Surrender to Sin Page 13

  Cary—she assumed it was his writing—had scrawled back: Not Bloody Likely.

  “You said you were going to see Paggles.”

  Abigail spun around to see Cary in the doorway. “Get out of my room! How dare you invade my privacy?” she demanded, quite forgetting that she had just been reading his mail.

  “I’m not actually in,” he answered, unperturbed. “I’m standing in the hall. I must also point out that, strictly speaking, this is my room, not yours. You are only renting it.”

  “And while I am renting it, you have no right to come in,” she snapped. “How dare you make up stories about my father? Knighting him, and sending him to Brazil, of all places! How can you be so—so strange?”

  He leaned against the door frame. “I had to explain your Portuguese friends somehow. You make up stories. Why can’t I?”

  “I do no such thing!” she said indignantly.

  “You make up names, certainly. Mayn’t I make up a story to go with the name? I only gave your father a little sir. You gave yourself ten thousand pounds’ worth of Christmas wrap.” He laughed suddenly. “And I’d hang on to your ten thousand pounds, too. You’ll need them when Mrs. Mickleby discovers you’ve been knocking back pints in the local tavern with her precious son Hector. Though I daresay we can put it down to aristocratic eccentricity.”

  “I was not knocking back pints,” said Abigail. “They were—they were ladies’ pints. Anyway, I don’t care what Mrs. Mickleby thinks of me. I don’t like her either.”

  “Well, I care what she thinks of you,” he said. “You may be going back to London, but I have to live with these silly people. I wish you wouldn’t poison the well for me; I’ve little enough society as it is. A man gets lonely out here in the frozen wilderness. Now that she knows who you are—sort of—I’m sure Mrs. Mickleby will treat you with all due deference.”

  “I don’t want her to defer to me. Why should she? I just want to be left alone.”

  He stared at her. “Left alone? You are quite possibly the most backwards little creature I’ve ever met,” he said. “For starts, you’re my cousin. That alone makes you first in consequence among the ladies of the neighborhood. I wouldn’t allow my humblest relation to be slighted right under my nose by a mere Mickleby, and you are scarcely that.”

  She looked at him blankly. “First in the neighborhood? What can you mean?”

  “My dear girl, you’re the granddaughter of an earl,” Cary said impatiently. “There is no one to whom you should give way.”

  “You had no right to expose my connection to that family,” she said unhappily.

  His brows rose. “‘That family?’ The Wayborns, you mean. And by ‘connection,’ I can only assume you mean your mother?”

  “Lord Wayborn has never acknowledged my existence,” said Abigail. “I have no right to trade on his name, when he so clearly wants nothing to do with me. And now you have made it known he is my uncle. It was very wrong of you to dress me in borrowed plumes—and just so Mrs. Mickleby would invite me to her house! I don’t even want to go to her house.”

  “They are not borrowed plumes,” Cary told her sharply. “Rather, it is your birthright. Did your mother never teach you to take precedence, girl?”

  “She died when I was only five,” said Abigail.

  “Well, that explains it,” he murmured. “I can see now you are merely ignorant of proper conduct. Ignorance can be mended. With my help, you will soon be conducting yourself in a manner befitting your rank.”

  “I’m sure I don’t require lessons in conduct from you, sir,” she said indignantly.

  “And I’m sure you do,” he said coolly.

  “Indeed?” Abigail marched over to the windowsill and snatched up Red Ritchie’s letter. “Here’s your bill, sir! The merchant is threatening to have you imprisoned for debt.”

  “Where did you get this? Have you been rifling through my things?” All traces of good humor had vanished from his face; Cary was furious.

  “In a manner of speaking,” she responded tartly. “I took it out of your dog’s mouth.”

  “Quite right, too,” he said, tossing it into the fireplace. “Here is its proper place.”

  “Sir,” Abigail cried as the paper blackened on the grate, “that is a bill for thirty guineas!”

  “Not anymore,” he pointed out. “This Ritchie fellow’s getting impudent. That isn’t the first bill he’s had the gall to send me. I ought to have him brought up on charges of harassment.”

  “But the account is overdue,” Abigail protested.

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “There’s no such thing as an overdue account. It’s all nonsense conjured up by tradesmen to scare people into giving them money they haven’t got. Accounts are either paid or they’re not. They’ll be tacking on interest and late fees next, if we don’t take a stand against them. It’s insufferable.”

  “But is your account with Mr. Ritchie paid or not?” Abigail demanded.

  He frowned at her. “That isn’t the point. I owe money all over London, to better men than Red Ritchie, too! But Mr. Weston isn’t sending me dirty letters. Mr. Hoby ain’t threatening me with debtor’s prison. I simply can’t get any more coats or boots from them until I settle my accounts. I accept that, and no harm done. This Ritchie fellow is an uncivilized cur. How dare he hound me like a criminal? I’m an English gentleman.”

  “You took a case of his scotch,” she pointed out. “Has he no right to demand payment? And if you don’t pay him, how are you any better than a thief?”

  “How am I any better than a—!” he choked, unable even to repeat the last word. “Obviously, if I could pay him, I would. The stupid man sends me a bill every week. It’s like being pecked to death by chickens. Glaswegian chickens. That, Cousin, is one bill I shall never pay. If I had a thousand pounds in my purse, I would not do it. It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “The principle!”

  He stared at her for a moment, then said despairingly, “I have much to teach you, Cousin. But first, the Micklebys’ party. Do you dance, or must I teach you that as well?”

  “Mrs. Mickleby and I are in perfect agreement, sir; we neither of us want me to go.”

  “Nonsense. She mayn’t have wanted Mrs. Spurgeon’s dogsbody there, but she certainly wants Lord Wayborn’s niece. It will be judged a resounding failure if you don’t go. For starts, if you don’t go, I can’t go, and if I can’t go, they may as well call the whole thing off. Poor little Rhoda will cry her eyes out.”

  “You may certainly go without me,” said Abigail. “If I am first in consequence, as you say, then let me exercise the privilege of my rank, and stay at home.”

  “You have no such privilege,” he told her dryly. “Your privilege is to take your place at the head of Tanglewood society, such as it is. Mrs. Mickleby will be mortified if you decline her invitation. Really, Abigail, she’ll be hurt. I know that you are shy in unfamiliar situations, but shyness, you know, is no excuse for rudeness.”

  “I wasn’t rude,” said Abigail, appalled. “Pray, how was I rude?”

  “Mrs. Mickleby is a silly woman. She made a blunder. It was my fault, anyway. If I had made it clear from the start that you are my cousin, she would never have insulted you. She would have fawned over you quite shamelessly. In any case, she’s apologized, and ought to be forgiven. You would not want to hurt her feelings?”

  “No,” said Abigail. “Of course not. If you think her feelings would be hurt…”

  “She’d be crushed,” he assured her. “And, of course, Paggles would have to be informed of your un-Christianlike behavior.”

  “Very well, then!” she said crossly. “You may tell her I accept the invitation.”

  “I have already done so.”

  Abigail frowned at him. “Have you indeed?”

  “Yes, monkey, but this is absolutely the last time I do your dirty work for you. Next time, you’ll tell her yourself, and be very gracious in your supercilious conde
scension.”

  “In my what?”

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds; being gracious and condescending and supercilious all at once. I’ll have to teach you; I’m quite good at it. But that is a lesson for another time. For the nonce, I must leave you,” he went on blithely. “Strange men with hatchets are meeting me at the Dower House—something about an elm tree. Unless of course you wish me to stay? I could come in and close the door. We’d be quite private, if that appeals to you.”

  “No, indeed,” she said repressively. “Tell me, Mr. Wayborn, when you say I should give way to no one in this neighborhood, does that include yourself?”

  “Certainly not,” he replied, grinning. “I am your nearest male relation. Also, older and wiser than yourself. This gives me natural authority over you. I am your guardian, in fact, and you are my ward. You must do as I say.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes; certainly. And if you had not extracted that asinine promise from me never to kiss you again, I would give you a practical proof of my power over you.”

  Abigail stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Speechless? Good. You talk too much. I’ll see you at tea.”

  Chapter 8

  It was Mrs. Spurgeon’s habit to retire to her room directly after luncheon and nap until tea. Abigail certainly did not seek to detain her. Vera went with her mistress, but promised to return within an hour for a game of backgammon with the younger woman. Abigail took the opportunity to visit Paggles in the nursery. When she returned to the sunny front parlor, Vera was setting up the game. “How is your nurse, Miss Smith?” she asked politely.

  “Sleeping—and please call me Abigail.”

  “Our old women seem to be on the same schedule,” Vera remarked, passing Abigail the dice cup. “Well, my dear? How deep shall we play?”

  Abigail sat down reluctantly, looking out the window at the sparkling white day. “As deep as you like,” was her careless reply. “But would you not rather go for a walk, Vera? I don’t deny it’s cold, but there’s something exhilarating about walking in the snow, and, look, the sun is out. We will not have very many days like this. The snow will soon melt, and there will be no walking in the sludge.”

  “I’ll do my walking in the summer, I thank you,” said Vera laughing. “I’ve not the least intention of spoiling my shoes. I haven’t as many pairs as you.”

  Without much enthusiasm, Abigail rolled the dice. It was soon very clear that backgammon was not her game. She had neither luck nor strategy. “Shall we play cards, then?” Vera asked as she gathered up her winnings.

  “We shall have cards enough after dinner,” Abigail replied. “I should like to go up to the Cascades again, but my cousin is gone away. It was such fun going down.”

  “Why, there he is now,” said Vera, looking out the window.

  “No, it is only Mr. Mickleby,” Abigail said immediately. “My cousin’s coat is purple.”

  “And what do you think of him now?” Vera asked, smiling.

  “Of Hector Mickleby?”

  “Mr. Wayborn. You enjoyed his company this morning, I think.”

  “I don’t know what to make of him,” Abigail confessed. “Just when I think I hate him, he does something kind, or silly, or just plain strange. He says that I am first in consequence in the neighborhood. Do you think that is true?”

  “My dear, I’m sure of it. Was not your grandfather a Peer of the Realm?”

  “Yes, but what can it signify? My uncle has made it clear he wants nothing to do with me. Indeed, I have never met him.”

  Vera chuckled. “No one else here who can boast so much. Amongst such humble neighbors, an estranged uncle who is an earl must be counted very grand, indeed.”

  “Grand! I much prefer London, where I am of no consequence whatever.”

  “I’m sure that cannot be. You are the daughter of Sir William Smith, are you not?”

  “Good heavens,” said Abigail. “You mustn’t believe everything Mr. Wayborn says. He has such an odd sense of humor. It’s true my mother was Lady Anne Wayborn, but my father is not a gentleman, Mrs. Nashe. He’s a merchant. I don’t know what that makes me. A gentlewoman, or a tradesman’s daughter?”

  Vera’s dark eyes twinkled. “A man may take whatever rank he pleases, but a woman is only as good as her mother.”

  Both women started in surprise as Hector Mickleby suddenly rapped on the window with his knuckles. “Open the window, Miss Smith,” he shouted, pressing his face against the glass.

  Abigail obediently opened the casement. “Would you not rather come through the door?” she asked uncertainly as Rhoda Mickleby was lifted up through the window. The girl climbed nimbly onto the window seat. Abigail, who was quite unused to such events, became flustered.

  “We always come through the window when Mr. Wayborn is in London,” Rhoda explained, laughing as she hopped down from the seat. “You see, we haven’t got a key.”

  “But Mr. Wayborn is not in London,” said Abigail, jumping back in dismay as Hector, and Mr. Maddox, to whom she had been no more than barely introduced, each vaulted in turn over the windowsill. “He’s gone to the Dower House to oversee the removal of the fallen elm.”

  “Oh, we haven’t come to see him,” said Hector. “We’ve come to see you!”

  “Oh.” Abigail felt a vague panic beginning to stir. “Mrs. Nashe,” she said quickly. “These are Mr. Wayborn’s neighbors, Miss Mickleby, and her brother, Mr. Mickleby. This is Mr. Maddox, Mr. Mickleby’s friend.”

  “Backgammon?” said Hector, as Vera hurriedly put the game away. “Bit of a bore, eh?”

  “Oh, Miss Smith!” cried Rhoda. “You must come with us to the Cascades this minute. Say you will! Hector says he won’t go down with me at all, and I’m too frightened to go alone. He went down with Ida and Lydia,” she added resentfully.

  “Much good it did them,” her brother retorted. “Mama is sending them to bed without any supper. And it’s to be the last of the turtle-feast Maddox brought from London.”

  “But Ida said it was quite worth the punishment!” said Rhoda, seizing Abigail’s hands. “Mr. Maddox has been good enough to offer to go down with me, but Hector says it would be most improper.”

  “So it would be,” said Hector. “You ain’t engaged to the man.”

  “Hector says if you will go down with him, Miss Smith, then it would be quite all right if I went down with Mr. Maddox. No one can say it is improper, if you do it. Say you will. I’m the only one who didn’t have a chance to go down. It’s not fair!” She pouted quite childishly.

  The thought of Hector Mickleby’s arms around her made Abigail feel slightly ill. “I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question, Miss Rhoda,” she said firmly.

  “You would have gone down with me, Miss Smith,” Hector said, frowning, “if Mr. Wayborn hadn’t butted in. But I suppose he wants you all for himself. I might have guessed.”

  Abigail felt as though she had been set down in the middle of a circus performance and was somehow expected to be ringleader. “I couldn’t possibly have gone down with you, Mr. Mickleby,” she said. “I could only go down with Mr. Wayborn because he is my cousin.”

  Hector scowled savagely. “He has that advantage, and he uses it, too! If the two of us were on equal footing, Miss Smith…”

  Abigail was glad he did not complete his thought; the notion of Hector ever being Cary Wayborn’s equal was patently absurd.

  “But Miss Smith!” cried Rhoda, as the conversation turned away from her nearest concerns. “If you won’t go down with Hector, then I can’t go down with Mr. Maddox! And I must go down with Mr. Maddox. It’s very important.”

  “I am very sorry, Miss Mickleby,” Abigail stammered.

  “No, you’re not!” said Rhoda stoutly. “You don’t care! No one does. It’s all so unfair. You’re all against me. I shall die if I can’t go down the Cascades on a platter.”

  “You may go to hell on a platter for all I care,” responded her brother. “Any
chance of tea, Miss Smith?” he added. “Or, if Mr. Wayborn’s got any rum, we could make punch.”

  “Nobody wants your horrid punch!” said Rhoda.

  “Calm yourself, Miss Rhoda,” Mr. Maddox murmured in embarrassment, smiling at Abigail. “We can not ask Miss Smith to do what she thinks improper.”

  His deference made Abigail as uncomfortable as Rhoda’s bullying and Hector’s incivility.

  “In any case, your mama would never approve of such a thing, Miss Rhoda, if she has punished your sisters merely for going down with their brother,” Abigail pointed out. “And your mother’s wishes must be more material to you than anything which I might do or say.”

  Mrs. Grimstock came in at that moment to announce Mr. Temple’s arrival.

  “What’s he want?” Hector snarled, flinging his body into a chair.

  “Shall I bring in the tea, Miss?” asked Mrs. Grimstock.

  “Yes, Grimstock,” said Rhoda without Abigail’s ever realizing the housekeeper had been addressing her. Mrs. Grimstock withdrew, and when Mrs. Nashe left the room, murmuring it was time to wake Mrs. Spurgeon, Abigail felt utterly abandoned. She was glad to see Mr. Temple.

  The tall thin man in the clerical collar seemed embarrassed. “You did say I might come and have a look at your Blake, Miss Smith. I didn’t realize you were entertaining, or I should never have presumed…”

  Hector snorted. “By that he means he followed our footprints here, Maddox,” he said spitefully. “Horning in on another fellow’s territory, what?”

  Most people of Hector’s acquaintance dismissed his rudeness as youthful high spirits, but Abigail thought him abominable. “I am not having a party, Mr. Temple,” she said firmly. “And you are most welcome, sir. I hope you are feeling better?”

  “Four pints only, sick as a dog,” Hector explained in an aside to Mr. Maddox. “What the Vicar will say is anyone’s guess.”

  “I’ll just go and get the book,” said Abigail. Any guilt she felt in abandoning Mr. Temple to the Mickleby wolves was entirely swallowed up by her own relief. In her room, she unlocked her portable writing desk and took out the illustrated Songs of Innocence and of Experience she had bought in London. Having located the volume, she was in no hurry to rejoin the young people downstairs. She could always claim there had been a difficulty finding the book. If she stayed away long enough, Mrs. Spurgeon would come out for her tea, and that lady’s strong personality would be more than equal to the Micklebys. And if she stayed upstairs for a very, very long time, there was even a chance they would all take the hint and go away.