“Perfect,” Mara beamed. “Absolutely perfect. Ambrose is completely smitten, he hardly lets the nanny do anything. One small hiccup and he’s rushing into the nursery. We decided against a wet nurse, and that’s been a bit of an adjustment, but I believe I’m getting the knack of it. Would you like to hold him?”
“Oh, no, that’s all right—”
But Mara was already handing Henry off and Abigail had no choice but to take him. After a moment of awkward bottom patting, she peered down. The baby, his blue eyes big and solemn, peered up. She felt the pang in her chest again.
“He likes you!” Mara exclaimed, but at the sound of his mother’s voice—so very far away from him—Henry’s bottom lip pushed out and began to wobble. “Oh dear. That is generally a precursor to—”
“WWWWAAAAHHHHHHHH!”
“—that.” With a mother’s tired laugh, the duchess retrieved her son and had him settled within a minute with a combination of coos and light bouncing. Smiling at Henry, she said, “Have you and Lord Lancaster broached the topic of children? I’ve a feeling he would be an excellent father.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed. “Why would you say that?”
“Because if he looks at his child with half as much love as he looks at you, he couldn’t help but be a wonderful parent.” Mararaised her head and met Abigail’s troubled gaze. “How long do you and Lord Lancaster plan to be estranged?”
“We’re not... that is... I haven’t...” Fumbling with her spectacles, she yanked them back off her face and resumed polishing lenses that were already sparkling. “Our separation isn’t so unique. From my understanding of marriages within theton, it’s quite common to live apart.”
“Yes, it is.” Mara paused. “But whywouldn’tyou want to be unique? Why wouldn’t you want to reach out and grab the love that’s right in front of you? Why wouldn’t you want what I have with Ambrose and Kitty has with William? When I wasn’t stuck in a chair staring at my feet, I watched your husband at Summerwind House. He could hardly take his eyes off you.”
“It’s complicated—”
“Love is supposed to be complicated.” The duchess rolled her eyes. “It may be easier to live apart, but what joy is to be found in loneliness? You’re an excellent physician, Dr. Chadwick. I daresay one of the best in all of England. But that is notallof who you are... unless you let it be.”
Before Abigail could muster a response, Henry began to whimper.
“I’d best be going,” Mara sighed. “Like any man, if Henry is let to go hungry he turns into an absolute monster. Albeit an adorable one. Please don’t be a stranger. You’re always welcome at Mill House, and we’ll be in residence through June. Which reminds me. I believe a certain earl has also recently returned to London. Perhaps you should pay him a visit.”
Once the duchess had departed, Abigail remained by the door, her thoughts a disorganized jumble. She hadn’t known Stephen was back in the city but then again, why would she? Aside from the letter she’d sent letting him know of her arrival and his curt response, they’d not exchanged any correspondence.
That is not all of who you are... unless you let it be.
She glanced at the longcase clock in the corner of the front hall. It was only half past ten, which meant she didn’t have a scheduled patient for another two hours. Was that enough time?
It would have to be.
“Susan, Cleo, Ferdinand,” she called out as she put on a bonnet and fur-trimmed pelisse. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t cause any trouble while I’m away.”
The carriage and driver Stephen had given her were waiting outside, the horse, a dark bay, dozing in the sun. To his credit, the driver hardly batted an eye when she told him where she wanted him to take her, and with a snap of the reins they rolled onward into the snarl of London traffic made even worse by the newly launched Season.
When they arrived in front of a large townhouse in white stucco, she hardly let the wheels stop turning before she let herself out and all but ran up the stone walkway to a blue door with brass fittings. Ignoring the lion knocker with a ring clenched in his teeth, she raised her fist and pounded directly on the wood, and kept pounding until a scowling male servant dressed in black answered.
“The earl is not currently entertaining—”
“Stephen!” Shoving past the servant, she stumbled into a front hall in shades of burgundy that was bigger than her entire office and waiting area combined. “Stephen, are you here?”
“My lady.” Appalled, the servant tried to take her arm. “My lady, you cannot—”
“Jones,” an achingly familiar voice drawled from the top of the staircase, “you are excused.”
“But, my lord—”
“Thank you, Jones.”
“Yes, my lord.” With a peevish glare, the servant retreated, leaving Stephen and Abigail alone.
She watched, her heart in her throat (where it most decidedly didnotbelong), as he descended the stairs step by purposeful step, his countenance cast in shadow until he reached the very last one.
“Abigail.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked tired, she thought. Almost as tired as she felt. A bone-deep exhaustion that dwelled not in the body, but in the soul. “What are you doing here?”
