“You and your romantic sentiments,” he said.
“And you with your deflection.” She sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “But youarein love, and that pleases me. I daresay you’re well overdue some joy in your life, and she is too.”
The carriage turned onto Berkeley Street, the lights of Westbrook Manor coming into view through the growing twilight.
As they drew closer to home, Arthur leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
He was tired of dancing around lies.
And if the truth meant risking everything—his pride, his reputation, even the quiet peace he had grown so used to—then perhaps, for Abigail, it was worth the fall.
Chapter Sixteen
The gentle golden glow of the early evening sun bathed London’s streets as Abigail and Charles returned from their afternoon at Egyptian Hall, casting elongated shadows across the cobblestones. Yet despite the lingering warmth of the day, Abigail felt a chill of apprehension settling deep within her, a tension that tightened further as their carriage drew nearer to the Darlington townhouse.
As Charles assisted Abigail from the carriage, offering his hand with his usual considerate courtesy, Abigail glanced upward to find her mother standing expectantly at the entrance to their townhouse, her expression fixed in anxious impatience, gloved hands clasped tightly before her in a way that heightened Abigail’s own sense of foreboding.
“Well, that was a most enjoyable outing, dear cousin,” Charles remarked lightly, clearly noting Abigail’s suddenly tense posture. “Though something tells me your mother’s welcome may feel rather less than relaxing,” he added, under his breath.
She managed a faint smile, though the humor failed to reach her eyes. “Indeed. It appears the evening may prove rather taxing after all.”
Charles gave her a thoughtful glance, clearly unconvinced. “If your mother presses you too harshly about Edward again, you know I’m here to intervene, if needed. Just say the word.”
She squeezed his arm gently, grateful for his ever-steadfast support. “Thank you, Charles, but I’ve faced my mother’s determination before. I shall manage.”
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Abigail walked toward her waiting mother, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation she knew awaited within.
“Abigail, Charles,” Harriet greeted sharply, her eyes immediately assessing Abigail’s appearance. “Abigail, inside quickly now. We must speak urgently.”
Charles raised an eyebrow in silent commiseration as Abigail followed her mother into the townhouse, anxiety tightening within her like an invisible corset. The drawing room door closed behind them, leaving Abigail alone with Harriet and the suffocating intensity of her mother’s expectations.
Harriet wasted little time, turning abruptly to Abigail with a penetrating gaze. “I cannot understand you, Abigail,” she began, frustration coloring her voice sharply. “Edward has shown the utmost patience and persistence in his attentions—he is an earl, for heaven’s sake! Yet you insist upon wasting time with this… this Viscount of Westbrook?”
Abigail straightened her shoulders, maintaining her carefully schooled composure despite her heart beating faster with agitation.
“Arthur Beaumont is an honourable man, mother,” she replied evenly, carefully guarding her tone. “His companionship is most enjoyable, and I like him. A lot. Possibly because our conversations go both ways rather than me having to listen to self-important drivel while being largely ignored. Would you prefer me to be with someone who makes me unhappy?”
Harriet waved away Abigail’s words impatiently, ignoring the reference to her unhappiness. “Enjoyable companionship is irrelevant, Abigail. You know very well that the future of our family depends upon your marriage.”
Which obviously depends on my misery.
Her mother continued. “Edward Colton is not merely a suitable choice—he is a perfect one! He has wealth, position… connections. Why can’t you see the advantages?”
I feel as though I am living in my very own version of Romeo and Juliet.
Abigail pressed her lips together, stifling the sharp retort that threatened to surface. She had grown weary of her mother’s relentless disregard for her feelings, desires, and intellectual aspirations. Her mother saw only the social advantages, and never the personal sacrifices Abigail would be forced to make.
Instead, Abigail chose measured silence, her expression polite yet revealing nothing. Her mother misinterpreted her quietness as obedience, continuing relentlessly, her voice gentler but no less firm.
“Abigail, you must learn to trust my guidance. Marrying Edward would secure your future,and ours. We must think practically.”
Let’s be honest, Mother, she thought,this is about your future rather than mine. You may as well just say it plainly, and save us all some time. You want this match because it benefits you.
“Of course, Mama,” Abigail responded quietly, the words bitterly familiar, their weight oppressive. Her carefully controlled exterior concealed the inner turmoil swirling within—a restless storm of frustration, resentment, and now, increasingly, fear.
Lately, those carefully hidden tears she’d kept hidden for so long, felt dangerously close to the surface; her misery perilously close to a tipping point. Often, she wondered if it would make any difference.
Even if she were to spend her whole wedding day sobbing, her mother would likely interpret her tears as unbridled joy. Anything to assuage her own guilt for her part in her daughter’s unhappiness.
