Chapter Sixteen #2
Closing his eyes Robert let every natural worry, all of the lies that he was keeping bottled deep within him.
His disloyalty to the crown and country.
His cowardice in not letting either the baron or Abigail know the truth.
The failure of his investigation. All of it simply faded away in the face of the deep-seated comfort and joy he took in being with Abigail.
How he wished he could say the words he had whispered aloud last night again.
Whilst they might have been moving, drifting, and copulating at a rate of knots, the house around them was all tranquility.
Sunlight spilled out and over Abigail’s little chamber, illuminating what Robert had missed last night.
It was not just her workshop where she studied.
Pinned to the walls were articles, diagrams, and even her own scribbled notes and drawings.
When Robert focused on one, he could see it was a newspaper cutting arguing on the benefits of natural theory—that by studying the finds of the earth, it would bring one closer to God.
“I get the papers sent down from Town,” Abigail said, her breath still uneven as she snuggled closer to him, their bodies curving easily alongside each other. “I wish to know of any discoveries that would rival mine or of the scholars I may one day meet.”
“Even the French ones?”
“Especially them, Paris is where all science is being funded, and written about.”
“Won’t you be out of place?” Robert asked, although in truth he thought no she wouldn’t. She might be a woman. She might be English, but look what she had found so far, practically on her own—she was a marvel and if they could not see that, then more fool them.
“I will have to convince them I am worthy,” Abigail said, she licked her lips clearly about to say something else when there was the distinct sound of a door downstairs opening and feet shuffling. Both immediately froze, listening intently to whoever was inside the Fossey house.
Minutes scraped by as the person pottered around, and then Abigail let out a sigh and then smiled as what sounded like footsteps moving to the kitchen.
“It’s Schillers.” At the look on Robert’s face, Abigail added, “Our cook, she moves differently from either Mother or my sisters. You’ve got to get dressed.”
Robert had already sat up, and started snatching up his clothes. “The Weirs will have noticed I wasn’t at The Dower last night, as will any guests who might have noticed my absence.”
It was just as well this was off season, so at least The Dower was not too busy. Still, he would have been marked as away both in the evening and presumably at breakfast.
“Perhaps we can say we were in the workshop and were too busy with my sea creature,” Abigail said.
She too was lifting her clothes, struggling first into her chemise and half strays, before sitting on the bed to pull on her long socks.
Then she started rooting around for a clean dress.
Robert forced himself to look away, despite how much he wished to engrain the memory of her body onto his very soul.
Abigail pulled a pale maroon dress over her head, and flattened the material down, smiling at him in readiness.
“I doubt that will suffice given what might be possible in the darkness there.” He managed to get into his pantaloons easily enough, and then stared around the chamber trying to see his shirt. It was absurdly and obviously crumpled.
“Then you will have to say you were called away on business,” Abigail said, as she tried her best to straighten her hair into something presentable.
“I will go down to the kitchen. Then you must knock at the door, and join them for breakfast.” She turned back to him and hurried forward to him, planting a swift kiss on his lips, before Robert could respond, Abigail had darted out of the chamber.
Robert set about giving her enough time to get downstairs, talk to the cook, and hopefully breakfast, as after last night he was truly starving if the rumbling of his stomach could be believed.
A new thought was forming in his mind, a sudden inner strength and resolve was crystalizing—he was going to marry Abigail.
Hang and blast everything else. It was simple, he would admit the truth to her and whilst that would be momentarily painful, it was necessary and hopefully Abigail would be happy enough to accept his proposal, once he had apologized for this minor confusion.
Perhaps it could be put down to some error on another person’s shoulders, and he could ‘adopt’ his real name, and cast aside his mother’s maiden name… it would be explainable, Robert was sure.
Of course, he would need to draft and send a message conveying his failure to Montacute.
In this letter he would need to explain that despite his investigation, there was in fact no danger of smuggling on a widespread scale.
No sign of the mysterious female leader, ‘Punch’ or the Pinhayers—it seemed little more than rumor and speculation.
These things did happen, errors in reporting and hearsay being given greater weight than it should.
Yes, Robert acknowledged that on occasion there might be a bottle of brandy found on the squire’s land, and it might be worthwhile looking in Mr. Suchet’s business, but that was all that could be found in Lyme Regis.
There was no widespread problem of smuggling, nor as far as he could see any potential treason being committed.
Satisfaction bloomed through Robert at the thought of making a clean breast of it, confessing all to Abigail and proposing to her.
In this fantasy he did not over dwell on the lie around his name, or the admittance that he had been investigating the whole town—those things were secondary.
With this settled in his mind, and his outfit as smart as he could manage on his own, Robert slipped out of her bedroom, down the stairs of the Fossey household and then mimicked knocking at the front door.
No one came, and as he stood in the hallway he wondered if it would be worse to be caught here than down in the kitchen.
“Hello,” he called, announcing himself to the household. He moved toward the staircase once more, feeling self-conscious but still buoyed by the idea of his forthcoming proposal. The steps were hurriedly covered, and then he was down in the dark recess of the corridor and quickly into the kitchen.
The cook, a woman in her late sixties or seventies stopped dead in her tracks, her large blue widening beneath her round glasses.
Abigail stood mutinously to one side, her arms crossed over her chest. Milton sat by the recently lit fire, purring loudly.
All of this was right. What wasn’t was the contents spread proudly over the table.
Great proud oilskin rounded bags, the kind often used on ships, were placed next to the great wooden table.
From these, bottles had been spooled out and laid with precision on the table.
Uncontradictable proof of law breaking lay before Robert, bottle after bottle, which looked suspiciously like brandy.
Nothing else incriminating was amongst the horde, although would anyone be stupid enough to leave treasonous notes or codes on a kitchen table?
“Oh my, I didn’t hear you come in sir,” Miss Schillers said, fussing forward, trying her best to stand between Robert and the vast spread on the table. “You must forgive me, and my hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
Robert turned and glanced at Abigail, her expression was uncertain and confused.
He was certain she hadn’t known, had never known that her house might be being used for trading, one look at her told him that.
But the contents of the kitchen also told him enough, told him that his grand plans were off, and smuggling was as rife in Lyme as Montacute had feared, and somehow Abigail and her family was caught up in it.
Any satisfaction Robert might have felt in his original suspicions of her were grim indeed, and as Robert tried his best to formulate what he should say next to her, there came the sound of footsteps above them, alongside the noise of feminine voices.
“Ahh,” Miss Schillers said, looking upwards before fixing Robert with an expectantly challenging look. “That will be Miss Fossey, and the Missus returned from the coach house. You will stay for some breakfast and a cup of tea, Mr. O’Sullivan?”