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“Mmm.” Mrs. Welling gave her a knowing look.

Before Abigail could respond, Marjory appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. “Mr. Prentiss has completed his initial review,” she said quietly.

“And?”

“He concluded the accounts are in order. He took particular interest in those anonymous donations, but in the end could find no fault with them.”

Abigail’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you for handling that.”

“What are sisters for, if not to intimidate bank clerks?” Marjory’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But we should prepare for more scrutiny. This is only the beginning.”

The clock chimed five, startling Abigail. “Goodness, is it that late? Thompson,” she called. “Would you have the carriage brought around to the back alley?”

The footman nodded and disappeared.

“Girls, it’s time to go,” she announced, raising her voice to be heard above the cheerful din.

Protests immediately erupted, but Ms. Norwood expertly shepherded her charges toward the door, helping them gather their things and say their goodbyes.

“Why aren’t we leaving out front?” Heather asked as they headed toward the back of the house.

Abigail hesitated, considering how much to explain. “Because there are people who wish to say unkind things,” she said honestly. “And sometimes, it’s best just to avoid them.”

“Like hiding?” Mary Ann frowned.

“No,” Abigail said firmly. “ Not hiding, but no need to make ourselves easy targets.”

Heather considered this, then nodded decisively. “Like when you know cook is angry, so you sneak biscuits through the pantry instead of the kitchen.”

Abigail laughed and exchanged a glance with Ms. Norwood, who shrugged and tried to look innocent. With a sigh, she settled in the carriage and they rumbled toward home.

Let Hollan print his lies. Let the storm come. She knew how to stand when the wind blew.

CHAPTER 20

“If you’d simply stand, you’d retrieve it far more efficiently,” he observed.

“But then the floor monsters might get me,” she replied, as if explaining something painfully obvious.

Abigail, who had been arranging the girls’ clothes for tomorrow on the chest near the window, glanced over with a hint of amusement in her tired eyes.She looked so brittle tonight. Her movements too controlled, her smiles too bright.

Mary Ann, already tucked beneath her covers, looked up from her book. “There aren’t any monsters under the beds. Ms. Norwood checked before we came up.”

“That’s exactly what they want you to think,” Heather countered, stretching further until Graham feared she might topple headfirst onto the carpet.

“Perhaps,” he said, bending to retrieve the toy himself, “the monsters are merely shy.”

Both girls stared at him, momentarily stunned by this unexpected foray into whimsy. Graham scrubbed a hand over his face, a little surprised at himself as well.

The day had been interminable. The article had circulated through the hospital before his arrival. Dr. Finlay had discreetly removed it from the physicians’ room, but not before several of his colleagues had read the vicious account of his wedding night and the thinly veiled accusations about Abigail.

He’d performed three surgeries with mechanical precision, his fury contained like a dangerous animal in a cage. Not a single tremor betrayed him, not even when Dr. Wilson quietly asked if there was anything he could do. Graham had simply shaken his head and finished suturing the incision.

“Uncle Graham?” Mary Ann’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Are you angry at us?”

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

Heather twisted her blanket between small fingers. “You looked all thundery when you came in.”