“Do keep up, Abigail. It isn’t becoming of a lady to straggle behind,” Harriet continued, undeterred. “And then there’s Sir Graham Withers. A bit portly, yes, but he was rather dashing in his younger days, I assure you. His shipping interests are flourishing. His fortune comes from the tea trade, like your father. And such manners. He bowed to me twice at Lady Ellingford’s supper last week. Twice!”
Was rather dashing? Was? Are my options already so limited that I must marry someone whose best years have passed them by?
The market surged around them. A trio of fishwives argued over a chipped scale. A boy shouted something about punnets of gooseberries. A woman in a saffron apron hurled insults at a man who had stepped on her basket. A donkey brayed, startling a flock of pigeons into the sky.
Abigail ducked to avoid a wayward basket swinging on a butcher’s shoulder, but Harriet barely noticed. “You must learn to present a more inviting expression, Abigail. Smile with your eyes. Tilt your head when listening. Try not to appear so… serious. It is so very off-putting to gentlemen. You need to present yourself in such a way that you are appealing and approachable rather than standoffish and aloof.”
Abigail’s grip on her reticule tightened. The cacophony of voices, the pressing crowds, her mother’s endless commentary—it all blurred into a drumming pulse in her ears. She was growing hot in her gloves. Her bodice felt suddenly too tight.
“Captain Mowbray was asking after you at the Fairchild ball. A naval officer, Abigail. Fine breeding, a good pension, and auniform. Think what a fine figure he would cut escorting you into dinner on his arm. Or, even better, as he walked with you back down the aisle as his new bride. Wouldn’t that paint a darling picture?”
Abigail’s smile thinned further. Her temples throbbed with the noise. It was hard to accept that—in her mother’s head—she’d potentially been married off to three suitors and was mother to three children, all within the last two minutes.
She stepped aside to allow a flower girl to pass and returned to her mother’s side, her patience fraying with each polite nod and murmured approval. Without warning, the thin thread holding the remainder of her tolerance snapped.
“I donotwant to talk about Captain Mowbray. Or Lord Bexley. Or Sir Graham, Mother. Please can we not simply enjoy the day around us?”
Harriet’s brows lifted. “Well, then whom do you want to talk about? You give me nothing to work with, Abigail. I cannot secure a match with air and obstinacy.”
“Must we always discuss suitors, all of the time? Surely it ought not to be a full-time occupation?”
Lady Harriet rolled her eyes theatrically. “Once you have found yourself a suitable match, we can stop working so hard to find you one, dearest. Until then, you must be more amenable to… your options.
A gust of wind lifted a cascade of petals from a nearby cart, sending them swirling around their skirts. Children ran by chasing a dog, and the crowd thickened near a stall selling sweet buns.
All of it pressed in around her—sights, sounds, her mother’s ceaseless stream of words—until it felt as though the whole market were collapsing inward. She bit her lip to stifle the urge to scream in frustration.
Abigail’s eyes fell on a quieter corner of the market, a stall at the periphery shaded by a faded canvas awning. The lilies there stood pristine and untouched, their pale petals a brilliant contrast to the riot of colour surrounding them.
Abigail seized her moment to make her escape. A few minutes of respite would enable her to get her breathing back under control, and the inner turmoil she felt to subside.
“Mother, those lilies over there… are they not particularly exquisite? Forgive me, I must examine them more closely.”
Lady Harriet, momentarily distracted by a prize-winning display of orchids, waved her off. “Yes, yes, but don’t wander too far or dawdle back. We’ll meet by the fountain in fifteen minutes.”
Abigail didn’t wait to hear more. She slipped away with a grateful breath, weaving through the crowd until she reached the patch of calm by the lily stall. The noise diminished, softened by distance and the screening of lofty hedges delineating the periphery of the market.
The lilies were perfect. White and curved, their fragrance was delicate and sweet, heady on the nose like the sweet scent of the air after a thunderstorm. Abigail inhaled deeply.
She felt the tension in her shoulders beginning to ease as they finally dropped. It couldn’t be good for a person to feel this level of tension all the time. Indeed, Abigail had become so accustomed to the sensation that she only recognized it once it had gone.
For the first time all morning—or indeed the past few days—her thoughts quieted. She let herself imagine what it would be to live in solitude, perhaps in a cottage lined with wildflowers, where lilies bloomed in sunlit corners and no one expected anything from her.
For a moment, she considered the prospect of a life where decisions weren’t handed down like orders. A life lived not in drawing rooms and ballrooms but somewhere quieter. Where conversation meant understanding, not performance. Where love—if it existed—was not a transaction.
The thought barely had time to settle before a sudden crash shattered the peace.
A shout rang out—sharp and panicked—followed by the metallic screech of something heavy grinding against stone. The harmonious babble of market-goers fractured in an instant.
Abigail froze.
Her head whipped around, just in time to see a vendor’s cart lurching violently to one side. The wheel caught on a loosened cobble and pitched inward, the towering stack of crates it carried—laden with pots, bursting baskets of flowers, and fragrant herbs—balancing unsteadily. It swayed once, groaned as if in protest, then buckled.
Wood splintered. Earthenware smashed. The cascade began.
There was no time to scream. The crates fell in a deafening roar, a torrent of clay and color crashing straight towards her.
The crowd scattered, skirts swirling and boots slipping. A woman shrieked. Somewhere to her right, a child sobbed. The air filled with the acrid scent of wet soil and crushed mint. Abigail’s body screamed at her to move, but her limbs rebelled—rooted in place by shock. She tried to step back, but the hem of her gown caught against her ankle, tangling her footing.
