Chapter 13. Brooke Manor

The wheels to the coach sped along in the darkness so quickly she was jostled over each and every bump. After she’d put up a brave struggle, her captor had bound her hands and blindfolded her to prevent her from escape. She had no idea where they were going and had lost all sense of direction in the tumult of fighting off the aggressor. She was vaguely aware of the bruises and scrapes and even a little trickle of what was probably blood streaming down one side of her neck. Abigail was seething and indignant. She could only hope someone had seen something and had reported her forced disappearance to her husband.

She had quickly realized that her valiant efforts to free herself from the clutches of the masked man seated on the cushions across from her were useless. She was outnumbered first of all, as there was the driver—or drivers to consider. Not only could she hear a whip cracking down on the backs of the horses, she could also feel they were racing along at a reckless and dangerous speed.

After what must have been several miles of countryside distancing her from her husband’s sprawling estate, she finally managed to calm her nerves enough to manage what she hoped sounded like a fearless demand. In reality, she was trembling from head to toe and presented merely a courageous inquiry. Was she so daft she actually expected a truthful reply? Nonetheless, she proceeded with her attempt to extract information: “Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t ask questions that are not your concern!” A gruff voice responded in the darkness.

How she wished she was not blindfolded. “I beg your pardon but this… this outrageous… abduction…. is most certainly my concern! Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“One more question and I will silence you! I will ask the questions and you shall be silent I tell you!” She did not see the slap that was coming next and her cheeks stung. Now she trembled even more and tears escaped her eyes as she determined not to flinch in fear. Blindfolded, she hadn’t expected his harsh treatment nor seen the glare of hatred in his eyes to warn her to bite her tongue, but she should have known from the struggles she’d endured thus far.

This man was unafraid to treat her like an animal if necessary. She would not shrink back into her seat. The worst thing she could do now would be to show fear. Instead, she sat up straighter and tilted her chin in defiance. She wanted to scream but instead, she drew her breath in sharply when his hand withdrew.

Whoever her captor was, he seemed to be an educated and ruthless man. She also knew by the way he’d dragged her out of the double doors of the conservatory, across the veranda and through the gardens behind the conservatory--that he had strength like an ox. She hadn’t stood a chance trying to wrestle herself free from his grasp when he’d overtaken her from behind and escorted her out of her home, despite her kicking, biting and muffled cries for help. At least she’d managed to avoid a fainting spell from the fright of it all and hadn’t passed out when he’d covered her mouth to keep her from screaming. She could not abide by his unnecessary roughness and decided from the tone of his voice it was best she not pester him any further for the moment. She prayed silently: Please Lord Jesus, help me! Protect my baby!

She forced her thoughts to turn to something else to keep her nerves calm and so she tried to remember her wedding at sea. The ceremony on the deck had been beautiful, the violin music resplendent. The rest of what had started out as an adventure into the unknown but had turned out to be Abigail’s romantic wedding and honeymoon voyage, had been splendid in every way. She had been installed into her husband’s cabin after their wedding dinner and Durston had been relocated to a cabin in servant’s quarters. She had been introduced as a Viscountess, and addressed as Lady Abigail Careen Gilmore, for the remainder of the most joyous occasion and weeks of her life.

Every day prior to the wedding and on some of the days after, she’d penned a dutiful letter home to her mother. She knew her bundle of letters would probably arrive long after she was settled in England, but she knew Mother would appreciate the details of her steamship experience and all that she shared about the meals they ate, the way the expanse of ocean seemed so endless, the entertainment they had experienced from hearing talented piano players and violinists, and the leisurely afternoons they enjoyed on the ship. She had disciplined herself to write a journal entry each day and she knew that one day in her future, she would look back on those writings with feelings of security and of happiness, and of God’s grace.

After the ship had docked in Southampton, they were conveyed by carriage to a train designated to carry them to Waterloo Station, London. Though she would have liked to explore the busy streets of London, she found herself far too exhausted from the train ride to do more than acknowledge Trafalgar Square, admire several cathedrals they passed and nod at a few other interesting sights. Her husband assured both Mrs. Pickering and his weary wife that they would soon return to explore London after they’d had a few weeks of rest and rejuvenating fresh air in the countryside of his estate.

After a good night’s rest at a luxurious hotel called Queen’s Gate on the edge of Mayfair, Lord Gilmore rented a motor car and the party continued on to the countryside of Yorkshire until they finally reached his estate, and what had now suddenly become her home. In some ways it felt like it was being thrust upon her and she wasn’t quite sure of her role yet and how she fit into his life. She was glad when he insisted Mrs. Pickering stay on in one of the guest suites in the mansion that had caused Abigail such shock and delight; she had found herself utterly speechless and overcome by the grandness of it all. Mrs. Pickering had been thoroughly pleased with this arrangement. She, well-traveled and accustomed to great mansions and grand estates, was pleased immensely by what she saw.

Nonetheless they had been anxious to visit Hannah and Wilson, but it would have to wait. They had arrived at dusk and the day was nearly gone. The mansion had looked glorious at sunset. An entire staff lined up to greet Lord Gilmore and his bride, welcoming them home to a well prepared dinner of melon glace, an Italian consommé paste, poached salmon served with a hollandaise sauce, boiled potatoes and carrots with butter and parsley, asparagus and freshly baked rolls. A vanilla cake made of five thin layers with a lemon buttery filling between each, earned numerous complements from Mrs. Pickering, who announced she would not leave England without the recipe.

“Then we may have to consider not giving it to you Mrs. Pickering!” Abigail had replied cheerfully. She had become so fond of Mrs. Pickering, she could hardly imagine being in England without her.

A servant had been dispatched the next morning to inform Hannah of her arrival. The footman returned with a note that bore the news that the Carpenters were in London at the Salvation Army mission and expected to return in about a fortnight. With this in mind, they had taken the next day to rest and explore the grand estate Sheldon called Brooke Manor. Lord Gilmore led their tour personally, introducing a great number of people as they went along. They met sharecroppers, stable hands, field hands and the overseer. They soon discovered her husband’s estate raised a great many herds of sheep which produced wool for the textiles industry of Halifax, stabled more than thirty-eight horses and yielded more wheat and flax than Abigail could comprehend.

The grounds were a peaceful and beautiful sight to behold. A brook ran along the southwest side of the property near the house. Amidst a variety of trees were long branches that provided shade for a conglomeration of stables and barns to the southeast. Wide fields of wheat and patches of other farms beyond were directly ahead in the distance. Pleasant meadows and fields greeted the eye in almost every direction. A veranda and gardens flanked the house. There was a maze of green shrubs, a rose garden, and a Victorian garden with an arbor and ivy covered archways. Lanterns that glowed at night hung suspended from the arbor.

Wide stone steps from the driveway led to a tiered veranda surrounded by low, ornately carved, stone columns. These were capped by a flat stone railing. The magnificent tiered veranda led to the front doors of the mansion. As one approached the house from the long driveway, they would first enter the estate from a country road, passing through large wrought iron gates. They would then proceed past a fountain which stood to welcome guests with the sound of flowing water trickling down from a statuesque figurine of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Floating lilies and lily pads decorated a lower pond that surrounded the fountain, also home to two white swans that glided gracefully in the water.

The first floor of the house held a marble staircase as the main feature of the foyer. A chandelier from the second floor ceiling hung suspended above. Abigail noticed finely carved crown moldings everywhere and spacious tall ceilings and hallways. Light poured in from long symmetrical windows across the front of the house, which her husband explained, was Georgian in style. A library, formal dining room, a sitting room that he called the parlor, a large kitchen, a large pantry, a small office for the housekeeper and a neighboring one for the butler, and an enormous conservatory, were also housed on the first floor. He explained that his father had added the conservatory and fountain before his passing. The second floor contained another sitting room he referred to as the salon, the master bedroom suite which had a private bathroom and connected to a nursery for infants, a room he designated as her new writing room, a bathing room, a less formal dining room and three other bedrooms (one of which had been given to Mrs. Pickering).

The third floor had four more bedrooms, another bathing room, a music room, ball room, and a grand hall which he called the gallery and contained portraits of his ancestors. The fourth floor contained the servant quarters, a school room and more bedrooms.

It seemed their trunks had barely been unpacked and servants adjusted to their new mistress when Winifred had descended upon them like a hawk, though Abigail was still finding herself shocked and amazed at her beautiful surroundings and the circumstances that had led her to become the matron of such a fine house. Abigail, Mrs. Pickering and Lord Gilmore had been quietly reading in the salon late that afternoon on the second floor when a ruckus of noise had disturbed them.

“Oh blasted!” The Viscount raked through his hair and Abigail wondered what caused him to look so displeased. “This should be interesting,” was all he’d said as he peered out one of the long windows at the large party spilling noisily out of the coach below. He tossed his book aside into the armchair where he’d formerly been enjoying the peace and quiet. He was nearly ahead of the butler to reach the double front doors.

“I wonder who it can be,” Mrs. Pickering said.

“I don’t have a clue,” Abigail said, abandoning her book on her chair as she stood up. “But let us find out.”

“And I was just getting to the good part in this book…” Mrs. Pickering had followed suit, tossing her book aside as well. She trailed only a moment behind Abigail down the staircase and reaching the foyer, they’d cloistered around Sheldon near the grandfather clock that stood to one side of a marble topped table around the corner alongside the rails and wall of the grand staircase. Her husband appeared to be lost in thought, weighing his options.

“Are you in residence, my Lord?” Brantley inquired. Even Brantley, the butler, knew exactly the trouble that waited for them on the other side of those doors.

“We may as well get on with it,” the Viscount sighed. He pulled on the hem of his vest to straighten it, as if his appearance didn’t already look impeccable. “We are in residence Brantley.” Turning to his wife and Mrs. Pickering, “Brace for impact ladies.”

Her husband winked at them and their curious faces. They relaxed instantly, but their curiosity was definitely piqued. Abigail and Mrs. Pickering couldn’t help but burst into laughter. Brantley was straightening his own suit. He seemed to stand up taller and pulled a bell string near the door which alerted the servants in other areas of the house that help was needed in the foyer at once. When their laughter had subsided, he threw open wide both of the heavy front doors and stood back to grant the party entrance.

That’s when all of the trouble had started… or so she thought, as the coach continued to speed along. She could hear her captor unscrewing a lid perhaps to something. Where had this man come from-- and what did he want with her? Was he somehow linked to Winifred? If only he would loosen these cords on her wrists and remove this blindfold.

Winifred had arrived with a small entourage: her personal lady’s maid, two armed guards who escorted her safely through the countryside from London, a coach driver, two friends and an aunt, acting as her chaperone. They’d managed to gather this much information from the formalities of brief introductions as the travelers conversed excitedly with them. Abigail had noticed her husband rather hung back from the entourage, yet tried to be polite. He hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise. Trunk after trunk had been unloaded and carried into Brooke Manor and it had all happened so fast there had been little chance for Sheldon to stop it.

He calmed his bride’s nerves as the party of guests poured into the grand foyer like bad apples spilling out of a bucket. “Give me some time to speak to her. We will offer them dinner and place them in guest rooms overnight. They’ve come too far to turn them away. It’s a long way from London, as you well know; and they didn’t travel as we did, by motor car.”

She nodded graciously and had instructed the housekeeper to see that they would be settled comfortably into two guest rooms. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Brooke Manor was large enough to accommodate them. The housekeeper, Jenkins, (though Abigail wanted to call her Miss Jenkins in American tradition) did as she was directed most efficiently, taking the two ladies and the aunt up the staircase as a scene began to unfold and erupt from Winifred. Winifred would later join her chaperone in one room, and the remaining two ladies would be placed in another. As they climbed the staircase, a great deal of whispering went on behind their fans, in amazement when Lord Gilmore had introduced Abigail as his wife.

That’s when things really began to spiral out of control. Winifred had stopped trying to give orders to her own and Lord Gilmore’s servants about which trunks to take where. She suddenly stood stock still in her tracks, her mouth gaping wide. “Your wife?”

It was the first time she’d stopped talking since setting foot on Brooke Manor. She looked Abigail over and up and down in such a way as to make Abigail feel completely inadequate.

“I’ll accompany our guests upstairs to see that everything is satisfactory, my dear,” Mrs. Pickering had said as she gripped the banister for strength and followed the other ladies to the second floor, giving Abigail a serenely calm smile and a lighthearted wink. (Nothing ever seemed to faze Mrs. Pickering, Abigail was learning.) “It will give us a chance to become more acquainted.” There was the hint of amusement on her face as she said, “This is better than the book I was reading…”

Abigail couldn’t help but hide another laugh. Leave it to Mrs. Pickering to find the humor in everything. What would she do now? She’d probably tell that man to throw that flask out the window and stop the coach immediately or she’d give him the thrashing he deserved.

“I’ll just take a stroll in the conservatory dear,” Abigail had heard herself say, though somehow her voice hadn’t sounded much like her own. She felt intimidated and her legs felt wobbly. “It sounds like you and Winifred need to have a discussion.”

“Yes, we do, and we shall. Winifred,” Sheldon had said, holding his arm out in the direction of the library. Winifred took one more steady and scrutinizing look at Abigail as if she were going to pounce on her with the strength of a tigress of stealth. Instead, she chose to handle the problem of Abigail after her discussion with Sheldon and turned a sweet look upon the man she had about seven weeks before, thought to be her fiancé. She was all too eager to have a moment alone with him and entered the library with a last minute smirk toward Abigail and a pouty look on her face.

Her husband, his hand still on the doorknob, rolled his eyes in exasperation, tired of her antics. Abigail had to nearly stifle a laugh and instead a little cough escaped her throat. His eyes turned to hers and he pleaded silently with Abigail’s to ignore Winifred’s tactics. After Winifred had entered the library, he reached for Abigail before she turned to go down the long hallway toward the conservatory where the beauty of an indoor garden awaited her. “Give me a kiss, darling.”

She complied as he pulled her to him, and to her surprise and embarrassment, it was indeed a kiss. It was, however, exactly the reassurance she needed at that moment from her husband.

None of this was lost on Winifred, who had turned around upon entering the library to peer back at Sheldon. She was tapping a foot on the floor from beneath her fashionable gown, her arms crossed before her, and a stream of spitfire was unleashing through a cold stare. She released the folds of her fan in one swift snap and began fanning herself rapidly. She looked as though her eyes were going to pop right out of her head and quite ready to fly into a rage. One indignant sound escaped her mouth from behind the fan. “Humpf!”

When he had released Abigail, who had turned three shades of red from that husbandly kiss and had put her feet to flight in the direction of the conservatory, she heard Winifred shouting at her husband as he entered the library.

“I demand to know the meaning of this, Sheldon!”

Please help him, Lord … Abigail prayed under her breath, quickening her pace. About twenty minutes later, she’d felt a hand cover her mouth from behind while a strong arm had simultaneously wrapped around her. Her captor had literally picked her up and dragged her while walking backwards out into the vast gardens behind the house. She’d never even gotten a look at him. She had attempted to kick, bite and elbow him, but beyond a few grunts of what she suspected were nothing but mild pain, the man had overpowered her with his strength.

After he’d dragged her nearly halfway through the garden , he’d blindfolded her from behind when she had paused to regain her strength, only to have him rapidly locate both of her hands and bind them with cords that seemed to cut into her wrists when she tried to free herself. He had half dragged and half carried her, and finally thrown her roughly into a coach. Once she’d nearly gotten away but he had tightened his grasp until she thought her arm had been almost dislocated from shoulder. She wouldn’t be able to run far blindfolded and with her hands tied behind her back. All of this had transpired in what seemed about ten minutes. Only a few times had she been able to scream or yell out for help. Each time she did, he immediately covered her mouth again so tightly that she could barely breath. He’d hit her head roughly the last time she’d let out a scream. She suspected that had been the blow that had caused the sticky blood to trickle down her hair, face and neck.

She could only hope her husband would soon find tracks leading to where she’d been abducted. She knew now that she was in a very dangerous situation and all she could do was pray. And pray, she did.

Charity suffereth long, and is kind…

I Corinthians 13:4, KJV