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Graham’s throat tightened. He sat on the edge of Heather’s bed, handing her the toy soldier.

“I’m not angry with you,” he said quietly. “Sometimes adults have difficulties that have nothing to do with children.”

“Is it because of the newspaper?” Mary Ann asked, her voice small. “James wouldn’t let us see it, but he looked very stern when he took it away.”

Graham exchanged a glance with Abigail, who moved to extinguish the lamps, leaving only the small nightlight burning.

“Sleep now,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the park if the weather holds.”

The promise of the park effectively distracted Heather, who immediately began plotting how to catch a duck. Mary Ann, however, continued to study Graham in the low light.

“Good night, Uncle Graham,” she said finally. “I hope the newspaper people stop being unkind soon.”

“Thank you,” he said, bending to press an awkward kiss to each girl’s forehead—a gesture that felt foreign yet necessary. “Sleep well,” he murmured.

They withdrew quietly, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. She looked at him, expectant, uncertain. He shifted his weight, reluctant to part.

“I should—” She began

“I’m going to read in my study, if you’d like to join me,” Graham said, cutting across her. The words were stilted and formal.

Please come. The quiet is too lonely tonight.

The previous night, she had sat quietly in the chair across from his desk with her own book, saying nothing but filling the room with her warmth. He’d found himself looking up more often than necessary, just to confirm she was still there.

Abigail nodded with a small smile. “I’d like that.”

They walked in silence down the corridor. Halfway to the study, her hand brushed his—once, twice, a third time that couldn’t be accidental. Graham hesitated, then captured her fingers with his own.

Her hand was cool and small in his grip. She didn’t pull away.

In the study, Graham lit the lamps while Abigail settled into what he’d already begun to think of as her chair. The leather creaked softly as she arranged her skirts.

“It was a good day at the hospital,” he said, though she hadn’t asked. “Mrs. Fletcher’s leg is healing cleanly. And the young chimney sweep with the broken collarbone should regain full use of his arm.”

He was babbling. He never babbled. But he couldn’t bear to speak of what lay between them, what neither of them hadmentioned all through dinner and story time. As if the mention of it would shatter the fragile illusion they maintained in these walls.

“Graham,” Abigail said, regarding him over her unopened book.

He looked down at his hands as he pressed them flat against his desk.

“We should talk about it,” she said quietly.

My strong, courageous wife.

He sat heavily in his chair, suddenly weary beyond words. “It’s filth.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But ignoring it won’t make it disappear.”

“I nearly throttled Elias at the club.” Graham dragged a hand down his face. “He meant well, bringing me the paper before anyone else could, but I almost?—”

I wanted to feel something breaking. Something that wasn’t me.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was steady, but he caught the slight tremor in her hands.

“For what?”

“This is my fault. My history. My scandal. If you hadn’t married me?—”