Page 40

Abigail paced the length of the drawing room. The afternoon stretched before her like an endless plain, each minute an exercise in endurance. No word from Graham since his determined departure that morning. No news from Nedley. Nothing but the slow march of hours and her own restless thoughts.

On impulse, she climbed the stairs to the schoolroom, seeking the comforting chaos of the girls.

Their laughter and squabbles would be a welcome distraction from the gnawing worry that had plagued her all day.

Perhaps she could assist with the girls' lessons or simply bask in their chatter.

Anything to quiet the tumult in her mind.

She pushed the door open and froze.

Empty.

The chairs sat vacant, books left open on the small table. A half-finished drawing of what might have been a horse—or possibly a very ambitious dogs.

"Heather? Mary Ann?" Her voice echoed in the silent room.

No answer.

The hollow pit in her stomach widened. She moved to the window, scanning the garden below. No sign of them.

"Ms. Norwood?" she called, louder now.

Still nothing.

Her pulse quickened. Graham's warnings rang in her ears. Be careful, Abigail. Hollan is dangerous in ways we're only beginning to understand.

She rushed from the room, skirts gathered in her fists as she hurried down the corridor. "Heather? Mary Ann!"

Panic clawed at her throat. She'd let down her guard, assuming they were safe within these walls. But walls could be breached, servants bribed, children lured away.

She burst into the girls' bedroom. Empty.

"Ms. Norwood!" she called, her voice rising to a pitch that would have mortified her under normal circumstances.

She was halfway to the staircase when Ms. Norwood appeared at the landing below, her plain gray dress a stark contrast to the panic coloring Abigail's vision.

"Your Grace?" The governess's brow furrowed with concern. "Is something amiss?"

"The girls," Abigail gasped, gripping the banister. "I can't find them."

Understanding dawned in Ms. Norwood's eyes. "Oh! They're quite safe, Your Grace. Come, let me show you."

Relief made Abigail's knees weak, but she followed Ms. Norwood down the hall to a small, seldom-used bedroom near the nursery. The governess pressed a finger to her lips and eased the door open.

Inside, Heather and Mary Ann lay curled together on the rug, surrounded by a fortress of books.

Mary Ann's arm was flung protectively over her sister's shoulder, their breathing deep and even.

Heather clutched a small wooden soldier—one of Graham's childhood toys, discovered in a trunk the day before.

"They were playing library," Ms. Norwood whispered, "and insisted this room had 'the best light for adventures.' I checked on them ten minutes ago and found them fast asleep."

Abigail's breath left her in a rush. They looked so small, so vulnerable. Mary Ann's hair had come loose from its ribbons, and Heather's stockings were twisted around her ankles.

"I've been watching them closely," Ms. Norwood continued, misreading Abigail's silence as concern. "I wouldn't have let them out of my sight, not with—" She stopped abruptly.

"I know.” She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. “Thank you for your vigilance."

They withdrew, pulling the door quietly closed behind them.

"I'm sorry for the dramatics," Abigail said, smoothing her skirts with unsteady hands. "I feel rather ridiculous now."

"Nonsense. Your concern speaks well of your attachment to them." Ms. Norwood hesitated before saying, "I find that keeping one's hands occupied is the surest remedy for a troubled mind. Perhaps you’d like to join me in some needlework?"

Abigail seized on the offer of occupation. "I'd be delighted."

Ms. Norwood led her to a small sitting room where a basket of children's clothing waited, along with a well-stocked sewing kit. Sunlight poured through the windows, warming the space with golden light.

Abigail eyed the mound of stockings. “Good heavens. At this rate, Heather’s wardrobe alone could keep a seamstress employed.”

The governess laughed and threaded a needle. "That won’t be necessary, Your Grace. These last weeks Heather has been especially ruthless with her focks and stockings. I swear the child could tear a hole in steel if given half an hour with it.”

“Perhaps we should outfit her in leather, like cavalry officers,” Abigail said, peering at Ms. Norwood through an enormous rip in the hem of a petticoat.

The governess laughed.“That one might be destined for the rag bag. If I recall, it was the result of a foray into the large oak in the garden. An escape from a sea dragon, I believe.”

She smiled, grateful for the distraction of work and conversation.

They fell into a companionable rhythm, the whisper of thread through fabric and the occasional snip of scissors the only sounds for several minutes, but Abigail couldn’t help but notice Ms. Norwood’s hands paused more often than her needle required.

"You seem troubled, Ms. Norwood," Abigail ventured at last.

The governess looked up, her expression conflicted. "I've been debating whether to burden you with additional worries, Your Grace. But I fear withholding information would be a greater disservice."

She set aside her mending and reached into her pocket, withdrawing a folded document.

"This arrived for me this morning," she said, holding it out. "I had intended to discuss with you and His Grace upon his return."

Abigail took the paper, noting the official seal. As she unfolded it, the legal language leapt out at her.

"Baron Hollan's solicitor has summoned you to testify?" Abigail's stomach clenched.

Ms. Norwood nodded, her expression grave. "They wish me to speak about Baron Hollan's visits to Eyron Park after the girls' parents died."

"I wasn't aware the baron was a frequent visitor," Abigail said carefully, dread pooling in her stomach.

Ms. Norwood's mouth tightened into a thin line. "After the late duke and duchess died, there was a period of several months before His Grace returned from the Continent. During that time, Baron Hollan visited frequently, always bearing gifts for the girls."

"I see. And you were there, supervising these visits?"

"No. I was hired after His Grace returned.

But the staff informed me that the baron spent more time wandering the house than attending to his young relations.

" Ms. Norwood's needle flashed in the sunlight as she resumed her stitching.

"When I arrived, the visits continued for a time.

Always the same pattern—he would bring sweets or toys for the girls, stay barely long enough to see them delighted, then excuse himself to 'reminisce' in various rooms of the house. "

"How considerate of him to maintain a relationship with his young cousins," Abigail said, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice.

"Indeed. Though his consideration did not extend to replacing items that mysteriously disappeared after his visits. Small things—a silver snuffbox, a miniature portrait, decorative items that might not be missed immediately."

"You believe he was stealing from the house?"

"I cannot prove it," Ms. Norwood said carefully. "But when I mentioned my concerns to His Grace in a letter, he immediately forbade any further visits from the baron."

Abigail frowned. "That must have upset the girls."

"They were disappointed, certainly. They'd grown fond of him—or rather, of the attention and gifts he provided." Ms. Norwood set her work aside. "Which brings me to the incident Hollan's solicitor is particularly interested in."

"Go on." Abigail's stomach tightened with foreboding.

"About a month after His Grace's prohibition, Baron Hollan appeared at Eyron Park unannounced.

I instructed the footmen to turn him away.

" Ms. Norwood paused, her expression troubled.

"Unfortunately, Heather had been watching from the landing.

When she saw who it was, she ran down and threw herself at the baron, begging him to stay. "

"The poor child," Abigail murmured.

"When the footmen continued to insist he leave, she became hysterical. She cried that she wanted to go live with Cousin Freddy." Ms. Norwood met Abigail's gaze directly. "That is what the baron's solicitor wishes me to recount."

Abigail's hands went cold. Heather's words—a child's grief-stricken outburst—twisted into evidence against Graham. But it wasn’t the impact on the hearing that made her heart twist.

Her husband would hear the words and think Heather meant them. She could already see the look he’d wear—like he’d failed them all. But what child didn’t cry for what was shiny and fleeting? He’d given them something better—constancy, quiet safety, a place to belong.

Even if he didn’t quite believe it himself.

If Hollan’s lawyer wielded it well, that single moment of heartbreak could become the cornerstone of his entire case.

"I see," she said, her voice tight.

"I must be truthful in court, Your Grace," Ms. Norwood said. "Even though I fear my testimony will not cast you and His Grace in the most favorable light."

"Of course you must tell the truth." Abigail stabbed her needle through the fabric with more force than necessary. "I would expect nothing less."

"If it offers any consolation, I have also been summoned by Mr. Nedley.

And I intend to be equally forthright about the remarkable transformation I've witnessed in the girls since becoming part of your family.

" Ms. Norwood picked up her mending again.

"Mary Ann smiles now—genuine smiles, not the polite mask she wore for so long.

And Heather... well, the child practically vibrates with happiness when you or His Grace enter a room. "

Warmth bloomed in Abigail's chest, a small comfort against the chill of anxiety. "Thank you. When His Grace returns," she said, securing her final stitch, "we'll share this information with him. We will not be ambushed tomorrow."

Ms. Norwood studied her with approval. "Indeed not, Your Grace. Indeed not."

Abigail picked up another pair of stockings—torn, stained with mud despite a thorough washing. She set her stitches and pulled the fabric closed, wishing the messes people made were as easily mended.

The clock struck five. No sign of Graham. Abigail forced her attention back to her needlework, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her stomach.

Where are you, Graham?

She wanted to feel his presence in the house—the creak of his chair, the low rasp of his voice. Instead there was only silence, and the echo of the promises they’d made, trembling like a thread pulled too tight.