Chapter Four
Abigail took a deep breath of humid morning air before stepping over the uneven board on the porch.
Her toe still throbbed from yesterday’s run-in with it.
Still, it paled when compared to her encounter with Mr. Moreau.
She hadn’t seen him since their return the night before.
The thought of him—so stiff, so imperious, so maddeningly unreadable—made her chest tighten with pure frustration.
With a huff she turned away, her annoyance simmering like coals beneath ash.
At the edge of the porch, an old rocking chair waited, worn smooth with years of use.
She lowered herself into it, the soft creak soothing her frayed nerves.
After a few measured rocks, she opened the book she’d brought out, eager to lose herself in someone else’s world for a little while.
She flipped the page, the chorus of frogs and cicadas weaving a steady rhythm through the swamp.
The sunbathed landscape seemed almost transformed—the gnarled cypress and trailing moss now swayed gently in the breeze.
Abigail allowed herself a moment of calm, letting the damp, fragrant air seep into her lungs.
The sudden groan of a hinge made her startle, and her gaze snapped toward the barn.
Mr. Moreau strode through the overgrown grass with a plank of wood in one hand and a bucket of supplies in the other.
He climbed the stairs and dropped to his knees next to the uneven board.
“Good morning, Mr. Moreau.” She tried to keep her voice bright.
He didn’t look up; instead, he removed a hammer and pile of nails from the bucket. She nibbled her lip as he pried the weathered wood free. He set it to the side and fitted the new board in its place.
After selecting a nail, he flipped it between his fingers and finally spared her a glance.
“If you’re to stay here, you’ll need to help out around the house.
Eloise already has enough work on her hands with the two of us, taking on a third isn’t fair.
” A quiet French lilt tinged his words. He tapped the nail firmly, the echo ringing faintly across the quiet yard.
“You don’t have any servants?”
Mr. Moreau paused mid-swing, the hammer hovering above the board, before shaking his head and returning to his task. “Things work a little differently out here, Miss Ross. Very few people have the luxuries you’re clearly accustomed to.”
An uncomfortable warmth traveled up her neck as he pounded the last nail in. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” He hefted the old board over his shoulder and started toward the barn.
Abigail frowned after him, biting back a dozen retorts.
Was he determined to twist every word she said?
If he kept on like this, how on earth was she supposed to endure her stay here?
She followed the broad set of his shoulders and the easy strength in the way he carried the lumber as though it weighed nothing at all.
Her gaze lingered in spite of herself. Sunlight burnished the dark wave of his hair, chiseled jaw shadowed by stubble, every inch of him marked by work and weather.
Mr. Moreau was rough, untamed—utterly opposite to Mr. Ainsley, whose cravats were always straight and shoes polished to a mirror shine.
She drew in a breath and jerked her eyes away. That was not the sort of comparison she ought to be making.
Flipping her book shut, she stood and smoothed her skirts. If Mr. Moreau thought her a useless ornament, she would have to prove otherwise. Lifting her chin, Abigail marched inside to find a task.
In the kitchen, Eloise tended a pot on the stove. Her brows arched when Abigail stomped in. “Done reading so soon?”
“I should like to be of use.” Abigail’s words tumbled free and she straightened. “Tell me what must be done.”
Eloise blinked, then shook her head with a gentle smile. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”
“No.” Abigail’s voice came firmer than she intended, but she pressed on. “I cannot sit idle. Please.”
Eloise studied her for a long moment, amusement flickering in her eyes. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Lucien, does it?”
“No. I wish only to be useful.” Heat curled in her gut as the lie flowed free, and she pushed the memory of his accusing gray eyes away.
Eloise’s lips quirked. “Very well, then. If you insist.” She lifted a tray with a teapot and plate of biscuits balanced on it. “Lucien will be wanting this once he’s back in from chores. Go ahead and take it to the study.”
Abigail took the tray and swept from the kitchen.
When she turned the corner into the hallway, tea sloshed from the spout of the pot.
Drat. She slowed and passed the parlor, keeping her steps slow and even.
Inside the study, she carefully set the tray on the desk.
Pulling her lip between her teeth, she dabbed at the spill with her sleeve before turning in a slow half circle.
Dark paneled walls swallowed what little daylight managed to creep through the shutters, the glow of a single lamp pooling across the broad desk.
Heavy shelves lined with multitudes of books covered the wall nearest her, the air thick with the scent of smoke and aged paper.
A half-finished glass of brandy lingered on a side table, its amber gleam catching the light in defiance of the gloom.
The air carried Mr. Moreau’s gravity, dark and steady, as though he had poured some unspoken part of himself into the room. It was a space carved in his likeness—masculine and unyielding. Heat prickled the back of her neck, and she turned sharply, the urge to escape stronger than her curiosity.
On her way out, a large portrait over the mantel drew her to a stop.
A young woman with dark hair framing a finely sculpted face and skin like ivory stared at her.
The paint had captured her vitality so vividly it felt as though she might step down from the frame.
Mr. Moreau’s mother? The gown, light and flowing, seemed so modern though.
“Is everything alright in there?” Eloise stood in the doorway, holding a stack of folded linens.
“Who is this?”
Eloise smiled and shifted the laundry in her arms before joining her. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
Abigail nodded. “One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
“Her name was Isabelle. She was Lucien’s wife.”
Wife. Abigail jerked her gaze to Eloise. “He was married?”
Eloise frowned. “Warstein didn’t tell you?”
Abigail shook her head and swiveled back to the painting. Mr. Moreau had been married? To her? How could such a refined lady end up with such an ornery man like him?
“What happened?” Abigail cringed at her blunt words.
“She passed away three years ago. It was quite sudden.” With a sad smile, Eloise turned back toward the kitchen. “This house hasn’t been the same since she died.”
Three years. For three years, his poor aunt had been stuck in the middle of the swamp with no one but an ill-tempered man for company.
She shuddered. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
*
Abigail pierced a pea with her fork, keeping her eyes on her plate.
The silence in the dining room had become almost overwhelming.
No thanks to Mr. Moreau, who had joined the ladies for dinner without a single word.
After the way her attempt at conversation had gone sideways this morning, Abigail had followed suit, choosing to enjoy her meal in peace and quiet.
Eloise kept clearing her throat and casting nervous glances between the two of them.
Abigail continued stabbing at her vegetables with exaggerated focus, while Lucien’s jaw worked as if chewing required an effort beyond mere mastication.
The quietness stretched, broken only by the scrape of utensils and the distant croak of frogs outside.
Abigail itched to speak, to ask something, anything, but every time she opened her mouth, a stubborn sense of propriety—or perhaps pride—clamped it shut.
Lucien finally cleared his throat, the sound sending a tiny tremor through the quiet. Abigail froze her fork mid-lift, waiting for him to continue, but he simply leaned back, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the table.
She took a breath and turned toward Eloise. “Your greens are wonderful. I might even admit they are better than the ones I’m used to in Savannah.”
Relief filled the woman’s eyes. “Thank you. Though, when I first came here, when Lucien was just a boy, he wouldn’t touch anything I made. I had to learn to cook proper southern food.”
Abigail grinned. “Well, I think it’s all lovely. Where did you move from?”
A faraway look entered Eloise’s eyes. “The northeast. New York. I came to join my brother after I was widowed. He had come here chasing the advantage of Spanish mercantile policies. It was quite the adjustment.”
Abigail shuddered. The shock must have been so much more than her own at leaving Savannah behind. “I can only imagine.”
Mr. Moreau snorted, the sound mocking. Eloise’s brow lifted, a silent rebuke flickering in her eyes. He shrugged and pushed back from the table, the chair scraping softly against the floor, and strode from the room without another word.
“I do apologize.” A pink flush tinged Eloise’s cheeks. “He’s not normally so brusque.”
Abigail glanced at his now-empty seat. “I shall try to keep that in mind.”
She helped Eloise carry the dishes to the kitchen and set them carefully on the counter before pulling her sleeves up. “Let me help.”
“Really, my dear, there is no need. There will be plenty of time for work tomorrow.” Eloise shooed her away from the sink.
Abigail lingered, smoothing the edge of a tea towel. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“I’m positive. I’ll have these cleaned in only a few moments. You can help me put them away in the morning when they are dry.” Eloise rinsed a plate with practiced ease, the warm light from the stove glinting off polished silver. “Now, is there anything else I can get you before you retire?”
“No. You’ve been so kind already. Thank you.” Abigail gave her a soft smile and left the kitchen.