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It wasn’t quite being clapped on the back and told to go and pursue his lady love, but it was more encouragement than Marcus had ever expected to receive. Standing, putting down his beer mug with a decisive thud, he bowed to both Adam and Jim. ‘I’m forever in your debt, you know.’
‘You aren’t. No debts, remember?’ Jim winked. ‘Honour among thieves. Especially rich ones.’
He wasn’t only referring to Marcus. Marcus knew for a fact that Adam’s ability to play other people had led to a large amount of wealth flowing his way, even if was technically meant for those poor souls he impersonated. As for Jim, the state of his finances was a constant mystery—and even though Marcus had grown to know the hulking, scarred man quite well, interrogating the man about his money felt like a swift route to being beaten half-to-death in a dark alley.
‘I’ll bugger off.’ He could hug both Adam or Jim, but the Oak definitely wasn’t the place for that. ‘But I’ll be back soon.’
‘When?’
‘After I’ve told Abigail I love her.’ As he said the words, Marcus felt a lightness filling him again. This energy, this feeling of being able to conquer the world; this, then, was love. ‘After I win her heart, gentlemen. It won’t take long.’
As Marcus walked decisively out of the pub, Adam and Jim looked at one another. Lifelong friends and almost lifelong criminals, albeit different from the common run of cutpurses and killers, they couldn’t help but feel a mutual rush of concern.
‘I’ve never seen him like that.’ Adam shook his head. ‘Like a man possessed.’
‘True.’ Jim paused. ‘Did we do the right thing?’
‘Telling him to go after her? Of course we did.’
‘And if she refuses him?’
‘I doubt she will.’ Adam took another long sip of beer. ‘He’s a duke. I think women might find it quite difficult to refuse dukes, even if they steal diamonds every so often.’
‘It’s the duke bit she doesn’t like.’
‘Then she’s mad. But he’s mad as well, so they’ll be able to make some sort of arrangement.’ Adam winced as he rubbed his brow. ‘And now, Jim, I’m sick to bloody death of talking about women. Can we talk about something more interesting?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. How to rob the gaming hell on Waters Way?’
‘Ah.’ Jim’s eyes brightened. ‘Now you’re speaking my language.’
Time, for Abigail, veered between unacceptably slow and so fast she felt her head spinning. In what felt like no time at all she was in possession of plain gowns, a ticket for the next boat to the Continent, and a letter from Mary’s relative exclaiming just how happy she would be to have a companion to share the bleak winter months in Florence, and that she had already spoken of Abigail to every wealthy Englishwoman in the city who had children in need of care.
But at the same time, waiting for the ship to leave—two whole weeks—felt like waiting for a glacier to melt. Being still in the midst of London’s chaos, even with Mary as a companion, made Abigail feel as if she had been entombed under one of the stones in St Paul’s and was withering away to dust.
When Mary finally arrived home with the news that Winnie was ready to receive her, there was a moment of brief respite. Finally, she would be closer to leaving English shores and closer to leaving her regrets with Marcus behind. But as the days slid by with agonising slowness, Abigail realised that at least a part of the pain she was feeling was welcome.
It did, in a way, keep her closer to Marcus. And how on earth would she bear it when she was on new soil, surrounded by new interests and sensations? How would she be able to remember him?
She shouldn’t want to remember him. But in the deepest part of Abigail’s soul, every moment spent with Marcus had been gathered and fixed into place with a strength that almost frightened her.
Winnie’s house, at least, was a refuge from the world. During Winnie’s last bouts of illness, her doctor had urged her terrified mother and father to take their only child away from the suffocating chaos of the city and give her clean country air to breath. Winnie’s parents, never accused of doing anything by half-measures, had immediately sold their townhouse and taken residence in a manor so far away from the bustle and smog of London that one couldn’t even see the city on the horizon if one squinted.
The manor was beautiful. Winnie’s mother, a great lover of her garden, had all but smothered it with flowers of every kind; the honey made from the bees in nearby hives had an indescribable sweetness. When Abigail grew restless in the house itself, which had a quietness seemingly designed to make one reflect on the mistakes of one’s past, there were many paths through the surrounding fields strewn with fragrant red dust and dappled shade from larches spread out at intervals.
The best thing, of course, was Winnie’s presence. Ever since the dreadful moment Abigail had learned of Mr. Haythwaite’s proposal, she had missed her red-headed firework of a friend just as much as she had missed Mary’s calm sense of purpose. While Mary focused intensely on the reality of things, finding solutions to seemingly impossible problems based on tranquil assessment of the facts, Winnie’s wild leaps of fantasy made the world seem just a little bit larger than before.
Perhaps her emotional excesses were a result of her physical weakness. As Abigail walked slowly down the path furthest from the manor, watching the sun set over the fields with a heart that still felt thoroughly wounded, she couldn’t help but notice just how out of breath Winnie was. ‘Shall we stop, dear?’
‘I don’t need to.’ Winnie’s voice was breathless but firm. ‘If I don’t move, I will lose the ability to do so.’
‘I’m not asking for you.’ Abigail was, but she knew better than to argue with Winnie. Best to let her rest by other means. ‘As it happens, I’m asking for myself.’
‘If you wish to watch the sunset, then of course we can stop.’ Winnie’s tone was calm, but Abigail detected a hint of gratitude in her voice. ‘Take as long as you need.’
Worrying about Winnie was almost easier than worrying about what had happened between her and Marcus. It was a familiar worry, shared with Mary and everyone else who loved Winnie, while her grief for what she had lost with Marcus—what she had thrown away, what he had thrown away, oh, Lord—was considerably more difficult to bear.
