Page 17 of The Scholar’s Spy

“We do not need to worry about your sister tonight, do we?”

“Sophia is in Bath,” Abigail said, “I am sure if she were here, worried is not the word you would pick. Or did you mean my oldest sister?” She glanced around the ballroom, looking for one of her family members.

“It doesn’t matter,” Robert said. “You are the only one I want to talk to.”

For a brief moment, Robert feared he had overplayed his hand. Abigail frowned at him, a touch of confusion marring her face. Then she shrugged, accepting his remark without worry. “I thought that would be the case. What would be more natural? Unless you wish to dance with one of the Costigan girls?”

“I don’t. Not with my injury.”

“How did you injure your eyes?”

Memories of the battle, the explosion could be recalled, far more easily than Robert would readily admit. The sound of the splintering of wood next to his head as he dashed through the burning ship, he doubted would ever leave his mind. Yet such remembrances were not for a seaside ballroom, nor for the ears of a gentry minded wallflower—it was crucial he remember that. Especially if he wanted to keep the pretense of being nothing more than a man of leisure.

It was a key point—his cover—to keep him hidden from whatever surrounding smugglers there might be in the area. He had to lie—to give himself at a distance from her, from the whole of the town if his employer was to be satisfied and Robert was to find out the culprits.

Abigail was watching him, her expression curious but not insensitive. There was patience there, and a true concern that left Robert perplexed, uncomfortable, and eager to tell her the truth.

“Schoolboy accident,” he lied. The words spilled forth as much as he wished he could stop himself. “I was with my younger cousin…” He trailed off hoping she would not pry. Instead, Abigail remained quiet, awaiting his more fulsome explanation over his fabricated cousin, and what might have happened at some made up boarding school fifteen years ago. “And there was a fire.”

It was not a hundred miles away from the reality, if one removed the sailors, enemy combatants, the live ammunition, and the ferocity of battle—after all, there had been a fire. It had burnt through everything in its wake as if it was its sole purpose. Ruthless as it stole lives, crew members, friends, and colleagues he had known for years, and robbed him of his excellent sight, leaving him in this state of semi-sight. Taking from him his chance to progress further in the navy. This memory steeled his motivation—he had to keep going if he was going to have anything to report back to Montacute.

“It was years ago,” he added. This too was not a complete lie. After all, three years, with this half sight was indeed a good length of time, and it had felt in truth far longer. He hated to discuss it, believing the exposure of it made the wound worse, drawing it out into the painful light of day.

“It would become you to wear glasses day to day.” She must have been able to see his expression, or she simply judged it kind to add, “In fact, it might draw attention to your eyes, your most striking feature.”

If it was supposed to be Robert who was flirting then he was most definitely failing, in contrast to the role of a typical blushing and shy wallflower. An image of his fellow sailors, Lieutenants, and seamen, laughing at him for blushing, having been given a compliment by a scholarly wallflower. This idea played acutely through his mind as her praise was given.

Robert leaned forward and scooped up her hand. Although they had both been wearing gloves, the contact was comforting. He had no desire to let go despite what attention they might attract.

“I do not need to be given compliments to satisfy some maudlin vanity—” Robert said.

“No, that was not my intention,” Abigail said. She did not remove her hand but rather let him hold it. Her fingers were gloved in a creamy material, but nonetheless, Robert could feel the heat of her through the silk. Her tone was entirely sincere as she said, “I never give compliments unless I mean them.”

It was like seeing her afresh, anew in the world of flashing candlelight and the milieu of others giving the importance of her hand added significance. He marveled at the strength of her fingers, at the skill he had witnessed her demonstrate over the previous week and now framed into its own newfound elegance.

If he were to peel the silk off her from her arm with his free hand, how would she react? What would happen if he did it with his teeth? If he used his tongue to touch the very tip of her arm, and then count the freckles he found lurking there?

God, I want to. I want to lean in, and yank down one of those gloves and kiss and lick the exposed flesh I find there. To peel the material over her fingers, and to taste each and every one of those shell-like nails. I want to see if it would shock her or thrill her.

Society misses would shriek, faint, cry out, and fuss, but would Abigail? Or would she continue to regard him with her grey perceptive gaze, a spark of interest lingering there, leaving him to question how far he might take things? How far would she let him go, and where did he wish to stop?

“I mean to see a great more of Lyme, to better understand everything I possibly can about the place, the people—”

“Our curios?” Abigail asked. Her use of the word ‘our’ had Robert grinning.

“Of course. That is of great importance to me. You have taught me so much.” It was the truth, although Robert doubted anyone would believe him. He did enjoy their walks each morning, the discussion they shared over fossils, and their meanings beyond just the small finding in one of their hands. The theological debates they raised about what her discoveries might mean. Idly, he traced a small pattern, in a circular motion in the midst of her palm, pleased to sense the reaction to his touch as he did so. “You are of great importance,” he added in such a quiet voice. He knew only Abigail would catch the words.

To his surprise, Abigail pulled her hand away, took a step back and sniffed. It was then that he saw there was another woman who had come to stand just a few feet away. She was curvaceous, straight backed, and dressed in a more somber color than Abigail. But there was a resemblance in their shade of hair color, their movements and mannerisms. This had to be Abigail’s oldest sister.

Robert hastily bowed to the oldest Miss Fossey with as much polish as he could manage. He did have to create the image of a visiting gentleman, a carefree wealthy bachelor, who no one would suspect of spying on the neighborhood.

“This is Mr. O’Sullivan, my sister Miss Fossey.”

Drawing closer, Robert could now see more of the similarities between the two of them. From their shared high forehead, pale skin and dark hair, and likewise a look they both possessed—one of keen intelligence. Abigail had a definitive cleft in her chin, her freckles dotted over her nose and cheeks from the length of time she spent outside, whereas the older Miss Fossey’s face was hard, with her strong cheekbones and an expression that brooked no argument. The older sister was a spinster of formidable means and one who did not particularly like him, which was a shame since they had only just met.

“How do you do, sir?” She bobbed him the smallest of curtsies, barely polite.

Robert was made all too aware that he had not been behaving well in the light of the ballroom. That Miss Fossey did not like his actions toward her sister, and she was here to protect Miss Abigail’s reputation. It did strike him as a little strange that Miss Fossey had not done so previously—in allowing Abigail to spend as much unchaperoned time with him on the beach, coves, and knee-deep in the Blue Lias. If she deemed herself a protector of her sister, then she was going about it in an unusual way.