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Abigail blinked, at first sure that he had snapped his fingers at her, then turned with a gasp at the sound of footsteps. A servant was walking towards her, a butler by the look of his clothes—and from the expression on the man’s face, a determined professional blankness undercut by the sympathy in his eyes, he had heard every word.
How excruciating. Abigail swallowed down her shame, glancing at Marcus’ retreating back before turning to the butler. ‘I…’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘I would like a pen and paper, please. Only a small amount.’ Mary was closest; Winnie was not only far away but would cause a tremendous scene upon learning the truth. ‘Immediately.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The butler nodded, then silently moved away.
Abigail walked towards the threshold of the open door. Marcus was a distant figure, now; he was walking fast, so keen to leave her that he was practically running.
He had to be hurt. Terribly hurt. But she was hurt too—and dash it, she had to start putting her own hurt over the hurt of others. She couldn’t live any other way any more.
Everything had burnt to ashes in the space of a morning. The rustic dwelling she’d conjured up in her head had been replaced with an opulent manor house—and dash it, the way Marcus had expected her to enjoy his deception had made it impossible to enjoy any of it.
Lord, it hurt. Abigail cast her eyes back to the austere beauty of the entrance hall, the delicate mastery evident in the portrait of Marcus, then turned away with a half-stifled sob.
She would write her letter, give it to the sympathetic butler, then stand here and wait until Mary arrived. It wouldn’t take longer than half an hour, given how fast the messengers from Tinton were. And then—and then, even if it felt beyond her strength—she would have to leave this place without looking back.
Marcus’ anger lasted about as long as his angry journey from the entrance hall to the stables. As he stamped up to the stable door, Blossom looking at him gravely from her usual stall as the other horses whinnied their welcome, all of his righteous fury had drained away to reveal something considerably less palatable.
Guilt. An enormous wave of it, threatening to drown him. Marcus leant against the stable door, breathing hard, his vision darkening as he considered what he’d done.
No. He couldn’t feel guilty for this, could he? He had never lied openly to Abigail about himself. Well… not really.
He had avoided the truth, though. Let Abigail believe that he was an ordinary man with ordinary concerns. And although it was entirely possible that such elaborate game-playing could only make the final reveal of his parentage all the more spectacular… well, wasn’t it also a form of falsehood?
‘Fuck.’ Marcus muttered furiously to the wood of the stable door, ignoring Blossom’s irritated snort. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
One of Mary Fine’s greatest talents, apart from her ability to make a soothing chamomile tincture that could send a horse to sleep, was her composure. Unless she wanted to show emotion of any sort, she very rarely did; her usual expression was a cool, neutral stare that made more exuberant people quite uncomfortable.
At least, that was the usual state of things. As Abigail watched her friend exit the Fine carriage and walk up the imposing gravelled drive of Brookes Manor, she had to admit that Mary’s usual air of indifference had been replaced with a mixture of confusion and awe.
‘Darling.’ She ran to her, unable to wait at the front door. Mary’s answering embrace was strong and welcome; so welcome that Abigail already felt tears pricking at her eyes. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
‘Abigail, how could I not? Winnie would be here too if her lungs weren’t giving her the usual trouble. First the dreadful news that you were to be married to that old stick, then the even more dreadful news that you’d been kidnapped.’ Mary’s voice had more than a touch of tension in it as well as relief. ‘You can’t imagine what Winnie and I went through. Winnie was talking about summoning a militia herself. And then your letter arrived, and–and well, what on earth happened? And why on earth couldn’t you give us at least an inkling of what you were about to do?’
‘I didn’t know before I did it. Truly, I didn’t.’ How hideous it was to have hurt her friends in this manner, even if it had been the only possible solution. ‘I had to take the opportunity that was in front of me, for fear that such a chance would never appear again.’
‘Well, I—I’m still dreadfully annoyed, if you must know.’ Mary pulled away, still holding Abigail tightly by the shoulders as she looked at her with more feeling than Abigail had ever seen in her face. ‘I’m angry, but terribly relieved that you escaped that dreadful business with Mr. Haythwaite, and happy that you’re all right but terrified that you could have been killed or worse, and—and for goodness’ sake, how on earth has this adventure finished at Brookes Manor?’
‘Well, I--’
‘Did His Grace rescue you? Marcus Brookes? Is that why you’re here?’
‘In fact, he--’
‘If you don’t tell me right now, I’m going to lose my head!’
From Mary, these were very strong words indeed. Abigail stared into her friend’s worried eyes, carefully preparing a short explanation that nevertheless contained all of the relevant particulars.
Then she remembered Marcus’ eyes, the way he’d stroked her hair and murmured beautiful things to her as she’d fallen asleep, and burst into wild sobs before she could so much as utter a word.
‘I—oh, darling.’ Mary pulled her into a hug again. Abigail felt her tears soaking into her friend’s good woollen shawl, but by now all she could do was cry harder. ‘Forgive me.’
‘N-no. F-forgive me.’
‘I’ve already forgiven you. I never would have forgiven you if you’d become Mrs. Haythwaite.’ Mary paused. ‘To think of having to visit that horrible townhouse for tea, trying not to look at any of Mr. Haythwaite’s stuffed birds.’
