Page 31

“ I s His Grace coming down for breakfast?” Abigail asked the footman as he poured her tea.

“His Grace has not yet returned, Your Grace.” The footman’s voice remained perfectly neutral, but his eyes flickered briefly to meet hers before returning to the steaming amber liquid.

He set the teapot aside and fished a piece of paper from his pocket.

“He sent this when he requested a fresh change of clothes.” He placed it beside her plate with a small bow.

“I see.” Abigail wrapped her fingers around the delicate porcelain cup, absorbing its warmth. “Thank you, James.” She waited until he had retreated to the doorway before breaking the seal.

Graham’s handwriting was precise and measured. The ink pressed firmly into the paper, as though written with a heavy hand.

Abigail,

The case proved more complex than anticipated. I expect to return by afternoon. Please convey my regrets to the girls.

I remain, as promised, trying.

Graham

She refolded the note with care and set it aside. The tea scalded her tongue, but she welcomed the sensation—something tangible to focus on besides the hollow ache beneath her ribs.

“Will you be requiring anything else, Your Grace?” James asked from the doorway.

“No, thank you.” She forced a smile. “The girls will be down shortly. Please have fresh toast and an extra pot of jam brought when they arrive.”

The footman bowed and took his leave. Abigail buttered a piece of toast she had no appetite for. She had miscalculated last night, pushed too hard—and he had retreated out of her reach.

Mechanically, she chewed a bite of toast, recalling his eyes in the lamplight. Desire, unmistakable and fierce, but something else had lurked there. Dark shadows and desperation that bordered on fear, though she was not sure of what.

A bird trilled in the garden beyond the French doors, drawing her attention with its happy tone.

Abigail discarded the bread, suddenly restless, and moved to look outside.

The formal gardens stretched toward a low stone wall, beyond which lay rolling meadows dotted with early wildflowers.

It was beautiful and utterly foreign—nothing like the modest grounds at Reedley Manor or the tiny courtyard at Beacon House.

She pressed her fingertips against the cool glass. Perhaps she had been foolish to hope for more than politeness on their first night as husband and wife. Graham had never promised passion, only honesty and effort. And hadn’t he been honest, in his way?

With a sigh, Abigail glanced at the clock on the mantel. Nearly ten. The day stretched out before her and she dreaded the thought of the idle hours.

She’d return to Beacon House on Monday. Useful work among familiar faces, where her purpose was clear and her presence valued. Perhaps she would take the girls along.

As if summoned by her passing thought, the breakfast room doors burst open.

“Aunt Abigail! Mary Ann says I have to do Latin today, but it’s the day after our wedding!” Heather barreled into the room, curls flying, pinafore already askew.

Mary Ann followed at a more sedate pace, her hair neatly braided and her expression one of long-suffering patience. “Miss Norwood says we must maintain our schedule regardless of household events. It’s a matter of discipline.”

“And discipline is the foundation of character,” Ms. Norwood said as she appeared with an armful of papers. A smudge of ink marked her cheek, and wisps of hair had escaped her normally tidy bun. “Though I confess, Your Grace, that maintaining scholarly focus this morning has proved challenging.”

“I spilled the inkwell,” Heather announced without a hint of remorse. “Twice.”

“On purpose,” Mary Ann added.

“Ladies,” Miss Norwood interjected, setting her burden on a side table. “Perhaps we might greet Her Grace properly before airing our grievances?”

The girls paused their squabble long enough to execute near-simultaneous curtsies.

“Good morning, Aunt Abigail,” they chorused, though Heather’s curtsy was decidedly wobbly.

“Good morning,” Abigail replied, her spirits lifting despite herself. “You both look ready for a productive day.”

Heather groaned dramatically, flopping into a chair. “Must we have a productive day? Can’t we have an unproductive day? Just once?”

“Mrs. Greaves says idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” Mary Ann said as she took her seat.

“But Miss Norwood says the devil has better things to do than meddle with little girls,” Heather countered, rattling the china as she hopped into her chair.

Miss Norwood coughed delicately. “I believe I said that the devil finds work for idle hands, but that industrious minds are their own reward.”

The footmen appeared with covered dishes, derailing the argument. As they were served, Abigail watched them—Mary Ann meticulously arranging her napkin in her lap, Heather immediately reaching for the jam pot.She marveled at how quickly they filled a room with weather of their own making.

Mary Ann looked around the room as if she just remembered something. “Where’s Uncle Graham? I thought married people stayed together.”

The innocent question stung, but Abigail smiled and poured tea for each of the girls. “Your uncle was called to the hospital late last night. A patient needed his help.”

“Was it very bloody?” Heather asked, slathering her toast with an alarming amount of jam. “Uncle Graham said sometimes he has to saw off people’s arms and legs when they get all green and smelly.”

“Heather!” Ms. Norwood said, almost choking on her tea. “Not at the breakfast table.”

Her sister shrugged.“It’s what he said,” she muttered before turning pleading eyes on Abigail.“But truly, must we have lessons today?”

“No,” Abigail said, recognizing both the futility of trying to achieve anything scholarly with the girls in such a state and her need to escape the ghost of things that had not happened.“We’re going shopping.”

Three sets of eyes widened as they regarded her. Heather whooped while Mary Ann looked torn between propriety and excitement. Ms. Norwood merely smiled and sipped her tea.

Abigail busied herself with pouring another cup of tea.“Well, I don’t believe your bedroom has been updated since your Uncle Graham inhabited it as a young boy and the schoolroom is positively dreary. How can two bright girls hope to learn their sums in such gloom?”

“Can I get yellow curtains?” Heather asked. “Sunshine yellow, not yellow like Miss Pemberton’s teeth.”

“Heather!” Mary Ann gasped, scandalized.

Miss Norwood coughed delicately into her napkin, though Abigail caught the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“I think,” the governess said when she had composed herself, “that an outing might be just the thing. The young ladies have been working very diligently, and sometimes the best remedy for an unsettled heart is a change of scenery.” She gave Abigail a meaningful glance.

Abigail’s cheeks warmed. Was her disquiet so obvious?

“Very well,” she said, rising from the table. “Girls, finish your breakfast and change into your walking dresses. We’ll be off as soon as you are ready.”

As the twins chattered excitedly about their shopping plans, Abigail caught Ms. Norwood’s eye.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The governess nodded. “Every new duchess needs a day of frivolity before the coronet begins to chafe.” She gathered her papers. “I shall prepare a list of books that would benefit our little scholars.”

As she departed, Heather looked up from her plate. “Can Uncle Graham come with us?”

“Not today,” Abigail replied, keeping her voice light. “His patients need him at the hospital.”

“He’s always working,” Mary Ann observed. “Papa used to say that Uncle Graham would work himself into an early grave.”

The casual mention of their father sent a pang through Abigail’s chest. “Well, perhaps we’ll find something to cheer him when he returns.”

“Chocolate drops,” Heather said.

Mary Ann nodded in agreement. “We saw him eating them in his study last week when he thought no one was looking.”

Abigail filed away this small revelation—one more piece of the puzzle that was her husband.

“Chocolate drops it shall be,” she promised.

Bond Street was already humming by the time their carriage drew up—parasols fluttering, bonnets nodding, shop bells clinking like windchimes.

Abigail stepped down first, smoothing her skirts against the morning’s judgment.

As she helped the girls down, she instructed the driver to return in two hours and surveyed the bustling scene.

“Where shall we begin?” she asked.

“Toys!” Heather exclaimed.

“Books,” Mary Ann countered.

“Fabrics,” Abigail decided, “since we’re nearer that end of the street.”

The draper’s shop welcomed them with the rustle of silks and the earthy scent of dyes. The girls moved through the displays like explorers in an exotic land, fingering velvets and exclaiming over printed cottons.

They spent a pleasant half-hour selecting samples for the girls’ chambers and for the morning room, which Abigail had already decided needed brightening.

The shopkeeper was attentive but not obsequious, though Abigail noticed how his eyes widened slightly when she gave her name and direction for delivery.

A group of ladies browsing nearby turned at the title, their whispers carrying across the shop. Their stares burned tiny pinpricks in her composure, but kept her smile fixed in place, herding the girls out of the shop, grateful to be away from the prying gazes. Let them find a new obsession.

The near empty bookshop offered a welcome respite. The girls darted immediately to the children’s section, leaving Abigail to browse the shelves in relative peace. She consulted Ms. Norwood’s list and began selecting volumes on natural history, mathematics, and poetry.

“Your Grace.”