Chapter Three
Abigail slipped back into her own house.
With a sigh that was out of character for her, she leaned back against the door and looked up to the ceiling.
She dwelt on the last hour. It was cool and calming inside, the homey touches of previous years had been stripped away and sold, leaving the hallway a placid grey color with all of its decorations gone.
It was so different from the heavy, golden warmth she’d remembered from her girlhood.
Why had she been so willing to help a stranger? Normally men held little interest for her, but this man had been different—he had been special.
Was it because he said he was interested in the fossils?
Abigail told herself this was the case, but she did wonder even if he had not expressed any curiosity about such things, would she still have been curious about him? It was strange of her to admit this, but yes. Yes, she might have been.
Awareness bloomed through her, a consciousness of her own body in his presence. This never happened to her. Yet with Mr. O’Sullivan, she had rather enjoyed the newfound sensation.
It had been thanks to the ridiculous conversation Judith had brought up. Marriage, as something the pair of them should be pursuing. Suddenly, intimacy did not seem as objectionable as she had once assumed it would be.
“Maa-meow.” There came a funny little bleating noise from the end of the hallway.
Up from the kitchen steps emerged the Fossey’s peat-colored cat Milton, named in honor of the great writer, although Milton had arrived years ago, and no one really knew where he came from.
Presumably Milton had his own name, but whatever it might be, he had never given any inclination of what it might have been.
Meandering forward, Milton lifted his little head for a scratch. Abigail knelt and caressed the cat’s chin lovingly. He started making soft appreciative noises as he rolled on his side, luxuriating in the attention. It was, by and large, so much easier to be affectionate with a cat.
As she stroked Milton, Abigail wondered if her sudden interest in Mr. O’Sullivan was rather similar to her own father’s decision to wed her mother.
Wisdom and prudence would have steered him away from the match—the couple having nothing obvious in common, and Mr. Fossey having very little of his own fortune, being the second son of a lowly knight.
But wed they had. Abigail should have been grateful that they had.
After all, without their union, she would not be here.
Her mind fixated and refused to budge. What if it had been mere attraction that had tied her parents together? She never countenanced being led in such a direction herself. However, she supposed she could at least confess to herself, that was the appeal of Mr. O’Sullivan… he was attractive.
Those ice blue eyes. The firmness of his jawline. The presence and strength of him.
There was something warm…earthy about him. Which sounded strange to think of, but it was the truth—a soft kind of comfort to his face and stance as if she could lose herself within him—the piece that was madness was that Abigail thought herself capable and willing to do so.
“Abigail, is that you?” The sound of steps echoed through the house and Abigail stiffened as her eldest sister appeared.
Judith must have been in her bedroom, perhaps even having a late afternoon nap. In her arms, she carried a series of ledgers, which were stuffed with sheets of paper and what looked like note pages. Clearly, she meant to start work on them.
The hours Judith kept, the unusual sleeping patterns always struck Abigail as odd, but since Judith rarely asked what or, more importantly, where Abigail had been, it seemed sensible to extend the same courtesy in return.
“Hello,” Abigail said, trying to make herself smile.
Out of the three women in her immediate family, Judith was certainly the one she was closest to, the one she deemed the worthiest of her attention, or at least the one most likely to listen and at least feign engagement in whatever Abigail might have discovered.
“Hmm,” Judith said, snaking a free hand up to rub her eyes. “You’re back later than I expected.”
“I met someone.” For some reason, an uncomfortable awareness gripped Abigail as she admitted this. She both wanted Judith to pry and hoped against reason that she wouldn’t pry too closely.
“Yes?” Judith asked.
She did not sound very interested, at least not in the way Abigail wished she would be. Surely it was worthy of note for a tourist here, not in the height of the summer months, but one who might… she needed to tell her sister more.
“A fellow scientist. A gentleman scholar based on his clothes,” lied Abigail, warming to the elaborated-on falsehood as she spoke.
At least, part of her hoped to shape him into one.
After all, that was what he had said he was interested in, so with enough encouragement, surely, he would see the appeal of the fossils and all they hinted at.
The idea that she might have someone who shared her passion, could swap ideas around what the fossils meant historically, scientifically, and even theologically was an ever-expanding field…
“How nice.” Any small curiosity from Judith vanished and she looked down at the ledgers she held, before adjusting them on her hip. She was obviously going through the family finances trying to answer their mother’s letter and request for additional funds.
“I will be spending a great deal of time supporting on digs with him,” Abigail said in a great rush. She did need her sister’s permission per se, but it felt better to be as above board as she could manage in case Judith attempted to catch her out later in the conversation.
“But—”
“He has offered to pay me for my time,” Abigail added.
If only her family could see the value in her work—for society and for Lyme itself, not to mention the wider good it did, but since money was all that counted, she might as well have that out first. If Judith knew about the money, a wage in short, then presumably all reservations or objections would be done away with.
It was hard enough for them to make money as women, but this at least might tide them over.
“There will be talk,” Judith said, coming forward.
Abigail saw that her sister looked a little pinched around the edges of her eyes and mouth, rather like she had sucked on a lemon.
“You know how the Olwens will carry on. If they get wind of it, then so will the Hamptons and Miss Guthrie, which means so will Mother.”
“No one minds when you are out on your own.” It was hard not to sound churlish as Abigail spoke, but when would she be able to conduct herself as she saw fit, regardless of what society might say?
“That is because I am acting on behalf of the family.” Judith’s tone was wary, and she sighed heavily as she spoke.
“The town’s gossips know all too well, as does dear Mother, that there is nothing scandalous about going to the lawyers and managing Father’s affairs, which is all I ever seem to do nowadays. ”
“Selling off all of Father’s belongings,” Abigail corrected sullenly.
All of those beautiful bound editions sold to a collector.
The framed maps. The atlas that he had brought back from Oxford, which had been the inspiration for a great many adventures shared between the two of them.
All gone. Because that was what Judith had done, emptied every darling thing that Mr. Fossey had collected over the years, and sold it off, leaving only his monocle and a torn scarf as a way of remembering the old dear man.
They had only been kept because they had no monetary value, of that Abigail was sure.
It felt close to sacrilege in her mind. If Abigail had been in charge, they would have kept Mr. Fossey’s study precisely as he left it, and Sophia could have skipped her handful of seasons in Bath.
“There is no need to frown at me in such a manner,” Judith said, her tone a little impatient. “Surely you don’t wish Mother to return and offer to chaperone you? That is precisely what will happen if she gets wind of what you’re planning.”
“I will hire a companion,” Abigail lied. She had no intention of doing so, as it would waste too much time. “Or I suppose Mr. O’Sullivan will. He mentioned it, as I am sure he does not want his own reputation damaged either. He is a gentleman, so I am sure he knows all about propriety.”
Judith’s eyebrows quirked, an unusual movement. Despite knowing her sister for as long as she had been alive, Abigail still did not understand what it meant.
“Well.” Judith sounded mollified by this concession, turned back toward the kitchen. “That is something. No wearing Father’s old breeches, though.”
It was far easier to move in breeches, but if she had to have one concession to societal rules, Abigail thought this was not too bad.
Of the strictures that could have been imposed, this was one of the milder ones.
Besides, in the midst of a dig, Abigail would often hike up her skirts to move more easily, which meant she was mainly in her drawers, making it a lot cooler than breeches.
Yet she thought it better not to make mention of this to Judith.
“Where do you think you will be taking your Mr. O’Sullivan?”
“He is not mine.” Abigail could not help the flush of anger that reared its head, suddenly on the defensive.
“No, of course not.” Judith sounded far too calm as she turned down the steps which would lead into the kitchen.
Following her, Abigail grabbed up Milton and walked after Judith.
“I won’t have any sort of gossip that might…I wouldn’t…I don’t want people to think I have set my cap at him.”