Chapter One #2
Getting to her feet, Abigail snatched up her familiar breeches, dirty and frayed but loved, nonetheless.
By the end, her father had been so frail.
Despite the fact she was only just above average height for a woman, his breeches fit well.
A clean but plain white muslin chemise was slipped over her head, and tucked into the breeches—they might bunch at the waist a little, but Abigail did not give a fig.
She secured her ensemble with her father’s belt and a men’s jacket Abigail had bought in her mother’s absence from the local pawn shop.
It was of course only possible to dress in such a way whilst her mother was away in Bath.
Abigail found herself smiling at the freedom her mother’s absence gave her.
Then she splashed water on her face from the small bowl of water on the dresser and left her bedroom.
Her footsteps were silent on the wooden floor as she slipped down and out of the house.
In the dawn light, Abigail marched contentedly along the road, full of bright optimism.
The early rays of the sun beat down on her, telling her in no uncertain terms it would be a warm day, and she meant to enjoy it.
She would not hide away in the workshop but head along the beach and up the gradual hillside to search amongst the cliffs.
Aiding in the overall pleasure of the day was the large piece of bread she had stuffed into her pocket.
The latter meant she did not need to return home to be scolded, questioned, and overseen by Judith.
“Good day, Mr. Randall, Mr. Holland.” Abigail waved at the passing men, acquaintances of her family for decades.
The two of them doffed their hats and continued toward their respective businesses in the center of town, utterly immune to the unusual sight of Miss Abigail Fossey in her breeches. She, however, saw for the first time that they gave her a wide berth.
Turning Abigail looked back over her shoulder observing them, and noticing they did not treat the passing maidservant in such a manner, calling out friendly, nay perhaps flirtatious greetings to Miss Wallace, who giggled appreciatively back.
Certainly, the older generation, and especially the more severe women in Lyme Regis, still regarded Abigail as an oddity, but she had embraced this as her natural state.
After all, it meant that they avoided her, and would never allow their sons near her.
Of course, this meant few would have looked at Abigail in a matrimonial light…
but after last night’s conversation, the idea of her being unappealing took further root within her stomach, twisting there unpleasantly.
Before last night, marriage had never overly intrigued Abigail.
Now it burnt and twisted through her, as if a match had suddenly been lit under her.
Judith was thinking of marriage as an economic prospect. Sophia considered it a romantic one. For Abigail, it was something else. Her mind turned over the men she had passed. Marriage was to Abigail’s mind a physical thing—requiring a sort of intimacy she was not certain she wished to experience.
As she walked, she realized what was bothering her. In all of her twenty-six years, no one had wished to marry her, no one wanted to take her hand and go for a walk with her, no one even wanted to kiss her… it might not matter that she was not curious, but why was she dismissed out of hand?
Hopping down off the walkway and into the gravelly area of blue Lias, clay, and sandstone was not as comforting as it should have been.
Nonetheless, she crouched down and slid into the muddy dip, lying down close to a promising gap, as she tried her best to focus on the task at hand.
Positioned as she was in the dirt, close to her find, Abigail set to work.
“I won’t think about what Judith said. I won’t.” The mantra worked for some of her time in the stretch of her ditch.
Hours drifted past as she worked, careful and methodical as always, pushing away the thoughts of matrimony her sister had placed in her head.
The heat of the day, hotter than normal for late March, caused sweat to slide down her back.
Abigail pulled off and shoved aside her jacket, her white chemise clinging to her sweaty body.
“Excuse me…” There was a voice, a sharp surprised one, flavored with an unfamiliar accent.
Full of wariness and annoyance at the disruption, Abigail rolled over, bent her knees, and sat up to consider whoever had interrupted her. She, however, did not stand. Presumably, it would be someone asking for directions.
A man stood about four feet away, staring down at her with a look of confusion on his face. For some reason, Abigail suddenly needed to swallow, her body alert in the most unusual way.
The sunshine danced about him. Abigail noticed the starkness of his features, the raw strength of his muscular form.
Immediately, she was grabbed by the bright severity of his blue eyes.
Like cold ice staring back at her. He was around six feet tall, but broader than most other men she’d seen.
The man—gentleman she supposed she should say, seeing how fine his clothes were, had removed his jacket and hat.
He wore an opened waistcoat, and his white shirt clung to his muscled physique.
He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and Abigail found her eyes moving immediately to his well-made arms. They were tanned and lightly haired with golden strands, which matched the tawny brown hair on top of his head.
A sudden mad urge, the kind that Abigail had never experienced before, swept over her to reach out and touch his arms. To lick them, and taste the salty sweat on his forearms. Would his skin be soft to the touch or… ?
“I took you for a man, huddled there down in the ditch,” the gentleman said.
She still wasn’t sure where he came from.
His accent was both soft and hard, lyrical in how it landed on the words he spoke.
It was practically poetic. Then she realized what he had said about her being a man, and she froze uncomfortably.
All of her curiosity died as his words permeated her mind. He continued, however, to survey her.
She forced herself to scramble out of the ditch.
“Well, I’m not. A man.” She set about using her hands to brush at the more visible mud stains on her breeches.
The annoyance at him interrupting her was matched and partly directed internally at her own gullibility in taking any kind of interest in him.
This made his eyebrows shoot up. Now that she was closer to him, Abigail saw that not only were his eyes surprisingly direct, but they were also the most beautiful of blue ice eyes she’d ever seen.
A sharp contrast against his tanned skin.
They were rather like the blending of frozen rain and the beaten storm clouds during a furious blizzard.
Her annoyance redoubled and she kicked out a pile of stones she’d cleared earlier.
The gentleman watched her, a small half smile playing around his mouth. As if he knew she found him interesting—as if he were used to women smiling and flirting and was simply waiting for Abigail to have that proper feminine response too.
In annoyance, Abigail folded her arms over her chest, having forgotten that she merely wore a chemise and breeches. The movement caused her breasts to be lifted and created a curving valley between them. Abigail frowned, feeling the tension ripple through her but not wishing to break it.
“I’m here to secure a house.” The gentleman turned on his heel, giving Abigail his profile as he looked toward Lyme Regis.
A hideous vision occurred to Abigail—that this man, whatever he was called, might bump into Judith and somehow, he would end up in their house, hiring the place…
after all, Judith said they needed money.
What if her sister thought the two of them could leave and join Sophia and their mother in Bath? She shuddered at the idea.
“I don’t suppose,” he continued, “you might know of someone looking to rent a home.”
Seconds dragged by. Abigail realized she would need to speak, and that if she gave him the information he wanted, then he would be more likely to leave her alone.
“Raleigh House,” Abigail said. “The owners have gone overseas, and their house is available. Their man of business is called Donnell.” She made a vague gesture toward Lyme, hoping that would be enough.
Surely if he could get into the center of the town, then he would find his way easily enough to whichever hotel he had rooms at.
With a courtly nod, the gentleman thanked her but did not pull away. “Would you be so kind as to show me the way to the Dower Royale?”
Oh, so he was wealthy, handsome, and carefree, Abigail thought dully.
Her resentment toward him grew. Some people—it always seemed to be men—had all the luck.
It was women like her they pitied but never did a lick for.
In that moment, she wondered if she could prise a few pennies off him for giving him directions, but then they might bump into one another at church, and it would be yet another strange piece of behavior on her part, counting against her person.
Abigail might not care for that overly—it would be another strike against her.
She ignored him as she crouched back down on the ground and collected her tools and jacket up.
Pulling her jacket on, she hid her tools in one of its large pockets and then stood alongside him. She raised her head to stare him down as she waited for another dispraising comment, but he smiled at her.
“Lead on,” he said. She wondered if he meant to try and charm her.
Despite herself, Abigail found that she took him on the longer route, the more scenic way into town, telling herself that it meant nothing. She simply wanted to stretch her legs. It meant nothing more.