Chapter 6.
A Suspicious Motive.

Christmas was a dreary affair. Aunt Imogen was moody because her daughter, Rosalin, had gone to spend the festive season with her husband's family. She vented her frustration on Abigail and would snap at George if he tried to defend her. Abigail left her Aunt's home on Boxing Day.

It will be a long time before I visit them again. Abigail promised herself as she rode the train back to London.

Part of her looked forward to returning to the capital. Part of her dreaded it.

Why did I ever agree to meet Lord Righton again? There really was no need of it. I don't remember him, and there is a lot of bad air between us. Aunt Imogen holds a grudge, and his brother would seek to ruin me if he found out I'm arranging private meetings with him. It must have been the old me that took ahold of my reason for a moment.

Abigail leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She didn't want to be suspicious, but she couldn't help it. Lord Righton was a younger son. He had no inheritance and was totally dependent on his elder brother. From what George said, he didn't have an occupation. Although he claimed to be heartbroken, claimed to be waiting for her, he had made no attempt in the past three years to search her out. If he really wanted her, he could have tried to find her after she turned twenty-one and had come into the money left to her by her father. Of course, the money was hardly enough to tempt an aristocrat.

Yet, something deep inside told her that their meeting at the ball hadn't been an accident. It seemed as though, at long last, he had come looking for her.

But why only now?

Had he somehow found out about her inheritance?

The inheritance was perhaps the main reason Abigail spent most of her time away from high society.

Her uncle, Maxwell Havisham and his money were a topic that London society loved to gossip about. It had been over ten years since he had come into a large fortune and disappeared with it, but everyone still loved to bring up the story at balls and dinner parties. Sir Silas Havisham, the Viscount of Derrywill, told anyone who would listen that this money had been stolen from him. Whether this was true or false, Abigail would never know. Her uncle died two years ago in the summer, just three months after her twenty first birthday and one month after her accident. A lawyer had come to visit her and spoke to her in private. Maxwell Havisham had gone to America and opened a successful publishing company in New York City. He also invested shares with some large railway company and a steel manufacturing plant. All this left him with more money than many of the British nobility could boast of. After his death, the publishing company was left to his faithful manager, but to his niece he left some shares, plus all the shares he had invested in the other companies. All this came up to a yearly sum of six thousand pounds. 

It was a blessing and a curse. Now she was a wealthy woman who didn't need to depend on anyone for anything. But possessing such a large fortune with no memory of her past made her easy prey for men who wanted to get their hands on easy money.  They could come up with any wild story, and she wouldn't know if it was true or false. It was for this reason that Abigail kept her amnesia and her inheritance a secret. Even Aunt Imogen and Cousin George had no idea of her wealth.

Maybe somehow, somewhere, Lord Righton had heard of the inheritance and decided to make a move. But then he had returned her handkerchief and her portrait without any argument. This showed he wasn't desperate to pursue.

Maybe I'm really overthinking all of this, Abigail mused as she stepped off the train and hailed a cab. After all, how could he have found out? Only Mr. Jenson, my uncle's lawyer here in England,  knows that I inherited Uncle Maxwell's shares. The rest of the world thinks I am living off the two hundred and fifty pounds left to me by Papa. Poor Uncle Maxwell, he made me such a rich woman, and I have no memory of him at all. Fate is a funny thing.

The cab took Abigail to the boarding house where she resided. After paying the fair, she got off and was about to go inside when out of the corner of her eyes she thought she saw a man who bore resemblance to Lord Righton. Abigail stopped short in her tracks and turned to get a better look. The person disappeared around the corner of a building. Not one to shy away from such things, Abigail gripped her carpet bag and went to inspect. But when she also turned the corner there was no one in sight. A deep frown set in her face. Was that man stalking her? 

"What a horrible thought," she told the air in an offended tone. She turned and went back to the boarding house, looking back over her shoulder every two or three steps. If Lord Righton was really following her around, it would be best to end all relations with him once and for all. That sort of behaviour was unacceptable, and she would not stand for it. 

But then perhaps it wasn't Lord Righton. She hadn't gotten a good look at his face. He wore a hat on his head, so there was no knowing what colour his hair was. The only thing she could go by was that the figure was tall and slim, and of course, Lord Righton was not the only tall, slim gentleman in London.

This is ridiculous. Your fear is letting your imagination get the better of you. Either way, he will come to the school when it opens next year, and I will make it clear that the past must remain in the past and he has to move on with his life. After that I will avoid him at all costs. Luckily, we move in very different circles and shouldn't ever cross paths ever again. I'll just have to be careful about accepting invitations to balls and parties from Elizabeth.