Westgate Manor

Chapter 4

                Abigail lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling; yet all she could see was darkness. Iona and Aunt Beatrice had gone to bed hours before, but she wanted to make sure that both women were dead asleep before searching out the one item her papa instructed her to hide. Deciding she waited long enough, she mentally prepared herself for what she was about to do.

            After flinging the covers aside, she lit the candle on her night stand, taking it with her, as she crept from her bedroom and down the hall to the library. The floorboards creaked under her weight and her foot paused in the air, as she held her breath, staring with dread at the door located at the end of the hall. The last person she wanted to meet in the dark hallway was Iona.

            Once inside the library a cold chill overcame her, and she hastily scanned the room, though she knew she wouldn’t find anyone inside. Bookshelves lined two sides of the room, yet her destination was located on her right. Attention turned to the bookcase; she stared at it, apprehensive. Memories from the night everything had been ripped from her assaulted her mind, but she pushed the wicked thoughts aside, and set the candle on the floor, determined to get the deed done as quickly as possible.

            Placing her hands upon the bookshelves, she took a deep, steadying breath, and then pushed. Nothing. Puzzled, she stood back, her brows drew together and mouth turned down into a slight frown. Again, she replaced her hands on the bookshelves, giving a quick push, yet it did not give way. No, no, no! She did not need this to happen, not now!

            Turning her shoulder towards the bookcase, she exerted her weight against the shelving. When it still did not give, she felt unbidden tears of frustration pool into her eyes. This was the only way she would find her papa’s murderer, or so she thought.

            Abigail turned her back to the shelving and slid to the floor, allowing tears to fall. Both hands lifted to her head, grasping her hair, whilst staring at the floor. By all accounts, it seemed like a regular bookshelf. What was she doing wrong? As soon as she had the thought, something clicked.

            When her papa had brought her to the library…his hands roamed the books. What was he feeling for? Determination and curiosity urged her to her feet; with the moonlight as her guide, her sharp green eyes scanned the books, before she placed her hands upon them once more, this time gently. 

            As her hands roamed the shelving, a small gasp escaped as she felt one book push inwards with a definite click, and soon thereafter, another followed suit. A slow grin spread over her face, and again, she pushed. This time, the shelving gave way and revealed darkness.

            Only hesitating for the briefest of seconds, Abigail retrieved the candle and started down the winding staircase. Once on the bottom floor, she stood in the center of the room, staring at the large cobblestone. This is where papa died. Though she knew that it would be prudent to collect the dagger and return to her bedchamber quickly, she couldn’t seem to get her feet to move.

            “Gregory! Ye’ traitor!”    

            Oblivious to the few tears running down her face, her chest heaved, as memories from that night flooded her mind. Glimpses of him flashed through her memory; his frightened but determined eyes, his strawberry-blonde beard, and his large stature were most prominent in her mind. More than anything she remembered the man she’d come to know after he returned from overseas. She recalled what a kind man he was; how easily his smile would light his features, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Such a short time she was granted with him; and it wasn’t enough. Blinking furiously and wiping her cheeks, she inwardly urged herself to return her mind to her task.

            Pushing the heavy stone out of the tunnels entrance was not an easy feat. By the time she had accomplished the task she was perspiring and breathing heavily.

            “What a strong man you were,” she whispered, resting on the floor. Once she’d caught her breath, she peeked inside the dark hole. Stale, cold and damp air swirled in the tunnel. The air blanketed her face as she started crawling inside. Everything was much …smaller than she remembered. Her chest rubbed against the tunnel’s floor as she used her hands to wiggle her way through.

            After a little while, a metal clinking noise made her pause. Retracting a bit, she felt right below her chest. The dagger! She’d found it! Clutching her hand around it, she started working her way out of the hole.

            Tortured Screams.

            Abigail paused, closing her eyes against the anguished yelling, against the sounds of her papa’s death which seemed to echo all around her.

            Her chest heaved faster with every moment she remained in place.

            “Move Abigail,” she whispered, heavily. Finding the strength at last, she worked her way out of the tunnel, and once out, sat against the cobblestoned wall, summoning herself not to cry, even though the cool air on her cheeks testified to the fact that she already had.

            Wiping her cheeks, she finally looked down at her hand, allowing her fingers to fall open. Though, slightly tarnished, she was amazed to see that the golden hilt still shined; it seemed to absorb the candlelight, and to reflect it as if it were making its presence known to the world. Shaking her foolish thoughts she went to work at pushing the cobblestone back in place, and once that was accomplished, worked her way back up the spiraled staircase.

            After softly closing the shelving, she crept to her bedroom, blew out the candlelight and quickly got under the covers, slipping the dagger under her pillow.

            Fighting the urge to light her candle once more and examine the dagger, she closed her eyes, taking deep breaths to calm her beating heart. She wouldn’t risk it, she couldn’t. Thus far, fortune had smiled upon her and she hadn’t been caught. After all, Iona was a light sleeper…no…she needed to sleep. And she would examine the dagger after they reached Kent.

            The next morning proved to be a trying one. Abigail’s arms and legs were sore, her muscles spent from the exertion she’d put on the cobblestone the night before.

            A nice, slow and peaceful morning would have been just the thing. Usually, she slept until at least eight in the morning, made tea, and sat in front of whichever window held the best view as she gradually adjusted to the morning.

If the morning had been anything like that, it would have been a glorious start to a brand new day. As it was, the sun hadn’t even made an appearance and with all the earlier excitement in her search, and then the hour or so she spent trying to fall asleep, in the end she’d only acquired a few hours.

Iona had swooped into her room as a buzzard swoops upon its prey, rudely shaking her awake and clapping in her ear. There wasn’t time for tea apparently, and frankly, Abigail couldn’t understand the rush. Sure, they had to travel a distance, but this was just ridiculous.

Once dressed, Abigail stepped out into the chill of the early morning. “Birds aren’t even chirping,” she softly muttered, returning a nod to Travis who waited on the perch.

“Come, Carrot. Load your luggage, we must be off.”

Closing her eyes briefly at the quick claps that sounded near her ear, she took a calming breath and after securing her satchel, climbed inside the carriage.

“Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning, aunt.”

Besides the few words spoken at their departure, the ride proved to be a peaceful and quiet one. Thankfully. Tightening her shawl around her shoulders, she snuggled closer to her aunt and before she knew it, was fast asleep.