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“You’ve done beautifully with them,” Abigail said.

“I’m merely along for the adventure,” Ms. Norwood corrected with her characteristic simple smile and shrug.“Let us stand over here before one of you leaves footprints on the train.”

The girls joined their governess in the corner, careful to avoid the flowing ivory silk. Heather examined the baskets of rose petals, ensuring they were each exactly the same, while Mary Ann practiced her processional walk with measured steps under Ms. Norwood’s watchful gaze.

Longing, sharp and sudden, bloomed in Abigail’s chest. She glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see more children tumbling through—Timothy with his gap-toothed grin, Jenny clutching her rag doll, little Georgie with jam on his fingers. The absence struck her like a missing chord in a familiar song.

Marjory caught the look and leaned closer. “They wish you the very best.”

“I wanted them here.” The admission scraped against her throat. She fingered the simple ribbon bracelet Jenny had made for her, its rough weave a stark contrast to the silk and pearls adorning her.

Bridget, who had been quietly arranging the train of Abigail’s dress, straightened. “You did the right thing.”

“Did I?” The doubt that had been gnawing at her all morning finally found voice. “Mrs. Welling said it was practical—no sense dealing with a dozen stomachaches from too much cake. But Betty...” She paused and fiddled with her gloves, remembering the older woman’s words. “She said it would be unkind to bring them into a world they could never truly enter, to show them something forever beyond their reach.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and lingering.

Do they think I’ve abandoned them?

“Betty’s seen enough of life to know its cruelties,” their mother said gently. “But she’s also seen enough to know its kindnesses. Your work at Beacon House isn’t about giving them your world—it’s about helping them build their own.”

The tightness in Abigail’s throat eased a fraction. She glanced at Heather and Mary Ann, spinning with their baskets. The ache remained, but it was gentler now.She closed her eyes for a moment, holding on to the sound of their laughter.

The church bell began its solemn toll, each note reverberating through the stone walls and straight into her bones.

“That’s our cue,” Verity announced, bursting into the vestry. “Places, everyone!”

Abigail’s stomach plummeted. Beyond that door waited a hundred faces—half of whom wouldn’t have acknowledged her existence a month ago, the other half who still wouldn’t when the novelty wore off. Her stays felt too tight, the air too thin. She fought the urge to flee.

I can’t do this. I can’t walk out there and pretend I belong.

Bridget appeared at her elbow, voice low and fierce. “You’ve fought harder for this than anyone knows. Take the first step and the rest will follow.”

The words struck something deep and true. Abigail’s spine straightened, her chin lifted. The trembling in her hands stilled.

Beatrix marshaled the girls with military precision. “Remember, ladies—we glide, we don’t gallop. Petals are scattered gently, not hurled.”

The vestry door opened, revealing the chapel beyond—a sea of silk and feathers, sunlight dancing off jeweled brooches, the sweet scent of lilies heavy in the air. The string quartet’s gentle melody drifted over the congregation’s expectant hush.

Every eye would turn to her, every whisper would follow. Her feet felt rooted to the floor, her breathing shallow.They’re all waiting for me to stumble—or to run.

“Come on!” Heather tugged at her elbow, jostling her bouquet. “We can’t be your nieces until you’re our aunt!”

Mary Ann, ever practical, added, “We practiced forever yesterday. Have you forgotten what to do? Just walk up to where Uncle Graham is.”

Despite everything—the watching eyes, the weight of expectation, the magnitude of the moment—Abigail laughed. These girls, with their flower baskets and fierce loyalty, had already claimed her as family. The rest was merely ceremony.

“Well then,” she said, smiling down at them, warmth flooding her chest, “we mustn’t keep Uncle Graham waiting.”

They stepped into the chapel together. The congregation rose with a rustle of fabric followed by an expectant hush.

The girls preceded her, scattering rose petals with varying degrees of enthusiasm—Mary Ann measured and precise, Heather flinging handfuls with abandon. Their giggles carried over the organ music, drawing indulgent smiles from the congregation.

She looked over their heads to the end of the isle.

Graham stood at the altar utterly still, watching only her. No nervous fidgeting, no glances at the crowd—just that steady blue gaze that seemed to anchor her to the moment. His dark coat fit him perfectly, his cravat was precisely tied, but it was the slight lift of his arm—barely perceptible—that made her heart skip. An invitation. A promise. A place beside him.

“Verity almost called in the Bow Street Runners,” she murmured as she took his arm.