Chapter Eleven
Abigail now knew of the sort of excitement that the other girls whispered about when they used to speculate about boys and kissing. Of what married ladies obliquely referred to as the marriage act. Her mind was a whirl, difficult to settle down, no matter how she paced, and wished for clarity.
Abigail tried her best to stay as quiet as she could.
She tiptoed, as she had as a child, through the front door and up the stairs.
She was certain she had managed it until she pushed her own bedroom door wide open and saw Judith sitting patiently by the fireplace.
A low gleam came from the embers. A book was propped open on her lap, but she did not seem to be reading. Her eyes lifted and locked on Abigail.
“You went out to see him.”
For a moment, Abigail considered lying but she reminded herself that her sister always seemed to know when she did this.
Judith got to her feet, abandoning her book. “I have tried my best not to mind about your antics. Father taught me that.”
“Antics?” It made her sound childish. Father had never been guilty of that.
No, Mr. Fossey had been fiercely loyal. Besides, Abigail knew she had been his favorite—and for a good reason, she was a clever woman, whose mind meant she did not need to bow to the rules that governed others.
It was one of the things Robert seemed to like about her too.
“Whatever it is when you care not a jot for your reputation.”
“There are other words you might pick,” Abigail said. “What about brave and defiant?”
“But I did pick that word, and lots of people in this very town would pick far worse.” There was a grit to the way that Judith spoke, and as she drew closer, Abigail wanted more than ever to turn tail and run.
“I picked that word, because there is already talk about you around Lyme, before anyone even knew about you sneaking off to see your Mr. O’Sullivan at night in his hotel room—”
“He isn’t mine.”
“Everyone believes he is, so it might as well be so. Miss Guthrie is threatening to write to our mother about your upcoming engagement.”
“No one could honestly believe—”
“Mother is coming home.” Judith drew out a letter and held it up in the remains of the firelight. “She expects to hear the good news from your own lips.”
“No.” The frayed, tired, sore edges of Abigail’s mind wavered, and she snatched up the letter, marched forward and threw it promptly into the embers. “There is nothing to tell.”
“Then what are you doing with him tonight?”
“Making sure…” Abigail stopped herself. If she said more, how would Judith react?
Would her sister tell their mother, would she insist that Robert do the honorable thing…
the kiss might have been wondrous, excellent, everything and more than Abigail had wanted to experience.
That did not mean she was now prepared to marry him.
Marriage would mean a sacrifice of her dreams. Her wants.
Her future discoveries. There was all the difference in the world between a kiss and a husband.
If their mother came, she would never take ‘No’ for an answer and would be likely to chase Robert—Mr. O’Sullivan—through the very streets of Lyme Regis if she thought it might resolve matters to her satisfaction.
There was no possibility that Abigail could allow that, which meant she would have to break things off, and ideally send Mr. O’Sullivan away.
“I will tell Mother—that there has been a mistake. It was Miss Guthrie’s, no one else’s.”
With an exasperated sigh, Judith rubbed at her face in a circular movement, the movement the gesture of a child, but Abigail did not understand why her sister was playing at being an infant again. Was she tired? It was her own fault for staying up.
“I came up here to distract you, and stayed waiting for your return.” Judith walked over to the small side table, and lifted from the surface, a dark bound manuscript of the time Abigail could spend hours poring over.
“Fresh from London, your zoological paper. The Cuvier pamphlet was delivered to the booksellers.” She held the work out, and Abigail leaned forward keen to take it.
“Mother will not find your answer on the situation with Mr. O’Sullivan to her liking.”
“There is no understanding between us.” Abigail’s anger was mounting.
Why could no one comprehend it? Judith was normally so sensible.
Grasping for a way of shutting down a conversation, Abigail lied, “Mr. O’Sullivan is leaving Lyme shortly.
I will make sure he does so, if only to put an end to these rumors.
There was never any likelihood he would marry me.
” Abigail unwound the leather bindings, only half paying attention to her words.
“Then he is a cad. Playing you—us—the whole town for a fool. His status as a hero for saving you will not last long if that is the position he is clinging to.”
“Why would I care?” Abigail’s irrational anger, the kind that sometimes came upon her, rumbled through her stomach, was causing her mind to be split in different directions.
“You’ve snuck out to his rooms, because…
” Judith trailed off, and stepped closer, she was frowning, and an expression that was perhaps meant to convey kindness.
Was her oldest sister suddenly going to come over saintly?
Abigail wished she was better at understanding what Judith wished to convey, but as ever it was hard to grasp what was meant by the squeeze of Judith’s fingers on her arm.
“I wish for us to be closer,” Judith said. “For you to trust me a little more. As you did with Father. There isn’t—”
“Don’t talk about Papa.”
Judith sighed, and raised a hand to her forehead to rub at the crease between her brows. “I merely meant I am not Mother. Since I know what regard you hold her in, I simply wish you to know that you and I…”
It was unfair, Abigail realized. Whilst she might not be able to fully comprehend her sister, Judith was able to see and understand every move and twitch Abigail made.
“If you really cared for the gentleman, then surely—”
“What does it matter?” Annoyance flared through her. For a moment, she forgot the pages she held as she looked at her sister, staring her down, wanting nothing more than silence so she could conclude whatever muddle her mind was in. “I would not wish to marry anyone.”
An expression played over Judith’s face, one which Abigail hoped was acceptance, but she wasn’t sure.
“In which case, I wish you luck for when Mother arrives. And for a better answer than the one you have just given me,” Judith said.
Finally, Judith left Abigail in peace, with only her buzzing thoughts for company, which she found out, as she slid into her bed, was a poor companion compared to the memory of Robert’s kiss.
*
As the hours crept away from her, Abigail resolved that she would be visiting the landslip site at dawn. Although she was not sure she wanted to admit it, or even register it entirely, she hoped Robert would come too.
When the first faint smudges of the new day peeked around the corner of the curtains, Abigail threw herself up and out of bed to greet the day.
Walking through the house, she ran into Milton, who got a good scratch behind the ears, and then Miss Schillers, who was in the kitchen and seemed delighted at the improvement in Abigail’s condition.
In just ‘one day,’ Miss Schillers kept saying as if that was the impressive thing, which Abigail supposed it was—only her ribs seemed especially sore now, the aches in her ankle and wrist were greatly reduced already.
The cook insisted she take her father’s old cane, which Abigail did reluctantly.
Abigail almost admitted that it was the encouraging vigor of Mr. O’Sullivan’s kisses that were the restorative, but she doubted the elderly cook would appreciate hearing such scandalous things.
Besides, she told herself that if she did not dwell over much on the kiss, all would be better.
All would be well. She could return to the way things were with Robert, having gained the knowledge she wished to know. That was her theory in any case.
The walk down to the beach was a quiet one. Not many people were up yet, and the faint drizzle of rain might well be off-putting to others. At least Abigail hoped so, she did not want anyone along to see what the landslide might have unearthed.
“Good morning.” His voice was soft, welcoming, the kind that would chase away any chills she might be feeling. It threatened to possess her, and chase away all of her good intentions, not to mention promises she had made to her sister.
Mr. O’Sullivan presented such a handsome sight that it made Abigail flush, uncomfortable in her own skin and how much she wished to rush forward and hug him. Such untoward feelings were an alien sensation indeed. It was probably just down to the kiss and would pass soon enough.
“Hello,” she said, self-conscious in her body and overly aware of where her hands were placed. The basket she was holding in her left hand shifted to the other, before being hastily stowed over one shoulder. “We should head down to the cove and to the rockslide.”
“Are you certain?”
“Quite. Especially before the rain thickens.”
“What are you looking for?” He leaned close and slipped the basket off her shoulders, which Abigail was grateful for.
“Once the chalk, and grit moves—well, it gives us a chance to see what is beneath. Why, one of the best discoveries was made by my father following a previous landslip.”
“It is not dangerous?” Mr. O’Sullivan fell aside her.