The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(31)



By then Isaac had quieted down, and without that distraction she found herself wondering what her papa would say when he discovered she was gone. Abigail had thought of leaving a letter to explain her actions—she’d even sat down at the table and tried to write one on three different occasions; but the words were missing. Her father had next to no forgiveness in his heart and nothing she could say would cause him to feel differently. Finally she’d set the pen aside; thinking such a letter would be better written in the future, after time had lessened William’s anger. With Henry it was a different story; he’d understand. The truth was that all along he’d known where Abigail’s heart was leading her—he’d tried to tell William, but William had insisted otherwise. When thoughts of Henry came to mind Abigail found herself earnestly wishing that he’d find a new sweetheart to bake the peach pies he’d come to love.

When the sun became red and day faded into dusk Abigail went back to studying the pages of Harper’s Bazaar. For a long while she sat there picturing herself in cloche hats and silk stockings; then dusk gave way to the black of night and she fell asleep drifting back into the world of Harper’s Bazaar. In the dream she was wearing a lace dress with a wide blue sash and dancing the waltz with a courtly slender-built man. Everything was as lovely as she’d known it would be; but, when she looked into her partner’s face she saw the saddened eyes of Henry. Abigail woke with a start just as the conductor came through bellowing “Richmond, next stop, Richmond!”



The train rumbled into Richmond, a place so lit up with electric lights it looked like the middle of the day. Abigail had always been favorably impressed with the wooden station house at Lynchburg, but this station was four times the size, and it was bustling with porters hauling suitcases and steamer trunks.

Abigail took a look out the window and felt her heart jump. These were the people from Harper’s Bazaar Magazine! She tugged her suitcase from the overhead rack and moved toward the door. Out on the platform, a man in a brass-buttoned suit was doing nothing but holding the hand of ladies as they stepped down from the train and saying, “Welcome to Richmond.” Abigail set her satchel down and extended her hand as the other ladies had, but when she stepped from the train she stumbled over her own feet. “Careful,” the platform man said and he smiled.

Abigail had never seen so many people in one place. She twisted her head one way and then the other, eyeing fancy ladies and men dressed as though they worked in bank. She didn’t notice the man standing at the far back of the platform although he stood a good head taller than most of the others and had skin blacker than the richest soil of the Shenandoah Valley. He was the one who came up to her and asked, “You Miss Abigail Anne?”

She nodded.

“I’m Frederick,” the big man said, “Miss Meredith sent me to fetch you.” He bent, picked up both suitcases and told her to follow him. “Now, stay close,” he warned, “else you could get lost.”



Miss Meredith’s house was nothing like any of those Abigail had imagined. It was a modest two-story, painted the pink of an evening sky and set far back from the street. In the front yard were dozens of rhododendron bushes in full bloom and a weeping willow that had grown taller than any other tree on the block. Abigail believed it to be the grandest house she had ever laid eyes on.

Miss Meredith, a bent over woman who supported herself with the aid of a cane, was waiting in the doorway. “Welcome to my home, Abigail Anne,” she said, and then told Frederick he should take the bags upstairs and place them in the rose bedroom. “We’ve a late supper waiting,” she said and led Abigail into a dining room where the table was set with fine china and crystal.

“Oh, my!” Abigail exclaimed and let out a whoosh of air.

Miss Meredith smiled. “You’re going to enjoy living here, Abigail. Richmond is a lovely city with many things to do.”

After they had eaten a supper of cold chicken and thick slices of fresh tomatoes, Abigail retired to what Miss Meredith called the rose room, for what reason she couldn’t imagine, because it was decorated in varying shades of yellow. She took her dresses from the suitcase and hung them in the closet, but they now seemed frumpy and drab in comparison to the outfits worn by the ladies at the train station. “Oh dear,” Abigail sighed, then she washed her face, pushed open the window and climbed into bed. As she lay there in the darkness thinking of how she would spend her very first pay on a new frock, one with a wide sash that circled her hips, the scent of roses drifted in on the cool night air.



Abigail quickly settled into Miss Meredith’s schedule which was to rise early and rest in the heat of the afternoon. By seven each morning they were at work, Abigail pecking away at the typewriter keys as Miss Meredith expounded on an abstract collection of thoughts. After lunch, Miss Meredith napped but Abigail usually returned to the typewriter and practiced; some days she remained there so long that her hands felt locked into position. At night, she dreamt of her fingers stretching out to reach letters like Y or Z and her hand gracefully sliding the carriage back to its starting position. Less than a month after her arrival, Abigail sat down at the typewriter and clacked out a letter to her brother.

Dear Will,



I have arrived in Richmond and am doing fine. As you can see, I have already learned to use Miss Meredith’s typewriting machine. She is a fine lady and is teaching me many new things. Every night we have supper in the dining room and when I use the wrong fork, Miss Meredith is pleasant enough about pointing out my mistake.

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