Free Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine by T. Davis Bunn

don’t understand.”
    “I know, I know, it sounds like the vague ramblings of an ill old man. But indulge me, if you will. Were you able to speak of your heart’s deepest longings, what would you say? Above all else, Miss Abigail Aldridge, what do you seek?”
    The question took her breath away. Breath and tears both, and the pain besides. Which was so remarkable a sensation that it took a silent span of several minutes for Abigail to realize what she was feeling. It was forgiveness. Abigail found herself thinking of a word she had often heard in church but never understood until that very moment. The word was shriven . The burdens she had carried since that dreadful night were stripped away. The guilt and the pain and the sorrow were gone.
    She looked at the man supine on the couch before her. He looked so frail, this gentleman. So very small for all the burdens he bore. His eyes were closed, and he seemed asleep. The only sound in the room was the soft click of the knitting needles. Abigail knew that Wilberforce was waiting. What an astonishing man he was.
    Abigail took the first free breath she had drawn since all this had begun. What did she yearn for above all else?
    She spoke a word she had scarcely admitted even to herself.
    She said, “Adventure.”

Chapter 8
    The sun was a brilliant gift the afternoon of the Aldridges’ return to Wilberforce’s home. It was five days since Abigail had visited, and the first since her dreadful night that it had not rained. There was an air of welcoming charm to the Wilberforce manor. The gardens were a shambles, as always. The weeds stood almost waist deep in places, and the trees were burdened with overripe fruit. The manor itself rambled in a rather haphazard manner. Everywhere Abigail looked she saw things in need of repair.
    She sat in the carriage beside her mother with her father on the seat opposite. Her brother was playing at a friend’s house. She took careful note of the outside surroundings because it kept her from staring at her father’s stonelike expression.
    Three other carriages waited in the forecourt as they pulled up and halted. Abigail waited while her father helped her mother down, then slipped out unaided. She moved around so she stood behind her parents. She kept her eyes upon the ground. It was safer thus. She followed them up the stairs and into the entrance hall. She recognized the young aide’s voice, though she saw nothing more than his shoes and trouser legs as Herbert greeted them. She followed her parents into the front parlor and moved swiftly to the far corner. The padded high-backed chair embraced her in the same way it had when she was a child. The sunlight played over the carpet by her feet. She settled her hands into a tight ball in her lap and forced away the warm memories of another time. She would not cry.
    Today was only the second time she had left her room since her father’s return. He had spoken to her once since his arrival. It had been far from a pleasant conversation. He had stood over the chair where she had sat in their own front parlor. He had asked her questions, most of which she could not answer. How had she ever thought of doing such a thing? Was it true she had repeatedly lied to her parents? What had they done to deserve such treatment? Abigail had responded with little more than an apology, repeated over and over. Then as now, she had struggled hard and remained dry eyed. Why she felt it was so vital not to weep, she could not say.
    The first time she had emerged from their home had been for church the previous day. The only time she had threatened to break down was when she had gazed into her young brother’s eyes. Horace had been so hurt, so confused. She would never do anything to harm him, yet he now suffered through these tense hours because of her. She had turned away, unable to look at him. Church had been most dreadful. She had avoided the shocked and angry glares cast her way by seeing nothing more than the