* * *
IF THE JOURNEY offered Abbie time to prepare for her new life, the grey drizzle of a London evening as it dripped from the eaves of her new home did little in the way of offering encouragement. The house, four stories and narrow, was one of a dozen in a row. So alike were they that Aunt Newhaven’s house was hardly distinguishable from the doctor’s practice on the one side and the lawyer’s on the other. The absence of address plate alone set it apart from its neighbors.
Inside the house, as well as without, the ravages of time had taken their toll. The rooms to which the sisters were shown were large and well appointed. The furniture, the curtains, the vertically striped wallpapers, were all of the finest quality—or had been. Yet dust and cobwebs and moth casings abounded. The state of neglectful preservation proved a uniform theme throughout the house. Or so the sisters observed upon going down to supper. Everything from the draperies to the peeling papers to the tattered upholsteries seemed aged, careworn and faded.
The dining room itself was cavernous. The gas jets burned low, which was perhaps a good thing, as the rooms were stale enough without the brightly burning flames to consume what little air remained.
If Abbie was unprepared for the state of the house, she at least ought to have been prepared for the appearance of her aunt when at last she presented herself. She was not. Though Aunt Newhaven had been her sister’s junior by three or four years, a stranger might easily have guessed the younger sister the elder by a decade or more. The image, like an old and worn out photograph of their mother in another, in a harder life, was one Abbie found not a little disconcerting.
“I’m pleased you’ve come,” the woman said and offered a tired smile. “I do hope the journey was not too great a trial. You have had a chance to rest?”
“Yes, thank you,” Abbie answered.
“We hope we find you well, Aunt?” was Mariana’s inquiry.
“Well enough,” Aunt Newhaven answered, and smiled—or tried—once more. “I do hope you won’t be put off by an invalid.”
“We hope we’ll prove to be more of a comfort than a burden to you in return for your kindness,” Mariana answered as the woman was helped into her chair by the maid who had accompanied her.
With long, pale, and slightly trembling fingers, Aunt Newhaven waved the girl, and Mariana’s words away, and then folded her hands to pray. “For what we have received… and all we may yet receive…” She paused as if to make a point. “…may the Lord make us truly grateful.”
“Your poor mother,” Aunt Newhaven said, at last breaking the long silence that had followed the blessing, “I do hope her life, as difficult as it must have been, offered her some happiness.”
“Yes,” Abbie answered. “I believe it did. She worked hard, it’s true, but she loved my father, and he her. So yes, I think she was happy.”
“It pleases me to hear it,” Aunt Newhaven said, and though her mouth twitched into the vague formation of a smile, her eyes spoke of loss and regret. “At least it is a great relief to me.”
“We are grateful to you,” Abbie continued. “I’m not sure what we would have done had you not replied when you did. We had our landlords’ offer to consider, but somehow it did not seem right.”
“Offer?” Aunt Newhaven asked, plainly confused.
“Yes,” Abbie answered, and suddenly felt the need for caution. “The Crawfords offered to take us in. Of course we know our place and refused them.”
Aunt Newhaven’s eyes grew larger still. “They did what?”
“They offered us a place within their home, amidst the family. I think they were actually disappointed when they learned we were to come to London instead.”
“I have indeed rescued you,” she said, and seemed unable to say more. She appeared to be struggling with some kind of strong emotion, but whether it was born of sorrow or anger Abbie could not tell. “I was wrong to have waited. I should have come forward long before now. No good could have come of such an arrangement,” she said and touched her trembling fingers to her forehead. “I wonder what they can have been thinking!” Slowly she looked up at her nieces, at Abbie in particular. “You could not have considered it seriously.” It was a statement, but it was a question, too.
“I told you we did not,” Abbie answered.
Mariana was, by now, very red of face.
“I have rescued you, indeed,” Aunt Newhaven said as she began to fidget with the silverware she had long ceased to employ. “If I had waited another day…” And she fell silent again, silent and contemplating as she stared at them.
Abbie’s head was beginning to ache, and the air in the room, as it was slowly being consumed by the sooting and sputtering fire, was suffocating in its staleness. She coughed in consequence.
Her aunt’s gaze snapped back to fasten on hers. “I do hope you have not brought some wretched illness with you. It will not do. It will not do at all to have illness here, Arabella.”
“I’m perfectly well, Aunt,” Abbie said, and dared to ask the question now foremost in her thoughts. “Is there some history between the Crawford family and ours, Aunt?”
“Your mother never told you. Well, I don’t suppose she would have done. It’s best to leave such things in the past. We’ve no need to think of those people again, now you are here. No need, even, to mention their name. And you won’t, do you understand?”
“I’m sorry if they have done something to offend you, Aunt. I do wish you would tell me what it was.”
“I said we do not speak of it! I will not. I cannot. Jane!” she said, and beckoned for the maid who had accompanied her. Having been dismissed, the girl had quit the room and was now nowhere to be seen. Aunt Newhaven touched her shaking hand to her head as if the inconvenience alone caused her great pain.
“Let me help you,” Mariana said, “and arose.”
“Are you quite all right, Aunt?” Abbie inquired. “Are you ill?”
Aunt Newhaven, ignoring Abbie’s question, looked to Mariana. Her voice was weak, her eyes dimmed, as if the half hour’s interview had taken all her strength. “Would you be an angel, my dear, and help me to my room?”
“Are you unwell, Aunt?” It was Mariana, this time, who asked. “Should I send for a doctor?”
“No, no,” she answered. “It’s only the excitement of the day. And speaking of the past, I’m afraid, always proves too much for me.”
Aunt Newhaven, with Mariana’s help, and with great difficulty, arose from her chair.
Abbie too arose. “Let me help you.”
“No, my dear. That is not necessary,” Aunt Newhaven protested, stopping Abbie alone. “It’s been a long day for us all. I suggest you retire early. I’ll send for the doctor first thing in the morning.”
“You are ill, then,” Abbie observed anxiously.
Aunt Newhaven stopped and, leaning heavily upon Mariana’s arm, examined the older sister. “The doctor, my dear, is for you. You are unwell, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not unwell, Aunt.”
But Aunt Newhaven would not hear it. She raised her hand to stop her and then nodded the signal for Mariana to help her from the room. Which she faithfully did, leaving Abbie to fend for herself in the dark, forsaken house.