Where was Stephen?The paradox ofwantingto see her husband after three years spent hiding from him wasn’t lost on Abigail as she paced across the front parlor, pausing only now and again to glance out the window at the long drive and the red-orange sun behind it that seemed to sink deeper with every passing minute.
He’d told her that he would return with her cats before dinner, but that designation had already come and gone. By her best calculations, he should have reached London by ten. A quarter hour to secure Susan, Cleo, and Ferdinand (given their sweet, docile natures, she was sure they’d been compliant), andthen the journey back, which should have had him home—she glanced at the longcase clock in the corner—two hours ago. But here she stood, at nearly half past six, without her husband, without her cats, and without any sense of when they might return.
What if Susan had gotten out of the house?
“My lady . . .”
What if the coach had broken down?
“My lady . . .”
What if it had been overtaken by highwaymen?
“MY LADY!”
“Yes?” Startled from her worries, she pivoted to that find Mrs. Robbins had entered the parlor and was holding a covered tray. “Are you speaking to me?”
The housekeeper’s weathered countenance creased in a smile. Like the rest of her, her face was pleasantly round and soft, with rosy cheeks and twinkling brown eyes that instantly invoked a sense of warmth and calm. “Youarethe lady of this manor, are you not?”
“I... I suppose I am, but I’d much prefer if you called me Abigail.”
“Oh, I could not possibly do that, my lady. Nor will the rest of the staff, I am afraid. You are Lady Lancaster, and His Lordship is Lord Lancaster, and that is the way it is and shall be.”
“But I don’t feel like a lady, let alone a countess.”
“And how could you? Growing up inthatuncivilized place.” Clucking her tongue, Mrs. Robbins set the tray down on a circular table and lifted the lid to reveal an array of neatly sliced meats, cheeses, and fruit. “You need to eat, my lady. I won’t have you turning to skin and bones, not on my watch.”
Obediently, Abigail selected a square piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth. As she chewed, she wondered whenwasthe last time she’d eaten? Breakfast, maybe. Or the lightdinner she’d shared with Stephen the night before. Regardless, she found that she really was quite hungry, and the cheese was rapidly followed by several strips of mutton and a large handful of grapes.
“Thank you,” she said, lightly brushing her hands on the skirt of her plain taupe gown when she was finished. “That was needed more than I’d thought.” For the thousandth time, her gaze tracked to the window. “Has there been any word of when Stephen might return?”
“Ah,” Mrs. Robbins sighed, patting her heart. “The bloom of new love. I remember when I used to wait by the door for my husband to come home.”
“It’s my cats,” Abigail said very seriously. “Long trips can cause their heart rates to rise, leading to anxious behavior and nervous atrophy.”
“Nervous atro . . . what?”
“They stop eating.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Procuring a small brush from the folds of her white bib apron, the housekeeper dusted the crumbs off the table but left the tray where it was. “No advance missive has been received from His Lordship, but I’m sure he will be here soon. Please do not worry overmuch, my lady, and continue eating. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. If you require anything in the meanwhile, you need only pull that tassel by the painting of the foxhounds.”
Delicious food delivered without having to ask, an entire staff eager to wait on her hand and foot, and whatever she desired only a bell ring away. The allure of such a life wasn’t lost on Abigail. If she stayed with Stephen beyond the three weeks he’d placed in front of her like a gauntlet to be run, it would beherlife. Was she being foolish to throw it all away? Or practical? Was she cutting off her own nose to spite her face, or saving herself from years of mindless tedium? Why wasn’t there an easyanswer? A solution to be found in a textbook. An equation to be solved on a piece of paper. A determination to be made in black and white.
When a person died, their heart stopped beating. A quick check of their pulse was all that was required to confirm death. There was no question. No ambiguity. They were alive, then they were dead. It was that simple.
In three weeks, her marriage to Stephen would be dead.
Except . . .
Except what if therewasstill a pulse?
It had been there yesterday, in his carriage.
When he’d kissed her lips... and other, much more private places.
It had been there every time she’d thought of him over the past three years.
Often with anger and resentment, but more than she would have liked—much more—with curiosity and tenderness.
