Page 17

“If you say ‘fine’ I shall box your ears, lady or no.” Mrs. Welling gave her a furious frown. “I’ve eyes in me head. You’re favoring your right leg something fierce, and that high collar in this heat tells its own tale.”

Abigail set down the pestle with careful deliberation and fiddled with the scales that refused to balance. “Marjory worries excessively. She needn’t have troubled you.”

“Troubled me? Girl, half the women here know what it is to be set upon by some brute.” Mrs. Welling took the small brass scale from Abigail’s hands with surprising gentleness. “Doesn’t do to pretend it leaves no mark on the soul.”

Abigail’s throat tightened, and not just from the bruising. The dispensary suddenly felt too small, too close. She busied herselfwith adjusting the sleeves of her dress to cover the marks on her wrists.

“It was merely an unfortunate incident,” she said. “I refuse to let it disrupt the work that needs doing.”

If I stop, I’ll think. If I think, I’ll feel. And if I feel?—

Mrs. Welling sighed. “At least let me send Alice to help with the heaviest tasks. The girl’s got strong arms and a quick mind.”

“Very well.” Abigail conceded this small point, knowing it would gain her the freedom to continue her work. “But please, there’s no need to mention yesterday’s... events to anyone else. The women here have burdens enough without adding mine.”

Mrs. Welling gave her a long, searching look. “As you wish. Though hiding wounds never helped them heal faster in my experience.”

The sharp clatter of the front door saved Abigail from having to respond. Quick footsteps crossed the entry hall, accompanied by the swish of silk against wood. Abigail knew that brisk pace without needing to see its owner.

“Abigail Eleanora Finch!” Marjory’s voice rang through the corridor with the clarity of a church bell. “You impossible, stubborn?—”

Mrs. Welling raised an eyebrow. “I’ll just fetch Alice, shall I?” she murmured, slipping out past Marjory with a nod.

Marjory stood in the doorway, a vision in sea-green muslin with a matching parasol clutched in her gloved hand. Younger by five years, she possessed all the beauty Abigail had once had, coupled with fierce intelligence that intimidated most of London society. Marriage to the Duke of Sherton had only made her more formidable.

“You were meant to be resting,” Marjory said, lowering her voice as she closed the dispensary door. “Mother sent word that you were attacked. I specifically replied that you weren’t to leave your bed for at least two days.”

Abigail sighed, abandoning the pretense of work. “Since when do you dictate my movements?”

“Since you apparently lost all sense of self-preservation!” Marjory’s eyes narrowed as she examined her sister more closely. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Whatever you’re hiding beneath that ridiculous collar. It’s hot as July, for heaven’s sake.”

Abigail didn’t move. “This is hardly the place?—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Marjory stepped forward and gently unfastened the top buttons of Abigail’s dress before she could retreat. Her sharp intake of breath was followed by a muttered curse that would have scandalized their mother. Marjory only swore when emotion got the better of her, which meant she was well and truly incensed.

“It’s not as bad as it appears,” Abigail said, refastening the buttons with trembling fingers.

“It looks like someone nearly succeeded in strangling you.” Marjory’s voice shook as her expression shifted from fury to fear, before settling into the worst of all—pity. “And you’re sorting herbs? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’ve lost nothing but a day’s work,” Abigail replied, turning back to the scales to measure out the willow bark into individual doses. “Timothy’s fever won’t wait for my bruises to fade.”

“Timothy has Mrs. Welling and half a dozen other capable women to tend him.” Marjory took Abigail’s hands, stilling them. “You don’t have to carry everyone’s burdens to prove your worth, Abby.”

The use of her childhood name almost undid her. Abigail pulled away, busying herself with measuring the powdered bark onto a square of paper.

“This isn’t about proving anything,” she said, though the lie tasted bitter on her tongue. “It’s about doing what needs to be done.”

“Is it?” Marjory’s voice gentled. “Or is it about not allowing yourself a moment to breathe, to feel?”

“What good would that do?” Abigail demanded, raising her voice and instantly regretting it. She swallowed painfully and continued in a low whisper. “Shall I sit at home and weep? Perhaps I should faint dramatically onto a chaise lounge like some delicate flower in a gothic novel?”

Marjory didn’t flinch. “Perhaps you should acknowledge that something terrible happened to you. That you were hurt. That you were frightened.”

“I acknowledged it. Now I’m moving forward.”