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Once the hackney disappeared around the corner, he allowed her to guide him around the side of the house to the small walled garden. Only when the gate closed behind them did his shoulders relax. He still radiated tension, but his gaze met hers and was steady, the shadows slowly receding.

"You came," she said, unable to keep the wonder from her voice.

"Of course I came. When I saw the papers..." He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Are you all right?"

The simple question, even though it was uttered like an oath, warmed her. In the midst of scandal and crisis, he had rushed to her side.

"I'm managing," she said, then more honestly, "I'm angry. Not for myself, but for what this means for Beacon House. For you."

Graham's expression darkened. "Hollan will pay for this."

"Not with violence," she said quickly, laying her hand on his arm. He didn’t flinch. "We need cooler heads."

"I’ll try." He covered her hand with his own, squeezing it slightly. "I can't stay. I have a patient in a bad way, but I came as soon as I could."

She nodded, fighting disappointment. "Of course. Your work is important."

"So is this. I had to know you were alright." His eyes held her, intense and sharp. "Be careful, Abigail. Hollan is dangerous in ways we're only beginning to understand."

"I will if you will," she replied, attempting a smile.

Graham hesitated, then pulled her into a brief, fierce embrace.

Abigail stiffened, unaccustomed to such spontaneous affection from him. She softened against him, her hands cautiously rising to rest against the wool of his coat. The warmth of him—solid and real—sent a flutter through her chest that was equal parts relief and longing. When he began to pull away, her fingers instinctively curled into the fabric, reluctant to let go of this rare moment of connection.

"I'll be home for supper," he said as he released her.“Keep Thompson close.”

As she watched him hurry away, she wrapped her arms around her, willing the feel of him to stay with her for just a moment longer. She made her way inside, unsurprised to find Marjory waiting for her.

"That was quite the spectacle. Are you all right?" Marjory asked quietly.

“No,” Abigail admitted. “I’m wondering if my presence here is doing more harm than good.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marjory said. “Beacon House needs you.”

“But what if it needs me gone? What if I’m bringing down everything we’ve built?” Abigail’s voice caught.

“If you’re quite finished feeling sorry for yourself,” Marjory said briskly, “I have a bank clerk to eviscerate and you have an audience awaiting a puppet show.” She spun on her heel and headed for the parlor.

Beside her Ms. Norwood took off her bonnet and gloves.“In my experience,” the governess said, “children possess an extraordinary gift for distinguishing between what matters and what does not. Perhaps we might follow their example.”

Abigail nodded.“Of course. Come this way.”

She led Ms. Norwood to the schoolroom where the children crowded around the battered puppet theater that the older children had made from an old crate.Georgie toddled over and raised his arms up to her. She picked the child up and he immediately snuggled in with his head on her shoulder.

Her anxiety settled as if the little boy had reached out and stopped a spinning top in her chest.

“See what I mean,” Ms. Norwood murmured as they took their seats for the puppet show.

The afternoon unfolded in a flurry of activity. Timothy and Jenny’s puppet show—featuring a wedding, three sword fights, and an improbable sea voyage—in which Heather improvised a pirate using one of her own stockings–drew delighted laughter from the children. Once the theatrical performance ended, Mary Ann and Ms. Norwood read the tale of a brave rabbit who outsmarted a fox to a group of younger children, while the older ones poured over the new books.

Abigail drank it all in with Georgie nestled on her lap. The jagged, broken parts of her spirt settled back into their places.

As the afternoon waned, Mrs. Welling brought in milk and biscuits, her earlier ferocity replaced by her usual brisk efficiency.

“You’ve worked magic again,” she murmured to Abigail as she set down the tray. “Haven’t seen them this contented in days.”

“It’s not me,” Abigail demurred. “It’s the girls. They’ve brought new life to the place.”