Adoring Abigail

  Cover images: A Young Woman Wearing a Gray Dress and Holding a White Rose Outdoors © Rekha Arcangel, Arcangel.com; Silhouette of Couple with Sunset Background © Versta, Shutterstock.com; Calm Concept: Vintage Style, Abstract Beautiful Meadow Landscape Autumn Sunset Background © Jacob_09, Shutterstock.com

  Interior Image: Set of Floral Elements for Frames © Gizele, Shutterstock.com

  Cover design by Kimberly Kay © 2020 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2020 by Chalon Linton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: February 2020

  978-1-52441-153-4

  With love to my ever-charitable aunt, Lady Marion Brown

  Reviews

  “Linton (Escape to Everly Manor) elevates this straightforward Regency romance with self-actualized protagonists and a fine eye for historic detail. Robert’s acceptance of Abigail’s difference is instant and heartwarming, but Linton wisely avoids “cured by love” clichés, instead painting a sensitive portrait of Abigail’s growing belief in herself. This uplifting story is sure to gratify readers of chaste romance.”

  — Publishers Weekly Review

  “Adoring Abigail is a quality Regency romance featuring a gentle relationship between Robert and Abigail. A nice balance of character development, tension, sweetness, and satisfaction. Highly recommend!”

  — Midwest Book Review

  Acknowledgments

  This wonderful adventure is only able to continue because of the constant support of so many.

  My husband and children endure my seclusion, become my live thesauruses, and cheer for my success. My life is complete because the five of you are in it. The Lord has blessed us in so many ways, and the chance to spend eternity with you is my greatest blessing.

  The Covenant Communications team excels in all they do; from Kami, with her amazing patience, advice, and editing skills, to Kimberly Kay, for creating a gorgeous cover, to Amy Parker, for promoting my novel to the masses, to Paige Sorensen, for helping me dress for success.

  Kodie, Melissa, Laura, and Andrea, many thanks for joining me in this amazing journey as my beta readers and, most importantly, my friends. Your honesty and love of the written word propels me to put forth my best effort in every sentence I write.

  And to my readers—none of this would be possible without you. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  Mr. Robert Wilkins

  Herefordshire, England, July 1818

  My great-aunt, Lady Marion Brown, had visited my parents’ home in Lincolnshire for a single night of which I have no recollection, for I was still in leading strings. I’d never considered that the blabbering of a babe could win a woman over, but I must have made quite an impression, because she’d bequeathed her grand, prosperous estate to my care. Mother had mentioned Lady Marion’s generosity on occasion, a generosity by which I was both overwhelmed and humbled. Wills were funny like that, springing surprise, hurt, or envy upon those they affected. My great-aunt had accomplished all three.

  The walls of the grand edifice seemed to grapple with the sky for dominance. Their construction of warm tan stone that matched the coat of my mare, Barkley, made the giant structure somehow welcoming. Mother had been to Cattersley once as a young child. She had told me it easily housed twenty bedchambers, an exceedingly grand ballroom, and five different receiving rooms. My assumption that her youthful imagination had aggrandized the estate was glaringly wrong.

  I clicked my tongue, and Barkley moved forward. Her hooves crunched along the neat gravel path. The drive circled trimmed hedges and a marble statue of Zeus. The second I stopped my horse, the grand double doors opened. A man emerged and stood with his shoulders taut, reminding me of a soldier at attention: his suit pressed, his hair immaculate, and his gaze narrowed. He wriggled his shoulders a bit, as if trying to accommodate for his short stature, for he was decidedly . . . short, although his lack in stature did not diminish his reproving glare.

  I was the rightful owner of Cattersley and a seasoned military captain, but my tongue felt thick in my mouth. I dismounted, stared up the three wide steps at the man I assumed to be the butler, and swallowed. My hand fisted around Barkley’s reins, and the butler raised a single eyebrow in question.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Mr. Robert Wilkins.”

  The man’s second eyebrow met the first, and he turned his gaze down the lane, perhaps searching for an entourage.

  I waited, and when nothing more was said, I tried anew. “Is there perhaps a lad who could tend to my horse?”

  The man seemed to remember himself. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat and quickly bowed. “I’m Mr. Manning. At your service, of course.” When he raised his head, he turned toward the house and snapped off directions to someone I could not see.

  Several awkward minutes passed. The butler looked me over, from my worn hat to my dusty boots. My stance did not falter. Serving in His Majesty’s army meant I had mastered holding my bearing, despite my rapidly beating heart.

  A young man came running around the far side of the house. He arrived with half of his shirttails untucked and sucked in a ragged breath. “Pardon me, sir. We was told you weren’t arriving ’til next week, Captain.” He attempted the same stiff shoulders as Manning, but his posture was so rigid I thought he might fall over backward.

  Suppressing a smile, I handed Barkley over to his care. “And might I know your name?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Pratt, sir. Lucas Pratt. Mr. Kane is the stablemaster, but he’s gone to Town on some business. Left me in charge.” The lad reminded me of the eager new military recruits, although their excitement vanished after their first taste of battle.

  “Very well, Lucas. This is Barkley. She’s easy enough to manage; just don’t attempt to brush or saddle her while she’s eating.” I rubbed my hand along Barkley’s neck. “We’ve had a long ride today. Please ensure she gets an extra helping of oats.”

  “I’ll do it, sir. Not a problem. Not at all, Captain.” Lucas practically bent in half while bowing with Barkley’s reins in hand.

  My recent association with the title Captain had been inherent with my rank as an officer in His Majesty’s army. I’d been content in my service to the people of England, but I was grateful Napoleon’s defeat had allowed me to return home. War had left ugly scars upon both the people and the land. The title had become synonymous with battle and only reminded me of those scars.

  Manning cleared his throat. Pratt glanced at the butler, bobbed his head, and led Barkley in the same direction from which he had appeared. I hadn’t yet spied the stableyard and had half an inclination to follow Pratt rather than face the butler.

  With a sigh, I turned back to Manning. His face was unreadable as he stepped aside, and I walked through the massive doors. I’d known the interior of Cattersley would match the grand impression of the structure. And while the furnishings and decor bore obvious signs of wealth, the air of the place retained the same welcome as the outside stone. Bountiful windows filtered natural light through the foyer; not a
single candle need be lit. Various portraits and tapestries were tastefully hung on the high walls, enough to decorate the space and make one feel welcome.

  “Oh, goodness. Forgive me, Mr. Wilkins.” An older woman with strands of white hair peeking out beneath her mobcap came bustling from the corridor on the right. “I was not aware you would be arriving today. Mr. Manning and I would have assembled the staff, but not to worry; Monsieur Gastineau will be able to whip up a proper dinner.” She stopped in front of me. Her wide eyes searched my face, waiting for a reaction.

  I offered a smile, albeit a small one. My journey to Cattersley had taken its toll. “You’re the housekeeper, I presume? Mrs. Sommers?”

  “Oh.” She shook her head, and a flush spread across her full cheeks. “Where are my manners?” She offered a shallow tilt of her head. “Mrs. Sommers, sir, at your service. We’re not usually addle-brained. Mr. Manning and I have been working together for a long time. I pray you will not perceive our lack of preparation as anything other than that we were caught unawares.”

  I liked Mrs. Sommers and her forthright manners. “Not at all. I apologize for my early arrival. My mother and sister are due in two weeks, as originally planned. I simply wanted to become somewhat familiar with the estate before their arrival.” Manning remained stoic; I doubted he’d even blinked since Mrs. Sommers’s arrival. I swallowed my exhaustion. “There is no need for a formal dinner tonight, nor until my mother and sister arrive. However, I am quite hungry. Perhaps I could take a tray with some simple sandwiches in one of the sitting rooms.”

  “Of course, Mr. Wilkins. I’ll have it sent to . . .” Here she turned to Mr. Manning. He stood with his hands clasped, staring like a statue. I looked between the two servants, and finally Mrs. Sommers scoffed and smacked Manning’s arm.

  Manning’s eyes shot wide before he glowered at the housekeeper. “The west library,” he replied.

  “Yes, the west library,” Mrs. Sommers repeated, not looking the least bit bothered. She tilted her head in another small bow and scurried back the way she had come.

  Manning cleared his throat and resumed his statuesque posture. “Right this way, sir.”

  I extended my stride to walk beside Manning, rather than behind. My new role would include countless duties, many of which would require the help of the butler. Gaining his favor was vital. “The west library? Does it stand to reason there is an east library as well?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. However, the west library is brighter, as the sun warms that side of the property in the afternoon. Also, the east library is the late Lady Marion’s collection. Those books are . . . less factual.”

  “Are you saying my great-aunt was a fan of novels?”

  “Quite.”

  An interesting habit of my gracious benefactor. At last, I had some tangible insight about her. I wondered how vast her collection could be. Surely not large enough to fill an entire room with fanciful stories.

  “Have you read any of my late aunt’s books?”

  Manning came to an abrupt halt and turned his nose up a quarter of an inch. “Definitely not.”

  “So you found her reading interests to be imprudent?” I asked.

  Manning straightened himself, his lips pressed into a tight line as he slowly worded his answer. “I would never use such a descriptor for Lady Marion. She was kind and fair, and heaven is lucky to have her home.”

  His balled fists led me to believe he would fight to the death if I contradicted his glowing praise. I redirected the conversation. “You prefer more factually based texts?”

  A single huff marked his response. He turned on his heel and marched for what seemed to be another ten minutes before turning left into a darkened room. Manning disappeared into the shadows, and a moment later blinding light streamed into the space. Dark wood paneling lined the walls. Green, the shade of faded moss, accented the room, from the tall, thick curtains to the couch. An artistic oriental vase in the same sullen shade of green sat on a table in the corner. The shelves of books stretched to the ceiling, lining the two walls that were not covered in windows.

  “And the books in this room—where were they procured?” I asked.

  “The late Lord Brown’s collection, sir.” Manning snapped out the appellation. “His years may have been limited upon the earth, but he loved the written word.”

  Mother had told me the sad tale of my late uncle. He had been but five and thirty years old when he was in a fatal riding accident. His final words to his bride spoke of his unwavering love. It seemed Lady Marion’s affections had remained constant as well, as she had never remarried, despite being presented with those who’d sought her hand and her fortune.

  I walked to the nearest bookshelf and began to peruse the titles. The books ranged from scientific to philosophical, and when I mentioned as much to Manning, he only grunted and pressed forward on his toes as if to extend his height.

  What a peculiar man. One moment he fit the mold of a dignified butler, and the next he acted like a rooster in a cockfight. I wondered at his behavior but knew that it took a level head and a practiced hand to run such a place as Cattersley. Despite my curious interactions with the staff, the estate did appear well tended and cared for, meaning Mr. Manning and Mrs. Sommers filled their positions well. I found solace in this fact. Confronted with learning all the facets of running the vast estate, I was thankful to have dependable servants.

  After partaking of the sandwiches Mrs. Sommers had a maid deliver, I wandered through the upper corridor, peeking into rooms and giving them random monikers in my head. Door after door opened to reveal multiple sitting rooms, a billiards room, a portrait gallery, a chapel . . . how would I ever keep them straight? My situation hit me anew. I was master of this place—this huge, enormous, wealthy estate, and the thought utterly depressed me.

  I opened the door of what looked like a music room. With labored breaths I pushed past the draped instruments and furniture and pulled back one side of the heavy brown curtains. My chest tightened as I viewed the vast acreage of grass and gardens and the stableyard. The stables themselves were significantly larger than my childhood home back in Borshire. While learning the responsibilities involved in running the massive property might require my full attention for the upcoming year, I didn’t doubt my ability. My fear lay deeper. What if I didn’t want to be the owner of Cattersley?

  I let the curtain fall closed, and beyond the sliver of light from the partially open door, darkness filled the room. The pounding of my heart thrummed to my head. I’d never aspired to grandeur. I’d not asked for this role. Why had Lady Marion chosen me? I rolled my shoulders and stretched my neck, yet as sure as the blackness surrounding me, my discomfort continued to grow.

  I marched to the small column of light marking the exit and threw the door open, the crack of the knob hitting the wooden panels inside the room echoing down the passageway. I extended my arms as I moved down the corridor, running my fingers along the wainscoted panels. The walls were too close, the air too thick. At the end of the east corridor I discovered what appeared to be the servants’ staircase. I followed the stairs to the lower level and found myself in the kitchen. Mrs. Sommers immediately scuttled to my side.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Wilkins?”

  “It is nothing.” I looked over her head at the dozen kitchen hands, each going about their prescribed duties. I needed to get away. I needed to focus on something beyond the massive unknown looming before me, around me. Roaming through the house only served to reinforce how minuscule I was. A lone ant in a rainstorm.

  “If you have a moment, could you review these expenditures?” Mrs. Sommers asked. Before waiting for my answer, she stepped into what I assumed to be her private quarters and returned with a ledger in hand. She held the tablet in view, and the raindrops began to fall around me like shrapnel from artillery fire. “I know you are just getting settled, but since you’re here . . .
Johnson twisted his ankle on the stairs. He’s laid up for a few weeks, thus Tisdell is covering Johnson’s duties as well as his own. Of course, Mr. Manning will calculate the change in wages, but we did need to send for the doctor. Johnson has been recuperating in the servants’ wing; however, due to a leak in the roof, he had to move in to share Hooper’s quarters.” Her finger tapped the next item on her list in time with my throbbing head. “I was hoping you might approve the purchase of new furniture for the extra rooms in the servants’ quarters so if something similar happens in the future—”

  My hand sliced through the air. “Enough!” I had not intended to speak with such force, but the commotion in the kitchens was reminiscent of a drilling army camp, and my training kicked in. The kitchens fell quiet, and Mrs. Sommers paled. I pressed my hands to my temples and exhaled a heavy sigh. Too many eyes turned to me in expectation. Only six months ago I’d felt at ease mingling with the other classes. Now my inheritance had built a great barrier between us. “Excuse me,” I said and marched directly out the kitchen door to the grounds beyond, donning neither my hat nor gloves.

  I’d spent much of my time in the army out of doors, drilling in open fields and marching through the French countryside. Normally I found solace atop Barkley, but I’d been on her back for far too many hours. I opted to wander the grounds near the main house on foot.

  My tired legs moved instinctively. Marching days and nights had conditioned me to press through exhaustion. But this was something more. During a march or a campaign, we were assigned a mission. The objective was finite. My inheritance was something I could only quantify in monetary terms.

  I stormed toward the vast field that spanned the west side of the property, determined to punish myself appropriately for my outburst. My legs burned, my tired eyes stung, and my chest heaved with frustration. I marched until my temper had cooled, and then I turned around to admire Cattersley from afar. There was an enormity to the place that I could not measure and, with it, a new front. I’d chosen to be a soldier so I could defend my family, my freedom. I had no direction in this new battle, no orders from a superior commander.