal of comfort from the solid, peat-colored shape of the slowly rising and falling ball of fur that was Milton’s reclined shape.
Her injuries had been accessed by Doctor Owlery. “Very lucky,” he’d declared to the wider room, seeming to address all of the furniture as well as the four other occupants.
Abigail doubted the truth of the doctor’s words. After all, she was bruised and sore, confused and scared, and she tended to start shaking if she dwelt too long this morning. She was not lucky. To be truly lucky, she would have never been caught in that landslide, would never have—
“Are you certain, doctor?” Judith asked.
“I have checked her twice over, Miss Fossey, and aside from what appears to be a bad bruise on her ribcage, in her hairline and shoulder, and perhaps a mildly sprained wrist, she is miraculously unhurt. She is lucky not to have a fractured head. Praise God. It is quite extraordinary, but then again you have always had the luck of the devil, or perhaps we should say the luck of the Irish.” Doctor Owlery added the former with a little chuckle.
“A little bedrest for the next few days, and I would imagine she will be well again by the weekend.”
“There is no need to send for my mother?”
“Not unless you believe Mrs. Fossey would wish to be here.”
Abigail knew all too well that her mother would probably greatly enjoy the attention, the fuss and novelty of Abigail being looked at in such a manner.
Whether her mother would be actually useful, Abigail had her doubts.
Mrs. Fossey had never been useful in her life.
But then again, that was not precisely what Judith was asking.
The expense of having Mrs. Fossey travel to and from Bath would be more than Judith wished to spend, so such a response would please her oldest sister a great deal.
Miss Schillers, who had been listening in the corner of the room with a tea tray as her excuse to linger, exclaimed, “What a hero Mr. O’Sullivan is! A true hero, if I do say so myself. Without his intervention, who knows what may have occurred?”
“Very true, very true.” The doctor turned away from Abigail to look at the cook with a gracious grin of excitement on his freckled face as he adjusted his thin rimmed glasses. “A most fortunate rescue by that most worthy gentleman.”
The two of them seemed close to jubilant.
Doctor Owlery continued heartily, “The Weirs have been accepting donations toward any ale he may wish to consume, and the inhabitants of Lyme have been most generous.” The doctor looked back at Abigail.
“A tribute to how fond everyone in Lyme is of you, Miss Abigail, and relieved that you have survived such an ordeal.”
The unfairness of this bit at Abigail. The town was not fond of her. They called her odd. Sometimes to her face. And strange, behind her back. They judged her for her interest in rocks and fossils, and for wearing breeches. Most of all they judged her for not fitting in.
“Perhaps they just do not want me dead,” Abigail said. This sounded far more logical to her.
“No one would want that, pet,” Miss Schillers said, and at least Abigail believed that. Maria Schillers might fuss and fiddle, mollycoddle her, but not for a moment did Abigail doubt this was done because Miss Schillers regarded her quite as family.
“And they think Mr. O’Sullivan quite the gallant. He pulled rocks off you, daring the dangers of another slide, carried you back in his arms—”
“You are making it sound rather like a gothic melodrama,” Judith said, cutting the doctor off to which the man scoffed. “One I might buy from a peddler, or have it shipped across from France.”
“It is merely the truth, madam.” Doctor Owlery sounded so sure.
Abigail feared that the entire town would be saying the same thing.
If Lyme was abuzz with his rescue of her, would it mean that Mr. O’Sullivan would be obligated toward her?
She would not wish for that. Why could they not continue in the manner they had been?
She liked that. Or at least she liked a vast majority of it.
“Abigail owes the dear gentleman her life,” Miss Schillers continued, her midnight blue eyes not remotely wizened by age, but brightened by the idea of the romance of it.
Their cook certainly brought in a great many melodramas and romances to the house, which Judith threw away.
Abigail was suddenly extremely grateful that Sophia was not present, undoubtedly her older sister would take a great deal of delight in the whole affair and practically be ready to plan Abigail’s marriage.
Doctor Owlery too was beaming with the kind of marital cheer that Abigail found especially disconcerting. Perhaps he was imagining that he might be the one to hear the news of their engagement, the lucky man who might be the first to know.
A stern little cough sounded, and both the doctor and Miss Schillers lowered their gazes, turning toward Judith, who looked decidedly annoyed.
Abigail’s oldest sister was looking worried, as she had for hours, stressed marking her forehead, and causing her to twist her hands which she now settled as she drew herself upright.
“I think sir, that Mr. O’Sullivan has indeed been praised a great deal. I myself thanked the gentleman—”
“Madam, the talk is everywhere that a match—a most suitable match, will now be reached. Allow me to offer my congratulations if it is not too bold, Miss Abigail—”
“Sir, I am afraid you have overstepped the mark.” Judith swept forward, snatching hold of Doctor Owlery’s arm, and half pulling the physician away from Abigail before she could fathom a reply. “As head of my family, in my mother’s absence, no such talk has reached my ears—”
“But it is inevitable,” the doctor almost scolded, “Given the time they have spent together, they appear as close as a couple could be, and now there is this rescue.”
“Nothing is known of Mr. O’Sullivan’s situation, nor has the gentleman called on me to seek permission.
I do hope you have given no credence to these rumors outside these walls.
With that in mind,” Judith seemed to half pull, half drag Doctor Owlery out of the parlor, “I think it best to leave my sister to recover from her injuries. If she worsens, we will send for you.” In an undertone, Abigail heard Judith add, “We can settle our outstanding bill to you…”
The door closed behind the pair of them, and Abigail looked up at Miss Schillers.
Prior to this interlude, Abigail wished nothing more than to be left alone, but now she had a question, that she reasoned Miss Schillers might be quite the best person, the best woman, to ask.
Perhaps if her mother had been present, or Sophia, she might have asked one of them, but Abigail could not imagine ever seeking Judith’s advice.
There was something too embattled about her oldest sister to imagine Judith knowledgeable or indeed interested in a man.
“Madam—”
“How formal you are, pet.” Miss Schillers swept closer, exchanging the cold cup of tea that Abigail had abandoned for a freshly brewed one. “There you go, drink up. It will do you good.”
“Judith does not want me to wed Mr. O’Sullivan,” Abigail said. It was not a question. She was finding it hard to formulate precisely what she meant. “No—” she continued before the cook could speak, “She does not think it possible…” Doubt caused Abigail’s stomach to twist. “A gentleman could not—”
With a gentle movement, Miss Schillers lowered her tray to the floor, and sank down onto the carpet, so she could look up into Abigail’s face. There was such an intensity of kindness written in her warm face, etched into the folds and wrinkles, that Abigail wished to cry.
“Your sister is relieved that you are well. That is her primary concern, not any gossip the doctor might have heard. I know that for certain,” Miss Schillers said as she took hold of Abigail’s hand. “When she heard about the landslip, I’ve never seen her more scared in as long as I can remember.”
“But she does not care for—”
“Pet,” Miss Schillers drew out the word carefully as if she was choosing her words with care, “It doesn’t matter what Miss Judith thinks of your gentleman. What matters is what you think of each other.”