Good luck smiled on Nick. True, he didn't get to speak privately with Abby at the cemetery, but as he walked toward the Capitol One Associates building, which of course now housed the newspaper Abby's father owned—Sacramento Journal—the woman who'd taken him to the cemetery drove by, stopped, and offered a ride. Though she was probably older than him by ten years, she flirted like a young girl. He didn't want to encourage her, yet he needed her help. She told him her name was Mrs. Rebecca Downey. He introduced himself as Mr. Marshal.
"Where are you staying?" she asked, batting her eyes.
He didn't want to lie, so how could he word this? "Right now, I don't have a job or home in Sacramento, though I hope to change that." It was true since he was now in 1912.
Mrs. Downey's hand flew to her throat. "That's truly awful. We must find you a place to stay until you find something permanent."
"I would be much obliged, Mrs. Downey," Nick replied sincerely. "Your assistance is greatly appreciated, I assure you. Heaven knows what I'd do if I couldn't find a home or employment. We wouldn't want me to turn into a drunken bum, now would we?"
She blushed. "That would be mighty daring of you, considering drinking alcohol is illegal."
Inwardly, he groaned. Why hadn't he paid more attention to his history classes about the prohibition of alcohol? "You're right, ma'am, which is why I don't plan on becoming that sort of man."
Mrs. Downey's gaze wandered over his clothes. "Can I suspect you don't have anything to wear besides this?"
What was so wrong with what he wore? He happened to think he looked good in Armani. "Uh, you assume correctly, Mrs. Downey."
She patted his arm. "Not to worry. My late husband was just your size. I'll let you wear one of his suits." She stole another look at him before focusing on the street again. "I assume you have been searching for employment, too?"
"Uh, yes, of course. In fact, I plan on talking to Mr. Westland today about getting a job at the newspaper."
She nodded. "That's why you were on your way to the cemetery."
"Exactly."
The lady was more trusting than he'd expected, and she drove straight to her home. It wasn't fancy, but it wasn't humble, either. He prayed she didn't have other things in mind for him.
While sitting in her parlor, he acted the part of a gentleman. Mrs. Downey fawned over him, poured him some lemonade, brought him cookies, and then offered more cookies. When he declined the latter, she left the room, telling him she would get her late husband's clothes.
Nick stood and paced the floor, looking out the window from time to time. The street sign captured his attention, making him stop. If the street names stayed the same between 1912 and his time, he was only two streets from Abby's house.
When Mrs. Downey returned, she'd removed her big, floppy hat, and she carried an armful of men's clothes.
"This was my Johnny's favorite suit. I think it would look lovely on you." She laid the clothes on the sofa.
Nick walked over, picked up a jacket, and held it up to his body. Thank goodness she had judged his build correctly.
Mrs. Downey ran her hand up his arm. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"
He gulped. By the leering gleam in her eyes, he knew she had more planned than just eating. "Thank you, but no. If you would show me where the bathroom is located, I'd like to change."
She pointed to the bathroom, and he hurried inside and locked the door. Quickly, he changed into the suit. The stiff collar bothered him, so he didn't attach it to the shirt. The tie wouldn't work without the collar, so he left off the tie, too. The pants were a bit too snug, but he'd have to get used to that since they were the only ones he had.
When he walked out of the bathroom, Mrs. Downey stood waiting, and she put her arms around him. "Mr. Marshal, I've never seen a more handsome man in my life."
At that moment, Nick felt sorry for her late husband. "Thank you for the compliment." He tried to peel away from her, but she continued to hold him like she wasn't going to let go. Poor, desperate widow. "Mrs. Downey, I'm very shocked at your forwardness."
She laughed. "Oh, you must know what you do to women, Mr. Marshal."
"I'm very flattered, but I must apologize. If I dally any longer, I'll be late for my appointment with Mr. Westland."
She frowned and stepped back, folding her arms. "Where will you go afterwards? You have no place to stay."
"I don't know yet." Nick shook his head. "Perhaps Mr. Westland will hire me and let me stay at the newspaper until I can find lodging."
"Or you could stay with me."
"Mrs. Downey, your offer is tempting, and I'll definitely consider it. But I really must be leaving." He walked toward the door, adjusting his own rolled-up clothes under his arm.
She wagged her fingers. "I'll count the minutes until you're back."
Nick smiled and nodded, hoping she could count high, because he didn't plan on returning. He hurried down the sidewalk as fast as he could without drawing attention to himself. Luckily, he now looked much like the other men walking down the street.
Abby's house stood on a hill overlooking the valley. Nick whistled through his teeth and shook his head. Amazing how much this place resembled the one they'd seen just the other day in his time. Still, he thought this version was more beautiful, perhaps because Abby lived in it now.
Black ribbon had been strung along the iron gates of the mansion, and a black wreath hung on the door. Nick's gut twisted, knowing she was inside grieving, and he couldn't do anything about it.
Slowly, he walked around the estate, which was much larger than it appeared from the street. He studied the windows, the yard, the gazebo sheltered by trees, and the horses in corrals out back near a large barn. He hoped to see a glimpse of Abby, but to no avail.
On the horizon, the sun made its departure, bringing unwelcome shadows. Where would he stay tonight? He glanced at the iron fence. He could climb it, and he doubted there would be any alarm system to help guard the property. Not in this era. Perhaps the barn would give him a bed for the night.
As the sky grew darker, he deftly climbed the fence—thankful his trousers hadn't split a seam in the process—and dropped to the other side. He crouched low as he snuck to the barn. He entered the building cautiously but didn't detect anyone around. He found an empty stall with clean straw, and he knew this was as good as he would get for now.
For a long while, he sat and thought about how he could win Abby's trust. He prayed that tomorrow would bring him face to face with her, and when he finally fell asleep, she was in his dreams.
* * * *
Staring at the mirror, Abigail sat numbly as Lily brushed her hair, preparing her for bed. All the servants in the house had been quiet today, each one mourning in their own way, Abigail supposed. Many had loved her father; he'd certainly be missed.
Why had he died so young, so quickly, and without warning? But death was like that, so she'd been told. She'd miss her father, and she'd especially miss the time she spent with him at the newspaper. He'd always told her that one day she'd take over the Sacramento Journal, but she never thought it would be this soon. She had envisioned herself as an older woman, married with children. Not young, single, and alone.
She glanced up at Lily and tapped her hand. The maid's eyes were red and swollen, much like Abigail's. "That's enough for tonight. Thank you."
Lily nodded. "If you need anything else, let me know."
"I won't need anything, I assure you. I want you to rest, as well. I'm certain you haven't slept at all since Father died."
Lily sniffed then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Not very well, Miss Abigail."
"Then why don't we all take tomorrow off?"
Lily's eyes widened. "Pardon me?"
"I'm giving everyone the day off. You should have had today off, but I didn't think of it until now. I want all of you to stay with family or friends tomorrow. I want to spend the day alone, just as you all should."
"Are you certain? Who will make your meals?"
Abigail tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. "You don't think I'm capable of finding my own food?"
Lily smiled, but her lips trembled. "You are too gracious."
Abigail turned in her stool and took Lily's hands. "Will you please tell the staff tonight? We all need to take a day to mourn."
Lily squeezed Abigail's fingers. "You are as kind-hearted as your father. It's something he would have been proud of."
Tears stung Abigail's eyes and she nodded. Lily left the room, and once again silence enveloped Abigail. Although she hated to be alone, she needed to ponder about her future. She picked up her white silk wrapper, and slipped it on. She could go into the library and read, but she feared she wouldn't retain a single word. When she didn't feel completely numb, fear and sadness threatened to drive her mad. How could life ever be the same without her father?
Earlier that day at the cemetery, though, something else had preoccupied her mind—the man who had introduced himself as Mr. Marshal. She hadn't met him before, but for some reason, he seemed vaguely familiar. She'd felt that way even before he'd said he knew her grandmother.
Abigail swept the long mass of hair off her shoulder and sat on her bed. Her heart had been crushed when she'd learned her grandmother couldn't come to the funeral. The old woman was in bed, ill with a terrible cough. Abigail had told her to stay home and take care of herself. Now she needed to pay her grandmother a visit so she could ask about Mr. Marshal.
He was certainly a sight to behold, especially since he wore such strange-looking clothes. Abigail had never seen anything like them. And why wasn't he wearing a hat? All gentlemen wore hats. But it was his intoxicating, deep green eyes that had her mesmerized. She couldn't stop staring into them. Mr. Marshal was quite attractive if she dare admit, but what surprised her was how kind he was, offering to assist her with anything she needed.
Harry had told her afterward that Mr. Marshal was just a money-hungry man trying to court an heiress. In fact, Harry had promised her that Mr. Marshal wouldn't bother her again. But she wanted to speak to Mr. Marshal again. Not only did he have the initials from her grandmother's dream, but there was a feeling in Abigail's heart when she thought of him—a feeling she couldn't explain.
A breeze fluttered the curtains. The sun had disappeared and the early spring air was crisp, so she closed the window. Just as she started to pull the drapes, movement near the barn caught her attention. She lifted the window once more and stuck her head out, hoping to get a better look. After a few seconds, the shadowed form moved again, carrying what looked like an unlit lantern, before ducking inside the barn. Groaning, Abigail hurried out of her room and downstairs. The house sat quiet, so the servants must have already left. That meant she was in charge of getting rid of whoever thought he could sleep in her barn.
Before leaving the house, she found her father's pistol and placed it in the pocket of her wrapper. Hopefully, the stranger wouldn't suspect she had never used the weapon. As long as she acted like she knew how to fire it, maybe it would scare him enough to leave.
She hurried toward the barn, keeping her eyes and ears alert. As she neared the large structure, she slowed her steps. Once inside, Abigail spotted the lantern she'd noticed earlier, now lit low. She lifted it and on tiptoes, inched farther inside, glancing right and left.
When she reached the first stall, she heard a sound behind her. She started to turn, but two strong arms wrapped around her, stopping her. The lantern fell from her hand as she grasped at the man's strong arms, trying to pull them away.
"Who are you and what do you want?" the deep voice asked.
"I have a pistol. I know how to use it," she warned.
"Abby? Is that you?"
Abigail gasped. How dare he call her that! Her father had called her Abby as a child, but no one else was allowed to shorten her name. And since she had become a young woman, even her father called her Abigail. This stranger had no right to call her by her first name, let alone her father's pet name for her.
He turned her around but kept her in his arms. It was the man from the cemetery, Mr. Marshal, with those mesmerizing green eyes.
"Mr. Marshal, you have not been given permission to call me by that name. You may address me as Miss Carlisle."
"You remembered me," he said.
"Why, of course. I have an excellent memory."
His gaze traveled over her hair, and then his hand followed, sweeping softly over her wavy locks. "I love it when your hair is down."
Shivers raced up her arms and down her back. "Mr. Marshal, that was very improper of you to say."
"You're correct. Forgive me?"
She wondered why he didn't release her, but then she realized she could simply step away, since he had loosened his hold on her. Thanks to her father and Harry, until this moment she had never been embraced by a man she wasn't related to. Being in Mr. Marshal's arms felt wonderful, and she didn't want to remove her hands from his chest.
"Wh—what are you doing here?" she whispered.
"I wanted to see you again." He trailed his fingers over her cheek. "I'm here to protect you."
How long had Abigail dreamed of having a knight in shining armor come rescue her? "Mr. Marshal, you talk nonsense. I don't need protecting."
"I think you do."
She scowled and pushed away from him. "I wish you'd explain yourself, and I'd like to know why you're hiding in my barn."
"I have nowhere else to stay. Besides, it's close to you."
Abigail folded her arms. "Once again, Mr. Marshal, you are being extremely bold with your words, especially with someone you don't even know."
"What makes you think I don't know you?"
"Well, I don't know you," she replied, "and that's what matters."
He touched her elbow. "Then get to know me."
She tried to ignore the butterflies dancing in her belly from his touch. "I'm—I'm afraid I cannot, sir. I've been warned about men like you."
"I'm not one of those men, I assure you. I'm a lawyer. I have plenty of money, and I'm not after yours."
She creased her forehead. "You're a solicitor, you say?"
"Yes."
Her heart flipped. On Abigail's eighteenth birthday, her grandmother had told Abigail she would meet a solicitor, a man who would help her. Her grandmother had said the man's initials would be N.M. Abigail inhaled sharply. Nicholas Marshal. Could this really be that man?
He studied her expression and slowly nodded his head. "You remember, don't you?"
"Remember what?" she said breathlessly.
"That your grandmother told you about me."
She stepped back, bringing her hands to her mouth. How did he know? She hadn't told anyone, and she was certain her grandmother hadn't either. "Please go away."
"I can't, Abby. I'm here to protect you."