Page 25 of The Scholar’s Spy

Miss Schillers, who had been listening in the corner of the room with a tea tray as her excuse to linger, exclaimed, “What a hero Mr. O’Sullivan is! A true hero, if I do say so myself. Without his intervention, who knows what may have occurred?”

“Very true, very true.” The doctor turned away from Abigail to look at the cook with a gracious grin of excitement on his freckled face as he adjusted his thin rimmed glasses. “A most fortunate rescue by that most worthy gentleman.”

The two of them seemed close to jubilant.

Doctor Owlery continued heartily, “The Weirs have been accepting donations toward any ale he may wish to consume, and the inhabitants of Lyme have been most generous.” The doctor looked back at Abigail. “A tribute to how fond everyone in Lyme is of you, Miss Abigail, and relieved that you have survived such an ordeal.”

The unfairness of this bit at Abigail. The town was not fond of her. They called her odd. Sometimes to her face. And strange, behind her back. They judged her for her interest in rocks and fossils, and for wearing breeches. Most of all they judged her for not fitting in.

“Perhaps they just do not want me dead,” Abigail said. This sounded far more logical to her.

“No one would want that, pet,” Miss Schillers said, and at least Abigail believed that. Maria Schillers might fuss and fiddle, mollycoddle her, but not for a moment did Abigail doubt this was done because Miss Schillers regarded her quite as family.

“And they think Mr. O’Sullivan quite the gallant. He pulled rocks off you, daring the dangers of another slide, carried you back in his arms—”

“You are making it sound rather like a gothic melodrama,” Judith said, cutting the doctor off to which the man scoffed. “One I might buy from a peddler, or have it shipped across from France.”

“It is merely the truth, madam.” Doctor Owlery sounded so sure. Abigail feared that the entire town would be saying the same thing. If Lyme was abuzz with his rescue of her, would it mean that Mr. O’Sullivan would be obligated toward her? She would not wish for that. Why could they not continue in the manner they had been? She liked that. Or at least she liked a vast majority of it.

“Abigail owes the dear gentleman her life,” Miss Schillers continued, her midnight blue eyes not remotely wizened by age, but brightened by the idea of the romance of it. Their cook certainly brought in a great many melodramas and romances to the house, which Judith threw away. Abigail was suddenly extremely grateful that Sophia was not present, undoubtedly her older sister would take a great deal of delight in the whole affair and practically be ready to plan Abigail’s marriage.

Doctor Owlery too was beaming with the kind of marital cheer that Abigail found especially disconcerting. Perhaps he was imagining that he might be the one to hear the news of their engagement, the lucky man who might be the first to know.

A stern little cough sounded, and both the doctor and Miss Schillers lowered their gazes, turning toward Judith, who looked decidedly annoyed. Abigail’s oldest sister was looking worried, as she had for hours, stressed marking her forehead, and causing her to twist her hands which she now settled as she drew herself upright.

“I think sir, that Mr. O’Sullivan has indeed been praised a great deal. I myself thanked the gentleman—”

“Madam, the talk is everywhere that a match—a most suitable match, will now be reached. Allow me to offer my congratulations if it is not too bold, Miss Abigail—”

“Sir, I am afraid you have overstepped the mark.” Judith swept forward, snatching hold of Doctor Owlery’s arm, and half pulling the physician away from Abigail before she could fathom a reply. “As head of my family, in my mother’s absence, no such talk has reached my ears—”

“But it is inevitable,” the doctor almost scolded, “Given the time they have spent together, they appear as close as a couple could be, and now there is this rescue.”

“Nothing is known of Mr. O’Sullivan’s situation, nor has the gentleman called on me to seek permission. I do hope you have given no credence to these rumors outside these walls. With that in mind,” Judith seemed to half pull, half drag Doctor Owlery out of the parlor, “I think it best to leave my sister to recover from her injuries. If she worsens, we will send for you.” In an undertone, Abigail heard Judith add, “We can settle our outstanding bill to you…”

The door closed behind the pair of them, and Abigail looked up at Miss Schillers.

Prior to this interlude, Abigail wished nothing more than to be left alone, but now she had a question, that she reasoned Miss Schillers might be quite the best person, the best woman, to ask. Perhaps if her mother had been present, or Sophia, she might have asked one of them, but Abigail could not imagine ever seeking Judith’s advice. There was something too embattled about her oldest sister to imagine Judith knowledgeable or indeed interested in a man.

“Madam—”

“How formal you are, pet.” Miss Schillers swept closer, exchanging the cold cup of tea that Abigail had abandoned for a freshly brewed one. “There you go, drink up. It will do you good.”

“Judith does not want me to wed Mr. O’Sullivan,” Abigail said. It was not a question. She was finding it hard to formulate precisely what she meant. “No—” she continued before the cook could speak, “She does not think it possible…” Doubt caused Abigail’s stomach to twist. “A gentleman could not—”

With a gentle movement, Miss Schillers lowered her tray to the floor, and sank down onto the carpet, so she could look up into Abigail’s face. There was such an intensity of kindness written in her warm face, etched into the folds and wrinkles, that Abigail wished to cry.

“Your sister is relieved that you are well. That is her primary concern, not any gossip the doctor might have heard. I know that for certain,” Miss Schillers said as she took hold of Abigail’s hand. “When she heard about the landslip, I’ve never seen her more scared in as long as I can remember.”

“But she does not care for—”

“Pet,” Miss Schillers drew out the word carefully as if she was choosing her words with care, “It doesn’t matter what Miss Judith thinks of your gentleman. What matters is what you think of each other.”

Awkwardly, Abigail looked away and down the settee at her spread out feet, and the deep swirling pattern of Sophia’s Indian shawl. It was starting to fray at the edges, it had been bought when Father was still alive, and the romantic curls of blue, turquoise and pale gold had seen far too many seasons and parties. With a free hand, Abigail pulled at one of the loose gold threads, mustering up the courage to say what she really meant. “I think the gossip is wrong. There is no basis for such speculation. Judith is right.”

“You mean to tell me that Mr. O’Sullivan has never given any inclination of any romantic interest in you?” It was hard to entirely know how to judge Miss Schillers’s question, but Abigail thought she sounded doubtful.

“You believe there is a chance of marriage between us?”