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The barouche rattled down the dark lane as if fleeing the scene of a crime. The horses, unused to twisting countryside roads, made their displeasure known with such loud whinnies that roosting birds rose up in twittering, irritated clouds. Above the rural chaos, the full moon only seemed to make the night sky darker by comparison.
It's all ending. Abigail Weeks glanced out of the barouche window, briefly distracted from her despair by the flock of birds. My life is ending, and there's nothing left that I can do to stop it.
Her father glowered at her from across the barouche. Next to him, her cheeks highly-coloured with wine and what looked like panic, Abigail's mother plucked at a piece of string-work despite the dim light of the moon.
One was meant to be excited the night before one's wedding. But then, one was meant to be in love—or at least fond of—one's prospective husband. Abigail bit her lip, the weight of the rest of her life suddenly bearing down on her all at once.
Mr. Jonathan Haythwaite. Even thinking the name made her want to retch. I will be Mrs. Abigail Haythwaite. Abigail Weeks will die without a shot being fired.
If she could have taken up a pistol the night her father had informed her she was to marry Mr. Haythwaite, she would have done it. Alas, she had little knowledge of arms; she had only been able to weep, to sink to the carpet and cry inconsolably, as her mother had wrung her hands and her father had stood over her with folded arms telling her to stop being so damned silly. That to marry Mr. Haythwaite, to increase the family's wealth and standing among the gentry, was a privilege rather than a death sentence.
No choice. No chance to appeal, however fiercely Abigail had done so the night she had been told her fate. All she could do was survive—and Abigail, shaking her head as she stared out of the barouche window at the moon's white sphere, wondered how on earth she had done that.
At first, with an energy she hadn't know she possessed, she had tried to simply push away any negative feelings she had concerning her impending marriage to Mr. Haythwaite. That had worked for a fortnight—it had even worked after the banns were read and she was inundated with letters from Mary and Winnie asking how on earth such a dreadful thing was being allowed to happen.
She had replied to both of her best friends with formidable composure. Then, after receiving replies from both of them that told her in no uncertain terms to drop the falsehoods, she had broken down in a storm of silent tears by the light of her bedroom candle and written the two of them much longer, much more honest letters that begged to be rescued.
Mary and Winnie’s replies showed willing. A great amount of willing, in fact; Winnie had excitedly planned an elaborate escape route involving bedsheets knotted to window frames and Abigail dressing as a cabin boy to take the nearest ship to the Continent. But clearly Abigail’s father had heard her first and only storm of weeping, or a gossiping servant had passed along the news—because from that day onward, Abigail had been watched like a hawk.
Every day of close, serious observation had made even more evident how laughable any illusion of freedom was. Freedom to not marry at all, freedom to choose a man she loved to be her husband, freedom to choose anyone but the grey, corpse-eyed Mr. Haythwaite with his profitable livestock herds and dreadful, spindly fingers… Abigail realised, by slow, shocking degrees, that she had never had a say in any of it.
Her fate, her future, had been decided by her father in his study. It carried little more weight for him than moving a row of numbers from one column into another. And it was impossible to not feel angry about, furious about that, terrified by that—and it was equally impossible for her father, despite his careful ignorance when it came to emotional matters, not to notice.
They glared at one another across the rocking barouche. Abigail’s mother, the piece of string-work knotting in her hands, laughed with a touch of hysteria. ‘My goodness! Such mystery, travelling down this road at this hour!’
‘If your daughter hadn’t complained of a headache, we would have been able to take our usual route.’ Abigail’s father spoke with icy disdain for both his wife and daughter; Abigail narrowed her eyes, glaring all the harder. ‘Alas, thanks to her weakness and your indulgence of her weakness, we are forced to travel along a more rustic path than usual.’
I’m not weak. I’m trapped, but I’m not weak. There were no methods of escaping what was essentially a forced marriage without ruining her family name, which would mean ruining her mother’s life. Abigail couldn’t do that—she loved her mother despite everything—but small, stupid acts of rebellion were always in her grasp. Up to and including feigning a headache to give her father a less comfortable ride home.
‘Forgive me.’ She spoke just archly enough for her mother not to notice, but her father’s stare hardened. ‘I am in agony.’
‘You are not. The slightest ripple in the calm waters of your life makes you insufferable.’ Her father leaned forward, his face already reddening; clearly he’d been waiting for any chance to attack her. ‘You are quite the most spoiled child that a parent has ever had the ill fortune to raise.’
‘Spoiled children are indulged, aren’t they? Given what they wished?’ Abigail felt her own voice rising, growing sharper, and bit the inside of her cheek in an attempt to calm down. Unfortunately, it only made her more irritated. ‘I can’t remember the last time a wish of mine was listened to without being laughed at.’
‘Your wishes are childish nonsense.’
‘My wish to remain independent for another precious year—a month, a week—before being married off to a man I feel absolutely no sympathy for. How is that childish nonsense?’
‘Darling.’ Abigail’s mother spoke in a high, sweet voice that only made her fear all the more evident. ‘Don’t provoke your father.’
‘Provoke? Provoke!’ Oh, it was all going wrong now. But when would she ever have another chance to tell her father exactly how much he had ruined her every chance of happiness? ‘How is this hideous perversion of a marriage not a provocation?’
‘A perversion?’ Her father spluttered as he beat the seat of the barouche with a closed fist. ‘You call a pleasant arrangement with an old, well-established friend a perversion?’
‘Mr. Haythwaite is sixty! Sixty-two, to be precise! And the thought of having to call myself his wife makes me--’
‘You will stop your insolent tongue, Abigail, this minute.’ Her father leaned further forward, almost losing his balance as the barouche swayed; Abigail, to her astonishment, had to quell a hysterical burst of laughter. ‘Or I’ll stop it for you.’
‘How elegant. Delivered to the church tomorrow morning with a black eye.’ How was her destiny in the hands of this buffoon? How was she his only child? ‘I’m sure Mr. Haythwaite will be more than capable of ignoring it, given the shares you’ve promised him for my hand.’
For a moment it looked as if Abigail’s father really was going to hit her. His face darkened to a dangerously puce shade, his eyes wide and bloodshot. But before he could raise his fist, before Abigail’s mother could scream, before Abigail could duck—before any of things could happen, the carriage came to a shuddering stop.
The panicked whinnying of the horses filled the air. As Abigail’s mother clung desperately to her seat, Abigail’s father falling onto the floor of the barouche with a heavy thud, Abigail blinked in complete confusion.
What on earth had happened? Before she could begin to make the most tentative calculations, the bright light of a lantern blinded Abigail as a vague shape appeared from the gloom of the countryside at night.
Wait. In the middle of the chaos, a tiny part of Abigail spoke. A country road at night… there’s really only one thing this could be.
