Authors: Marlene Suson
Chapter 18
Two weeks later, Levisham and Caro were sitting on the terrace at Bellhaven when Abigail Foster was announced.
“Here!” Caro cried in surprise, delighted that Abigail, whom she loved like an older sister, had returned for a visit. “I had no notion she was not in Scotland.”
When Abigail appeared in the doorway to the terrace, Caro exclaimed, “What a wonderful surprise, isn’t it, Papa?”
But he did not seem to share her delight. His face had hardened, and he said nothing.
“Your sister-in-law said nothing about your coming for a visit! When did you...” Caro’s voice trailed off in shock as Abigail stepped out of the shadow of the doorway into the full light of the terrace.
Her habitual vivacious demeanor was nowhere in evidence. Her pretty face looked worn, weary, and years older than when she had left for Scotland a mere nine months ago. She leaned on her long, unfashionable umbrella as if for support. Her gown was old, unbecoming, and travel-worn. Her sky-blue eyes no longer sparkled but were dull and sad, and now they looked apprehensively at Levisham, as though uneasy about the welcome he would accord her.
“Neither my sister-in-law nor my brother have the smallest notion that I am here, and I pray that you will not tell them.” Abigail turned an entreating face toward Levisham. She gasped as she took in his shrunken body and wan, hollow-eyed face. An agonized look contorted her own features.
Caro, who thought her father’s improvement in recent days amazing, was startled by their guest’s reaction. Then she remembered that Abigail had left for Scotland before the fever that so decimated Levisham had struck him last spring and had not seen him since.
“Oh, God, George,” Abigail burst out, “what is wrong? You look so very ill!”
She looked as though she wanted to throw herself into the invalid’s arms. In that unguarded moment, Caro saw in Abigail’s eyes the same unconsciously speaking look that Emily often gave Mercer Corte.
Abigail was in love with her father!
Turning to him, Caro saw the harsh, angry expression that he had worn since Abigail’s arrival suddenly soften.
“Although I may not look it, I am much improved,” he said.
“I don’t understand.” Abigail’s confused voice again betrayed the depth of her feelings. “You have always been the strongest man I know.”
“One would almost think you cared,” the marquess said bitterly.
“I do care!” she exclaimed violently. Belatedly realizing what she was revealing, she amended hastily, “You have always been a most cherished friend of my father and myself.”
“Have I now?” Levisham responded wryly, an odd light in his gray eyes. “Why are you here when you do not want your brother and his wife to know that you are in the neighborhood?”
A dull red flush spread over Abigail’s face and she stared down at her feet. “I have run away from my aunt. She is such a dour, evil-tempered old harridan, complaining endlessly about everything and everyone, that I would rather die than remain in her company! I was nothing but her unpaid servant without a moment’s respite from her ceaseless demands.”
Levisham studied Abigail’s dusty, travel-wrinkled costume. “What do you propose to do now?”
She lifted her eyes, brimming with sadness, and looked out across the formal garden that lay below the terrace. “I cannot go to my brother, for his odious wife will insist that I be returned to my aunt. And I have no money, for although Papa left me a respectable income, he placed it under my brother’s control. Darrow is as clutch-fisted as Amelia Coleberd’s husband, and, like Amelia, I have no recourse. It is not fair!”
“Life rarely is,” Levisham said coldly.
Abigail cast a beseeching look at him. “I know that you no doubt wish me at Jericho and that I have no right to make such a request of your generosity, but there is no one else I can apply to. I was hoping that you might see fit to hire me as a companion-chaperone for Caro until she marries.”
“She is already married.”
“What?” Abigail’s startled eyes flew first to Levisham’s face, then to Caro’s. “Surely you cannot be!” Her proudly straight shoulders collapsed in despair.
Caro, her soft heart wrung by her friend’s dejection, hurried to her side and put her arms about her.
“Who is your husband?” Abigail asked.
“Lord Vinson,” Levisham interposed.
Abigail’s eyes widened in amazement. “You jest!”
“Why should you think so?” Levisham demanded coldly.
Poor Abigail, blushing scarlet, stammered, “Caro is not at all in Vinson’s usual style.”
Caro hid the pain that Abigail’s words caused her. Even her dear friend recognized what a mésalliance her marriage was. But Caro had no time to waste on her own unhappiness in the face of Abigail’s. Tightening her arms around the older woman, Caro assured her, “I should like very much to have you as my companion.”
“Put that notion from your mind, Caro,” Levisham said curtly.
Tears welled in Abigail’s eyes, and she whispered mournfully, “I do not know what I shall do.”
Caro, feeling her own eyes grow moist in sympathy, cried, “Papa, how can you be so cruel, turning her away like this?”
“I am not turning her away. She may stay here as long as she wishes.”
Abigail’s startled gaze flew up to meet Levisham’s. “But I cannot. My brother, when he learns that I am here, will never permit me to intrude on your hospitality unless I have a legitimate occupation to earn my keep. Nor,”—her head raised proudly—“would I want to.”
The marquess gave her a long searching look. “I wish to be private with Abigail,” he told Caro sharply.
Puzzled, Caro rose and went to the French doors that led into the drawing room.
“Shut the doors behind you,” her father instructed her, “and see that we are not disturbed by anyone.”
When the doors had closed behind his daughter, Levisham gestured toward the chair beside him which she had vacated. “Sit there, Abigail.”
Reluctantly his visitor, casting a nervous glance at him from beneath her lashes, did as she was bid.
He was torn between happiness at seeing her again and a fresh surge of anger at her rejection of the offer he had made her after his son’s death. Despite her having turned down several attractive proposals and her oft-stated determination not to marry and place herself under a husband’s uncertain domination, Levisham had thought that his own suit would meet with a warmer reception. When it had not, his consequence had been bitterly wounded. More surprisingly, so had his heart. Somehow, over the years, without his realizing it, Abigail had come to occupy a very important place in his affections and in his life. But it had taken her departure to Scotland for him to acknowledge this belatedly to himself.
Abigail was toying nervously with the handle of her umbrella and said, “I am shocked that Caro has married Lord Vinson.”
“Why should you be? They are well matched in birth and family.”
“Does the heart count for nothing?” Abigail asked softly, her eyes meeting his shyly. “Vinson loves his mistress, who is an incomparable beauty. Why would he suddenly want to marry Caro?”
“He did not. His father insisted that he must marry. The earl wants a grandson.”
“Oh, George,” Abigail cried, her hands closing convulsively around the handle of her umbrella. “How could you marry your daughter to a man who wants nothing but to have her breed his child? What kind of life will she have?”
“Vinson is an honorable man.” Levisham would not confess his own misgivings about the match he had arranged. Instead, he said defensively, “I believe that he will treat Caro always with great kindness and consideration.”
“Will kindness and consideration be enough for Caro?” Abigail demanded angrily, a haunted look in her eyes. “What of love?”
The marquess glared at her. How dare she question him when, to his thinking, she was as much responsible for his daughter’s marriage as he was. If only Abigail had accepted his offer. She was as sensible a woman as he had ever known (except for her one unaccountable lapse in refusing his suit), and he could have trusted her to protect both his daughter and her fortune. He would have been able to leave Caro in her stepmother’s custody rather than requiring her to make a marriage she did not want. Furthermore, by now he might have fathered another son who would have kept the odious Tilford from the succession.
Although Levisham was not normally a vindictive man, he could not restrain himself, in the face of these unhappy thoughts, from telling Abigail, “You were a fool not to have accepted my offer. Had you married me, you would not be in this miserable situation.”
Her head snapped up and for a moment there was a flash of her old spirit in her eyes. “Nor would I be in it had you not made me that wretched offer!”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“My father was so incensed over my refusing you that he altered his will to punish me, denying me control of my inheritance. He knew how important it was to me to be independent. Furthermore, I think it was your dreadful sister-in-law who gave Darrow’s wife the idea that she would be well rid of me.”
Knowing Olive as he did, Levisham did not doubt that Abigail’s suspicion was well founded. “Damn that woman!”
“That would do me little good now,” Abigail retorted with a hint of her old humor.
Levisham studied her for a long moment, considering the question that had plagued him since she had rejected his proposal. Until now, his pride had prevented him from asking it. “Let us be honest with each other, Abigail. You told me a few minutes ago that you cared about me. Why then did you so blithely refuse my offer?”
“I did not blithely refuse your offer, but if you were to ask me again today, I would still reject it.”
“I do not understand. You said you cared.”
Her blue eyes met his squarely. “I do care,” she said quietly. “I have been in love with you since I was Caro’s age.”
He gaped at her, his emotions fluctuating wildly between happiness and bewilderment. “Then why did you refuse me?”
“Because you do not love me. You never showed me the least interest during all those years until Brandon died. Then you offered for me only because you wanted an heir to prevent Tilford from inheriting.”
He squirmed at the truth of her charge. Yes, that had been the reason he had offered for her. She was a pleasant, witty companion, and he had thought that they would deal well together. Over the years, he had become so used to having her about that he had rarely given her a second thought. Occasionally, it had crossed his mind that she would make an excellent wife and mother for his children, but, if the truth be known, he hated London and much preferred the reclusive life that he had led since his wife’s death. Were he to remarry, he would no longer be able to use the excuse of extended grief over her death. Both society and a new wife would expect him to reenter the fashionable world. It had taken the ramifications of his son’s death to end his lassitude.
Abigail regarded him somberly. “I could not live my life with a husband who would always love the memory of another woman instead of me,” she said with a dignity that wrenched his heart.
For the first time, he comprehended how insulting his offer must have seemed to her. He had not presented it in romantic terms because he had not yet realized himself how much he loved her. He passed a hand over his face. How many mistakes he had made. Only now, when his future was so uncertain, did he realize them. He prayed that he would be permitted to live long enough to try to make up to Abigail for some of the pain and hurt he had caused her.
His hands reached out and caught hers. “My dearest Abigail, what an incredible fool I have been. I do love you very much, but it took me a long time to realize it. I would like to make you another offer, but I must warn you that you run the risk of being a widow almost before you are a wife.”
“Oh, George, that does not matter.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “To have you and your love for a little while would be so much better than never to have it.”
A servant told Caro that her father wished to see her on the terrace. She hurried out to find Abigail and the marquess holding hands. When they told her that they planned to be married, Caro was delighted. “It is the very best thing for both of you!” she exclaimed exuberantly.
Later, when she was alone with Abigail, she asked with her customary frankness, “How long have you been in love with Papa?”
“For years, but he was so wrapped up in his memories of your mama that he scarcely noticed my existence.” Abigail’s smile faded. “I felt that I could never compete with her memory. But I was determined to marry no one but him. My father would never have permitted my remaining single for that reason. So I pretended to embrace Lady Fraser’s disgust for marriage. I insisted that I wished to devote myself to caring for Papa. Since his paramount concern was for his own comfort, which I saw to nicely, he was delighted for me to remain at his side.”
“Your father did not deserve you!” Caro cried.
Abigail shrugged. “It suited me to remain with him because it permitted me to be near your papa.”
Caro was appalled by what her friend had silently suffered for all those years: hiding her love for a man who did not return it while tending to a demanding old tyrant. “How unhappy you must have been.”