No one was surprised when legal briefs were filed in Doctor’s Commons. His lordship alleged that Miss Ritchie had stolen his diamond, and Red Ritchie filed suit for slander.
Abigail could scarcely venture out of doors without being pointed at and whispered over. People who would never have condescended to know her now went out of their way to give her the Cut Direct. Her uncle, Earl Wayborn himself, who had never communicated with Abigail in her life, not even upon the death of her mother, his elder sister, now petitioned to have the spelling of his family name legally changed from Wayborn to Weybourne in an effort to distance himself from the scandal.
Abigail went out less and less, and when Mr. Eldridge of Hatchard’s kindly began sending her the latest books, allowing her to choose what she wanted and send back the rest, she stopped going out completely. And yet, despite being a virtual exile in Kensington, she was dismayed when her father announced his intention of sending her into the country until the Dulwich affair was settled to his satisfaction.
The announcement came at dinner. Abigail set down her knife and fork with a clatter. “No, Papa,” she said, her quiet, genteel voice at odds with his Glaswegian brogue. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I refuse to be driven out of my home. I won’t leave you.”
Red’s mind was made up, however. “I’ve spoken already to Mr. Leighton. He agrees with me. It’s settled.”
Mr. Leighton was her father’s personal solicitor and would never have considered disagreeing with his most affluent client. Abigail was no more argumentative than Mr. Leighton; she knew argument would be futile. As long as she never asked for anything that did not coincide with his own wishes, Red Ritchie was an indulgent parent, but on the occasions when father and daughter disagreed, he gainsaid her ruthlessly.
“Please don’t send me to Aunt Elspeth in Glasgow,” she begged.
Fortunately, the tyrant had no idea of sending his only child farther afield than St. Albans or Tunbridge Wells. “You’re not going into exile,” he assured her. “I’ve asked Mr. Leighton to look for a suitable situation within easy distance to Town. Hertfordshire or Kent, I’m thinking.”
“Hertfordshire!” Abigail instantly thought of the handsome “cousin” who had come to her aid on the fateful day Lord Dulwich had so rudely bumped into her. She could now think of him without the crippling terror she had experienced at the actual time of their meeting. She had even begun to believe she could see him again without losing the power to think or speak intelligently. He had a house for rent in Hertfordshire. She would much rather stay in a cousin’s house than a stranger’s, and, of course, she would be absolutely delighted to meet his wife.
“We know no one in Hertfordshire,” Red Ritchie explained. “You’ll be called Miss Smith, and absolutely no one is to suspect that you’re my daughter, not even your chaperone.”
Abigail had some objections to the scheme. In particular, she doubted the efficacy of calling herself Miss Smith, but, having secured Hertfordshire as her haven, she was loathe to awaken the tyrant in her father by questioning his judgment. “And who is to be my chaperone?” she inquired pleasantly.
“Some auld woman of Leighton’s,” was the only answer forthcoming until Mr. Leighton himself arrived the next day with a portfolio of houses he deemed suitable for Abigail’s needs.
The proposed chaperone was revealed to be the mother of his first wife. A middle-aged widow, Mrs. Spurgeon was entirely dependent on Mr. Leighton, who was only ten years her junior. She had lived with the solicitor throughout his first marriage, and, after the death of her daughter, the arrangement had continued for reasons of simple economy. However, the introduction of a second Mrs. Leighton into the household had made necessary certain changes that had little to do with money. Mrs. Spurgeon and the second Mrs. Leighton cordially despised each other.
Abigail liked her father’s private solicitor enough to take his former mother-in-law from him without question, but, to her dismay, the portfolio he presented did not include a dower house attached to Tanglewood Manor. She brought the oversight to his attention.
“Tanglewood Manor,” he repeated thoughtfully. “An old college chum of mine is the Vicar at Tanglewood Green in Hertfordshire, Miss Abigail. There is nothing advertised, but I’ll make a private inquiry. Many of the best families prefer not to advertise, you know.”
Red Ritchie had left the choice of house entirely to his daughter, and so the matter was settled within a week. Red had but one demand, and, as long as Abigail promised to safeguard her health by drinking a quaich of Ritchie’s Gold Label every day she was away, she was free to do as she pleased in Hertfordshire, and Mr. Leighton was authorized to keep her in funds.
She could now look forward to making Mrs. Spurgeon’s acquaintance. On the way from Red’s Kensington mansion to his own modest town house in Baker Street, Mr. Leighton explained that his mother-in-law would be traveling with her latest nurse-companion. “Mrs. Nashe comes to us very highly recommended,” he assured Abigail. “The Countess of Inchmery was her most recent employer.”
“Is Mrs. Spurgeon ill?” Abigail inquired. “If so, Mr. Leighton, I wonder if it is advisable for us to remove her from London at this time of year.”
“She is not ill,” replied Mr. Leighton, his mouth tightening. “She has been examined by every doctor in London. She was ill, Miss Abigail…but it was quite four years ago. At that time, she so enjoyed the attentions of the young person I hired to wait on her that I believe she is determined never to be well again!
“She is a difficult woman,” he went on, “but, rest assured, you will not be expected to wait on her, Miss Abigail. I’ve made it clear that Miss Smith is the daughter of one of my clients, and most definitely not her servant. Her nurse and her maid will see to all her needs. Do not feel you must spend one instant in her company if you do not wish to.”
“I’m sure she’s not as bad as that, Mr. Leighton,” said Abigail mildly. “I would not mind in the least being useful to Mrs. Spurgeon.”
Mr. Leighton did not attempt to dissuade her from this view. Rather, he trusted that his mother-in-law would soon convince Abigail that he was speaking the gospel truth.
As they drove into Baker Street they found a scene of disarray. Mrs. Spurgeon herself was standing in the street directing the placement of what appeared to be the trousseau of a royal princess onto the baggage coach. Abigail’s chaperone was a massively built lady swathed in a billowing garment of the deepest black, but the overall impression she gave was of brute strength, not bereavement. Her face was a hard slab supported by more than one chin, and she had the cruel, dark eyes of a rapacious Mongol chieftain. If she had ever been pretty or young there was no sign of it now, except for a mass of bright yellow hair dressed in a style far too girlish for a stout woman of her years.
A woman of strict propriety, Mrs. Spurgeon refused to get into the private chaise as long as Abigail’s maid was in possession of it.
“If you are accustomed to traveling in the company of a servant, Miss Smith,” she bellowed in a voice a master of hounds might have coveted, “I am not. I suggest you put her in the second coach with the rest of the baggage. My standards will not be compromised simply because you do not know what is right.”
Abigail explained that Paggles had been her nurse when she was an infant, after having performed the same service to her mother before her. “Besides which, she is elderly and infirm,” she added, hoping to gain Mrs. Spurgeon’s sympathy.
While claiming to suffer from a variety of illnesses herself, Mrs. Spurgeon had no sympathy for fellow subscribers. “If she is too weak to travel with the baggage, then you had better turn her off. When my last maid wore herself out after only ten years, we sent her to the poorhouse. There she makes baskets out of reeds.