Page 3

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. The axle’s damaged as well.” Thompson’s eyes darted toward the darkening sky. “The driver’s gone to fetch help, but it may be some time before we’re able to continue.”

Abigail pressed her fingertips to her temples, where a dull throb had taken up residence. The thought of waiting in this tilted carriage for hours was intolerable. She was worn thin—her body aching from a day spent tending to the sick, her mind heavy with the residue of too many worries. The prospect of sitting idle, trapped with only her own fatigue and fretting, was more than she could bear.

“Where exactly are we, Thompson?”

“Nearing the edge of Bermondsey, my lady.” He glanced uneasily at their surroundings. “We’ve just passed the chandler’s shop. Fortunately, we’re out of the worst of the gutter.”

Abigail considered this. She knew the area reasonably well after a year of traveling to and from Beacon House. The air still carried the faint, acrid scent of the tanneries, but the industrial stench was behind them. While not quite respectable, it wasn’t particularly dangerous in the early evening.

She glanced out at the dimming sky and thought of Verity’s inevitable fuss when she arrived late. The Countess had been particularly trying of late.

Yesterday whenAbigail had returned home from her day at beacon House,Verity had descended on her withher latest fashion crisis.“I’ve been waiting positively hours for your opinion. The blue ribbons or the lavender for my new cap? Norman says blue, but he knows nothing of fashion.”

When Abigail had suggested the blue would complement her complexion, Verity had promptly declared she would use the lavender after all.

If she left now and kept up a brisk pace, she might arrive just as Verity retired for her “restorative” evening tea—that blessed hour when her cousin’s wife sequestered herself with her lady’s maid to review the social calendar and bemoan her husband’s lack of ambition.

“I believe I shall walk the rest of the way,” she announced, gathering her reticule.

Thompson’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, no, my lady. If I may be so bold, the Duchess would be most displeased if I allowed you to walk unaccompanied.” He glanced anxiously at the street around them, then back at her.

“My sister is not here,” Abigail countered. Marjory had departed earlier for a fundraising event. “It’s perhaps half an hour’s walk to Reedley Manor, and the neighborhood improves with every street.”

“But—” Thompson shifted uneasily, torn between protecting her and leaving the carriage unattended.

“My mind is quite made up.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “Please wait with the carriage. I shall send the Earl’s footman back with a message once I arrive safely.”

Before the loyal footman could object further, Abigail gathered her skirts and navigated the awkward angle of the carriage step, which now tilted precariously toward the cobblestones. Her foot slipped on the edge, and she nearly tumbled forward, catching herself on the door frame with a small gasp.

Thompson sighed, defeated. “Mind Blackfriars Lane, my lady. The street sign is obscured by that dreadful tavern. One wrong turn?—”

“I shall be careful,” she promised, already relishing the solid feel of the cobblestones beneath her half-boots.

The late May evening was pleasant enough, the air still holding the warmth of the day while the shadows lengthened across the narrow streets. The bells of St. Mary’s chimed in the distance. She oriented herself quickly and set off at a brisk pace toward Mayfair, her half-boots making a satisfying rhythm against the cobblestones.

As she walked, her thoughts drifted to the changes of the past year. Marjory’s marriage to the Duke of Sherton had been unexpected, but it had brought her sister genuine happiness—and given her the means to establish Beacon House. The charity had quickly become Abigail’s purpose as well.

Just this morning, she had helped Mrs. Winters, a widow with four children, master a simple bookkeeping system that might help her secure employment in a shop. The woman’s callused hands had trembled as she formed each careful number in the ledger.

“I never thought I might earn a decent wage,” Mrs. Winters had whispered, tears gathering in her eyes. “My James always said I had a good head for figures, but no one would listen to a washerwoman.”

“They will listen to an experienced bookkeeper,” Abigail had assured her, feeling a swell of satisfaction as the woman straightened her shoulders with newfound pride.

It was good, worthy work. It filled her days and provided the satisfaction of being useful. If it wasn’t the life she had once imagined for herself—well, she had forfeited that possibility years ago.

She could still feel the chill air as she slipped away from the arranged wedding to the Duke of Wilds, the crushing weight of her father’s words when she returned home three days later.Your actions have disgraced us all. Shameful. Weak...

With her reputation forever tarnished, she had resigned herself to spinsterhood.Most days, she could convince herself she was content.

A flower seller with the last of her day’s wares offered Abigail a wilting bouquet at a reduced price. Abigail paused, her gaze drifting across the drooping violets and a single battered rose. The girl behind the basket could not have been more than twelve, her apron streaked with dust and her arms wrapped tight around her meager stock.

“Would you care for some flowers, miss?” the girl asked, voice wavering between hope and exhaustion. “Only tuppence. They’ll not last the night, but they’re sweet yet.”

Abigail reached into her reticule, drawing out a coin. “They’re lovelier than you think,” she said softly, pressing the coin into the girl’s palm. “And I shall be glad of their company on my walk.”

The girl’s face bloomed with shy surprise. “Thank you, ma’am! I’d have had to throw them out, else.” She arranged the tattered ribbon around the stems with care, handing the bouquet over as though it were the last treasure in London.

“They’re a comfort,” Abigail replied, inhaling the faint, bruised scent. “And you’re a good saleswoman. Go home now—it’s getting late.”