dream-troubled bouts and wouldn’t talk to anyone, her father had decided to send her north.
Her mother’s family, though loyal and compassionate to the daughter of Mary Curran, were a superstitious people who believed that on the day her mother died, a part of Abbigael’s soul went with her. They could not fully trust the girl with haunted eyes who did not speak for months. They believed anyone who had resided so long in such darkness surely retained some of it within her.
All her life, Abbigael had had an exceptional sensitivity to the nuances of other people’s emotions and intentions. She knew when someone was upset or uncomfortable no matter how they tried to hide it. She felt people’s fear, their excitement and guilt as if it were her own.
Her mother used to tell her that her ability to empathize so acutely was a gift to be cultivated. But in the horrific aftermath of her mother’s death, surrounded by the sadness and dread of those closest to her, Abbigael wished only to retreat from it all.
As time went on, Abbigael learned to hold herself more distant. In order to save herself, she had to shut away the part of her that felt things most deeply. She couldn’t completely block out the way she intuited other people, but in separating her own emotions, she learned not to take it too far into herself. She secured her sorrow deep inside and began to recover.
Day by day she claimed a bit more of the light, and though she did not carry the same beliefs as those who cared for her, she did understand that she had been changed by her grief. And when her father came to visit her the first time, Abbigael saw the uncertainty and the fear in his eyes and knew she would not be returning home with him.
Her father loved her, but he was not an emotional man. Though he never showed it, she knew he grieved in his own way and she understood with instinctive certainty that he was not capable of taking on the weight of her grief in addition to his own. They never spoke of her mother’s death or Abbigael’s emotional break. She saw how her mother’s death had changed him as well, and as more time went on, for his sake she pretended to be content with his seasonal visits and their guarded conversations.
The rare and glancing moments when Abbigael was reminded of how close she had once been with her father were more painful in that they never lasted very long.
She looked down at the vanity, wondering what it was this time that recalled her father to the devastating memories of the past.
When she saw it lying amidst her pearls and gold, her heart swelled to aching and tears pricked behind her eyes.
Her mother’s broach. It was an ancient and heavy silver piece that had been passed through dozens of generations in her mother’s family. Designed in an intricate Celtic knot with tiny emeralds and amethysts nestled amongst the twining silver, it was the only thing of her mother’s that Abbigael possessed. Lifting the broach from amongst the other less significant items, she held its heavy weight in both of her hands and brought it to her heart, then closed her eyes and whispered a fervent prayer.
“Please, Mother, help me to find happiness here so Father may also find some peace from the dark shadows of the past. I love you. And I miss you.”
She stood for a moment, wishing she had her mother’s strength and stubbornness. Then she opened her eyes, set the medieval broach in the velvet lined box and closed the lid.
She refused to allow the dark weight of familiar loneliness to crowd out the bright spark of hope that had flared to life when the Blackbournes had agreed to sponsor her London season. And when the morning arrived for the household to load up the carriages and set out for town, Abbigael awoke with a sense of excitement and adventure that she hoped would carry her through the certain challenges ahead.
The day of their departure from Essex dawned bright and sunny and it was no surprise that Lady Blackbourne,
Her mother’s family, though loyal and compassionate to the daughter of Mary Curran, were a superstitious people who believed that on the day her mother died, a part of Abbigael’s soul went with her. They could not fully trust the girl with haunted eyes who did not speak for months. They believed anyone who had resided so long in such darkness surely retained some of it within her.
All her life, Abbigael had had an exceptional sensitivity to the nuances of other people’s emotions and intentions. She knew when someone was upset or uncomfortable no matter how they tried to hide it. She felt people’s fear, their excitement and guilt as if it were her own.
Her mother used to tell her that her ability to empathize so acutely was a gift to be cultivated. But in the horrific aftermath of her mother’s death, surrounded by the sadness and dread of those closest to her, Abbigael wished only to retreat from it all.
As time went on, Abbigael learned to hold herself more distant. In order to save herself, she had to shut away the part of her that felt things most deeply. She couldn’t completely block out the way she intuited other people, but in separating her own emotions, she learned not to take it too far into herself. She secured her sorrow deep inside and began to recover.
Day by day she claimed a bit more of the light, and though she did not carry the same beliefs as those who cared for her, she did understand that she had been changed by her grief. And when her father came to visit her the first time, Abbigael saw the uncertainty and the fear in his eyes and knew she would not be returning home with him.
Her father loved her, but he was not an emotional man. Though he never showed it, she knew he grieved in his own way and she understood with instinctive certainty that he was not capable of taking on the weight of her grief in addition to his own. They never spoke of her mother’s death or Abbigael’s emotional break. She saw how her mother’s death had changed him as well, and as more time went on, for his sake she pretended to be content with his seasonal visits and their guarded conversations.
The rare and glancing moments when Abbigael was reminded of how close she had once been with her father were more painful in that they never lasted very long.
She looked down at the vanity, wondering what it was this time that recalled her father to the devastating memories of the past.
When she saw it lying amidst her pearls and gold, her heart swelled to aching and tears pricked behind her eyes.
Her mother’s broach. It was an ancient and heavy silver piece that had been passed through dozens of generations in her mother’s family. Designed in an intricate Celtic knot with tiny emeralds and amethysts nestled amongst the twining silver, it was the only thing of her mother’s that Abbigael possessed. Lifting the broach from amongst the other less significant items, she held its heavy weight in both of her hands and brought it to her heart, then closed her eyes and whispered a fervent prayer.
“Please, Mother, help me to find happiness here so Father may also find some peace from the dark shadows of the past. I love you. And I miss you.”
She stood for a moment, wishing she had her mother’s strength and stubbornness. Then she opened her eyes, set the medieval broach in the velvet lined box and closed the lid.
She refused to allow the dark weight of familiar loneliness to crowd out the bright spark of hope that had flared to life when the Blackbournes had agreed to sponsor her London season. And when the morning arrived for the household to load up the carriages and set out for town, Abbigael awoke with a sense of excitement and adventure that she hoped would carry her through the certain challenges ahead.
The day of their departure from Essex dawned bright and sunny and it was no surprise that Lady Blackbourne,
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