“. . . that saved a wretch like me . . .”
The gentle melody swelled and rose as the singer meandered through the verse, clear and strong, without any thought for who could be out there listening to her.
“. . . but now I see.”
Abigail brushed her fingertips over the soil as she delicately repotted a large parsley bush.
“And there you are,” she said quietly. “You will enjoy life much more here from this vantage point – more water for you away from that tree.”
It was a habit of Abigail’s to talk to her plants, and one that, although her family was well aware of it, few had ever brought it up with her. It was Abigail, after all; one mention of something she did, and she would blush, hasten away, and undoubtedly never do it again.
As she planted, cream gown getting more covered in soil as she went, Abigail tried to force her thoughts away from the painful dinner she had shared with that man, as she termed in silently in her mind, but it was impossible. Despite the fact it had occurred over a week ago, some parts still played through her head like a song she could not shift from her heart.
“Well, have you ever considered you have married the wrong sister?”
“Lastly, we have saffron, a powerful…restorative, and will give a gentleman the power of – ”
Abigail flushed slightly as she watered in the parsley. Even now, it was enough to bring color to her cheeks. What on earth had he been thinking, this stranger who never seemed to put down roots wherever he went? Was he completely incapable of understanding just what was and what was not permitted in polite society?
She moved around to check on the toothache plants and bit her lip. Still nothing. She would have hoped to see seedlings push their brave way through the soil by now, but the earth was bare.
Should she go and . . ?
Abigail shook her head, as though to rid her ears of water. No. Laken Weston had not taken a step out of the house they had given him since that dinner. No help had been given her with any of the garden, and she was not about to go running over there, begging him for help.
Leaning down, she brushed across the soil softly to see whether the sprigs of green were just below the surface.
No; nothing. She bit her lip. Gerald needed these plants to grow – they simply had to succeed, otherwise he would not be able to create some of his medicines. When winter came, the entirety of Sweet Grove would be grateful for his ministrations in times of sickness, and if he did not have all the correct parts . . .
And yet she hesitated. To go and knock on a man’s door and ask him for help was one thing; but that man to be a stranger to you, someone who embarrassed you beyond belief the last time you spoke – and for that man to be Laken Weston.
It was not something she felt in her power to do.
“Through many dangers toils and snares . . .”
When all else fails, there was always singing. It was something Abigail gained great joy from, and simply singing when in church with the rest of the family was no longer enough. She drew out the high note like a clear bell, ringing out into the air, unthinking that in the clear April air, the sound would carry far.
But it did not need to carry far. She already had an audience, though she did not know it, and they were quite able to hear absolutely everything she was singing.
“. . . and Grace will bring me home.”
Laken Weston stood in the shadow of the tree, absolutely captivated. This was an Abigail Bryant he had never seen before – a singing Abigail, with strong voice and determined melody, completely unaware of the rest of the world, let alone of the man standing not ten feet from her.
She was picking her way through the garden, absolutely engrossed in her daily task. A few leaves pulled there, a plant tied gently to a stick to help it grow strong, weeds pulled up just when they thought they had remained unnoticed – she was like an angel, thought Laken, making her way through the garden of Eden without a care in the world.
Her head tilted, and a flash of sunlight hit the blonde hair, and Laken was dazzled.
“If we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun . . .”
Laken’s heart was thumping loudly, and his palms were sweating. Even his feet felt uncomfortably warm. Despite the brightness, he could not shut his eyes, not tear away his gaze from the stunningly beautiful woman before him. How had he never noticed it before?
Abigail Bryant was beautiful.
A twig snapped. Without even noticing he was doing it, Laken had taken a step forward, and the noise echoed around the herb garden.
Abigail froze, and then slowly turned her head to look around her.
“Good afternoon,” she said hesitantly aloud. “Who is there?”
Laken stood still, the strain painful in his leg as he tried not to move. The brightness of the dark through particularly dark shadows, and if he was careful, he could hide in this one without detection.
It took three or four minutes before Abigail was satisfied there was no one there, and she returned to her gardening and her song.
For Laken, it felt like an eternity. What a woman. What a song. What a dedication to the living things in her garden. Affection for her rose up within him like a spring newly discovered, strong and pure. Why, there was something about her – something drawing him in without artifice or trickery. It was desire, but it was innocent, and –
Laken Weston realized with a shock that he was falling in love with Abigail Bryant.
No. Surely not; one did not just tumble head over heels for a girl because she sang well. Laken would have been married several times over if that had been the case. No, there was something different about Abigail, then. Something more. Something unique.
“Do not think I do not see you there.” Abigail’s quiet voice fluttered on the breeze as she bent down to pick up her spade. “You can come out of the shadows, Mr Weston.”
Laken almost laughed aloud. What had he been thinking – he belonged to the road, not to a chit of a girl who happened to have a good voice.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bryant,” he said smoothly, stepping out of the shadows and towards the little fence. “And how are you this fine day?”
“Just caring for my garden,” Abigail replied, but he could already see the blush on her cheeks.
Laken grinned. “Excellent singing, by the way, Miss Bryant – truly top notch. I do not think I have heard anything of the same caliber since I attended the opera!”
Now the flush had blossomed into fiery anguish. “You . . . you heard me?”
“I did indeed.” Laken reached out and gave an extra tug on the log she was attempting to move, and Abigail almost toppled over. “And it was beautiful.”
She shot him a look of disbelief, but it softened at the sincerity in his face.
“You truly liked it?”
Laken nodded. “I would not lie to you, Abigail.”
He had spoken more softly than he had intended, though it was impossible to tell whether the use of her Christian name had caused the flow of pink across her nose, or whether that was a leftover from the previous cause of embarrassment.
“Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice. “‘Tis a favorite of mine, and I have not felt able to sing it for many years. I suppose I am making up for lost time now.”
Laken removed his waistcoat and rolled up his linen sleeves. “Why did you not sing it, if it was your favorite?”
Abigail was staring at him apprehensively, but he merely picked up the log – with some effort – and looked at her enquiringly.
His meaning was clear, and she pointed at where she would like it placed. “The song was previously banned by Mariana for a time.”
“Your sister?” Laken grunted rather than spoke clearly; the log was a great deal heavier than he had thought, but he was loath to admit it to her.
“Yes; it would upset her. I suppose it is a rather inciting thought, the idea God would give some back their sight but not her,” Abigail mused.
Laken dropped the log in almost the place where she had wanted it, and turned, panting, to look at her. “I suppose that would be hard to bear.”
She nodded. “And yet she requested it as part of her and Gerald’s wedding service, and since then we have sung it in church often.”
He raised his eyebrows as he strode back over to her. “I would not have had the Bryant family down as a sinful group.”
Abigail laughed, and it sounded like a brook bubbling under winter snowfall. “Then you know very little about us, Mr Weston. A thief, a brothel worker, a gambler, a swindler, an accused murderer – ”
Laken’s jaw fell open. “Are you quite sure I am safe here?”
She was laughing, and it twisted his stomach with hot joy to see a smile on her face. “I assure you, you are quite safe. But you can see why it has become a song of choice within the Bryant family. Grace has brought me home.”
She smiled. It was unaffected, and unafraid, and Laken marveled at it.
“Thank goodness my only sin is accidental arson,” he said lightly, pulling up a wandering weed by his feet.
There was a loud crash. Abigail had dropped a flower pot and was staring at him as though he had grown wings.
“A-arson?”
Laken grinned at her. “Do not fret, it was a complete accident. It was a few years ago, actually, and my cooking fire got a little out of control. There was no harm done, I think. I got most of it out.”
She was staring at him in shock and whispered, “Never mention that to my brothers, Mr Weston. That fire…that fire reached Sweet Grove, and it almost – Jonathan almost…”
Laken’s mouth went dry. “It reached here?”
She nodded, and bile seemed to rise in his stomach. He had been sure the flames had been dampened – the idea she had been in danger, that her family had suffered.
“Do not fret about it,” Abigail said gently, watching the concern grow in his face. “It was years ago now, and as you say, no harm done.”
A wave of relief spread through him, and the nausea subsided. This growing affection he had for Abigail Bryant… if he was not careful, it would, like their seeds, find a warm and welcoming home.
Which reminded him. “I think the toothpaste plants are suffering.”
Abigail nodded, and her eyes darted to the patch of ground where they had been planted. “I simply do not know what to do, in truth, Mr Weston. The more I put rich soil upon them – ”
“And there is your mistake,” Laken interrupted. How could he have forgotten to tell her – had he been distracted by something? “Toothache plant seeds need the warmth of the sun on them to germinate and grow – direct from the sun.”
Abigail smiled at him curiously. “So . . . so I should not have planted them at all?”
He shook his head with an answering smile. “No, the best thing for them is to just lie above the soil. ‘Tis a risk, certainly, as the birds will better find them, and you may end up with fewer plants than you had hoped for, but at least they will grow.”
Laken watched as she bit her lip, twisting her fingers in her hands.
“Then I have killed them,” she said sadly. “I buried them three inches deep, and I have placed more soil above them since then. We will not find them again, and Gerald – Doctor Anderson’s medicine – ”
She was in quite genuine distress, Laken saw with horror. Immediately willing to put the blame of no germination on her own shoulders, she had jumped instantly to blaming herself for a lack of medicine.
“Abigail,” he said gently, reaching out a hand to rest on her arm, “you do not need to blame – ”
He stopped short, astonished at the spark shooting between them as his hand had touched her arm. Did she feel it too? Did those wide eyes turn to him in shock because she felt the thrill also?
“I have some more seeds,” he said in an undertone, staring into Abigail’s blue eyes. “I can bring them over tomorrow morning, and we can try again.”
She swallowed, and then smiled nervously. “I would like that. Thank you, Mr Weston.”
“Laken,” he said, and he found it would hurt if she refused him. “Please, call me Laken.”
Abigail opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Finally, she said hoarsely, “I do not think I can do that, Mr Weston.”
A surge of affection rose up in him once again, despite the disappointment. “You are so innocent,” he said tranquilly. “You have seen little of the world.”
“I have seen quite enough, thank you,” she shot back sharply, a shadow passing over her face, giving a harshness to the curve of her mouth.
Laken blinked. The softness, the naivety – it had gone. All that was left was the blush, but this looked to be of anger, not embarrassment.
And then the moment passed as though it had not even been there.
“The Sweet cicely grows well,” said Abigail calmly, indicating with an elegant rise of her fingers. “You will be able to pick some yourself in a few months.”
There was something happening inside Laken’s chest: a strange war between affection and concern for Abigail Bryant, and a desperate need to leave her immediately. What had she seen to cause such a reaction – and how could he care, he would be gone before the autumn came! What memory had caused that black and sad expression on that otherwise soft and gentle face? And why did not his traitorous heart want to leave Sweet Grove that instant, never to return?
“I will be gone by then,” he said curtly. “If I take the first quarter of growth, as promised, I can be gone by August – perhaps even July.”
“And . . . and do you want to?” She stared up at him, completely innocent, and it wrenched his stomach painfully.
Laken coughed and picked up his waistcoat, ready to leave. “Of course.”