Abigail [antikvár]

Chapter 1 There was a secret—something to do with men and women. Grown-ups knew it; and servants knew it, too. At least, Annié certainly did. And since servants were more vulnerable than other adults, Abigail decided that Annié was going to yield this secret. It happened one winter day in London when Abigail went out to pay a call in the carriage. The horse cast a shoe, and she sent the coachman, Dilks, to have it reshod while she paid her call. Knowing Dilks' fondness for a drop, she sent Annié along to keep him out of mischief. In the coachman's case the trick had worked—he had taken drink all right, but not enough to show any effect. But poor Annié, who had matched him glass for glass, and who lacked his practised capacity, had well and truly lost the edge of her sobriety. At first, Abigail did not realize that this was her cfaance. The Secret was far from her thoughts. The whiff of gin shocked her. She turnéd on the maid: "Annié, you've been drinking!" The girl giggled, but Abigail could see that she was terri-fied. That terror halted her; she was caught between the righ-teousness of her anger and what she imagined was a tolerant worldliness. She had been angry with servants before, of course, but al-ways as a child of the house. Here the situation was hers to be mistress of—but what sort of mistress? Stern, pious, unbending? Aloof and condescending? She had never been either of those. Tolerant worldliness—a weary worldliness— seemed the most inviting, and the most like her. "Why on earth do you drink gin?" she said. "It's such a tipple." Annié smiled weakly with relief. "I didn't want to," she