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The promise felt right as it left her lips. Whatever else changed tomorrow, this would remain constant—her commitment to this place, these women, this work.

“You deserve this, you know,” Betty said, her weathered face softening as she regarded Abigail. “A good man, a fresh start. After all you’ve done for us here.”

Abigail inhaled against the sudden tightness in her chest. Betty had known her since the beginning, had watched her fumble and learn and grow. Her approval meant more than all of society’s acceptance combined.

“Thank you, Betty,” she managed, blinking rapidly against the unexpected sting of tears. “That’s very kind.”

A knock at the door saved her from further emotion. Mrs. Welling stood in the doorway, her expression uncertain.

“Lady Abigail,” she said, “someone here to see you.”Before she finished speaking, a small figure darted past Mrs. Welling and launched itself across the room.

“Miss Abigail!” Heather cried, flinging herself into Abigail’s lap with such force that the chair rocked precariously. “Uncle Graham said we could come find you, and Mary Ann said we should wait in the carriage, but I saw you through the window and?—”

“Heather,” came Mary Ann’s reproachful voice from the doorway. She stood beside Mrs. Welling, her posture perfect and her lips pressed together in prim disapproval. “You promised to behave.”

Abigail laughed, steadying herself and the armful of exuberant child. “It’s quite all right,” she assured Mary Ann and set Heather back on her feet. “I’m always happy to see you both, but your sister is right. We should always conduct ourselves with decorum.”

Mary Ann smiled with smug superiority and came further into the room while Heather, unbothered by the correction, surveyed her surroundings with undisguised curiosity. “Is this where you work? It’s not as fancy as Uncle Graham’s study.”

“Heather,” Mary Ann hissed.

“It’s not meant to be fancy,” Abigail explained, rising from her chair. “It’s meant to be useful. These ladies are learning to keep accounts, so they can find better positions when they leave Beacon House.”

Heather considered this, head tilted. “Like how Miss Norwood makes us practice our sums at our desks?”

“Exactly like that,” Abigail agreed.

“Uncle Graham is waiting in the carriage,” Mary Ann said, her small face serious. “He said to tell you he’s come to take you to get your dress.”

The final fitting. Of course. In the comfort of Beacon House, Abigail had nearly forgotten the day’s schedule—a whirlwind of appointments culminating in a family supper at Wildmere.

“I see,” Abigail said, gathering her things. “Ladies, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our lesson another day.”

“Go on, then,” Betty said with a shooing motion. “Don’t keep your duke waiting.”

“He’s not my duke,” Abigail murmured, but the words lacked conviction.

As she followed the girls toward the front door, Heather’s small hand slipped into hers, sticky with what Abigail suspected was purloined jam, but the simple gesture of trust warmed her heart.

Perhaps this was the true gift of tomorrow’s ceremony—not a title or a fortune, but these two girls who needed her, and a man who, despite his walls and wounds, had chosen her to help heal his broken family.

For that I’d face a hundred gossip columns. For that, I’d become a duchess.

Abigail tossed and turned, fighting with the coverlet. Hours spent in the quiet dark of Reedley Manor, counting out the soft ticks of the clock, listening as the house settled, she still could find no peace. She slipped from her bed, leaving a note on her pillow.

Don’t worry, I’m coming back.

By the time the hired carriage reached Bermondsey, the fog had settled in. She let herself into Beacon House with the spare key, careful not to wake Mrs. Welling.

The dormitory’s hush wrapped gently around her as she moved among the narrow beds, her candle sending warm gold across the sleeping faces. Timothy—blanket thrown off, limbs splayed—left his thin shoulders bare to the chill. She tucked the covers snug, before smoothing the unruly hair from Jenny’s brow, careful not to disturb the rag doll clutched tight.

The family dinner at Wildmere echoed in her bones—Bridget’s little ones shrieking through the halls, the twins tumbling after; Verity’s voice cresting above it all with wedding schemes; Elias Birkins weaving tales of shipwreck and cannon fire; Graham with that rare, almost-smile—quick as a secret—lighting his face.

Her mother had squeezed her hand beneath the table and whispered, “Are you happy?”

Abigail hadn’t known how to answer.

She left the sleeping children and wandered out to the garden. Moonlight silvered the neat rows of seedlings—tender shoots of lettuce, fragile pea tendrils climbing their stakes. The herbs released their scent as her skirts brushed against them.