Free Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) by Grace Callaway

win her over, I rushed on, "We could buy that cottage you and Aunt Agnes used to dream of.  She told me of your plans together, of opening a school for young girls. You could teach them housekeeping, practical things, and I could instruct them as Aunt Agnes would have. We would live in servitude no longer—"
    "Is this how you see our work? As servitude? Too humble for your refined soul?"
    Her words cut through my fantasy like a splash of acid. The bucolic images sizzled, vaporizing into smoke. There was only the housekeeper in front of me. Her weathered face and age-mottled hands, her jaw trembling with an emotion I could not name. Too late, I remembered to shake my head: to deny her allegations, to stave off what I feared was to come next.
    "Ah, my girl, you have much to learn. How like Agnes you are—an idealist, with your nose in books rather than the real world. She, too, thought ordinary life not good enough. She thought she could live outside reality, change what could never be—" Mrs. Beecher broke off. When her voice re-emerged, it was choked, thickened with pain. "Agnes Jones was the smartest woman I ever knew; she was also the most foolish."
    "Aunt Agnes was brilliant," I said in a trembling voice.
    "Your aunt thought to shelter you from the woes of the world, and she protected you overmuch, I daresay. Well, I shan't make the same mistake." Mrs. Beecher removed her spectacles, polished them carefully against her apron. "You have but two options before you, so listen closely. You can take my money, and we shall depart as friends. Or you can go with the devil and God save you, my girl, if you choose that path, for you will walk it alone."
    " Please , Mrs. Beecher—"
    She paid no heed to my pleas nor to the moisture trickling over my cheeks. She just stood there, her shoulders slumped, but her voice ringing high and clear.
    "Take a day to make your decision, Abigail Jones. Use it well, for you will sleep in a bed of your own making forevermore. Freedom or sin—what shall it be?"

EIGHT
    The day passed in a blur. My head throbbed with indecision, and the only thing that saved me was work. Shutting myself in the library, I stared at the volumes lying haphazardly upon the shelves. Once again, books were my only companions. In their disorder, I saw my own agitated state of mind; in their neglected, dusty condition, I felt acutely my own sense of abandonment. Wiping my eyes, I set forth to tend to them. To give them the care so that, one day, someone might recognize their worth.
    But when the night came, there was no escaping my demons. I lay in darkness as one circled. I could see her, hovering on the edges of wakefulness. Her face was white, blurred, beautiful. She was oddly familiar. I had seen her before, yet never seen her. A stranger I passed again and again in a dream. Her presence fell upon me, raining softly like petals from the sky. She was singing too, low and sweet, her voice smooth as blackberry wine. A velvet river dragging me deeper, deeper ...
    The sound ripped into my head. My eyes flew open. For several moments, I remained frozen, my heartbeat scattering within my chest, my hands clammy and clutching flannel. Then it came again, from the other side of the room—the noise of a saw grinding into lumber. Looking over, I released my breath. Ginny emitted another deafening snore before settling into a raspy, even rhythm. I brought shaky hands to my face and wiped away the moisture coating my forehead and cheeks.
    One of my hands drifted lower, to the hollow beneath my throat. I touched the small cross which hung there, a simple crucifix of gold no bigger than my thumb. My one prized possession—the one that would not be sold for any price. It had belonged to my mother. Aunt Agnes had passed it to me and told me never to remove it. A reminder, she said, of where I came from.
    You came from love, Abby. Never forget. And never be ashamed.
    I touched the charm, imagined how it once had lain against my