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Despite everything, a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Is that your professional assessment?”

“Seen enough marriages in my time,” Mrs. Welling replied with a shrug. “The good ones, the bad ones, and the ones held together with spit and prayer.”

“Not to minimize your pain,” Marjory said, giving Abigail a sympathetic look, “but we must consider what this bloody circus means for Beacon House. Several donors have already withdrawn their support.”

Abigail swallowed down a wave of frustrated tears. They would not solve empty bellies and cold hearths.

“And Henderson’s Bakery has paused deliveries ‘until things are clarified,’” Mrs. Welling added, her mouth pinched with disapproval. “As if sending day-old buns to orphans needs clarification.”

“All over lies,” Abigail muttered.

“Truth hardly matters in these cases,” Bridget replied. “Perception is everything.”

“Well, I perceive we need a strategy,” Verity declared, setting her tea aside and leaning forward. “Norman may be useless in a crisis, but he has connections and will utilize them as we tell him. I’ve arranged tea with Lady Hemsley shortly. Her circle controls half the charitable purse strings in London.”

Abigail blinked at her. “You have?”

“We may squabble like squirrels in a sack,” Verity said, chin lifted, “but no one does this to my family.”

“I’ve spoken with Lady Harrington. She’s rallying support among the more influential matrons. And Anthony has sent word to several key merchants who depend on Wildmere business,” Bridget said. “They’ll think twice before aligning themselves with Baron Hollan’s crusade.”

“Richard is drafting a legal response,” Marjory said, rising to pace the room. “The paper can’t prove a single allegation, which opens them to charges of libel.”

Her mother took her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “You are not your father,” she said firmly. “Don’t let them drag you down into his shadow.”

Abigail covered her mother’s hand with her own. “Thank you. All of you.”

Verity gathered her things. “I should go. Lady Hemsley detests tardiness. Don’t fret, my dear.”

“And I promised Anthony I’d return by noon,” Bridget said, rising. “Henry has been an absolute tyrant of late. Mother, would you like me to drop you at Reedley Manor?”

“I think I’ll stay and help with the sewing circle this afternoon,” the Dowager said. “I find my hands want to be busy.”

Abigail accepted Bridget and Verity’s fierce hugs with a lump in her throat. After they left, she looked at the remaining women. “Well, now what?”

“Now, we’ve got mouths to feed and not enough to fill ‘em,” Mrs. Welling pushed to her feet and gathered the tea tray.“We need to scrounge up more donations.”

Marjory nodded. “Let’s get to work.”

Mrs. Welling nodded approvingly. “I’ll leave that to you ladies. Snack time for the little ones. They get fractious when their bellies rumble.”

“I’ll help,” her mother said and gave Abigail’s shoulder a final squeeze. “Stand tall, darling.”

She nodded and helped Marjory gather the ledgers and paper and ink as they prepared to send letters to shore up support.

They had just begun making a list of potential donors when Thompson appeared at the door, his expression uneasy. “There’s a Mr. Prentiss here from Barclays Bank. He requests an audience with you.”

Abigail and Marjory exchanged glances.

“Show him in,” Marjory said.

“They haven’t wasted any time,” Abigail groused, tucking their notes away from prying eyes.

Mr. Prentiss entered in a well-tailored suit, pocket watch gleaming, wearing the confidence of a man who wielded power. He swept his gaze around the room and the cold calculation in his eyes tallied the worth of everything—including her—in pounds and shillings.

“Your Grace,” he began, nodding to Abigail. “Your Grace.” He acknowledged Marjory. “I apologize for the unannounced visit, but the bank has instructed me to conduct a routine audit of the Beacon House charitable fund.”

This is a man who forecloses on a widow’s home without losing a night’s sleep.