Reaching one hand across the miniscule tabletop to clasp and hold her guest’s limp, upcurled fingers, Abigail attempted to return a sense of lightness (for which mood the Table’s reputation was becoming famous) to the moment. “Well, then, give him a chance. Maybe you’ll feel entirely differently when he arrives and spends time with you. You might be pleasantly surprised, instead of scrambling about in the doldrums. We women are tough, remember; we’re built for fortitude.”
“Yes, I certainly concur with that.”
“Are you prepared to meet him?”
“I only wish that—well, at any rate, when he finally insisted upon coming here, so that we could meet and—um—marry...the prospect of actually bringing to fruition what I’d set in motion—well, it terrifies me, Abby. It just plain terrifies me!”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I feel this way! He is literally a stranger. As if I—as if I were trapped, caught in a snare like some poor victimized rabbit fated for the stewpot, and I can’t escape, whatever I try.”
“H’mmm.” Again, she paused to reflect, in an effort to help her friend break free of this maze of emotion in which she was foundering. “Are you so violently opposed to marriage in general, or just this particular one, to a stranger?”
The slight shiver seemed to begin at the toes of Hannah’s neat black boots and work its way up, through bent knees, through rigid spine, through stiffened shoulders. “I—I’m not sure. I only know that I—I’d like to go back to where I was, a few months ago, before I even conceived this fool idea.”
Abigail, chuckling, refilled their cups from the pot with its clever tea cozy. “Oh, yes, wouldn’t it be a blessing if we could simply erase all the things we’ve done wrong in our lifetimes, and have a chance to re-do. But, then, my dear Hannah, we would never learn from our mistakes, would we?”
“Huh. I can’t see what I’m learning from this one.”
“Can’t you? Well, perhaps, somewhere in the future, you will. Meanwhile, would you like some moral support when this brave, resolute husband-to-be rides into town on his white charger?”
Hannah managed a reluctant smile. “How poetic you are, Abby. No, I’ve gotten myself into this mess, and I’ll have to get myself out of it. But thank you for your offer. And thank you for listening. It’s amazing how much it helps, just being able to talk out a problem.”
“That’s what we women do best. And so Ualraig is due here on Wednesday?”
“Not exactly that day. Somewhere around it, though. He’s to let me know once he arrives. And I believe he’ll be coming in by stage, not by horseback.”
For a moment Abigail studied the unhappy girl, nearly twenty years her junior, and the woebegone expression on her face. “Things will work out,” she offered gently. “Perhaps not always in the way we want, but things will work out. Trust me.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. For me, personally, I don’t see how matters could get worse.”
“Certainly they could always get worse. You could be forced to marry Abel Norton, at the stable, and bear him a passel of babies.”
They shared a spurt of laughter, and more tea. After a few minutes, Hannah, with a word of apology for keeping Abigail so long from her other guests, made motions to gather up her gear.
“You attended the town council meeting in January, didn’t you?” Abigail stopped her with this question, out of the blue.
“I did, indeed. And wrote an article for the Gazette. Rancorous doesn’t describe it!” Hannah shook her head at the memory. “Ben could hardly keep order, once the fights broke out; it became a near-brawl, and for a while I hid behind the coat rack. One member actually resigned in protest, and stormed out the door.”
“All because some businessman is trying to set up a sawmill outside of town?”
“Sounds like a silly thing to battle about, doesn’t it? Some want it, others hate the idea.”
“But why the argument? It seems that would be a worthy and viable undertaking all around, providing employment and bringing traffic and increased financial security to the town.”
Hannah, reaching for her coat and hat, shrugged. “Apparently it’s all about location. Howard Cutter, who gave up his seat, lives very near where the sawmill would be est
ablished, and is already complaining about noise and dust even before plans have been finalized.”
“H’mmm.” Abigail’s index finger slowly circled the rim of her beautiful cup. “Well, I shall give you a tidbit for your newspaper, Hannah. A scoop—isn’t that what it’s called? I intend to put my name forward so that I can replace that angry council member.”
“You’re what?” Her movements slowed as she stared at her companion. “But, Abby—is that allowed?”
“I have no idea.” Blue eyes crinkled with amusement, she tilted her head, with its shining coronet of gold curls, slightly sideways. “We’ll certainly find out, won’t we?”
If she had had any to begin with, all the wind would have been taken out of Hannah’s sails by this announcement. She collapsed back into her chair, shocked, amazed, and incredulous. A woman, attempting to be seated with those other tunnel-visioned members of the town council—the nerve! The bravado! The sheer, unmitigated gall!
“That would prove the town to be forward-thinking, at least,” said Hannah slowly, ruminating. “If only you might be elected—”