Abigail’s thin shoulders lifted, and her head ducked as if she were a turtle withdrawing into a shell.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Helen murmured, “but I think we must, dearest. At least once. And then, if you wish, we’ll never discuss it again. Would that be all right?”
Abigail nodded and took a deep breath. “I woke up, but you and Jamie were asleep, so I took Puddles downstairs. I went with him outside so he could do his business, but then I saw Mr. Wiggins, and I ran back inside with Puddles and we hid.”
She paused, and Helen set down the brush to divide the long flaxen hair into three parts. “And then?”
“Mr. Wiggins came in the room,” Abigail said softly. “He… he shouted at me. He said I was spying on him.”
Helen’s brows knit. “Why would he think that?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail said evasively.
Helen decided to let it drop. “Then what happened?”
“And… and I cried. I didn’t want to—I tried not to, but I couldn’t seem to help myself,” she confessed miserably. “I hated crying in front of him.”
Helen’s mouth tightened, and she concentrated on braiding Abigail’s hair. For a brief, fierce moment, she wished that Alistair had killed Mr. Wiggins.
“Then Sir Alistair came in,” Abigail continued, “and he saw me and he saw Mr. Wiggins, and, Mama, he moved so fast! He took Mr. Wiggins by the neck and dragged him from the room, and I didn’t even know what was happening until I went into the hall, and then you and Jamie and Miss Munroe were there, and you told Sir Alistair that he must stop.” She took a deep breath at the end of this recitation.
Helen was silent a moment, thinking. She finished the braid and set aside the brush.
“Hold the pins,” she murmured, “while I do your crown.”
She placed the hairpins in Abigail’s hand and began wrapping the braid high across her daughter’s head.
“Thank you, darling.” She accepted a hairpin from Abigail and placed it carefully in the braid to anchor it. “I was wondering if anything else happened in the room where you hid with Puddles?”
Abigail held very still while she did her coiffure, but her eyes were lowered to the pins in her hand.
Helen’s heart missed a beat. Something seemed to be clogging her throat, and she had to clear it before going on. “Did Mr. Wiggins touch you at all?”
Abigail blinked and looked up, her eyes puzzled. “Touch me?”
Oh, God. Helen made her voice casual. “Did he put his hand on you, sweeting? Or… or try to kiss you?”
“Ewww!” Abigail’s face screwed into a mask of appalled disgust. “No, Mama! He didn’t want to kiss me—he wanted to beat me.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know.” Abigail looked away. “He said that he was going to, but then Sir Alistair came in and dragged him out.”
The clog in her throat was abruptly gone. Helen swallowed and asked, to be completely sure, “Then he didn’t touch you at all?”
“No, I told you. Sir Alistair came in before Mr. Wiggins could come near me. I don’t think he would want to kiss me when he was so angry, anyway.”
Abigail looked at her as if she was rather dim.
And Helen had never been so glad in all her life to be thought stupid. She placed the last pin, turned Abigail around to face her, and hugged her, careful not to squeeze as tightly as she really wanted.
“Well, I’m glad that Sir Alistair came in when he did. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Mr. Wiggins again.”
Abigail squirmed. “Can I look in the mirror?”
“Of course.” Helen opened her arms and set her daughter free. Abigail ran to an old mirror over the dresser. She stood on tiptoe, turning her head first one way and then the other to see her crown of braided hair.
“I’m hungry,” Jamie announced, bouncing off the bed.
Helen nodded briskly and rose. “Let me dress and we’ll see what Mrs. McCleod has for breakfast.”
She began her toilet with a considerably lighter heart, though a small part of her brain pondered over Abigail’s evasion. If Mr. Wiggins wanted to beat the girl, what was she hiding?
“WE HAVE GOT to find a name for that dog,” Sir Alistair muttered to no one in particular later that afternoon. He hitched his old satchel over his shoulder.
He’d paused at the crest of a small hill to watch Jamie and Abigail roll down the other side. Jamie threw himself to the ground and rolled with complete abandon, oblivious both to possible obstacles and the direction his little body rocketed in. Abigail, in contrast, carefully tucked her skirts about her legs before lying down, her arms over her head, and slowly rolled in a straight line down the hill.
“You don’t like the name Puddles?” Helen asked. She’d tilted her face to the breeze and looked quite angelic.
Nonetheless, he shot her a dark look. “The animal will die of humiliation once it’s old enough to understand its name.”
She looked doubtfully at him. “Understand its name?”
He ignored the look. “A dog—especially a male dog—needs a dignified name.”
They both watched as the puppy, running excitedly down the hill after the children, tripped on its big paws and rolled to the bottom in a heap of long ears and muddy fur. The dog got up, shook itself, and started back up the hill again.
Alistair winced. “This dog in particular needs a dignified name.”
Helen giggled.
He felt his mouth twisting in a reluctant smile. It was a lovely day, after all, and she and the children were safe. For the present, it was enough that Wiggins hadn’t touched Abigail with lecherous intent but had merely scared the wits out of her. When Helen had told him, shortly before they’d sat for breakfast, he’d felt an awful weight lift from his chest.
Sophia, who’d also been part of the whispered conversation, had merely nodded and muttered, “Good,” before tucking into the porridge, bacon, and eggs that Mrs. McCleod had prepared. Shortly thereafter, she and Miss McDonald had departed for Edinburgh. He’d watched the carriage disappear down his drive with mixed feelings. He’d enjoyed sparring with his sister—he’d forgotten how much he liked her company—but he was glad to have the castle to himself and Helen again. Sophia’s eyes were far, far too perceptive.
He’d spent the remainder of the morning in productive work, but during luncheon, Jamie had spoken rather wistfully about the badgers they’d been unable to find the day before. That had led to a suggestion of an afternoon ramble, and now Alistair found himself derelict from his work and hiking the countryside.