“Stephen.” She gripped her fork, fingers wrapping around the silver utensil until her knuckles shone white as the pit in her belly began to unfurl with tender shoots of green and a blossom of yellow. A color, she’d read inAncient Herbal Remedies and Their Practical Modern Uses, that signified hope and new beginnings. “Stephen, I have been considering—”
“I would like you to leave, Abigail.” Finally, he turned to look at her, and she almost wished he hadn’t, because his stare was as hard and unflinching as a wall of stone. “When the Duke and Duchess of Southwick depart, I would like you to go with them. Or you can go back to London. Your destination doesn’t matter to me, only that you go. The three-week period we agreed to has come to an end.”
Her fork dropped to the table with a clatter. “But... but we discussed extending my time here.”
“We did, but I don’t see the need or what difference it would yield. Any funds you require will be at your disposal.” He spoke formally, flatly, in a tone that didn’t sound like her Stephen at all. The warmth was missing. Even the anger had disappeared. In its place there was... nothing. A terrible, awful shade of beige in a library that had just been filled with color. “I’ll notify mysolicitor in London to pay any bills on your behalf, you need only send them to him.”
Her spine stiffened. “I can pay my own bills—”
“You will also have a carriage and driver at your disposal. Servants, too, if you would like them. Mrs. Robbins can assist you with hiring. Should you ever want to purchase a larger property in London, or anywhere else, for that matter, simply write me the address.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. The only sign of emotion in a countenance that was otherwise blank. “Of course, you are welcome to return to Summerwind House when I am not in residence. You may also make use of my manor in Grosvenor Square in a similar fashion. I’ll have my secretary coordinate our schedules.”
Abigail stared at him. What was happening? She felt as if she’d been given a test with no time to prepare in a language that she didn’t understand with a pencil that hadn’t any lead. All of these years, through all of the places she’d traveled and all of the things she had done, there had been one single, unwavering certainty. Stephen had wanted her. He’d searched the world for her. But now, when they were in the same room, he... did not. He was sending her away. And itshouldhave been a relief. It should have been everything she’d always claimed she ever wanted.
Why, then, did she suddenly feel so hollow?
With a hand that shook ever so slightly, she removed her spectacles and used cleaning the lenses on her skirt as an excuse to glance down at her lap. “That is all very generous. Thank you.”
“You needn’t thank me, Abigail. You are still my wife. My responsibility.” He set his plate aside. “If you’ll excuse me, I would like to find the new father and congratulate him. Don’t forget to rest after you’ve finished eating.”
“I won’t,” she said automatically, but it was too late.
He was already walking away.
*
Stephen could hearthe happy muddle of voices coming from the drawing room, but instead of following them, he put on his greatcoat and went out to the stables where he was greeted with frosty air and the friendly whicker of his favorite mare, Vixen, a spirited chestnut with a white blaze and a penchant for stealing treats out of his pocket.
“Here.” Reaching into a nearby bin, he procured a handful of dried alfalfa and fed her with a flat palm. She nudged his chest when he was done, a response that ordinarily would have summoned a smile, but he didn’t feel very much like smiling at the moment.
Abigail’s face was trapped in his mind. Particularly, the stricken expression that had befallen it when he’d told her that he wanted her to leave. An impulsive decision born of a desperate need to guard his own heart against further pain.
The battered organ already had too many cracks to count. Any more, and it would be broken beyond repair. So hehadto send her away, didn’t he? He had no choice. It was either that, or wait for her to leave him. Three weeks. Five weeks. Ten. Twenty. What was the bloody difference when the story would be the same in the end?
Leaning against Vixen’s stall, he dragged a hand through his hair as his heavy sigh expelled a plume of smoke into the aisle. There was a twisted irony, he supposed, in going to such great lengths to avoid being trapped in a marriage like his parents... and ending up there anyway. Stuck in a distant union born of convenience and apathy.
For a brief, glimmering moment, he’d thought it might work. He’d believed, foolishly, that some magical solution would present itself if only he could show Abigail what she would bemissing. But she’d seen it. She’d seen it, and just now, when given the opportunity, she hadn’t pleaded to stay.
She’d thanked him.
His bitter laugh caused Vixen to pin her ears. When she swung her haunches toward him, he coaxed her back with more alfalfa which she nibbled daintily before rubbing her head on his shoulder.
“I know,” he murmured, scratching the middle of her blaze. “But I already spent a year chasing her. I won’t torture myself by doing it for the rest of my life. A line has to be drawn somewhere.”
And finally, after eight long years, he was drawing it.
Chapter Seventeen
Five days later,amidst a flurry of well wishes, the Duke and Duchess of Southwick, along with the Marquess and Marchioness of Kensington, Jack, and—of course—the newest addition to the family, Lord Henry Ambrose Pierce Buxton, all departed Summerwind House in a long line of carriages.
In the quiet lull that accompanied their departure, Abigail busied herself with packing and by the next morning she, too, was ready to depart.
“We’ll be sad to see you go, my lady.” Her eyes suspiciously damp, Mrs. Robbins personally held the door of the town coach open so that Abigail could place her cats safely inside. “But I know you’ll be doing good work in London, and the people there will be grateful for your return. Thank you again for taking care of my nephew.”
Two nights ago, after the men had ensconced themselves in Stephen’s study to do whatever it was men did and the women had gathered in the drawing room to gaze starry-eyed at baby Henry, a frantic pounding on the door had yielded a surprise guest: Mrs. Robbins’s sister, Alice, and her nine-year-old nephew who had been bleeding from his temple after being struck by an icy snowball while playing with his siblings.
Try as she might, Alice hadn’t been able to get the blood to stop. After the wound had soaked through four towels, she’dmade her husband drive her and their child from the village to Summerwind House where she knew, courtesy of her sister, there was a doctor in residence.
Within minutes, Abigail had cauterized the wound and stemmed the bleeding. Wrapping the boy’s head to prevent infection, she’d given his parents strict orders to monitor him through the night and bring him back immediately if he vomited or showed signs of dizziness.
