Page 13 of The Scholar’s Spy

“I am looking forward to it,” Robert said. It was not just these two men here who were so cavalier and dismissive of Miss Fossey, but the Weirs too, and their maid shared a similar attitude toward Abigail. All thoughts of his abandoning Miss Fossey fled. It annoyed him no end to see her being spoken to in such a manner, so he added, “And if Miss Fossey is agreeable, I hope to lead her out for the first dance.”

With a low, but long whistle that transformed into a mirthless laugh, Mr. Monaghan shook his head. “Miss Abigail doesn’t dance.” He licked his lips before adding in a confiding manner, “And her oldest sister does, but in the manner which you’d ask. You will learn, Mr. O’Sullivan, on closer acquaintance in Lyme that Miss Abigail Fossey likes nothing more than making us all feel insignificant to her, and in fact—”

Robert’s growing dislike of the two of these two men was mounting, from their informality to their presumption, but as Robert opened his mouth to offer a rebuke and a defense, he was delighted to hear Miss Abigail speak up first.

“Actually, Mr. Monaghan, I simply don’t dance with you. Or your uncle. But I should be delighted to take to the floor with Mr. O’Sullivan. Good day, gentleman.” She marched off before any of the three of them could muster a reply. Robert had to practically chase after her. His feet landed hard on the pebbles as he ran after her.

“Good show,” he said when he was alongside her again.

Miss Fossey glanced at him sideways and gave him a faint smile. “They do warrant the name of gentlemen. They speak in riddles about puppets, and societal rules, and my lord knows what else. You must not believe whatever they meant about my sister.”

“In Bath and London, I feel confident in saying they are not the sort who would gain the respect due to gentlemen.”

His response earned him a true grin, which, along with the growing daylight, illuminated Miss Fossey’s face, bringing a pleasing animation to her features. It highlighted her freckles that danced over the bridge of her nose and cheeks, played into the shadows of a dimple on the right of her mouth, and caught her sooty eyelashes, softening the contours of her firm chin. “My sister says I must play at being polite because they have some money, more money than us…” She trailed off. Just as Robert was about to beg her to continue, she shook her head. “I should not have said so rudely.” She bit her lip, wrinkled her nose, and then added as if she were throwing caution to the wind, “They are always far nastier to me when I am alone than when my sister is there.”

Looking back over his shoulder at the faint outlines of the two retreating men, made Robert aware of his anger toward them. It would not have been hard to strike at them, to beat both of them, bringing them low onto the rocks and pebbles of the beach, not with his training. Still, what would be the good in that? His false name and rationale for being in Lyme might be exposed and for what purpose? To protect Miss Fossey? She did not seem as if she wanted or needed such attention.

“Yes, my sister makes certain they do not say such things publicly to me. Mr. Suchet owns a stretch of land.” She pointed to the east, in a direction Robert could only guess at. “Mr. Monaghan is his heir and his nephew, and quite…what is the word Sophia used? Oh yes, high in his instep about his prospects.”

A faint warning sound echoed through him, about these two, about their possible association with smugglers if they were as wealthy as Abigail said. And he told himself he would inquire into both Mr. Suchet and his nephew once he was back at the Dower.

However, a stronger feeling was sweeping through him: an admiration for the older Miss Sophia increased in Robert’s chest. He was oddly touched that she would confide in him this secret. He offered her his most hopeful smile. “I was sincere when I talked about the ball. I would be pleased to dance with you.”

It was not merely an honor, Robert realized as he watched her. He wanted to dance with her. For her own sake, as a way of pushing back the critics. For his own, as a way of laying some kind of strange claim to this spinster. She might never be more intimate with a man than this dance, and it suddenly mattered that she agreed to dance with him.

“Let us see if you still feel that way when the ball occurs,” Miss Fossey said as she moved closer to the cliff edge, her words both a challenge and an offer combined.

Chapter Five

The opening of the assembly rooms for the first dance of the spring was an annual event that Abigail tended to ignore as best she could. Were Sophia here, Abigail would have expected to have been dragged to the dressmaker, the haberdashery, perhaps all the way to Exeter for something deemed ‘fine enough’ to impress the local inhabitants. And she would begrudgingly have gone along to each business in turn, knowing that no matter which one she went into, or what she donned, no one would ask her to dance.

Abigail did not mind her wallflower status. She was not a woman who found herself enjoying the steps nor the sound of music—it held no great sway for her. Nor did the presence of any of the young men around Lyme particularly capture her regard.

This year, though, was a little different.

She certainly would not claim to be under Mr. O’Sullivan’s influence. The idea of professing her attraction to him or demanding sweet nothings from him made Abigail laugh. As a scholar, she did not think such things were entirely sensible. But as they walked around the beaches and cliffs of Lyme, hour after hour, she had grown accustomed to his look of deep concentration, his cold blue eyes bright with intensity and interest as he studied whatever fossil or aspect of nature she showed him.

It was also refreshing to find another person to discuss her favorite theories or the latest articles she had read with. For instance, there was the principle of faunal succession—that the rock formations that they were picking through contained fossilized flora and fauna—which meant dating these finds would be possible.

Mr. O’Sullivan frowned as she described the paper she had read, listening to her quote William Smith’s ideas. “And do you agree with his principle?”

Abigail could feel her chest quiver as she answered. She was touched that he wanted to know her opinion, rather than an estimated scholar’s.

“It is why I keep my notepads,” she had said ten days in their daily walk. The day after she had first taken him back to her workshop and showed him her collection of sellable ammonites, vertebrates, and devil’s toenails—all curiosities that would be sold in the summer.

As his strong, tanned hands had passed the curio between his fingers, she couldn’t look away from the dexterity of those fingers. The memory had lodged in her mind. As a woman used to pursuing whatever grabbed her thoughts, she wondered what it might be like to feel those hands on her.

Having debated the matter internally, since she could hardly admit as much to Judith, Abigail had come to one conclusion—the easiest way to have him touch her was for them both to attend the dance. Which was convenient, since he had said he would dance with her.

Admittedly, it had been offered as a way of rebutting Mr. Monaghan, but nonetheless, surely Mr. O’Sullivan was too much of a gentleman to withdraw his offer.

The potential appeal of having Mr. O’Sullivan touch her for a prolonged period of time, overrode her normal reluctances and now, although she would never admit as such, she could begin to understand Sophia’s excitement for a ball.

“Mr. Suchet asked if we would be attending the ball.” Abigail broached the subject with enough warning, knowing all too well the tickets for such an event would need to be purchased and as such, Judith was the best person to reason with for such expenses.

Judith started in surprise at Abigail’s interest.

“It was Mr. Suchet who seemed to think we would wish to attend,” Abigail said, wondering why the man enjoyed bothering her sister so much.