Page 2

She lingered, one hand pressed against the weathered doorframe.

There was something about Dr. Redchester that spoke of controlled depths—of discipline maintained at great cost. The precision of his movements, the economy of his speech, the watchfulness in his gaze—all hinted at a man who had learned to contain himself within careful boundaries.

It had been a long time since Abigail had wondered about a man’s story. Longer still since she had permitted herself to care.

The carriage hit a horrific jolt, sending Abigail lurching forward.

Her palms slammed against the opposite seat’s polished wood, the impact jarring up her wrists.

Her reticule spilled open, scattering hairpins across the floor—tiny soldiers in disarray, much like her thoughts after the exhausting day at Beacon House.

“Hold tight!” called Thompson from his perch outside.

The carriage lurched again with a sickening crack, and then settled at an odd angle before grinding to a complete stop. Outside, she heard the driver’s muffled curse followed by Thompson’s quick descent, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud.

Abigail gathered her scattered belongings, wincing as she bent to retrieve a hairpin that had slid beneath the seat.

Her back protested after hours spent kneeling next to Timothy’s bed, applying compresses and entertaining the sick boy.

The pins safely returned to her reticule, she straightened her bonnet and smoothed her skirts.

The carriage sat canted awkwardly to one side, and the cushions sloped uncomfortably beneath her.

Thompson appeared at the carriage door. His face creased with concern while his gloved hand nervously adjusted the brass buttons of his livery.

“I’m afraid we’ve had a mishap with the wheel, my lady.”

“How tiresome,” Abigail sighed, peering past him. The rear wheel listed drunkenly inward.“Can it be repaired quickly?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. The axle’s damaged as well.” Thompson’s eyes darted toward the darkening sky. “The driver’s gone to fetch help, but it may be some time before we’re able to continue.”

Abigail pressed her fingertips to her temples, where a dull throb had taken up residence.

The thought of waiting in this tilted carriage for hours was intolerable.

She was worn thin—her body aching from a day spent tending to the sick, her mind heavy with the residue of too many worries.

The prospect of sitting idle, trapped with only her own fatigue and fretting, was more than she could bear.

“Where exactly are we, Thompson?”

“Nearing the edge of Bermondsey, my lady.” He glanced uneasily at their surroundings. “We’ve just passed the chandler’s shop. Fortunately, we’re out of the worst of the gutter.”

Abigail considered this. She knew the area reasonably well after a year of traveling to and from Beacon House.

The air still carried the faint, acrid scent of the tanneries, but the industrial stench was behind them.

While not quite respectable, it wasn’t particularly dangerous in the early evening.

She glanced out at the dimming sky and thought of Verity’s inevitable fuss when she arrived late. The Countess had been particularly trying of late.

Yesterday whenAbigail had returned home from her day at beacon House,Verity had descended on her withher latest fashion crisis. “I’ve been waiting positively hours for your opinion. The blue ribbons or the lavender for my new cap? Norman says blue, but he knows nothing of fashion.”

When Abigail had suggested the blue would complement her complexion, Verity had promptly declared she would use the lavender after all.

If she left now and kept up a brisk pace, she might arrive just as Verity retired for her “restorative” evening tea—that blessed hour when her cousin’s wife sequestered herself with her lady’s maid to review the social calendar and bemoan her husband’s lack of ambition.

“I believe I shall walk the rest of the way,” she announced, gathering her reticule.

Thompson’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, no, my lady. If I may be so bold, the Duchess would be most displeased if I allowed you to walk unaccompanied.” He glanced anxiously at the street around them, then back at her.

“My sister is not here,” Abigail countered. Marjory had departed earlier for a fundraising event. “It’s perhaps half an hour’s walk to Reedley Manor, and the neighborhood improves with every street.”

“But—” Thompson shifted uneasily, torn between protecting her and leaving the carriage unattended.

“My mind is quite made up.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “Please wait with the carriage. I shall send the Earl’s footman back with a message once I arrive safely.”

Before the loyal footman could object further, Abigail gathered her skirts and navigated the awkward angle of the carriage step, which now tilted precariously toward the cobblestones. Her foot slipped on the edge, and she nearly tumbled forward, catching herself on the door frame with a small gasp.

Thompson sighed, defeated. “Mind Blackfriars Lane, my lady. The street sign is obscured by that dreadful tavern. One wrong turn?—”

“I shall be careful,” she promised, already relishing the solid feel of the cobblestones beneath her half-boots.

The late May evening was pleasant enough, the air still holding the warmth of the day while the shadows lengthened across the narrow streets.

The bells of St. Mary’s chimed in the distance.

She oriented herself quickly and set off at a brisk pace toward Mayfair, her half-boots making a satisfying rhythm against the cobblestones.

As she walked, her thoughts drifted to the changes of the past year. Marjory’s marriage to the Duke of Sherton had been unexpected, but it had brought her sister genuine happiness—and given her the means to establish Beacon House. The charity had quickly become Abigail’s purpose as well.

Just this morning, she had helped Mrs. Winters, a widow with four children, master a simple bookkeeping system that might help her secure employment in a shop. The woman’s callused hands had trembled as she formed each careful number in the ledger.

“I never thought I might earn a decent wage,” Mrs. Winters had whispered, tears gathering in her eyes. “My James always said I had a good head for figures, but no one would listen to a washerwoman.”

“They will listen to an experienced bookkeeper,” Abigail had assured her, feeling a swell of satisfaction as the woman straightened her shoulders with newfound pride.

It was good, worthy work. It filled her days and provided the satisfaction of being useful. If it wasn’t the life she had once imagined for herself—well, she had forfeited that possibility years ago.

She could still feel the chill air as she slipped away from the arranged wedding to the Duke of Wilds, the crushing weight of her father’s words when she returned home three days later. Your actions have disgraced us all. Shameful. Weak...

With her reputation forever tarnished, she had resigned herself to spinsterhood.Most days, she could convince herself she was content.

A flower seller with the last of her day’s wares offered Abigail a wilting bouquet at a reduced price.

Abigail paused, her gaze drifting across the drooping violets and a single battered rose.

The girl behind the basket could not have been more than twelve, her apron streaked with dust and her arms wrapped tight around her meager stock.

“Would you care for some flowers, miss?” the girl asked, voice wavering between hope and exhaustion. “Only tuppence. They’ll not last the night, but they’re sweet yet.”

Abigail reached into her reticule, drawing out a coin. “They’re lovelier than you think,” she said softly, pressing the coin into the girl’s palm. “And I shall be glad of their company on my walk.”

The girl’s face bloomed with shy surprise. “Thank you, ma’am! I’d have had to throw them out, else.” She arranged the tattered ribbon around the stems with care, handing the bouquet over as though it were the last treasure in London.

“They’re a comfort,” Abigail replied, inhaling the faint, bruised scent. “And you’re a good saleswoman. Go home now—it’s getting late.”

The girl bobbed a grateful curtsy, already turning for home, her basket light at last. Abigail continued on, the fading bouquet tucked carefully against her. Its subtle fragrance mingled with the dusk.

As she walked, she absently stroked the wilting petals, feeling their velvety softness giving way beneath her fingertips.

A violet petal detached and fluttered to the cobblestones.

She watched it fall, then deliberately plucked another, letting it drift from her fingers as she passed a group of apprentices heading toward a public house, their laughter and boisterous energy a reminder of youth’s careless joy.

Another petal came loose in her hand. She considered her increasingly strained accommodations at Reedley Manor.

Perhaps it was time to consider alternatives.

She had enough funds to rent modest rooms of her own, or to accept Marjory’s offer of the caretaker’s cottage behind Beacon House.

Either option would provide blessed peace, but both felt like surrendering to invisibility—the final admission that she would forever be ‘poor Abigail,’ the object of pitying glances and hushed conversations that ceased when she entered a room.

The realization brought a hollow ache to her chest, an emptiness that expanded with each passing year. She rolled a petal between her thumb and forefinger, crushing it slightly, releasing its sweet scent before letting it go. The battered rose drooped further as another of its crimson petals fell.