Page 7

“ L and’s sake, my lady. Slept in your boots, did you, and never so much as a ring for help—not a word all night!” Sarah snapped the curtains open, flooding the chamber with morning sun.

Abigail blinked her eyes open, slow and groggy. She pushed herself up, though the effort of sitting upright left her faintly dizzy. Pain throbbed at her ankle and her throat burned. A low, dull ache had taken up residence in her side and it rose in sharp protest with every deep breath.

The maid paused, taking in Abigail’s mud streaked gown and limp, tangled hair. She glanced at the ruined bonnet and filthy reticule discarded on the rug. Her sharp eyes landed next on Abigail’s throat—and whatever words had been rising died on her lips.

“Oh,” Sarah breathed, stepping closer. “Sweet mercy, what happened to your neck?”

Abigail instinctively drew back. “It’s nothing,” she said, though her voice came out in a ragged rasp that betrayed the lie.

Sarah didn’t answer at first. Her jaw tightened as she turned away to fetch the basin and compress. “Nothing doesn’t leave marks like that. Now, let’s see to that ankle.”

With brisk but not unkind hands, the older woman unlaced her boot, murmuring apologies as she eased it off.Abigail clenched her jaw around a cry of pain and breathed deeply while she closed her fists around the coverlet. The stocking came next to reveal a vivid patchwork of purple and blues.

“I... I didn’t wish to trouble anyone,” Abigail managed when she was able. She spoke in a harsh whisper. “It was late.” And I was ashamed , she didn’t add. Ashamed to have been so foolish, to have once again made a choice that led to disaster.

“You’ll find yourself lamed for a fortnight. Like a goose egg, it is,” Sarah clicked her tongue and fetched the compress with renewed energy, her skirts swishing with impatience. “You should have sent for me the moment you returned.”

Abigail tried to muster a wry smile, but it faltered—her body ached, her thoughts spiraled, replaying the night before relentless clarity—alley’s stench, the bruising grip at her throat, Graham’s arm steady around her, his eyes searching hers with what might have been real concern.

She pushed the memory down, focusing instead on the rhythm of Sarah’s ministrations.

After a beat, Sarah’s tone softened. “What happened, my lady? Truly?” she asked, pausing in her tending. “You’ve come home battered—your gown’s a fright, your hair near torn out, and you look as though you’ve seen the very devil.”

Abigail hesitated, fingers curling in her lap.

The events of the night before felt simultaneously distant and too close—as if they had happened to someone else.

Yet the evidence was written across her body in bruises and pain.

She told the story with an efficiency of words and avoided the maid’s eyes as she spoke.

She tried to make it sound like nothing more than a mishap, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her.

The ghost of fingers around her throat made her swallow reflexively, painfully.

Sarah was silent for a heartbeat, hands busy with the compress as she weighed her words. When she spoke, her voice was careful. “Oh, my dear. Did he —?” She left the sentence unfinished, but the unspoken question hung between them, heavy and fraught.

Abigail’s cheeks flamed. “No,” she said, quickly. “Nothing of that sort. He was—” She grasped for composure, “—he was only after my reticule. Dr. Redchester arrived before... before anything else.”

“Lucky that doctor happened by. Providence, that was.”

In the mirror, Abigail stared at the dark shadows around her neck, thinking of Graham’s gentle touch and stern features that had softened when he looked at her. She thought of the heat of his body next to hers as he used it to shield her from prying eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Providence.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed as she pressed the warm cloth to Abigail’s throat. “That’s not the look of a woman thinking about divine intervention, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Heat rushed to Abigail’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve been dressing young ladies for thirty years, Lady Abigail. I know that look.” Sarah’s voice held a wry edge.

Am I so transparent? The thought made her stomach clench with fresh anxiety.

“I must get ready to go to Beacon House,” she said, changing the subject. “I must check on Timothy.”

Sarah, still bustling, fetched a fresh cloth. “You’ll do no such thing, not with that ankle. And your throat needs rest.” Her voice turned brisk. “Shall I send for a doctor, my lady? There’s no shame in it; you’ve had a terrible fright.”

Abigail’s answer was immediate, sharp with fear. “No. Absolutely not. It’s nothing that won’t mend.” She glanced away. “No one need know.”

Sarah pursed her lips, unconvinced. “Word gets about, my lady. There’s already talk below stairs and word travels faster than a footman with the guinea in his pocket in this town.”

Abigail drew herself up, summoning a brittle composure. “I returned by the servants’ entrance, and the night was dark. There’s nothing for anyone to gossip about and I trust the staff’s discretion.”

But even as she said it, anxiety pooled in her stomach. Sarah’s skeptical look did nothing to ease it.

“London’s eyes are everywhere,” Sarah said quietly, smoothing Abigail’s hair from her face and beginning the tedious business of sorting the tangled mess of her hair.

Abigail closed her eyes, leaning into the familiar comfort of the brush moving through her hair. Years of caution, of quiet dignity in the face of whispers, of building a life from the ruins of her reputation—all potentially undone in a single evening.

A soft knock at the door interrupted them. Sarah opened it to reveal a footman standing at attention in the hallway.

“The Earl requests Lady Abigail’s presence in the breakfast room at her earliest convenience,” he announced with careful formality.

Abigail’s heart sank at the grave expression on the young man’s face. “Did he mention why, James?”

“No, my lady,” James replied, his eyes carefully avoiding the visible bruises at her throat. “But the morning papers have arrived, and the Countess appeared distressed.”

So. It’s to be a public reckoning—served with tea and toast.

“Thank you, James. Please tell the Earl I shall be down directly.”

“Shall I help you dress, Lady Abigail?” Sarah asked, already moving toward the wardrobe.

Abigail squared her shoulders grimly. “Yes. Something modest but dignified. I believe I shall need all the dignity I can muster.”

She closed her eyes and drew a long, shallow breath. There would be no avoiding this—no slipping quietly past their judgment. But she would not grovel. Not this time.

Twenty minutes later, Abigail made her way slowly down the corridor, each step sending a jolt of pain up her leg despite the tight bandage Sarah had applied.

She had chosen a high-necked gown of dove gray, its severe lines emphasizing her slender figure, while the color spoke of quiet respectability and, most importantly, hid the bruises on her neck.

Her hair was arranged in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place.

If she was to face accusations, she would do so looking every inch the proper lady she had tried so desperately to become.

The morning room door stood ajar, voices spilling into the hallway. Verity’s high-pitched tones rose above the rest, edged with hysteria.

“—in full view of Lady Winterbourne’s house! By now, half of London must know!”

“My dear, please calm yourself. Think of your condition,” came Norman’s placating voice.

“How can I be calm when she has brought such scandal upon this house? After all we’ve done for her!”

Abigail paused outside the door, her hand resting against the smooth wood.

She considered turning back—retreating to her room, packing her few possessions, and seeking refuge with Marjory.

But that would only confirm their worst suspicions.

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Norman paced before the fireplace, his face flushed and his morning coat slightly askew.

Verity reclined dramatically on the chaise longue, a damp cloth pressed to her forehead, her free hand resting protectively over her barely-visible pregnancy.

And in the corner, perched on a chair like a small, nervous bird, sat her mother with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Ah, Abigail. There you are.” Norman’s relief at having someone else to address was palpable. “We’ve been most anxious.”

Abigail stepped carefully into the room, her weight uneven on her feet. She inclined her head toward her mother and Verity in greeting but said nothing.

Her mother rose, frowning at her daughter’s limp. “Abigail, my dear. Are you quite well?”

No , she wanted to say. I am not well. I am afraid and angry and tired ofshrinking myself small enough to be tolerated .

“She was seen!” Verity interrupted, struggling to a more upright position. “Seen by Lady Winterbourne herself, leaning upon a strange man’s arm in the street at dusk!” She thrust a newspaper toward Abigail, her finger jabbing at a small paragraph. “It’s already in the Morning Post!”

Abigail took the paper, her eyes scanning the offending text—her name, dragged out in scandalous italics, the familiar cruelty of “questionable reputation” and “leaning on a man with shocking familiarity.”

Did you really think you could slip through London unnoticed, like a ghost?

“Well?” Verity demanded. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

The paragraph blurred. She barely heard her. Shame rose, but fury quickly burned it away. The paper trembled in her hand and she pressed her lips together.

It had all been for nothing .All the careful steps, the modest dresses, the quiet dignity—none of it mattered. London had already decided who she was years ago. Nothing she did would ever change that.