Page 1

CHAPTER 1

“Mrs. Welling, we can bring the spring linens down now,” Abigail called, shifting the blankets higher as she hurried down the hall.

Sunshine flooded the narrow corridors of Beacon House, the warmth heralding a sudden shift to spring that had thrown the shelter into frantic preparations for the change in season. A rash of coughs and fevers kept Abigail and the other caretakers busy from dawn until well past dark.

“These last ones should fit in the cedar chest,” she said, turning the corner.

Instead of Mrs. Welling’s plump figure, Abigail collided with what might have been a wall—had walls suddenly taken to wearing austere black broadcloth and exuding the sharp tang of astringent. The blankets cascaded in a woolen avalanche as she stumbled backward, her balance deserting her entirely.

A hand closed around her elbow—large, steady, and startlingly warm through the thin muslin of her sleeve. The grip arrested her fall with such practiced precision that Abigail had the peculiar thought that the owner of this hand had caught many falling things before.

She looked up into eyes the precise shade of a winter sea—not the gentle blue of forget-me-nots or spring skies, but something colder, deeper, and infinitely more watchful.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, dropping into an awkward curtsy amid the fallen blankets. Her cheeks burned with the particular mortification reserved for gentlewomen caught in undignified circumstances. “I didn’t see?—”

“Clearly,” the man interrupted, releasing her arm the instant she regained her footing. His voice carried the clipped precision of military command beneath its cultured tones. “I’m looking for a boy named Timothy.”

Abigail straightened, her embarrassment giving way to wariness. Beacon House sheltered women and children from London’s most desperate circumstances; gentlemen callers—particularly unannounced ones—were regarded with justifiable suspicion.

“May I ask who you are, sir?” She kept her tone polite but firm as she knelt to gather the scattered wool. “This is a charity house, and we don’t receive gentlemen visitors without prior arrangement.”

“Dr. Redchester.” No honorific, no elaboration. Just two words delivered with the expectation they would suffice.

The name meant nothing to her, but his bearing spoke volumes. Despite his severe attire and the absence of fashionable accoutrements, everything about him—from his stance to the cut of his jaw—proclaimed him a gentleman born, not made. The contradiction intrigued her despite herself.

“I was expecting Dr. Hargrove this afternoon.” The elderly physician had been tending Timothy’s chest complaint for a fortnight, his kindly manner and peppermint-scented handkerchief a reassuring presence.

“Hargrove was called to an emergency. He asked me to see the boy instead.” Dr. Redchester knelt, gathering the remaining blankets with efficient movements. His hands were not what she expected of a physician—broad-palmed and strong, with a thin white scar across one knuckle. They moved with the precision of someone accustomed to tasks requiring both strength and delicacy.

He rose with the entire stack of blankets secured in his arms. “Where were these headed?”

“The cedar chest in the storage room,” she replied, disconcerted by the casual assumption of control. “But you needn’t trouble yourself, Dr. Redchester. I can manage.”

“I’m already holding them.” The simple statement brooked no argument, delivered not with arrogance but with thepragmatism of a man unaccustomed to wasting words or motion. “The storage room?”

Abigail turned, suddenly conscious of her worn day dress and practical chignon. In another lifetime, she would have been mortified to be seen thus by a gentleman. Now, she merely wondered at the strange twist of fate that had placed this particular doctor in this particular corridor at precisely the wrong moment.

She led him down the passageway, uncomfortably aware of his silent presence behind her. His footsteps fell with the measured cadence of a man who had learned to walk in formation. Not the typical gait of a London physician.

The silence between them stretched like an over-wound clock spring. Abigail, unaccustomed to being so visible, found herself strangely unable to bear his wordless scrutiny.

“We’re grateful you’ve come so quickly,” she said, her voice too bright in the narrow space. “Timothy has been with us for only three weeks. His mother?—”

“It’s better not to form attachments to patients,” he interrupted. His tone held no censure, merely stating what he clearly considered an immutable fact. “It clouds judgment.”

Abigail halted abruptly on the landing, turning to face him. In the slanted light from the small window, his face was all planes and shadows.

“How strange,” she said, surprising herself with her boldness. “I find those attachments are precisely what make life worth living.”

Something flickered in his expression—a momentary breach in his composure, as though she had spoken in a language he recognized but had not heard in some time. He shifted his gaze to her hands, which were red and chapped from lye soap and cold water.

“You’ve been applying compresses,” he observed. Not a question.

“Both cold and warm,” she answered, impressed by his notice. “Cold when his fever spiked, warm when the coughing worsened.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Most use only one or the other.”

The unexpected approval warmed her more than it should have, and she hastened to open the door to the storage room to hide her pink cheeks.