Page 26

“ W ould you look at this nonsense?” Marjory exclaimed, slapping the newspaper against the table as Abigail entered Beacon House’s front parlor.

The familiar scents of beeswax polish and fresh-baked bread embraced Abigail as she crossed the threshold.

“What fresh horror has the press concocted now?” Abigail asked, setting down her reticule and moving to peer over her sister’s shoulder.

The latest caricature,“A Fairy Tale for Modern London”, from the Morning Post depicted her in a flowing gown reminiscent of a Greek goddess, one hand pressed to her forehead in apparent rapture while Graham—drawn with shoulders impossibly broad and a rakish expression—caught her in a romantic embrace.

Behind them, cherubs scattered rose petals.

“Good heavens,” Abigail muttered, narrowing her eyes at the illustration. “I look as though I’m about to expire from consumption rather than walk down the aisle.”

Mrs. Welling leaned closer, squinting through her spectacles. “Man paints like he’s using a potato instead of a brush.” She shook her head. “Your nose doesn’t look like that, and His Grace has never shown that many teeth in his life.”

Marjory laughed and poured a cup of tea for Abigail. “At least they didn’t give you a halo. Last Thursday, you were positively radiant—like he was marrying the Virgin Mary.”

Abigail untied her bonnet with a sigh and joined her sister and Mrs. Welling, leaning into the comfort of their company.

The spring morning had dawned clear and bright, but the weight of tomorrow’s ceremony pressed upon her like gathering storm clouds.

One more day of being the subject of London’s fascination, and then — I’ll be the Duchess of Eyron.

The thought still felt like an ill-fitting glove.

She took the cup from Marjory, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “I suppose I should be grateful they’ve progressed from depicting me as a fortune-hunting harpy to a celestial being. Though neither is accurate.”

“How are Graham’s nieces settling in?” Marjory asked. “Mother said you brought them to Wildmere to play with Charlotte and Henry, and that it ended with at least three ruined pinafores and one very disgruntled spaniel.”

The memory of yesterday’s chaos made her smile.

“They’re lively girls.” She sipped her tea, letting the warmth of the memory dispel some of her anxiety.

“Heather climbed a tree before anyone could stop her and declared she was an admiral. Mary Ann made Charlotte cry, but only because she insisted on reciting all the rules of croquet before Charlotte could swing the mallet.”

Mrs. Welling’s shrewd eyes missed nothing as she studied Abigail over the rim of her teacup. “And the doctor? He’s kept scarce since the fever passed.”

Abigail’s smile faltered slightly. She traced the delicate pattern on her teacup. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. He’s adjusting.”

The truth was more complicated. Graham was unfailingly polite, attentive to details, but somehow absent. Only with the girls did he occasionally lower his guard, and even then, he seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for something to shatter.

“I imagine it’s quite the adjustment,” Marjory said, her tone carefully neutral. “Going from bachelor physician to duke, guardian, and husband in one fell swoop.”

“It’s enough rattle the Queen herself,” Mrs. Welling added. “No wonder he’s gone skittish.”

Abigail set her cup down with a soft clink. “He’s not skittish,” she said, more sharply than she intended. “He’s private, a trait more people should embrace.”

Marjory and Mrs. Welling exchanged a glance that made Abigail grit her teeth.

“My, my,” Marjory said with a smile that was far too knowing. “You’ve become quite the defender of His Grace’s character.”

“Hardly,” Abigail said, rising from her chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to help with the ledgers this morning.”

“Running away?” Marjory teased.

“Strategically retreating,” Abigail corrected. “I’ve had my fill of wedding talk.”

“You can run, but it won’t stop tomorrow from coming. You’ll be neck-deep in lace and lilies before you know it,” Mrs. Welling called after her.

Abigail escaped down the corridor toward the workroom, grateful for the prospect of columns and figures to occupy her mind. The worn floorboards creaked beneath her feet, a comforting, familiar sound that grounded her amid the whirlwind of change.

The door stood ajar and voices spilled out in a cheerful jumble.

“Good morning, ladies,” she called, forcing brightness into her voice.

A chorus of greetings answered her, followed by knowing smiles and barely concealed whispers. The women sat around the long oak table, ledgers open before them, ink stains on their work-worn hands.

“We was just talking about your wedding, Miss Abby,” said Nell, a thin woman pinched features and hunched shoulders. “Saw it in the papers, we did. All them fancy drawings.”

“Indeed,” Abigail replied, taking her usual seat at the head of the table.

The chair wobbled slightly, and she instinctively braced against it.

“I’m afraid the artists have been rather generous with their interpretations.

Now, shall we review yesterday’s entries?

Mrs. Welling tells me we received a delivery of flour and sugar. ”

She opened her ledger with deliberate movements, determined to focus. The women dutifully turned back to their books, but their attention clearly lay elsewhere. Abigail could feel their curious gazes on her face, like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

“Is it true you’re to have six white horses pulling your carriage?” asked Dora, the youngest of the group, barely sixteen, with a small child sleeping in the nursery upstairs. Her eyes shone with the same eager wonder Abigail had seen in Mary Ann’s face when she spoke of princesses and fairy tales.

“Certainly not,” Abigail said, smoothing the page before her. “Two horses will be quite sufficient. Now, the flour delivery was three stone at?—”

“But the Chronicle said there’d be a procession!” Dora protested, leaning forward eagerly.

Abigail sighed, setting down her pen. “The Chronicle has a rather loose relationship with the truth. Now,” she said, straightening her ledger in front of her, “please record the entry: three stone of flour at two shillings and sixpence per stone.”

The women bent to their task, quills scratching against parchment.

Abigail watched as they laboriously copied the figures, pride warming her chest. Six months ago, none of them could read more than their own names.

Now they managed simple sums and ledger entries—skills that might help them secure positions beyond scullery work or laundry.

“Is that right?” Martha, a widow with three children and a perpetually haunted expression, asked. She turned her book toward Abigail.

Abigail checked her work, noting the careful formation of each number. “Perfect. Now let’s add the sugar—one stone at three shillings and fourpence.”

Martha frowned in concentration as she worked out the sum.

Abigail’s mind drifted despite her best efforts to remain focused.

Tomorrow at this time, she would be dressing for her wedding.

Graham would be waiting at St. George’s, straight-backed and solemn.

The girls would be fidgeting in their new dresses, Heather likely to have grass stains before they even reached the church.

The thought sent a flutter of nerves through her stomach, not entirely unpleasant.

“Lady Abigail?” Nell’s voice broke through her reverie. “You’ve gone all dreamy-eyed.”

“Thinking about her duke, she is,” Dora giggled, nudging Betty beside her.

“I was thinking about ledgers,” Abigail lied, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. The women’s knowing smiles made her fidget with her pen. She frowned as an ink blot blossomed beneath the rough tip.

“Course you were,” said Betty, the oldest of the group, as her smile deepened the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Just like I was thinking about ledgers when my Tom came courting. Couldn’t think of nothing but ledgers day and night.”

The women dissolved into laughter, and Abigail joined them with her face burning scarlet. The sound echoed off the workroom walls, wrapping around her like an embrace.

“I suppose I am a bit distracted,” she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Is your dress very fine?” Dora asked, clearly more interested in wedding finery than tallying flour and sugar. “The papers said it’s French silk with pearls all over.”

“It’s English silk,” Abigail said, surrendering to the inevitable. The ledgers would have to wait. “And there are precisely twelve pearls, all quite small, along the neckline.”

For the next quarter hour, Abigail answered their eager questions about the ceremony, the wedding breakfast, and her future as a duchess. She recited details that seemed to belong to someone else’s life—a grand story unfolding around her while she stood at its center, strangely detached.

“Will you still come visit us?” Dora asked suddenly, her youthful face clouded with worry. “After you’re a proper duchess and all?”

The question pierced through Abigail’s distraction like a pin through silk. She looked around the workroom—at the worn table scarred by years of use, the uneven floorboards, the women whose lives had become entwined with her own. This place had saved her when she’d needed saving most.

“My work here will continue,” she said firmly, reaching across the table to squeeze Dora’s hand. “A change of name won’t alter that.”

The promise felt right as it left her lips. Whatever else changed tomorrow, this would remain constant—her commitment to this place, these women, this work.

“You deserve this, you know,” Betty said, her weathered face softening as she regarded Abigail. “A good man, a fresh start. After all you’ve done for us here.”