Short Story - Abigail

Abigail had only one fault.  Being right.  Charles had always said so, back in the old days.  Days before he died so suddenly, keeling over in the churchyard during that dreadful funeral.   Elspeth; that was the woman’s name.  Fairfax, or Fairweather, something like that.  Grand sort of name for the mousy, waiflike creature with long fair hair who lived at the shabby cottage at the far end of the village.  How she’d come to live there, no-one really knew. 
Idleness is a sin, as Abigail knows only too well, gazing out at the snow swirling onto the patio and the neat lawn beyond.  Jolted back to the present by the harsh ringing of the telephone, she goes through to the hall to answer it.  Knowing it will be her son, Simon, she simply says “Hello”.  Looking at the black and white graduation photograph of him on the hall table, she listens for a long time, saying nothing.  “Mum; Mum, are you still there?”
“No Simon, I’m somewhere else entirely.”
“Oh come on, Mum, it’s not that bad, is it? Poor Dad didn’t even have a chance to get to know her.”
“Quite right, too, she should never have been born.”
“Really, Mum, I can’t speak to you about this any more right now; I’ll call back later when you’re in a more reasonable mood.” Simon hung up; Abigail dropped onto the chair by the phone, sat picking absently at a pulled piece of grey wool in her cardigan sleeve.  Trust Charles to have gone and done something stupid and then left them to pick up the pieces.  Unbelievable, that’s what it was, that her husband of forty years could have had a daughter that none of them had any idea about.  Vile thoughts ran through her mind, of revenge and justice and things turning out for the best.  What a pity Elspeth had been allergic to peanuts and that she had had no idea about it when she invited her for afternoon tea that day when Charles had been away on business.  Extremely unfortunate, too, that Charles’ pre-existing heart condition and the fact that he’d run out of his medication, had meant that he’d dropped dead at his bastard daughter’s funeral.
Zealously, Abigail set to work polishing the silver cutlery and laying out cups and saucers for bridge club later on that afternoon.