A/N: Yes! Another chapter completed! Thanks again for the reviews!
Gueck Thea : I like happy endings too, but they're quite boring, aren't they? Should I, or should I not do a happy ending? Maybe I should do a vote? ^_^. Anyway, enjoy this one. And um, I actually wanted to kill Fillan (man, do I kill a lot or what? : P) but then you might murder me, so… I took it into considerations! Ka ka! Have fun, ok?
Christine: Don't worry, I'm not scared by your review. In fact, I love it! Write longer reviews, ok? Yeah, I'm just making people like you get wrenched and nervous (muahahahaha!). I'm glad that you like my story ^_^. Enjoy reading this part!
And I've noticed, I've been getting a lot of hits, but only some reviewed. Come on! Even if this story stinks, you can still review and tell me about it! J
Bloomsworth was anything but pretty. It was a small town, filled with topping buildings and cars and machines here and there and strutting feet walking along the pavement. Abigail had never been there - Aunt Margaret had never thought of inviting her over before - and the whole surrounding rather took her by surprise.
No trees! was Abigail's first thought. Not even a speck of grass! How on earth could anyone survive in such a horrible place like this? And no lakes!
"A 'onderful place, don't yeh think, Abigail?" said Ernie happily.
Abigail certainly didn't think so, but she kept quiet and stared as they went past several curious town children who had scrambled out to take a look at the carriage and the horses.
"All the young men gone," Ernie said, with a sudden bitter drop in his tone as he glared at one particular young boy who slapped the horses' back. "All these wars-" he shook his head violently. "They never learn. Ain't never gonna learn. If I ain't as old as I am, I would 'ave gone straight to those stupid Germans and show 'em a piece of my mind!" He lifted a clenched hand in the air to show he meant what he said, and Abigail looked on amusingly.
"Your Aunt Margaret would just die if Mark went." continued Ernie. "Don't yeh remember Mark?"
"I remember him." Abigail said curtly at the mention of her cousin's name. "Don't know how I will forget the time he put a lizard in my dress."
"Aah, that," chuckled Ernie delightfully. "How I remember how yeh looked! Yeh were just a seven-year-old, weren't yeh? Jumping and yelling away all over your lawn! Why, I would not have thought that boy was up to anything! My, I sure had fun watching yeh!"
"I'm sure you did." Abigail frowned.
"But they have grown up, I tell yeh." Ernie pointed a finger at Abigail. "That Mark ain't the same one yeh saw seven years ago. And Deborah has ta be the sweetest girl I 'ave ever seen. You ain't seen many good-looking brunettes nowadays."
Abigail stiffened. "Oh?"
Ernie nodded, oblivious to the offensive statement he had just made. "Yea, only fifteen, that little thing. How old are yeh, Abigail? Going seventeen? My, time does fly, doesn't it?"
"It does."
"Poor Deborah. Had been looking forward to 'aving beaux for years, and now there ain't any! All has gone to war! And of course, all the young fries here ain't good enough for her. Your Aunt Margaret would want Deborah to marry someone older."
"Then she can marry my grandfather."
"Ah, sarcastic, ain't yeh?" Ernie chuckled even more, as if Abigail Rogers amused him. "Ah well, here we are! The Mansion!"
Abigail looked as they came upon a big mansion on an absurdly small piece of land. It wasn't any better than the place that they had passed. The only thing that Abigail found attractive was the fake pond on the right of the long cement walks. There were quite a number of fishes in it, but they fled away at the sight of Abigail, who then solemnly retired to the fact that even the fishes didn't welcome her here.
"Abigail Rogers!" Aunt Margaret came puffing out as Abigail hopped down from the carriage and tripped over a luggage Ernie had lowered from the cart. "Abigail Rogers! Abigail Rogers!" Aunt Margaret cried on before pulling Abigail into a hug and smothering her with kisses.
A young girl walked out after Aunt Margaret, walking with an air of a queen and peering at Abigail with her sea-blue eyes, and flashing her pearly white teeth at her. She was followed by a tall, prim young man who smiled too. Abigail felt her cheeks turn red. The first impression her cousins got of her was her getting squashed by their own mother!
Aunt Margaret released her few minutes too late and Abigail said - going sheepishly crimson - "Hello Aunt Margaret, Deborah, Mark. It's a pleasure to be here."
"Hello." They answered back.
"You must be tired," said Aunt Margaret as she dragged Abigail into a spacious room where a fire cackled and lighted the place with it's fiery light. "We shall have dinner now. You must be hungry, aren't you, Abigail dear?"
"Oh, no, not-"
"Well, of course you are!" Aunt Margaret continued as if Abigail hadn't said a thing. "We have been waiting for you for goodness knows how long! My poor darlings here-" she pointed to Mark and Deborah, who walked lightly behind them "- are positively starving! Ah! The table is set. Do you know, Abigail, that your father built that fireplace for me ten years ago?"
"No, I d-"
"It's splendid, isn't it? It's a shame he isn't here anymore to make more. Now, sit down! Sit down! Your seat is there, Abigail, right across me for I want to talk to you." Aunt Margaret pushed the dazed Abigail into her seat. "Now, we shall begin. Ah ah! Say your prayers first, darlings! Do you read prayers before dinners, Abigail dear?"
"Sometimes, if-"
"I should have known. Arthur, that father of yours, wasn't much of a church member, was he? Well, I would not expect you to know any hymn, so please, after me, Abigail dear."
"But I do know my prayers, Aunt Margaret!" cried Abigail in vain - Aunt Margaret had already started muttering her prayers. "And so did my father!"
"Now that the prayers are over with," said Aunt Margaret lightly when she finished. "We shall tuck in! There, Abigail, I have prepared you your favourite dish, spaghetti!"
"But I hate spaghetti."
"Then you must like it!" the twinkle in Aunt Margaret's eyes disappeared, and Abigail recalled why she dreaded Aunt Margaret in the first place. The very stern gaze of Aunt Margaret would send devils running for cover. "And please keep your mouth tightly shut, Abigail Rogers. You have been interrupting me non stop!"
Abigail's mouth dropped open. She had barely said more than twenty words ever since she arrived and already she is accused of interrupting non-stop? She saw Deborah looking at her in pity and frowned deeply. She didn't want Deborah feeling sorry for her. She already felt like a beggar, standing next to Deborah with her silk dress that brought out the colour of her eyes - she certainly didn't need anything else to feel even worse.
Deborah, indeed, was just as pretty as Ernie had boasted her to be. Creamy white skin, black curls falling in waves over her shoulder and petite blue eyes peeking out from under her bushy eyebrows, she could possibly pass for a misplaced angel. Abigail, who had always been proud of her looks although there wasn't much to be proud of, felt timid and self-conscious.
Mark, as Ernie had earlier stated, did change a lot. The last time Abigail saw him, which was eight years ago, he was a podgy, prim and supposedly intelligent boy, for people seemed to think that any townspeople were clever. Now, he is tall, solid and pleasant-faced, primmer and more proper than ever, with his hair neatly tucked behind his eyes and his clothes finely ironed and starched.
Abigail ate quickly. If she had to eat spaghetti for as long as she was under Aunt Margaret's roof, she might as well get it over with. But alas! In her anguish to do so, she toppled her pumpkin juice glass and it spilled all over her dress. Abigail stared in dismay - her dress! How could she be so clumsy? What would Aunt Margaret think? What would she say?
Aunt Margaret, at first, looked as if she was about to erupt. Such a manner at the dinner table! Spilling pumpkin juice indeed! But when she looked at Abigail's wide frightened eyes, she hesitated and calmed herself down with the thought that perhaps Abigail Rogers hadn't much training, with parents like hers. Martha Rogers was too much of a fool to be of any use to Abigail. Aunt Margaret never understood how Arthur could have been attracted to Martha. Well, he was a fool too.
Nevertheless, Aunt Margaret didn't say a word, and somehow Abigail felt it was worse than if Aunt Margaret had screamed at her or slapped her across the face. She will always be haunted by the fact that Aunt Margaret might be holding a grudge against her for it!
The dinner ended and Aunt Margaret led Abigail to her room in silence. Maids were hurrying here and there, fixing every crook and cranny of the room - the carpet was furiously scrubbed and cleaned, the windows dust-less to the very last, the rich violet curtain hanging over a big glass window washed and scented and the bed aired and warmed. There wasn't any fireplace though.
"Well, I certainly hope you like this room, Abigail dear," Aunt Margaret said suddenly, her tone once again filled with cheerfulness. Abigail breathed in relief. "This used to be Deborah's room, but I have moved her to the room at the end of the corridor. Now, please feel as if you are a part of my family. What is it, Diana?" A maid had just nudged Aunt Margaret in the arm. "You are finished? Very well. Goodnight, Abigail dear."
Aunt Margaret and the maids trooped out, and Abigail stared at her new room in its eerie emptiness. It was big - bigger than her room and Patrick's room combined back in Lunar Cottage. But Abigail never had anything for size. She savoured friendliness, and this room had none for her.
As she settled herself in the big, warm bed, a scary thought dawned on her that perhaps she, Abigail Rogers, had made the biggest mistake in her life.
*
If Aunt Margaret wanted Abigail to feel as if she was part of the family, she surely hadn't bothered to do anything about it. It was as if she had forgotten all about her niece, and always jumped in shock when Abigail came in view.
Deborah and Mark weren't any help at all. They talked to Abigail politely - so politely that Abigail felt as if she was their grandmother instead. There was always a business-like tone in them that it was practically impossible for Abigail to feel 'part of the family'.
The days were getting harder to bear, for Abigail had absolutely nothing to do. She had tried to help the maids in the kitchen, but there were enough of them already, and they didn't exactly want a girl who went around spilling pumpkin juice for company. She had also tried to make friends with the family's Labrador dog, Spot. But Spot had terrified Abigail to the very core of her soul when he barked and attempted to chase Abigail around the house. She hated him now, and always swerved out of his way when he came bounding into the house with Mark after his evening walk. The fishes, meanwhile, still swam furiously away when Abigail came close to the pond.
The only thing that comforted Abigail was the big old oak tree at the back of The Mansion. It, unlike the others, accepted Abigail, and she spent the dull early August days talking to the tree. Sometimes it answered Abigail with the rustling of its leaves, sometimes it stayed silent, but nevertheless, Abigail found it satisfying. She only wanted a listener, and the Oak tree was more than happy to do so.
But Aunt Margaret soon caught her and stared wide-eyed with horror. Her niece talking to the trees! Could anything be more ridiculous?
"But I always talk to trees in Hoofburg, Aunt Margaret," Abigail had told her.
"Well, I must say!" Aunt Margaret had shaken her head disapprovingly. "It is about time you get rid of that foolish habit! Haven't you anything better to do, Abigail dear? Why, I must enrol you in that Red Cross thing that Deborah and the girls are making."
And so, the very next day, Abigail found herself sitting in the midst of other young girls from all over Bloomsworth right in The Mansion's hall. No one had taken notice of her yet, and Abigail felt it was truly humiliating and she shivered in fear that the girls had mistaken her for a maid, for she certainly wasn't dressed in her best.
She cut layers and layers of cotton for bandages furiously, and watched in envy as other girls talked and giggled gaily. It had been so long since she had last talked or laughed as cheerfully, and Abigail found herself missing Hoofburg and her dear old friends more terribly than ever. Suppose her friends still remembered her? Suppose they were still thinking of her? Suppose she could run away from The Mansion and go back to where she belonged?
But no. It was too late now. She had made her decision, and be it or be it not a mistake, she would go through it. Her pride wouldn't allow her to go back to Hoofburg. Besides, the people might think she is dead, and her return would just cause chaos. Unless of course, Derrane had told them what had actually happened….
"Hullo there!" Abigail's head snapped up and her eyes rested on a chubby girl with red curls smiling down on her. "You must be Deborah Mist's cousin, ain't you?"
Abigail smiled back. "Why, yes."
Another girl, younger than the previous one with the same red curls and twinkling green eyes, came skipping over and beamed at Abigail. "Deborah was just tellin' us 'bout you yesterday when she said you were goin' ta join. How is it with your father and mother and brother bein' dead? I have been dyin' ta ask you that."
"Oh, hush Penny!" said the first girl as she settled beside Abigail with a pair of big scissors. She smiled apologetically at Abigail. "So sorry. Penny here ain't as sensitive as I am. She didn't mean any harm."
"Oh, it's alright," Abigail smiled again, but more forcefully this time. No one had ever dared to ask her openly about her family's death, except Aunt Margaret, and it was kind of bittersweet now that it has been asked. "I'm alright about it."
"Alright about what?" Penny asked again, sitting down opposite Abigail with interested eyes. "About my previous question, or about the death?"
"Penny!" the first girl gasped.
"Oh, be a sport, Hannah," Penny groaned. "I just wanna know."
"Both," Abigail answered. "Your question and the death."
Penny nodded, oblivious to the glare Hannah was bestowing upon her. "Ah, you must be strong. Like your aunt, I suppose - Mrs. Mist. I heard she didn't shed a single tear when Mr. Mist died. But of course, people used to say that Mrs. Mist only married Mr. Mist for his money."
"No," Abigail frowned. "Aunt Margaret isn't like that."
Penny raised an eyebrow and was about to say something when Hannah quickly interrupted. 'Well, glad that you are all right. I've heard all sorts of story about girls killing themselves because of the war." Hannah shuddered. "It's terrifying!"
"Girls getting killed over the war is even more terrifying." Abigail said solemnly, flinching slightly when she accidentally pressed the scissors over her finger. "At least the girls who killed themselves had asked for it. The girls who suffer over there in France and Belgium didn't."
"Goodness me!" Hannah laughed. "You do say the strangest things, don't you? But do not you worry; we Stewarts are used to strange things. Our grandmother once chased her cat over rooftops. It was a wonder she didn't fall and die."
"Oh," Abigail nodded, an amused expression on her face as she pictured a ninety-year-old nanny with rollers in her white hair running and jumping over The Mansion's high rooftop, screaming away at a cat. "That is strange."
At that moment, Spot came in and caused a wind of excitement as each girl went over to pat him; "Oh, Deborah! He's just adorable!" "My, my! What a darling thing!". Abigail edged away, her wide eyes never leaving Spot. So - he barked at her but was friendly to other people, eh? Very well.
Suddenly, Spot turned his eyes on Abigail and growled deeply. Nobody seemed to have noticed, except Abigail herself who turned very green and dropped her scissors. What was Spot up to? What was he going to do to her? Goodness! He's coming!
Spot was streaking across the hall room, barking madly amid shrieks from terrified girls at his sudden behaviour. Abigail screamed. Spot was heading for her! He was going to kill her! Eat her! Crush her! Someone was yelling for help - "Mark! Mark! Good grief, where is he when I need him?" - was it Deborah? It didn't matter. All Abigail could see was the gleaming yellow eyes of Spot rushing nearer and nearer to her.
Penny and Hannah were screaming. Everyone was screaming. She was screaming. Abigail's brain was whizzing away like crazy - then it stopped. She collapsed to the floor.
*
Abigail opened her eyes with much effort and stared at her surroundings with wide, frightened eyes. There was a big mantelpiece at her right, and a big door on her left side. Where on earth could she be?
Suddenly overcome by fear, Abigail shot up into a sitting position and found herself looking into Mark's startled face. He was sitting at the foot of the couch Abigail was lying on in a very odd position, for he had probably jumped slightly when Abigail struck up like that.
"Good Scott, Mark!" Abigail said shakily. She wiped the sweat on her forehead and sighed in relief. "You scared me!"
"I was about to say the same to you."
"Where am I?" Abigail asked, looking around again. She was probably somewhere in The Mansion, but where? This is certainly not her room.
"Mother's bedroom," Mark replied nonchalantly. "You scared the wits out of her when you collapsed to the floor like that. She and Deborah went to get some medicine for you. But I see that you are alright now."
"Yes," Abigail said curtly. Alright? She will never be alright as long as that darned Spot was alive!
"That dog of mine scared you, didn't he?"
"Obviously."
Mark nodded, smiling slightly. "You know, Spot only chases bad people. People who do something wrong to my family. Burglars and thieves…"
Abigail turned red in anger. "Are you saying that I am bad? Well, for your information, I did not steal anything from you, nor will I ever want to. There is nothing worthy of stealing here anyway, and if you people think that-"
"No need to go there, Abigail." Mark shrugged, running a clean hand through his neat black locks. "I was only telling, not suggesting. Now please don't glare at me like that and get some sleep. You have had a shock and you need all the rest you can get."
"I don't see how I can get some 'rest' when I have just been cruelly accused of stealing." Abigail said bitterly. "But nevertheless, you can go and leave me alone."
Mark left with a teasing side-glance, and Abigail glared at him through the walls. How dare he! She had been there for barely three weeks and already! As if she would want to steal anything, anyway!
After spending an hour in remorse and choking herself with angry tears, Abigail felt she was well enough to go out. She had to go out. She had to go see the Oak tree, and tell it all about her stupid cousin and his stupid dog. Now, suppose Spot is still around?
Abigail crept down the staircase, and headed for the main door so carefully that one would think she was walking on dynamites and so watchfully as if she expected Spot to come bounding out any second.
The set was clear. It was almost possible to believe that Spot was dead, for there wasn't anything that revealed of his whereabouts. But as soon as Abigail stepped a foot out into the sunshine, she heard loud barking.
Undoubtedly, Spot was rushing towards her from across the small lawn. Abigail wondered exasperatedly what Spot had against her and argued with herself whether to run or to not run. She wanted to run - badly - to go up to her room and stay there for the rest of her life. But she was also angry. She wanted to show that dog that she wasn't afraid of him - although she clearly was!
Spot was coming closer now. Abigail continuously repeated encouraging words to herself as she stood rooted at the spot: Do not faint, Abigail. Stay put. Teach that dog a lesson he and his master will remember and bring to their graves. Stay put! Yes, yes, he looks scary, but stay put!
But at that very moment, Mark came rushing out of The Mansion and seized Spot by the neck. Spot struggled, but soon reconciled and walked grumpily away. Mark glared at Abigail. "Either you're a born troublemaker or just plain stupid!" he screamed. "Can't you stay at one place without disturbing me?"
"Disturb you?!" Abigail shrieked, eyes flashing furiously. "I didn't ask you to come down here and save me! Can't I even take a brief walk without you and your dog disturbing me?"
"Abigail Rogers! Mark Mist!" boomed Aunt Margaret's voice from the kitchen. "What is going on here? I demand you explain to me now!" Her head poked out from the kitchen window. "And it better be good!"
*
Abigail was sent to bed without supper for 'screaming at my darling Mark and embarrassing me', as Aunt Margaret put it - she hadn't seen Mark screaming at Abigail first.
Feeling ashamed and angry that a nearly-seventeen-year-old like her was still punished like a baby, Abigail went to her room grimly and wept bitter tears for half-an-hour. The next few hours was spent imagining that she was queen and had all the powers to punish Aunt Margaret and Mark any way she liked.
But the very next day, at early dawn, Mark knocked on her bedroom door and apologised profusely until Abigail got sick of it. "I feel guilty for not being punished along," he said honestly. "If I had been punished too, then it would be fair and I wouldn't have to apologise. But never mind."
Abigail accepted his apology, though not as graciously as he had hoped. And from that point onwards, Abigail noticed that Mark was more friendlier and talkative, although he always talked about war, and Abigail hadn't the slightest interest to it.
"Do you know how the war started, Abigail?" he asked one day, looking up from the papers he was reading at the breakfast table.
"No," Abigail answered as she sliced tomato after tomato into tiny pieces. Aunt Margaret always made Abigail cut vegetables up every Saturday, and although it was such a boring job in Abigail's opinion, she was well contented. "And I don't want to know."
"It started when someone called Archduke…." And so on did Mark babble about wars to Abigail, despite her protests, as if he liked showing off his knowledge. That was the annoying part, but other than that, Mark could pass for a gentleman.
Abigail caught him marking a calendar that was stuck on the kitchen cupboard one day. "Why are you marking the days for?" she asked curiously.
"So I would know exactly how many days it is to my birthday," he said, and then pulled on a fake smirk. "You know, can't wait to get gifts."
Abigail frowned. "You're waiting for your 18th birthday so you can sign up, that's why."
Mark stared at her, and then nodded gravely. "How did you know?"
"I've seen that look you have on your face before," Abigail said quietly. "And besides, you are a terrible liar."
"You saw this look I have on my face on your father and Patrick's? When they wanted to go?" Mark asked, pushing the lid onto the tip of his pen.
"No," Abigail's tone was strangely distant. "It was someone else."
Mark nodded. He wanted to prod, but felt it was best not to. Abigail looked as if she was about to burst crying. "Well," he said lightly. "I don't know if Mother and Deborah will let me. They were very hard about it when I mentioned it years ago, when the war first started. Anyhow, I just hope they will, or I will be the laughing stock of the boys and be labelled a coward."
*
On one windy and cold evening, there was a Red Cross meeting in the Raven's house. Willa Raven was so busy serving drink and cakes for everyone that she barely ate anything at all, and her work lay unattended over the couch. Meanwhile, the other girls busied themselves with their cotton-cutting work and talked fast and excitedly about the latest news that their army had just been 'battered and broken' as the newspapers reported.
"Battered and broken!" Hannah said loudly. "If our army had that fate, I wouldn't want to think of the fate of other armies!"
"Why?" Abigail asked, bewildered. "How did they get battered?"
"Goodness," Hannah frowned. "Don't you ever read the papers, Abigail?"
Abigail snorted. "No, I don't." she answered. "Newspapers never have anything good in them. I never understood why people buy them when it only brings them bad news."
"But you get to find out if anyone you know had died or not."
"That is exactly what I mean."
Penny and Hannah looked at each other, but decided to drop the subject. "So, Abigail," Penny peered at Abigail from the corner of her eyes. "There have been airs that Mark Mist is courting you."
Abigail dropped her scissors in shock. She stared at Penny with big eyes. "That's ridiculous. We're just cousins. Besides, I'm eng- I mean, that's just ridiculous!"
"I don't see what's so ridiculous," Hannah spoke solemnly, trimming the edges of the cotton. "I have seen you two together, and my, he looks besotted."
"That's ridiculous." Abigail repeated. "It won't happen."
"Is that so? Why? Do you have someone else?"
"That's just ridiculous." Abigail said again, as if in a trance.
Hannah and Penny raised their eyebrows at each other.
*
"Three more weeks." Mark hissed on a cold afternoon, as the wind swept pieces of snow through the open window into The Mansion. He marked the calendar and looked at it in satisfaction.
Abigail nodded quietly. She stared at the bare Oak tree in the lawn, covered fully with heavy layers of snow and sighed. It was winter, and it was cold, although Abigail was finely wrapped in layers of clothes and was sitting right next to the fireplace. She wondered how it was like in the battlefield. Men must be dying out of pneumonia, out of frostbite…. Surely they hadn't enough clothing to cover themselves. And how, how, HOW is Fillan right now?
Abigail thought of Fillan every once in a while, sometimes avoiding it because it made her feel queasy. But at times like this, when the wind was harsh, and the trees were bare, and the temperature was unbearable, she found it hard to concentrate on anything else. Perhaps Fillan was already dead?
"Abigail?"
Abigail snapped back to earth and found Mark looking at her with an odd expression. She had seen Mark give her looks like that before, but it wasn't until Penny and Hannah had mentioned something about courting that Abigail took it seriously. "Yes?"
"Nothing," Mark muttered uncertainly. "You were… never mind."
Abigail nodded again, although she herself didn't know what she was nodding for. She turned back to look at the Oak tree when Mark spoke up once again. "Abigail, can I ask you a question?"
"You've just asked one." Abigail said lightly, but her heart was turning cold.
Mark looked bewildered, but laughed just as lightly. Then he stopped and looked serious again, just as if he was going for battle. "Abigail," he whispered. Abigail turned blue. "Will you marry me when I get back?"
He was in earnest. Abigail struggled to control herself. She didn't know what to say. Or what to do either. "Mark - I … I-" she had to do it. She must say it. "I can't."
"Why can't you?" Mark's face changed, but his tone was still the same.
Abigail fought her tears back. She can't blubber in front of Mark at such a time like this! "I- I just can't….. Don't look at me like that, Mark. Please."
Mark tried to change his expression, only to make it worse. His eyes were darker than it had ever been, and his upper lip was stiff. "You- don't- love me?"
Abigail looked guiltily at him. "I do, but not in the way that you want me to….." she hastily wiped a tear. Heavens! What a crybaby she was! "I'm sorry."
"Is there - someone else?"
Oh! Won't Mark stop asking questions? He was torturing her! "Yes," Abigail said forcefully. "There is."
"Who?"
Abigail stood up. "I have to go." And she fled away.
*
"Abigail dear," Aunt Margaret walked into Abigail's room triumphantly and Abigail frantically rushed to the basin to wash her face and hide her swollen eyes. "We have to talk."
Abigail dabbed her eyes again and made sure there was nothing to give away the fact that she had been crying for ages. "Yes, of course, Aunt Margaret." What could Aunt Margaret possibly want to talk about? Surely she couldn't have found out about Mark's proposal that fast!
Aunt Margaret pulled Abigail beside her and looked so closely at Abigail that she felt as if she was under a magnifying glass. "Abigail, dear," Aunt Margaret started, smiling. "I do not know if you have noticed this, but my darling Mark is attracted to you."
Abigail suppressed a scream.
"Of course, he was too shy to say so to you," Aunt Margaret's eyes twinkled. "And I say to myself: How long will that boy of mine keep silent like that? So, I have finally decided that I will tell you for him. Of course, he doesn't know that I'm doing him a favour," Aunt Margaret chuckled.
"Oh." Abigail said. So Aunt Margaret didn't know what has happened.
"Well?"
"Yes?"
"What do you say, Abigail?" Aunt Margaret said, almost impatiently. "Will you marry him?"
Abigail took a deep breath. "No, Aunt Margaret. I won't."
Aunt Margaret, obviously expecting a different answer, shrieked in shock. "You won't!" she yelled. "You dare refuse my son! What excuses have you got, Miss Rogers?" she was absolutely erupting like a volcano now.
"I don't love him."
Aunt Margaret shrieked again. "Well, well!" she stood up and glared at Abigail through that frightening glare of hers. Abigail flinched. "I have saved you from a lifetime of suffering in that Hoofburg place, and this is how you pay me? Very well!" Aunt Margaret rushed for the door, muttering 'Very well' every three seconds.
Somehow, Abigail had a feeling it wasn't 'very well'. She looked about her, and hot tears that she had been holding back poured out mercilessly. Why did it have to go this way? Whatever did she do to that made Mark think she cared for him? Well, she did care for him, but love him! That was beyond question!
She crept miserably under her quilt and awaited for the dawn to come. Hopefully, everything will be all right by then.
*
Things didn't go 'all right' the next day, and nor did it go 'all right' for the next two weeks. Aunt Margaret and Deborah seemed to be campaigning against her - oh, she would always remember the look Aunt Margaret gave her when she went down to breakfast! - and Mark avoided her by all costs.
It was lonely, and Abigail spent her time crying and crying, and even the thought of stopping was ridiculous. She cried so much that she was beginning to like it.
But the bitterest tears of all bitter tears didn't come until the next Saturday, when all of them were seated having breakfast. Aunt Margaret and Deborah were eating silently and Abigail sat at her usual place, cutting potatoes.
It was Mark who gave the news. He was reading the paper, a bit longer than usual when he nonchalantly said: "A few of our soldiers are reported to be missing - captured by the Germans, no doubt. Let's see….. Dean Furrow, Liam Miller, George Hay - and Fillan West."
Abigail gasped. The knife she was holding sunk deeper into the potato and into her finger. Blood gushed out, but Abigail's thoughts were far from that.
"Abigail!" Aunt Margaret screeched. "Go clean that finger of yours! We do not want to have blood all over our potatoes!" Deborah looked disgusted and Mark stared at Abigail as if he was seeing her for the first time.
Abigail meekly cleaned her finger, although it was almost impossible for her hands couldn't stop shaking. Fillan - missing? Captured by the Germans? Abigail felt it was even worse than if he was dead.
A mistake, Abigail thought frantically. Just a mistake. Her Fillan couldn't be missing. He just couldn't!
As soon as breakfast was over and the table cleared and Aunt Margaret gone, Abigail snatched the paper lying recklessly on the chair. She scanned the entire paper, and her heart stopped beating as she stopped at the article Mark had mentioned.
'Unknown Whereabouts. Three soldier and a Lieutenant were discovered missing, being Dean Furrow, Liam Miller, Lieutenant George Hay and Lieutenant Fillan West. Searches have been made and it has been concluded that the Germans could possibly have captured them. We await further reports from the battlefield.'
Abigail sank into a chair. Her brows were joined together, her cheeks were flaming red and her eyes bore tears waiting to escape. It can't be… it just can't be!
"Fillan West. It's him, isn't it?"
Abigail's head snapped up, tears and all. Mark was standing at the other end of the table, looking at her with that look again. Abigail bit her lower lip. She nodded and covered her face with her hands. She wanted to cry now. She didn't care that Mark was there to see her howl. Her courage and endurance had failed her, and she wanted to wail and blubber and cry till the end of her life.
The one thing she had been living for was gone.
She wanted to be gone too.
Hope was lost, perhaps never to return.
A/N: hope you liked that. J Anyway, someone has been telling me that my chapters are far too long. I like them long, but if you think it's too much (like, up to the stage where your eyes hurt for staring at the screen for too long!!! :P) tell me okay? And I'll do something about it. Ciao!
