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“ M rs. Welling, we can bring the spring linens down now,” Abigail called, shifting the blankets higher as she hurried down the hall.

Sunshine flooded the narrow corridors of Beacon House, the warmth heralding a sudden shift to spring that had thrown the shelter into frantic preparations for the change in season. A rash of coughs and fevers kept Abigail and the other caretakers busy from dawn until well past dark.

“These last ones should fit in the cedar chest,” she said, turning the corner.

Instead of Mrs. Welling’s plump figure, Abigail collided with what might have been a wall—had walls suddenly taken to wearing austere black broadcloth and exuding the sharp tang of astringent. The blankets cascaded in a woolen avalanche as she stumbled backward, her balance deserting her entirely.

A hand closed around her elbow—large, steady, and startlingly warm through the thin muslin of her sleeve. The grip arrested her fall with such practiced precision that Abigail had the peculiar thought that the owner of this hand had caught many falling things before.

She looked up into eyes the precise shade of a winter sea—not the gentle blue of forget-me-nots or spring skies, but something colder, deeper, and infinitely more watchful.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, dropping into an awkward curtsy amid the fallen blankets. Her cheeks burned with the particular mortification reserved for gentlewomen caught in undignified circumstances. “I didn’t see?—”

“Clearly,” the man interrupted, releasing her arm the instant she regained her footing. His voice carried the clipped precision of military command beneath its cultured tones. “I’m looking for a boy named Timothy.”

Abigail straightened, her embarrassment giving way to wariness. Beacon House sheltered women and children from London’s most desperate circumstances; gentlemen callers—particularly unannounced ones—were regarded with justifiable suspicion.

“May I ask who you are, sir?” She kept her tone polite but firm as she knelt to gather the scattered wool. “This is a charity house, and we don’t receive gentlemen visitors without prior arrangement.”

“Dr. Redchester.” No honorific, no elaboration. Just two words delivered with the expectation they would suffice.

The name meant nothing to her, but his bearing spoke volumes. Despite his severe attire and the absence of fashionable accoutrements, everything about him—from his stance to the cut of his jaw—proclaimed him a gentleman born, not made. The contradiction intrigued her despite herself.

“I was expecting Dr. Hargrove this afternoon.” The elderly physician had been tending Timothy’s chest complaint for a fortnight, his kindly manner and peppermint-scented handkerchief a reassuring presence.

“Hargrove was called to an emergency. He asked me to see the boy instead.” Dr. Redchester knelt, gathering the remaining blankets with efficient movements.

His hands were not what she expected of a physician—broad-palmed and strong, with a thin white scar across one knuckle.

They moved with the precision of someone accustomed to tasks requiring both strength and delicacy.

He rose with the entire stack of blankets secured in his arms. “Where were these headed?”

“The cedar chest in the storage room,” she replied, disconcerted by the casual assumption of control. “But you needn’t trouble yourself, Dr. Redchester. I can manage.”

“I’m already holding them.” The simple statement brooked no argument, delivered not with arrogance but with the pragmatism of a man unaccustomed to wasting words or motion. “The storage room?”

Abigail turned, suddenly conscious of her worn day dress and practical chignon.

In another lifetime, she would have been mortified to be seen thus by a gentleman.

Now, she merely wondered at the strange twist of fate that had placed this particular doctor in this particular corridor at precisely the wrong moment.

She led him down the passageway, uncomfortably aware of his silent presence behind her. His footsteps fell with the measured cadence of a man who had learned to walk in formation. Not the typical gait of a London physician.

The silence between them stretched like an over-wound clock spring. Abigail, unaccustomed to being so visible, found herself strangely unable to bear his wordless scrutiny.

“We’re grateful you’ve come so quickly,” she said, her voice too bright in the narrow space. “Timothy has been with us for only three weeks. His mother?—”

“It’s better not to form attachments to patients,” he interrupted. His tone held no censure, merely stating what he clearly considered an immutable fact. “It clouds judgment.”

Abigail halted abruptly on the landing, turning to face him. In the slanted light from the small window, his face was all planes and shadows.

“How strange,” she said, surprising herself with her boldness. “I find those attachments are precisely what make life worth living.”

Something flickered in his expression—a momentary breach in his composure, as though she had spoken in a language he recognized but had not heard in some time. He shifted his gaze to her hands, which were red and chapped from lye soap and cold water.

“You’ve been applying compresses,” he observed. Not a question.

“Both cold and warm,” she answered, impressed by his notice. “Cold when his fever spiked, warm when the coughing worsened.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Most use only one or the other.”

The unexpected approval warmed her more than it should have, and she hastened to open the door to the storage room to hide her pink cheeks.

The small room held shelves crowded with linens that carried the mingled scents of lavender, starch, and the faint mustiness of a space too seldom aired.

A shaft of sunlight cut through the small window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stillness.

At the far end stood the cedar chest—once grand, now scarred by time and use, its brass fittings tarnished to a dull gleam.

Abigail slipped past Dr. Redchester, who stood awkwardly in the doorway. The room had not been designed for two people, much less when one of them possessed shoulders that nearly brushed both doorposts.

She knelt before the chest, fingers seeking the familiar latch. It resisted, as it always did, the mechanism stiff with age. She tugged, pressing her thumb against the worn metal until it yielded with a reluctant groan.

“It’s temperamental,” she explained, glancing up to find him watching her with an intensity that made her fingers suddenly clumsy. “The spring is worn.”

The doctor shifted, stepping forward to set down his burden just as Abigail reached up to help.

Their hands collided in a confused tangle of wool and unexpected contact.

Her palm brushed his—callused where a gentleman’s should be smooth, warm where she expected coolness.

For a suspended moment, neither moved, caught in the strange intimacy of the cramped space and unintended touch.

Abigail’s breath caught. A jolt of awareness traveled from her fingertips to the center of her chest. She was alone in a storage room with a man she had met mere minutes ago—a circumstance that would have scandalized the girl she had once been.

“I—let me—” She withdrew her hand as if burned, seizing an armful of blankets with unnecessary vigor.

The wool scratched against her wrists as she pushed them into the chest and dropped the lid once more.

The latch refused to catch, and she left it undone.

“It’s always stubborn, this old thing. I keep meaning to ask Mrs. Welling for a bit of oil. I suppose I ought to—well, never mind.”

She smoothed her skirts as she rose, unable to meet his eyes. The storage room suddenly felt oppressively small.

“We should see Timothy now,” she said, slipping past him into the corridor, where the wider space allowed her to breathe again.

As they walked along the worn floorboards, the silence stretched between them again, heavy and uncomfortable. Abigail, unable to bear it, rushed to fill it. “Is your usual practice located nearby, Dr. Redchester? We are most grateful you could attend on such short notice.”

A moment passed before he replied, his gaze fixed ahead. “My work takes me where it is needed.”

His tone discouraged further inquiry, but Abigail, inexplicably nervous, persisted. “It must be a busy season for physicians, with the unpredictable spring weather. Timothy’s cough has been quite persistent. I imagine you see a great deal of such cases.”

“Doctors are always busy,” he stated flatly, offering no personal confirmation. “It is the nature of our profession.”

At Timothy’s door, Abigail hesitated, her hand hovering over the latch. Strangely reluctant for their brief interaction to end, she turned slightly.

“He’s just in here. A sweet boy,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “though admittedly, a little scared of doctors.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I will endeavor not to be frightening.”

The unexpected softness caught her off guard. “Oh—that’s good.” She stepped back slightly. “I shall send Mrs. Welling up directly with hot water and whatever else you might require.”

“Thank you.” He paused, his gaze holding hers for a fraction longer than necessary before adding, “Lady...?”

“Lady Abigail Finch.” The title felt awkward on her tongue, a relic from a life she scarcely recognized as her own. At Beacon House, she was simply Miss Abigail.

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as though cataloging the name and perhaps the slight hesitation with which she’d delivered it. “Your charity does good work here, Lady Abigail. Necessary work.”

With that, he disappeared into the sickroom, leaving her with the peculiar sensation of having been both seen and dismissed in the same moment.