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She paused, setting the empty cup aside. Another lie sprang to her lips. She’d spent the morning armoring herself against Verity’s dramatics, Norman’s judgment, her mother’s concern, even Marjory’s well-intentioned probing. But this simple inquiry from a child slipped beneath her defenses like water through a crack in stone.

“Yes,” she admitted as she reached for the basin of water. She met his earnest gaze and added, “I think I still am.”

Timothy nodded with his mouth set in a serious frown as he thought about this. “When I’m scared of the dark, you let me borrow your brave—remember? You tell me to hold on to it and nothing can hurt me.”

Something fragile within Abigail’s chest cracked, like an early frost that meets the sun. She nodded and gave him a watery smile.

He squeezed her hand. “You can borrow mine now, if you want. I don’t have much, but you can have some.”

A single tear slipped down Abigail’s cheek before she could catch it. She brushed it away quickly, but Timothy had already seen.

“Ma always said it’s all right to cry,” he said with the certainty of a child repeating something he’d been told and believed beyond doubt.

“You have a good memory, Master Timothy,” she said.

“I remember important things.” His small hand reached up to touch her cheek, wiping away a tear. “You can borrow my brave, and I’ll keep your tears safe. Nobody else has to know.”

The tenderness of the gesture—this child comforting her when it should have been the reverse—broke something loose inside her. A sob rose in her damaged throat, painful and raw. She caught it between her teeth, but it escaped nonetheless, followed by another.

Timothy simply held her hand as she cried and cried. Tears trekked unchecked as the boy’s eyes drifted closed. Abigail clutched the tiny hand in hers.

“I was so frightened,” she confessed in a broken whisper to the sleeping child. “I thought I might die there in that filthy alley, and no one would even know what had happened to me.”

The tears came faster now, spilling down her cheeks and onto their joined hands. She couldn’t stop them any more than she could stop the tide. All the fear she’d pushed down, all the panic she’d refused to acknowledge, rose within her like a wave.

For several minutes, Abigail wept for the woman she’d been, for the terror she’d felt, for the shame that still clung to her like a shadow. She wept because this child—this brave, perceptive boy who had survived so much—had given her permission to be broken when no one else could.

When the tears finally subsided, leaving her drained but somehow lighter, she gently tucked the blanket around Timothy’s small form.

“Thank you for the loan,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I shall endeavor to use it wisely.”

As she rose to leave, she caught sight of her reflection in the small window opposite—tear-stained cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, bruises visible where her collar had come loose. She looked nothing like the proper lady she’d fought so hard to become.

Perhaps Marjory was right. Feeling the pain didn’t break her. Tears weren’t a surrender. Perhaps they were simply the price of survival—the toll exacted by a heart determined to keep beating despite everything.

CHAPTER 6

“Dr. Redchester to see the Earl of Edgerton,” Graham said, handing over his card.

The butler, who was as stiff as his polished buttons, cast his gaze over Graham’s plain black coat and modest cravat. “Is the Earl expecting you, sir?”

“No. But I believe he will see me.”

Something in Graham’s tone—the quiet authority that had once commanded field hospitals—made the butler hesitate. He gave a slight bow. “If you would wait in the front parlor, sir, I shall inquire if the Earl is at home.”

The door closed with a soft click. Graham noted the ornate Italian marble fireplace, the gilded sconces, the heavy velvet drapes that billowed slightly in the breeze. He paced the length of the room, counting his steps. Seven strides from wall to wall.

This visit should have been made last night.

The thought made his collar suddenly too tight. He resisted the urge to loosen it.

The butler returned, his footfalls measured and deliberate. “The Earl will see you in his study, sir. This way, if you please.”

Graham nodded and followed the butler through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced men who had likely never questioned their place in the world. He waited through the tedious business of being announced, his back straight, hands clasped behind him.

The Earl of Edgerton stood as Graham entered—a courteous but not effusive greeting. He was a trim man of perhaps forty, with thinning hair and a precisely trimmed beard that did little to strengthen his weak chin. His eyes, however, were sharp and assessing.

“Dr. Redchester,” he said, extending his hand. “We don’t often receive medical men socially. What can I do for you?”