Chapter Two #2
The door closed with a sharp clap. Warstein frowned, hand rising to scratch his chin. “That was… unexpected.”
Abigail stared at the closed door, her heart beating wildly.
Surely, he wasn’t going to leave her with this strange woman.
Minutes passed in tense silence before he cleared his throat.
“I do need to get back to town. I’ve got some business to attend to before the banks close. Will you be alright if I leave?”
Her chest tightened as her breaths quickened. No. Yet, when her mouth opened, only one word tumbled free.
“Yes.”
She winced at the lie, but it was too late.
With a nod, he returned to the wagon and climbed into the seat.
“I wish you luck, Miss Ross. Be very careful whom you speak with and don’t let anyone know your identity.
The less people know about you, the better chance you have of escaping Thorne’s notice. ”
With a slap of the reins, he disappeared.
She sank onto the step, hugging her skirts tightly to her legs, heart hammering in her chest. A spider skittered from a crack in the boards, and she yelped, springing sideways as it vanished into the shadows.
Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps, each one echoing in the stillness around her.
When the door groaned open, she twisted, hands pressed to her chest with trembling fingers.
A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway, her blue muslin dress soft against the dim light. Ms. Moreau.
Abigail scrambled to her feet, clutching her bag. “I—I’m sorry to be such a bother.” Her voice came out small and hurried.
A warm smile curled the woman’s lips. “Nonsense. To be honest, I’m glad to have you. It will be so good to have another lady in the house again.”
Abigail frowned. “Then why—”
“I apologize for my brusqueness earlier. We don’t often get visitors out here, if you can imagine and I was caught off guard. Now, come on inside.”
Abigail followed her across the threshold, stepping carefully over the worn boards.
Inside, polished wooden floors gleamed and delicate lace curtains framed the windows.
Shelves and side tables were neatly arranged, ornaments dusted and in their proper places.
The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.
Abigail’s pulse slowed slightly as she took it all in, a small sense of relief mixing with her lingering apprehension.
“Well, may as well get yourself situated. We’ve got a spare room upstairs.” Ms. Moreau started up a flight of stairs. With a deep breath, Abigail followed. They stopped at the first door at the top of the stairs.
“It may be a bit dusty, but this will be your room while you stay with us.” Ms. Moreau waved Abigail in.
Sunlight slanted through a window, illuminating the small space.
A neatly made bed had been tucked into one corner, its quilted coverlet soft and inviting.
Easels holding canvases stood quietly against the far wall, and jars of brushes and small pots of paint clustered on a low table.
Sketches and studies were pinned haphazardly to the walls, their edges curling slightly with age, while a faint scent of turpentine hung in the air.
Despite the layer of dust, the room felt alive and brimming with personality. Abigail’s gaze traveled from the delicate still-life studies to the light spilling over the bed, and the tension in her shoulders faded.
“Feel free to take as much time as you need to get situated. You may rest until dinner if you’d like, or you may join me in the parlor and do some embroidery.”
Abigail managed a nod, and Ms. Moreau left her. With a heavy sigh, she dropped her bag at the foot of the bed. Warm light filtered through the curtains, and she stepped over and parted them before making her way to the tables cluttered with painting supplies.
Abigail’s fingers hovered over paintbrushes laid out in a neat line in front of a cloth-draped easel.
Carefully, she lifted the fabric to reveal a nearly finished painting of a beautiful rose garden with a stone cherub nestled between the flowers.
She picked up a pot of paint and unscrewed the lid.
A flake of dried color fell to the table.
The rest of the pots yielded similar results—all dry.
No one had painted in the room for years.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed out the window at the wide expanse of swamp.
Tall cypress trees stretched to the horizon, and she hugged her arms around her.
She’d never been so far from society in her entire life.
The walls closed in around her, air heavy in her lungs.
If she stayed put, the silence would swallow her whole.
Jumping to her feet, Abigail let her restless energy carry her out the door.
The narrow staircase creaked beneath her careful tread as she made her way downstairs and into the parlor.
“I was hoping you’d come down.” Ms. Moreau set her embroidery down with a smile, then pointed to a pot of tea and a platter of biscuits. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you, Ms. Moreau.”
“Please, call me Eloise. Everyone does, even my dear Lucien.”
Abigail glanced toward the door. “Where is he?”
“He went into the city. He makes the journey every few weeks for provisions. He should be back soon. Do you embroider?”
“I do. But…” Abigail’s gaze flitted to a small writing desk against the wall. “Might I trouble you for a sheet of paper? I would like to write a letter, if it is not too inconvenient.”
Eloise inclined her head. “Of course, but as I said, Lucien goes to town very infrequently. It may be some time before your letter can be posted.”
“I understand.” Abigail crossed the room and took a seat while Eloise opened a drawer and set a blank sheet in front of her.