Page 16

“Speak to her about what?” Marjory pressed.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.”

Her eyebrows rose. “My sister’s well-being is very much my concern, Doctor.”

Graham met her gaze steadily. “Then we share that interest, at least.”

“Do we?” She handed him a jar of salve to place on a high shelf.

Graham set the jar on the shelf with deliberate care, taking a moment to control his rising irritation. “Your Grace, while I appreciate your concern for your sister, I suggest you direct your questions to me plainly or not at all.”

Marjory studied him before nodding once. “Very well, Doctor. What are your intentions toward my sister?”

“Honorable,” he stated simply.

“How reassuringly vague.”

Graham let out a short, humorless laugh. “Would you prefer I detail them in this closet, without having spoken to Lady Abigail first? That would hardly be honorable.”

A cry from the main room saved him from further interrogation.

“Duty calls,” Marjory said with a faint smirk, gathering her skirts and disappearing before he could respond.

Graham followed, glad for the reprieve.

Supper brought renewed chaos. Bowls of broth for the sick and a chunky stew for the healthy were doled out, water changed, cheeks cooled, foreheads checked again and again.

Abigail moved among them like a ghost in motion—silent, watchful, tireless.

Graham tended to the worst of the fevers and helped re-wrap the poultices.

Marjory drifted in and out, managing deliveries, lists, and a sharp word for any volunteer who dawdled.

The sun dipped low, shadows stretching long across the worn floorboards.

One by one, the children began to sleep.

At last, the building settled into a fragile stillness—just the creak of old timbers, a cough behind a curtain, the soft hush of breath.

Graham brewed a cup of tea—strong, with a generous helping of honey for her throat—and set out to find Abigail. She had been moving on instinct for hours, the kind of stubborn momentum he recognized all too well.

He found her in the laundry alcove, trying to lift a full basket of wet sheets while balancing on her good foot.

“For God’s sake,” he muttered, crossing to her in three quick strides and discarding the tea as he went. He took the basket from her hands, ignoring her protests. “Where does this need to go?”

“The courtyard,” she replied, her voice strained. “They’re ready for airing, and we’re running short of clean ones.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I can help,” she insisted. “The children are settled for now, and Mrs. Welling is seeing to their supper.”

Graham knew better than to argue. “Then you can direct me,” he conceded, carrying the basket toward the back door.

The small courtyard was little more than a patch of flagstones enclosed by high brick walls. Twilight pressed in, gathering shadows in the corners. A washing line stretched from corner to corner, and a wooden rack stood ready for smaller items.

As Graham hung wet sheets with methodical efficiency, Abigail worked alongside him, passing clothespins and adjusting corners.

Graham shook out a sheet, watching as she fumbled with the clothespins. Her hands were trembling slightly, though whether from exhaustion or pain, he couldn’t tell. Likely both.

“You should be resting,” he said, holding the sheet high so she could pin one corner.

“So you’ve mentioned.” She stretched to reach the line. “Repeatedly.”

“Yet you persist in ignoring sound medical advice.” He moved closer.

“I ignore unsolicited advice on principle.” Despite her words, she sounded more tired than defiant.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, the routine taking on an unexpected intimacy. The sheet billowed between them like a sail, then settled as they pinned it in place. Her fingers brushed his as they reached for the same corner, and she didn’t pull away immediately.

The simple touch sent warmth coursing through him. When had such casual contact become so rare in his life? He’d touched countless patients, of course, but always clinically, professionally. This was different—unguarded, human.

“Your sister is very protective of you,” he observed to fill the silence.

Abigail snorted softly. “Pot, kettle.”

“Meaning?”

“She said the same of you.” A faint smile touched her lips. “After scolding me for staying so late, she acknowledged that you were... how did she put it? ‘Watching like a hawk with an injured fledgling.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck. “I merely?—”

“I know.” She reached for another sheet. “It comes from a good place. For both of you.”

The simple acknowledgment unbalanced him more than he expected. Graham took the linen from her hands and shook it out over the line, organizing his thoughts as methodically as he would instruments before surgery.

Say what you came to say. No more delays .

But the words he’d rehearsed seemed hollow now, formulaic.

“Lady Abigail, I?—”

“Abigail,” she corrected softly. “After everything, I think we’re past formalities.”

The sheet between them snapped in a sudden breeze, momentarily hiding her face from view. Perhaps it was easier this way—not seeing her reaction.

Say it. Just say it.

“Abigail,” he said, finding unexpected comfort in the shape of her name. “I spoke with your cousin this morning.”

Her hands stilled on the clothespin. “About what?”

“About the incident. And the newspaper article.”

“Ah. So you saw it.” Her voice was carefully neutral. “I suppose half of London is discussing my latest disgrace.”

“Not disgrace,” he said sharply. “You did nothing wrong.”

She said nothing, just reached for another pin, her movements betraying her discomfort.

Graham took a breath. This was going all wrong. He’d had it all planned—a proper conversation in a drawing room, formal words in the proper order. Not here, among wet sheets, with a woman who could barely stand.

But when had anything with Abigail Finch followed proper protocol?

“Marry me,” he blurted out.

She froze, a clothespin halfway to the line. “I beg your pardon?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, more steadily this time. “I would be honored if you would consider becoming my wife.”

Abigail stared at him, the clothespin falling forgotten from her fingers. “Are you proposing to me? Here? With clothespins and wet sheets?”

“Yes.” He swallowed. “No. I mean—yes, I am proposing, but not as I intended to. I had planned something more conventional.”

To his surprise, she began to laugh—a soft, incredulous sound that quickly turned into a painful cough. She pressed a hand to her ribs, her face contorting with discomfort.

“That may be,” she gasped between coughs, “the most ill-timed proposal in recorded history.”

He moved toward her, concerned. “Abigail?—”

“A pity I cannot accept.” She took a step back, swaying slightly.

His steps faltered as his stomach twisted.Rejection. He had anticipated the possibility, of course, but not the sharp ache it produced.

“Cannot? Or will not?”

“Both,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t need to be saved, Dr. Redchester. Especially not by a man who proposes out of duty rather than desire.”

“That’s not—” he began, but she was already turning away, her movements unsteady.

“Thank you for your assistance today,” she said, as if they were suddenly strangers again. “The children benefited from your expertise.”

She took two steps toward the house before her legs gave way. Graham was at her side in an instant, catching her before she hit the ground. She felt impossibly light in his arms, a fragile collection of angles and determination.

“Mrs. Welling!” he called sharply. “Your Grace!”

Abigail’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused but still conscious. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Just needed to sit for a moment.”

“On the ground?” he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“Seemed convenient at the time.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

He checked her pulse—rapid but steady—and felt her forehead. No fever, just exhaustion. Relief washed through him, followed quickly by frustration.

“You impossible woman,” he muttered. “You stubborn, infuriating?—”

“I said no,” she murmured, “and you still caught me.”

The simple observation broke through his anger, leaving something rawer beneath. She had rejected him, yet here she was in his arms.

“Always,” he said quietly.

Whether you accept me or not. Whether you need me or not. I will always catch you when you fall.