Page 18

“No, you’re running. There’s a difference.” Marjory leaned against the worktable. “I know something about this.”

Abigail’s hands stilled. Of course Marjory understood. Her sister had endured her own ordeal—kidnapped by the Marquess of Westfield. She’d escaped, but not without scars both visible and hidden.

“This wasn’t the same,” Abigail said quietly.

“No, it wasn’t,” Marjory agreed. “But the aftermath—the feeling that if you stop moving, it might consume you—that’s familiar enough.”

Abigail pressed her palms flat against the table, suddenly needing its solid support. “I can’t afford to be weak.”

“Being human isn’t the same as being weak.” Marjory touched her arm lightly. “Feeling the pain will not break you—I promise.”

The observation cut deep. A knot formed in her throat, threatening to undo her careful composure.

“I have my own way of coping,” she said, pulling her arm away from her sister’s touch.

“Yes, by running yourself into the bloody ground until someone has to carry you.” Marjory exhaled through her teeth. “God, Abby.”

After a beat, her sister sighed and shook her head. “At least promise me you’ll sit down while working. And no carrying anything heavier than this mortar.”

Before Abigail could answer, a sharp rap at the door preceded Alice’s round face appearing in the gap.

“Begging your pardon,” the young woman said, a hint of urgency in her voice. “It’s Timothy. His fever’s taken a bad turn, and he’s asking for you.”

Abigail was limping from the room before Alice finished speaking. She tucked a packet of willow bark powder in her pocket. Marjory caught her arm.

“Slowly,” she cautioned. “You’ll do him no good if you fall down the stairs.”

In the end, Marjory needn’t have worried. Her body refused to be hurried, and the laborious climb up the stairs to Timothy’s room took far longer than she liked.The small sickroom at the end of the corridor. The small window was open, letting in a fickle breeze, and spotted shadows where the sun streamed through the leaves of a towering oak tree. Timothy lay on the narrow bed, his thin face flushed with fever. His chest rising and falling in shallow labored breaths.

I’ll add in Abigail giving Timothy the willow bark for his fever, replacing some of the sponging sequence as requested.

“Miss Abby?” The boy smiled through cracked lips and reached toward her. “They said you wasn’t coming today.”

Abigail sat carefully on the edge of the bed, taking his hot hand in hers. “And miss seeing the bravest boy this side of the Thames? Never.”

“Not brave,” he mumbled, turning his face away. “Scared. Can’t breathe good.”

“Brave people get scared too.” She smoothed his hair back off his burning forehead. “It’s what they do despite the fear that makes them brave.”

Timothy’s fever-bright eyes studied her face. “Your voice sounds funny.”

“I have a bit of a cold,” she lied, reaching into her pocket for the packet of willow bark powder. “Nothing that won’t mend.”

“Mrs. Foley said you got hurt.” His small hand touched her wrist where the sleeve had ridden up, revealing a dark bruise. “Like when my ma got hurt sometimes.”

Abigail’s heart constricted. Timothy’s mother had died at the hands of her husband, leaving the boy alone until Beacon House had taken him in. Of course he would recognize the marks of violence.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly, abandoning pretense as she mixed the willow bark into a cup of water from his bedside table. “Someone tried to hurt me yesterday. But a good man stopped him, and now I’m here with you. The world has both kinds of people in it—those who hurt and those who help.”

Timothy seemed to consider this. “Which one am I?”

“A helper, without question,” Abigail said firmly, helping him sit up enough to drink the bitter medicine. “The very best kind.”

A small smile flickered across his face before his eyes drifted closed. “Good,” he murmured. “Don’t want to be the other kind.”

His fingers curled around hers. Timothy’s eyes fluttered open again, studying her with that unnerving perception that children possessed.

“Were you scared, Miss Abby?” he whispered.