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The small room held shelves crowded with linens that carried the mingled scents of lavender, starch, and the faint mustiness of a space too seldom aired. A shaft of sunlight cut through the small window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stillness. At the far end stood the cedar chest—once grand, now scarred by time and use, its brass fittings tarnished to a dull gleam.

Abigail slipped past Dr. Redchester, who stood awkwardly in the doorway. The room had not been designed for two people, much less when one of them possessed shoulders that nearly brushed both doorposts.

She knelt before the chest, fingers seeking the familiar latch. It resisted, as it always did, the mechanism stiff with age. She tugged, pressing her thumb against the worn metal until it yielded with a reluctant groan.

“It’s temperamental,” she explained, glancing up to find him watching her with an intensity that made her fingers suddenly clumsy. “The spring is worn.”

The doctor shifted, stepping forward to set down his burden just as Abigail reached up to help. Their hands collided in a confused tangle of wool and unexpected contact. Her palm brushed his—callused where a gentleman’s should be smooth, warm where she expected coolness. For a suspended moment, neither moved, caught in the strange intimacy of the cramped space and unintended touch.

Abigail’s breath caught. A jolt of awareness traveled from her fingertips to the center of her chest. She was alone in a storage room with a man she had met mere minutes ago—a circumstance that would have scandalized the girl she had once been.

“I—let me—” She withdrew her hand as if burned, seizing an armful of blankets with unnecessary vigor. The wool scratched against her wrists as she pushed them into the chest anddropped the lid once more. The latch refused to catch, and she left it undone. “It’s always stubborn, this old thing. I keep meaning to ask Mrs. Welling for a bit of oil. I suppose I ought to—well, never mind.”

She smoothed her skirts as she rose, unable to meet his eyes. The storage room suddenly felt oppressively small.

“We should see Timothy now,” she said, slipping past him into the corridor, where the wider space allowed her to breathe again.

As they walked along the worn floorboards, the silence stretched between them again, heavy and uncomfortable. Abigail, unable to bear it, rushed to fill it. “Is your usual practice located nearby, Dr. Redchester? We are most grateful you could attend on such short notice.”

A moment passed before he replied, his gaze fixed ahead. “My work takes me where it is needed.”

His tone discouraged further inquiry, but Abigail, inexplicably nervous, persisted. “It must be a busy season for physicians, with the unpredictable spring weather. Timothy’s cough has been quite persistent. I imagine you see a great deal of such cases.”

“Doctors are always busy,” he stated flatly, offering no personal confirmation. “It is the nature of our profession.”

At Timothy’s door, Abigail hesitated, her hand hovering over the latch. Strangely reluctant for their brief interaction to end, she turned slightly.

“He’s just in here. A sweet boy,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “though admittedly, a little scared of doctors.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I will endeavor not to be frightening.”

The unexpected softness caught her off guard. “Oh—that’s good.” She stepped back slightly. “I shall send Mrs. Welling up directly with hot water and whatever else you might require.”

“Thank you.” He paused, his gaze holding hers for a fraction longer than necessary before adding, “Lady...?”

“Lady Abigail Finch.” The title felt awkward on her tongue, a relic from a life she scarcely recognized as her own. At Beacon House, she was simply Miss Abigail.

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as though cataloging the name and perhaps the slight hesitation with which she’d delivered it. “Your charity does good work here, Lady Abigail. Necessary work.”

With that, he disappeared into the sickroom, leaving her with the peculiar sensation of having been both seen and dismissed in the same moment.

She lingered, one hand pressed against the weathered doorframe. There was something about Dr. Redchester that spoke of controlled depths—of discipline maintained at great cost. The precision of his movements, the economy of his speech, the watchfulness in his gaze—all hinted at a man who had learned to contain himself within careful boundaries.

It had been a long time since Abigail had wondered about a man’s story. Longer still since she had permitted herself to care.

The carriage hit a horrific jolt, sending Abigail lurching forward. Her palms slammed against the opposite seat’s polished wood, the impact jarring up her wrists. Her reticule spilled open, scattering hairpins across the floor—tiny soldiers in disarray, much like her thoughts after the exhausting day at Beacon House.

“Hold tight!” called Thompson from his perch outside.

The carriage lurched again with a sickeningcrack,and then settled at an odd angle before grinding to a complete stop. Outside, she heard the driver’s muffled curse followed by Thompson’s quick descent, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud.

Abigail gathered her scattered belongings, wincing as she bent to retrieve a hairpin that had slid beneath the seat. Her back protested after hours spent kneeling next to Timothy’s bed, applying compresses and entertaining the sick boy. The pinssafely returned to her reticule, she straightened her bonnet and smoothed her skirts.The carriage sat canted awkwardly to one side, and the cushions sloped uncomfortably beneath her.

Thompson appeared at the carriage door. His face creased with concern while his gloved hand nervously adjusted the brass buttons of his livery.

“I’m afraid we’ve had a mishap with the wheel, my lady.”

“How tiresome,” Abigail sighed, peering past him. The rear wheel listed drunkenly inward.“Can it be repaired quickly?”