Abigail heard Cary push back his chair. In the next moment, he was down on all fours, looking under the table at her. She looked back at him as defiantly as she could through the bottom of her glass as she finished the Madeira.
“More wine, cousin?”
“Mr. Wayborn, that wicked bird belongs in a cage!”
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” he said, cursing under his breath as he bumped his head on the table. “Would you be so kind as to take the dog out? I’ll manage the bird. Or are you frightened of dogs as well?” As he spoke, he shoved the snarling corgi under the table.
“No, indeed,” said Abigail, scooping Angel up with real affection. “Best dog ever!”
Over their heads, they could hear Mrs. Spurgeon threatening to climb up on her chair to rescue her darling boy. Abigail crawled out from under the table while Cary emerged from the other side. Cato spied Abigail, but with Angel tucked under one arm, the tender morsel was unassailable. He shrieked in frustrated rage.
“Good boy,” Abigail murmured lovingly to the corgi, stopping to pick up her plate. “Be so good as to serve me a little more veal,” she told an obliging servant.
Outside, the moonlight on the snow was so beautiful that she scarcely felt the cold. The stillness reminded her of one of Mr. Coleridge’s early poems, “Frost at Midnight.” Content with her lot, she sat down on the bench in the shelter of the portico and shared her “veal” with Angel. “You are the best dog in the whole world,” she told him very sincerely as he licked the plate.
Her guardian angel did not remain faithful to her for long. He soon caught sight of a rabbit in the distance and shot out of the portico like a cannonball, his short legs barely able to keep his head out of the snow. From the back end, he looked rather like a rabbit himself, Abigail thought, as the front door swung open.
“Cato’s been captured,” Cary announced, pressing a handkerchief to his badly scratched hand. “We’ve reached a compromise. Cato will not be caged, but he will be confined to my study. He’ll be in no one’s way there, and Mrs. Spurgeon can use it for a sitting room, if she likes. If you would like to come back in, I think I can vouch for your safety.”
“Thank you, but I don’t mind the cold. I’m quite happy where I am.”
He looked out towards the woodlands beyond his lawn. Icicles hung in the branches, chased in silver by the moonlight. “The Frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by any wind,” he murmured.
“I didn’t think you liked Coleridge,” she said, surprised.
He sat down on the bench across from her and leaned forward. He hadn’t come out to talk poetry with the girl. “Look here,” he said abruptly. “What would you do if the Spurgeon sent you away? Where would you go?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled. “How could she send me away?”
“She’s awfully fond of that bloody bird, and he certainly hates you, my dear. I think it very likely she’ll be sending you back to London as soon as the roads are cleared up.”
“You seem to think Mrs. Spurgeon has some power over me.”
He looked at her sharply. “Is she not your employer?”
Abigail’s mouth fell open.
“There’s no shame in finding employment as a companion. Mrs. Spurgeon is a waking nightmare, but she is respectable. Come, come, Miss Smith,” he said impatiently. “Now is not the time for false pride. We’re cousins, after all. I know you don’t have much money. I know your father is the rudest man in Dublin. Are you running away from him? Is that it?”
“My father is not the rudest man in Dublin,” Abigail exclaimed, startled.
“I expect the title is passed from man to man with great frequency.”
“My father is the best man I know!” she said. “I am not a servant, sir. I am not in danger of—of losing my place. I don’t require any assistance from you. And I’m not Irish.”
“You are—forgive me—socially awkward, sexually backward, and a glutton for whisky. But if you tell me you’re not Irish, naturally, I take your word for it,” he said, shrugging.
“That is very good of you, I’m sure!” said Abigail, climbing to her feet.
“Don’t go on my account,” he said pleasantly, “unless, of course, it’s time for Mrs. Spurgeon’s foot-bath.”
“I told you, I’m not her servant,” said Abigail, growing red in the face.
“Then stay,” he invited her. “I think we ought to be friends, don’t you? You’re not still sulking because I kissed you? I said I was sorry. Can’t you get over it?”
Abigail bristled. “No, you didn’t. You never said you were sorry. You were stupid and rude. Just the sort of rude, stupid person who’d put French windows in a house like this!”
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you really ought to be thanking me.”
“Indeed?”
“I seem to have cured you of your stammer,” he pointed out.
Abigail looked away angrily. He still had not apologized.
“Tell you what, cousin. I’ll let you make it up to me tomorrow. There’s going to be ice skating down at the Tudor Rose. Go and fetch your second best pair of boots.”
“And why would I do that?” she snapped.
“I couldn’t ask you to spoil your best boots,” he patiently explained. “The blacksmith’s going to put skating blades on them. Go on. Hurry up. I’ll wait for you here.”
“You actually expect me to go to a skating party with you?” she said incredulously.
“Yes, of course. You couldn’t possibly go to the inn without an escort. Run and get your boots, there’s a good girl. I haven’t got all night.”
“I am not going skating with you,” said Abigail. “I don’t even like skating. Or you!”
“I’ll teach you to like both,” he said kindly. “It’ll be fun. And I promise not to kiss you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
Angel suddenly bounded into the portico and dropped a dead rabbit at Abigail’s feet. “Augh!” she said. Angel looked up at her, puzzled by this strange reaction to his handsome gift.
“I hope you like rabbit stew, cousin.”
“You can always tell Mrs. Spurgeon it’s veal,” she said tartly.
No doubt insulted by their lack of enthusiasm, the proud little corgi picked up his rabbit and dragged it away, leaving a bloody trail in the snow.
Cary sighed. “Would you like to buy a dog, Miss Smith?”
“Good night, Mr. Wayborn.”
She was gone. Feeling underappreciated, Cary started for the gatehouse. He had scarcely progressed ten feet in the knee-deep snow when he heard a window opening behind him, followed by a piercing whistle that elicited a sympathetic howl from the corgi.
Cary nearly laughed aloud as a pair of leather boots with their laces tied together came flying out of the open window, landing at his feet in the snow. Angel abandoned his grisly prize to investigate the new arrival. By the time Cary retrieved Abigail’s boots, the window had closed and there was no sign of Miss Smith.
“She can’t resist me,” he explained to Angel, who had been thoroughly unhinged by the girl’s flying shoes and was rushing here and there in the snow, barking, in case other shoes got similar ideas. “No woman can.”
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