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Back The Ninth Daughter
Chapters (37)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the rage that swept her. In a studiedly neutral tone, she asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know if any of Rebecca’s other letters survived, would you?”

“He burned them all, m’am. And cursed her name as he did it. Since then, Miss Tamar will every now and then come up with, I didn’t tell you this at the time, but she used to do thus-and-such—threaten her with a red-hot curling iron, I think was one of them. I can always tell when she’s done it. I wish she wouldn’t. Not just for Miss Rebecca’s sake, but for his.”

“Well, we have it on the authority of Scripture that the Lord shall avenge the stripes of the righteous, and uphold his children against those who slander them.” Abigail sighed. “Though sometimes I wish Scripture were a little more specific about when, exactly, these events will take place. In the meantime, do you know where Miss Tamar keeps the key to this?”

“On a ribbon,” said a man’s harsh voice from the doorway. “I should imagine it’s the blue one, knotted at her waist with her watch.”

Abigail slewed around on her heels, aghast. Scipio got hastily to his feet, the dark beyond the single candle’s light cloaking, Abigail suspected, the ashen hue of his face.

Charles Malvern said, “You may go, Scipio.”

“Sir, I—”

“You may go.”

Scipio stayed long enough to help Abigail to her feet. “Mr. Malvern,” she said, as the servant’s footsteps retreated down the stair, “I beg you not to blame Scipio in this.”

“And in what way is a trusted servant not to be blamed, who admits robbers to his master’s house while the family is away?” He put his head a little to one side, and the pale eyes that regarded her shrieked rage in a face as calm as stone. “Don’t tell me Scipio, too, has been corrupted by this talk of colonial liberties that your husband and his friends vomit forth. Or does he merely seek a share of my daughter’s jewelry?” He reached for the bellpull, and Abigail impulsively extended her hand to stop his.

“This isn’t jewelry, sir—”

“If it was garden dirt,” said Malvern, yanking the bell, “it would still not excuse burglary.”