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

mother's soft skin. The place I could not recall resting my own cheek against. I had no memory of the woman who had brought me into this world and departed herself soon thereafter. Turning on my side, I buried my face into the pillow. I knew this particular demon. This one who also walked at night, but who strutted in the bright beam of consciousness. I knew her well. I knew her by name, and it was Loneliness.
    You can go with the devil and God save you if you choose that path, for you will walk it alone.
    I had been alone since Aunt Agnes died. Mayhap longer than that, though her presence had obscured that fact. I turned onto my other side and wrapped the blanket tighter. There was no comfort to be found in my current situation. If I did as Mrs. Beecher instructed, I would be out in the cold again. Alone, with her generosity in my pocket, yes, but little else to insulate against the storms. And if I stayed ... I would lose her. Fullness gathered in my chest; I bit my lower lip against its swelling tide.
    A new noise interrupted my thoughts, and I was grateful for it. I listened, detecting the heaviness of the front door in the soft whoosh and click . It must be the earl returning from his evening out. My breath quickened at the thought of my employer, whom I had not seen since our last interview. And who I might never see again, should I do as Mrs. Beecher bade. For some reason, that very thought struck a chord of despair. Was the housekeeper correct again? Would I indeed miss he whom I had reason to fear?
    But he had given me his word: my virtue was safe. Besides, I reasoned, what interest could he have in me when he consorted with the most celebrated beauties of the realm? Case in point: 'twas the daughter of a duke he'd escorted this evening. Mr. Jessop had informed us loftily of the fact as he'd polished the best crystal for the pre-prandial drinks.
    Passing by the drawing room, I'd caught a glimpse of her through the open door. She'd been elegant as a rose, the hothouse kind, without a blemish to mar her fair skin or eyes of  guileless blue. Her dress had been unspeakably fashionable. Literally, I had not the words to describe the tiered, silken wonder of it. I'd heard my employer's appreciative murmur and her melodious, cultured laugh before I scurried past.
    No, I assured myself, I was not so foolish as to have such thoughts about his lordship. 'Twas only the security he offered: money and a place to belong. Suddenly, I heard the soft thump of footsteps—not growing fainter, as I would have predicted, but louder. Someone was coming into the kitchen. The steps did not echo the flat sound made by a servant's shoe; they possessed a richer tone, a resonance of layered leather and wood.
    My pulse quickened. The steps paused at the kitchen threshold, then brushed against the tiles in a pace of measured stealth. I sat up and looked over at Ginny. A lump in the dimness, she did not stir. The steps came closer, past the hearth, past the servants' table. Heart pounding, blanket clutched to my breast, I stared at the pitted grain of the door, as if I could see to the other side where the steps had come to rest.
    All the hairs on my nape tingled; I could feel him there. Impossibly, the clean, spicy scent of him drifted to me. I pictured the tension held in his great, elegant frame, the burning of his eyes against the wooden partition. There was a rustle—of a sleeve, of a mouse—I had no way of knowing. My heart thudded. A delirious thought took hold: He is going to open it and come for me ...
    But the silence continued, so thick it coated my throat and I found myself working for breath. How could Ginny slumber on so? My body was shaking, moved by impulse against its immobility. I saw myself rising from my cot and reaching for the handle. Felt the slide of the cold metal knob beneath my palm a moment before I exposed myself to flame ...
    The footsteps started again. Stunned, I struggled to hear above the loud rush of blood in