Could he trust this? Could he trust himself? Did she feel the same way?
Abigail’s presence beside him—calm, sincere, reassuring—felt strangely safe. A new thought occurred to him. Perhaps he did not need to understand these feelings fully just yet. Perhaps he could simply allow himself to enjoy her presence, their connection, without rushing to define it.
Abigail turned to him, as if sensing his thoughts. “You’ve gone quiet,” she said gently. “Have I said something wrong?”
He quickly reassured her with a warm smile. “Not at all. Quite the opposite—you’ve given me much to think about.”
She returned his smile shyly, a soft flush coloring her cheeks. “I’m glad.”
A burst of laughter from Eliza drew their attention again, and Abigail sighed softly. “Mayhap we ought to rejoin them,” she suggested, though her eyes lingered on Arthur’s face, as if reluctant to break their quiet intimacy.
Arthur nodded, feeling both gratitude and disappointment at the interruption. “You’re right. But I must say—I have greatly enjoyed our time together today.”
“As have I,” Abigail said quietly, as if she had surprised herself, the earnest sincerity clear in her eyes.
As they rejoined Eliza and Charles, Abigail’s arm briefly brushed his own, a small contact that sent warmth radiating through him. Arthur allowed himself to relish the gentle intimacy of the moment, deciding that, for now, at least, he would accept these quiet stirrings of feeling as they came—cautiously hopeful, curiously different from the past, and perhaps, ultimately, more real.
He was not yet prepared to name this newfound connection. But, a cautious approach could not be a bad thing. As Abigail smiled warmly at him once more, Arthur acknowledged to himself that he no longer wanted to deny its existence.
For the first time in a long while, he felt genuinely optimistic about what lay ahead—and quietly determined to discover precisely where this new feeling might lead.
***
The carriage had long since begun its steady rhythm along the uneven stones of the street, the sound of hooves softened by the dusk now settling across the city. Candle-light flickered on the panes, the day’s final glow casting a golden hue upon the fine stitching of the upholstery.
Eliza sat across from Arthur in the carriage, her cheeks flushed from the brisk spring air and animated by some inward delight that made her eyes brighter than usual.
“…and he knew the entire structure of a Mozart quintet,” she was saying, her hands fluttering to emphasize each detail, “not merely in theory, but by heart. I scarcely believed him at first, but then he described the viola line from memory! It was astonishing—and you know how few gentlemen take any serious interest in chamber music beyond its use as polite background noise.”
Arthur, who had spent the last few minutes nodding at intervals he hoped were appropriate, made a quiet sound of acknowledgement. He had caught perhaps every third word.
Eliza, oblivious, continued. “It’s rare, truly rare, to find someone so genuinely interested in both music and history—he even asked if I’d read Mr. Burney’s treatise, which I haven’t, but I told him I would, and he offered to lend me his copy. And there was none of that usual patronizing tone, you know? None of the ‘how clever of you to pretend an interest in things you couldn’t possibly understand’ nonsense. He simplylistened.”
Arthur made another vague sound, this time in the form of a “Mmm-hmm,” but his gaze was unfocused, fixed not on his sister but on the view beyond the carriage window. Figures passed in fleeting silhouettes—ladies cloaked in evening shawls, bootblacks packing up their trades, flower girls with fading bunches of violets. The ordinary rhythm of London life continued around them, but to Arthur, it all felt strangely muted.
His mind was far from the Egyptian Hall. Far from Eliza’s breathless praise of Charles Wescott and his improbable knowledge of musical forms.
It was withher.
Abigail.
The very name shifted something within him now, drawing taut a string he had not known could be plucked. He had tried, for days now, to maintain the illusion—that this arrangement, this fabricated courtship, was merely a diversion. A convenient ruse. A shield against the prying eyes of society and his mother’s expectations.
But it was no longer so simple. It had never been simple, not truly.
Something had changed.
He had felt it in the gallery, standing beside her in the golden hush, as she spoke of ancient art and forgotten beauty. He had seen it in the precise curve of her smile when she spoke of things that stirred her, and in the way she turned her head slightly toward him as she listened—engaged, sincere, unguarded. And he had felt it, with aching certainty, when she laughed—reallylaughed—for perhaps the first time in his presence.
She was not performing. Not then. And neither, he realised, had he been.
Eliza’s voice broke through again. “Do you think him insincere?” she asked suddenly.
Arthur blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Charles,” she said. “You’re very quiet, and I can’t help wondering if you dislike him.”
Arthur drew a breath, measured, and sat back against the seat. “I do not dislike him. I think he’s—unexpected.”
