“I’m fine,” he repeated, even though they both knew he wasn’t. “I would like to be notified when word is received that my wife reached her destination.”
“Of course, my lord.” Mrs. Robbins curtsied and left the study, closing the door in her wake.
Dropping the quill pen, Stephen leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. He’d wanted to be there when Abigail left. Not as a means to convince her to stay, but as a way to finalize her departure in his own mind. He’d needed to see, with his own eyes, that she was willfully choosing to leave him... again. And yes, Mrs. Robbins was right. Hehadasked her to go. But she didn’t have to agree. She could have fought back. She could have fought for them, as he had. Because that was what it would take to convince him their marriage was worth more than cordial letter exchanges and the occasional dinner. Her fighting for him. Herchoosinghim, as he’d chosen her. Even now, he was doing it. By releasing her to pursue what her heart truly desired, he was forsaking his own happiness in support of hers.
Bloody hell, it was hard.
The hardest thing he’d ever done.
But it was right.
It was honorable.
It was good.
Because if he couldn’t be the husband she chose—not because of a betrothal contract, not because it ensured her an education, not because of some agreement between them—then at least he could be the husband who loved her enough to let her go.
*
February brought moresnow to London, but by March, signs of early spring had begun to emerge. Daffodils started to push up through muddy soil. Robins with cheerful red breasts were seen flitting from tree to tree. Icicles melted, the snow faded away, and while the nights were still cold, the days bloomed with a promising warmth carried in on a southerly breeze.
And yet for all the changes in the air, the dark cloud that had been hanging over Abigail’s head since she’d returned to the city remained undisturbed. It was there in the morning, when she woke. It was there in the evening, when she readied herself for bed. It was there when it rained. It was even there when the sun shone so brightly that she had to squint when she went outside. No matter what she did, the cloud remained.
Ever present.
Ever heavy.
Ever consuming.
To hide from it, she threw herself into her work as she never had before. She saw more patients in two months than she had in two years. Adults to infants. Wealthy to poor. Death’s door to skinned knees. She treated them all. She read books. She wrote research papers. She even took up knitting, as evidenced by the tiny sweaters now worn by Cleo and Ferdinand (Susan had shredded hers within minutes of it being on). But it wasn’t enough. The perfect life she had spent the past eight years envisioning wasn’t enough.
Because he wasn’t in it.
Stephen.
Just thinking his name caused a pang in her chest. A painful twinge that couldn’t be explained by medicine or science. Inexplicably, a pang she’d never felt when she was trying to run away from him... but perhaps that was a diagnosis in and of itself. When she’d known Stephen was chasing her, there was a connection between them, albeit a tenuous one. Now thatconnection had been severed, and in its absence there was finally room for all of the feelings she’d never let herself feel.
She told herself it was silly. With how busy she’d been, they’d hardly interacted at Summerwind House. But they’d passed each other in the hall. They’d slept across from each other upstairs. They’d broken bread together. And that night in the library, they’d done a lot more than that.
Living at Summerwind House, being Stephen’s countess at Summerwind House had been... comfortable. She’d experienced a sense of home that had eluded her in New York, and Connecticut, and even in London. It was logical that she would miss it. The human condition was not designed for rapid change and so, to some extent, she’d anticipated that the transition back to her old life would be difficult.
What she hadn’t anticipated?
How much she would misshim.
A knock on the door disrupted her train of thought and caused her to consult her patient appointment book before she went to answer it. She had no one scheduled until later in the afternoon, when she would be removing stitches, but impromptu visits were not uncommon.
“Good afternoon,” she began, removing her spectacles to clean them as she automatically delivered the welcome address she’d honed over the past few weeks after seeing so many patients their names and faces had begun to blur together. “Please tell me your name, age, and if your condition is emergent or non-emergent. If non-emergent, you may wait in a chair to the left. If emergent, please proceed straight back and—”
“Dr. Chadwick!” A hand waved in front of her blurred vision. “Abigail. It’s me, Mara.”
“Mara?” Blinking, she put on her spectacles to see that it was, indeed, the Duchess of Southwick standing on her doorstep. “I... wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know,” Mara said cheerfully as she pushed her way inside, her arms wrapped around a small bundle of fabric. “We arrived in London just yesterday, and I wanted to surprise you. Do you have time for a quick visit?”
A somewhat belated question, given that Mara was already standing in her front hall.
“Yes.” Abigail closed the door and leaned against it. “Yes, of course. How are you?” Her gaze went to the bundle as it began to stir and a tiny pink hand, curled in a fist, emerged. “How is Henry?”
