chapter 7
Abigail awoke to a warm flood of memories.
Robert kissing her between her legs. Robert buried so deeply inside her that they were one body. The taste of Robert on her tongue; the sound of his shock when she had shared that taste with him. Robert kneeling before her while she read to him from
They should invoke shame, those memories. After all, she was a modern nineteenth-century woman raised to have a healthy aversion to human sexuality. At the very least, those memories should invoke embarrassment.
But they did not.
They reminded her that, whether she be a staid spinster or a genteel lady or a wanton seductress, she was first and foremost a woman.
For the first time in her life she was thankful for her erotica. She would need every bit of knowledge she could gain if she was going to spend the rest of her life making Robert forget.
Smiling, she reached out a hand.
Only to encounter cold sheets, slightly rumpled where Robert had lain beside her.
Abigail's eyelids shot open… to sunshine. And the shriek of a gull.
The storm was over.
Reality was sharp, invasive, words Robert had said in passion, words he had said in passing.
She scrambled up in bed, ridiculously hoping that perhaps Robert was in the hip bath or kneeling in front of the stove, putting wood into it, anything,
But there was no place to hidethe cottage was empty. His clothes, which had been draped over the chair by the stove, were gone. In their place hung her faded green cotton dress and white silk drawers.
Abigail closed her eyes against the sunshine filling the cottage.
Like the storm, Robert was gone.
Suddenly Abigail could not bear the sheets that smelled of him and of her. She scrambled out of bed, wincing at the feel of the engorged sponge inside her and the greasy traces of butter between her buttocks.
She hurt. Between the legs. Her bottom. Her breasts. Her lips. Everywhere he had touched her, she hurt.
Yet everywhere she looked, the cabin carried a part of him.
The fire in the stove. The hip bath on the floor by the sink. The cupboard barring the window.
She had promised him! Promised him that she would not give up
Outside the cabin, a horse neighed; it was accompanied by the jingle of reins.
Abigail raced to the door, heart pounding.
It did not matter that her hair hung wild and tangled down her back. It did not matter that she was two weeks and five days shy of turning thirty.
The only thing that mattered was that Robert had not left.
His horse had thrown him, he had said yesterday. Duty-bound soldier that he was, he had left the cottage to find his horse, and having found it
'Be ye decent, Miss Abigail? I've come to clean fer ye. And I've brought more food fer ye and yer mister.'
Abigail felt as if she had been shot by a bullet.
Or stabbed by a pair of drumsticks.
Robert said he had killed. That he would kill again.
And he had.
He just had not stayed around this time to see the look of surprise in the victim's eyes.
Through the door she could hear the ocean waves gently washing the beach. The lonely sea gull shrilled in the sky above.
Straightening her shoulders, she called out, 'Give me a few minutes, Mrs. Thomas. I need to'
She closed her eyes against the truth.
She had had her two nights of passion and she would have no more.
Hurriedly she laid out the clothes she had arrived inbustle, corset, chemise, petticoats, stockings, garters, dress.
They dripped onto the bed like fat droplets of rain.
She wiped her cheeksthere would be no tears; one did not mourn stormy fantasiesthen she pumped a bucket full of cold water and set about removing the remains of Robert Coally.
Only to end up in the ignoble position of squatting and desperately reaching into tender flesh for a sponge that would not come out.
It struck her how ridiculous she must look, perched on her toes with her tangled hairhair that he had promised to brush flowing between her outstretched thighs. The absurdity of it was the final straw, somehow.
Once the tears started, Abigail thought she would drown in them, fishing around where a lady's fingers should never be while silently bawling as if she had a right to.
As if he had promised her more than a stormy union.
A union that
To make him forget his past. To make her forget the future.
But now the storm was over and it was time for him to rejoin his regiment.
And it was time for her to put aside fanciful fantasies.
The cottage door opened just as her fingers gained purchase. The sponge came out in the same moment that Abigail came up.
Mrs. Thomas stood framed in the door in a spill of sunlight and dancing dust motes. 'It be all right, dearie. Men be forever takin' advantage of us women. I told my mister he shouldn' 'ave left you alone in the storm. We'll watch o'er ye now, me an' Mr. Thomas.'
Ignoring the sponge in her hand and the tears that refused to stop, Abigail grabbed the towel by the sink and wrapped it about her as if nothing more untoward had occurred than a maid inadvertently walking in on her bathing mistress. 'Thank you, Mrs. Thomas. There is no need to worry. I have decided to return to London. My family needs me, you see. I would appreciate it if you would assist me with packing, however. You may then drive me to the train station.'
'There's a train that leaves in two 'ours time.' Mrs. Thomas's face was full of pitya far, far more devastating emotion than the shock or disapproval that a spinster lady who strays from the straight and narrow path would expect to see in the eyes of a virtuous married woman. She retrieved Abigail's chemise from the rumpled bed. 'Plenty of time, we got. I got a nice pan of Cross buns, just baked 'em, and a fresh crock of butter'
'I am not hungry,' Abigail interrupted abruptly, wondering if she would ever be able to eat butter again. Or tolerate the odor of brandy. 'But thank you.'
She accepted the chemise with quaint dignity. Mrs. Thomas turned her back when Abigail had to perforce drop the towel.
'Of course I will pay you for your trouble.' Abigail's head cleared the neck of the chemise. 'No!' Her voice whipped the dust motes surrounding Mrs. Thomas. 'Leave it!'
