Page 37 of More than Words Can Say

“We’ll see,” Abigail hedged, suddenly very eager to reach the door. She twisted her lips into what she hoped would pass for a smile and darted out into the sunshine.

Escape the only thing on her mind—well, not the only thing; a growing part of her consciousness remained stuck on that spirit of adventure Lydia had alluded to—Abigail hastened down the road, head down, gaze fixed on making sure her legs continued placing one foot in front of the other. With her discombobulated state of mind, there was no guarantee her limbs would actually work properly.

As it was, she missed the turn onto Sixth Street from Main and had to do an about-face in front of Dora Patteson’s millinery shop. Hoping no one had noticed her awkward pivot, Abigail avoided making eye contact with the pair of women chatting at the corner, parcels in hand. However, today was apparently not the day for inconspicuosity, if that was even a word, for as soon as she rounded the corner, her name rang through the air. And in the voice Abigail least wanted to hear.

Biting back a groan, Abigail looked up to find Sophia Longfellow dragging a reluctant Mary Bowen across the street to intercept her.

“Tell her, Mary,” Sophia demanded, pushing the unfortunate woman at Abigail. “Tell her what you told me.”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think . . .” She bit her lip.

Sophia waved her hesitation away as if it were a puff of insignificant vapor. “Nonsense. She needs to know. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ as they say. Not telling her would be the bigger sin.”

The only one forearmed in this conversation was Sophia. As usual. Abigail looked from one woman to the other, not liking what she saw. Guilt was etched into Mary’s face, satisfaction on Sophia’s. This didn’t bode well.

“They also say ‘ignorance is bliss,’” Abigail muttered as she tried to sidle past. Her rattled brain didn’t have the wits to do battle with Sophia this afternoon.

“Even when it has to do with your husband being seen in the arms of another woman?”

Abigail’s head jerked up as her stomach plummeted to her toes. Her gaze locked with Sophia’s.

“You don’t have to make it sound so tawdry,” Mary protested, though her voice lacked confidence. “The woman was her sister.”

Rosalind? Oh, thank heaven. Abigail managed a shallow breath, though her heart still pounded painfully against her breastbone.

“Even worse!” Sophia declared. “Betrayal by family, by a sister, cuts the deepest.”

The old hurt rose to slap Abigail across the face, the destruction of a friendship between two young girls who had sworn an oath binding them as sisters of the soul. But it was fear of a new hurt that pulverized her heart like a pestle in its mortar, breaking off bits from the whole and grinding them into dust.

She shook her head. “I’m sure there’s nothing to get so worked up about, Sophia.” Of course there wasn’t. Rosalind would never go behind her back. “It’s only natural for Rosalind and Zach to be seen in town together from time to time. They are related by marriage, after all. It would be odder if they didn’t stop to speak to each other.”

“From what Mary tells me, there was very little speaking going on.” Sophia lifted her chin and raked Abigail with a pitying glance. “Your husband had his arm around little Rosie, clutching her tight against his side as the two of them marched down the street. Her head was tucked against his chest.”

Abigail worried her lip, desperately searching for a logical explanation. An innocent explanation. “Maybe she . . . turned her ankle and needed his support.”

Sophia snapped her focus to her friend. “Was Rosie limping, Mary?”

Abigail silently pleaded for an affirmative response, feeling only a twinge of guilt for wishing an injury upon her sister.

The apologetic, slightly embarrassed shake of Mary’s head broke Abigail’s dam of hope, though, and released a flood of insecurities.

“Not only were they seen walking together in an intimate fashion,” Sophia announced, “but they disappeared into the stable at the wagonyard and remained inside . . . alone together . . . for ages.”

There was an explanation. There had to be. Abigail turned an imploring gaze on Mary, begging her to refute Sophia’s story.

“I’m sorry.” Mary couldn’t meet Abigail’s gaze. “My brother works at the stable, and he said the two of them were in one of the back stalls together for at least twenty minutes. Maybe longer.”

Abigail’s heart shriveled in her chest like a plum left out in the sun, leaving nothing but a wrinkled black prune in its place.

“I told you, you should have sold the bakery,” Sophia declared. “If you were free to devote your time to your husband, his head wouldn’t have been turned by your sister. Rosie’s always been the pretty one. You know that. Yet, like a fool, you just kept on working those horrendous hours. Neglecting the man you married.” She gave a disparaging click of her tongue. “For all you know, they’ve been carrying on right under your nose in the evenings after you retire.”

“Stop it!” Abigail shook her head and backed away. “Zach is a good man. An honorable man. And Rosie is my sister. She’d never betray me like that. You’re a cruel woman to even suggest such a thing.”

She turned and raced toward the bakery. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Rosie would never hurt her that way.

Then again, Rosalind was the pretty one. Men had always preferred her.

No! She wouldn’t let her mind travel that path.