The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(28)



Will was about to tell her of how folks who got out of work sometimes had to sleep in the streets and of how evil intentioned men could lead innocent girls astray; but just then the train pulled into the station. All he had enough time to say was, “Goodbye, Abigail Anne; remember, I love you.” A moment later she was gone and he was left standing there with a single tear rolling down his cheek. “Be careful,” he whispered; then he turned and walked away.



That evening when William came in from the field and found Will putting supper on the table, he asked, “Where’s your sister?”

Will shrugged.

“Didn’t she come home from school with you?”

“She didn’t go to school today,” Will said.

“Hell’s fire!” William growled. “She’s probably got herself in a twit because of that blasted teacher. Soon as school lets out, Abigail Anne thinks she can start acting up again. Well, this time she ain’t gonna get away with it!”

Will tried to avoid looking his father in the face and when William said, “It’s mighty strange that you don’t know where she’s gone to!” the boy fixed his eyes on the pot of stew as if he expected to find his sister in among the carrots. After supper Will didn’t complain about doing Abigail’s chores, but it made little difference—William went right on ranting and raving about how such a rebellious girl ought to be locked up in the state reformatory. When William got tired of stomping around the house, he took a hickory switch in his hand and sat on the front porch to wait for Abigail Anne.

He sat there all night.



When dawn rolled across ThunderhillMountain, William saddled Malvania and rode into town looking for Miss Judith Troy.

Her tiny white house was at the far end of Belmont Street. William walked up to the door and began to pound on it with both fists. “Open this door, you troublemaker!” he shouted. “I want to talk to Abigail Anne!” By the time Judith Troy opened the door, the neighbors on both sides of her house and the deputy who lived directly across the street were all looking out their windows to see what the ruckus was about.

“Mister Lannigan, lower your voice!” Judith Troy said.

“You tell me where my girl’s gone, then I’ll lower my voice!” he screamed louder than ever. “You tell me right now!” He grabbed hold of Judith Troy’s shoulders and started shaking her like a rag doll; that’s when Deputy Greer came flying across the street and walloped William to the ground.

“We don’t allow folks to beat up on women!” the deputy said and twisted William’s arm back so far you could almost hear it crack. “If you want to ask Miss Judith something, you ask her nice and polite—understand?”

“She’s got my girl to run off,” William told the deputy.

“Is that so?” Deputy Greer asked Judith Troy, but she shook her head like she had no idea what the man was talking about.

“She run off yesterday,” William said, still addressing his words to the deputy.

“Abigail wasn’t even in school yesterday,” the teacher said, “so, how could I possibly know where she might be?”

William looked right at Judith Troy, “You know!” he said. “You know, because you’re the one who put those crazy notions in her head.”

“Miss Judith says she doesn’t know where your girl is,” the deputy told William. “If she says she doesn’t know, then that’s all there is to it— she doesn’t know!”

When it began to look like William wasn’t going to accept such an answer, Deputy Greer pressured his hold on the twisted back arm and shoved William Lannigan down the walkway. After Judith Troy closed her door and the deputy was able to let loose of William, he warned, “You don’t want this kind of trouble, so stay real far away from Miss Troy. You understand? Real far!”



Malvania had been ridden at a gallop all the way into town, but on the way back to the farm, William walked the horse at a slow trot.

When he arrived back at the farm, William sat on the front porch and buried his face in his hands. Later that evening he noticed that Livonia’s apron was not hanging on the peg in the kitchen, he then walked into Abigail Anne’s room and found the closet door standing open. Her clothes were gone; the white wedding dress was the only thing left hanging in the closet.



Just as Abigail had climbed aboard the train, she’d paused for a moment and glanced back at Will—half expecting him to be waving and smiling. Instead he’d already started walking back down the platform. She couldn’t see the way his eyes had filled with tears or the sorrowful droop that had settled on his mouth; all Abigail saw was her brother’s back, turned away, as if she’d already been forgotten. “Bye, Will,” she whispered softly, then lifted herself onto the last step and left the Shenandoah Valley behind.

For as long as she could remember, Abigail had harbored a wonderful image of what it would be like to travel on the train—dressed up folks chattering about places they were off to, Pullman porters serving champagne, everybody happy just to be aboard—not once had she imagined it would be so hot and stuffy. For a moment she tried to see things as she had pictured they would be; but with the cramped together seats and peeling paint it was impossible. On the platform there had been a cool breeze and the smell of summer apples but inside the railroad car the air was thick with other smells—gasoline, whiskey, cheese that had gone bad. Most folks were waving a cardboard fan back-and-forth in front of their faces; but Abigail had not thought to bring such a thing.

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