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July 1815
“Now that you are Lord, you need a bride.” Abigail, Lady Coxspeckle, hoped her younger brother, Lord Pencarrow, would have more luck in marriage than she’d had. Of course, he was a man and the world worked for them, so he would likely be fine. She had arrived at the Pencarrow family home earlier today and now the two of them sat—somewhat awkwardly—in the small dining room for dinner. A servant wearing the correct livery hovered appropriately. At least the proper standards were being maintained at Pencarrow now Tobias had inherited, although it would take some effort to make a mess of a system that had been in place for several hundreds of years in only a few short months.
“No.”
Abigail tried not to sigh or fidget with her veil. “Don’t be stubborn. I’m no fool, Pencarrow. Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the missing art. The estate is in trouble.”
“Father had gaming debts.” The latest Lord Pencarrow shrugged as if it was nothing. Her brother should understand this problem, he was clever enough, not that he’d put that to any practicable use over the last decade, preferring to travel around the continent like a typical spoiled second son. Their older brother had understood his responsibilities and had gone to fight Napoleon to ensure the correct system was maintained on the continent. Unfortunately, he’d made the hapless decision to die over there, leaving the Pencarrow estate in the, quite frankly, impractical hands of their youngest brother.
“Then you need to marry an heiress to restore the estate.” She could put together a list of possibilities for him, and it would give her a good reason for being here, rather than with her husband, Lord Coxspeckle. She sat straighter, taking comfort in the rules of polite society.
“Why are you here, Abigail?” If she hadn’t known he’d spent his time being so indulgent, she might have worried about the sharpness in gaze.
“Tobias.” She could be informal too. “Forgive me for showing concern for my brother who has recently inherited a title. It’s increasingly obvious that your lack of training for the role will require my assistance.”
“Abigail. Why are you really here? And why are you in mourning?”
She blinked back the heat behind her eyes, glad for the black veil hiding her face. “I am no longer with child.” Again. This one had lasted longer than any of those beforehand. For a few months, she’d had so much hope that this would have a different ending, a happy ending, but it was for naught.
“I’m so sorry.”
Abigail nodded and focused on spreading butter on the little bun at the side of their dinner. She wouldn’t eat tonight—unwilling to remove her veil—but she could go through the motions of it. She waited for him to eat, fussing with her own plate a little. Being here could only be a temporary solution. Lord Coxspeckle would find her here soon enough and drag her back to him. It was his right.
“I’ve taken the liberty of making a list of potential brides.” She might never have children of her own—a matter of great disappointment—but she would be a wonderful aunt to Tobias’ children. She held her breath rather than let out the little hitch that threatened. After twelve years of marriage and countless failed pregnancies, it was increasingly unlikely that she would gift Lord Coxspeckle with an heir. She was a failure in the one task life had given her, and he frequently reminded her of the fact.
“I won’t read it.”
“You must.” Abigail could understand the unwillingness to get married. She would do anything to be not married anymore, however, the dream was pointless and she refused to dwell on it. “Think of the estate. You don’t need to love her. Just pick someone who will do their duty.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Yes. I didn’t have the luxury of choice, Pencarrow.” She’d only met Lord Coxspeckle once before their wedding. Her father had arranged everything; she only wished he’d taken more time to consider Lord Coxspeckle’s character before deciding to join the two family’s fortunes together.
“I am not you.”
“That much is apparent. If you cared at all for the Pencarrow name or the estate, you’d do your duty and marry an heiress.” She lifted her nose higher. She was Lady Coxspeckle. It was all she had.
“Then it’s lucky I don’t care. Our cousin will make a fine Earl one day. I will give him the same level of training and preparation Father gave me.”
Abigail frowned. What did that mean? She opened her mouth to retort when she heard a familiar bellow. He was here already? She’d hoped for a few more days.
“Abigail?” Lord Pencarrow shook her shoulder and she realised she’d instinctively cowered at the sound of Lord Coxspeckle’s voice.
“Hide me please.” Her voice squeaked as she pleaded with her brother. “I can’t.” With a shallow shaking breath, she slowly forced her hands into action and removed her veil.
“Abigail. Did he do that?”
“Yes.” Her eye was black and swollen and no amount of face powder could hide the colour. She’d opted for a veil since there was no hiding the bruising on her face, or the sharp cut on her cheek from where she’d fallen against a table. He’d never hit her face, would never leave a mark where someone might see. This was her fault. She’d fallen and landed against the table. Lord Coxspeckle had told her not to look at him until her face had returned to its perfect English rose pale complexion. And now he was here, demanding to see her.
“Come.” Her brother pulled her to her feet and pushed her through a small door in the wall. She tucked her skirts around her body to try and stop herself trembling, and slowly sank to the floor. If Lord Coxspeckle found her here, he was going to kill her. She should ... She covered her mouth to stop the sob. His voice filled the space. The too familiar ugly boom and bellow of a man who despised being disobeyed. The wall muffled the words but she didn’t need to hear what he said to know the meaning.
Lord Coxspeckle owned her; legally he could do what he liked with her and no one, especially not her well-meaning ineffective brother, could do anything to stop him. Every loud, furious threat that punctuated through the wall rang in her ears, and she shrank more and more until she hoped she could compress herself into nothing. Ground into dust by her own need to disappear. Eventually, the noise stopped and everything went silent. But she still couldn’t move. No one told her marriage would be like this; this inability to do anything except what she was trained to do. She understood the rules when they were in public together. She knew how to talk to her peers.
She didn’t know what to do when Lord Coxspeckle hit her. But there had always been rules to that too. He never hit her face; her face had value to him. This time, he’d changed the rules, pushing her down against the table, then kicking her injured face. As soon as she could, she’d fled here because she’d realised something. If she stayed, she would likely die. And now she needed to move ... Abigail couldn’t. Her only option was her marriage. She knew nothing else. Maybe if she stayed here a little longer, she’d find the courage to face her inevitable death.
***
“Abigail.” Tobias gently shook her shoulder and she blinked. Her arms were still hugged tight around her legs, unable to relax even in an uneasy sleep of exhaustion.
“Is he gone?”
“No.” It was too much to hope that he’d given up on trying to find her, too much to believe that her brother would help her. She let her head hang forward.
“He’s sleeping off a headache in the blue room on the east wing. Come with me.” He held out his hands and she automatically placed hers in them. Her brother lifted her to her feet. Pain shot up her legs and she leaned against the wall.
“I’m so sorry.” She’d become so weak and pathetic that she couldn’t even stand. Everything Lord Coxspeckle said about her was true; she was a failure of a wife—a useless waste of space—which really meant that she’d failed at her entire reason for existing. She knew he wanted to replace her; he’d told her often enough with spital flying from his mouth.
“Come with me.” Tobias slung his arm around her waist and half-carried her down the narrow servant’s hallway. She knew they existed, of course, but had never been inside one. Even as a child, she’d been obedient, always doing her best to make Father proud of her. He’d always reminded her of her Mother’s failings and how she needed to be perfect to make up for Mother. A proper Lady never walked in the same footsteps as the staff. It’d been a great disappointment when she realised the rules wouldn’t protect her.
After walking through a rabbit warren of hallways, they emerged into the kitchen. Without Tobias’ guidance, she’d be completely lost. Maybe it would be better that way; she could wander the servant’s tunnels until she died of starvation. It was better than the alternative.
“It’s dark.”
“Yes. It took me several hours to calm Lord Coxspeckle and convince him to sleep. We are supposed to look for you on the morrow.”
“I can’t go back to him.” She’d never said that out loud and saying it now filled her stomach with rocks. It was pointless to make such a statement. Not only did Lord Coxspeckle have every right to have her, but she also had nowhere else to go and no skills or money.
“I know. Do you remember the MacJohn’s? Their father was the boat builder in Swain Cove.”
She glanced up from the floor to see two striking men standing in the kitchen. One of them was so handsome with dark skin, glorious brown eyes filled with care, high cheek bones, and full lips. She couldn’t breathe; never in her life had she noticed a man in such a way. It must be a consequence of tonight’s confusing evening. Why were the MacJohn’s standing in the kitchen of her family home?
“I thought the MacJohn’s only had one son?” She remembered the family from Sunday mornings at church in the local village as a child. The boat builder had been a huge Scottish man with bright red hair, while their mother had been adopted by the vicar’s family after being rescued from a sinking slave ship. Abigail swallowed; she didn’t deserve their help. If they knew, they’d hate her and deservedly so. She’d long ago given up attempting to convince Lord Coxspeckle to sell his sugar plantations, but every dress, every trinket, everything she wore was funded by the misery of slavery. Lord Coxspeckle knew how much she despised it, so naturally, he loved to remind her of the fact.
One of the men laughed. “Clothes don’t make someone into a man. I’m Tzipporah MacJohn and I understand you need to be kidnapped.”
“I do?” Abigail stared. She remembered Tzipporah MacJohn as a happy little girl with her black curly hair braided and pulled into ponytails; not this tall woman with short hair and wearing pants. Their whole family had always dressed with such pride for church and they were so happy. The familiar envy punched her in the stomach, and she nearly doubled over with it.
“I realise this is a surprise for you,” her brother said. “Hiram and I discussed your situation and we think the best option is that you escape with Tzipporah. Hiram will write a letter demanding a ransom for you.”
“Oh?” She didn’t understand what Tobias meant. He was a happy-go-lucky second son, not this... this commanding man who knew what to do.
“It will give you time to escape and—”
“Yes.” Abigail didn’t care about the details. Nothing could be as bad as her current situation.
“Come with me. We don’t have much time.” Tzipporah wrapped her in a brown blanket, covering her evening dress completely, and tugged at her. She followed with one last glance at her brother who nodded solemnly.
“I’m sorry.”
“No time for that. Now, watch your step.” Tzipporah strode with such confidence as she led Abigail along a pathway into the garden. It was so dark that Abigail could only make out Tzipporah’s outline as a faint shadow in front of her and when Tzipporah halted suddenly, Abigail crashed into the back of her.
“I’m sorry.”
Tzipporah ignored her whispered apology, simply pulling her through a small door. When it shut with a soft click, all the dim light disappeared. There was the scrap of a striker, and soon enough, Tzipporah had managed to light a candle and then another.
“Take off your dress.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take off your dress. You’ll need to climb down a ladder and it will be too dangerous in that.”
Abigail gulped. “Could you please help?” She had been laced into this dress by a servant and it would take another to get her out of it. She gathered the blanket over her arm, not wanting to drop it on the ground. The dull flickering light of the candle didn’t give her enough light for her to see what the ground was like. Tzipporah must have had some servant training as she had Abigail out of her gown as efficiently as the very best lady’s maid. Gooseflesh covered Abigail’s skin. Even in mid-summer, the nights were cool and her drawers and stays weren’t enough clothing to keep her warm.
“Give me the candle and climb down.”
“In the dark?”
“Yes. It is simple. Hold on tight, feel for the step below, then move down. Repeat until you are at the bottom.”
Abigail swallowed, then handed the candle to Tzipporah. If she fell to her death off this ladder, at least Lord Coxspeckle wouldn’t have the satisfaction of killing her himself. She began to climb.