Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

A fter the eventful day they'd had, the Wilkinsons were now almost uncomfortable with the peaceful silence that settled within the household. Abigail particularly found herself unable to sleep and as such she was up far before the sun had risen completely. Where she sat now, in the parlor she still found it nearly impossible to believe that she was getting married soon.

A knock at the door startled her from her reverie and she looked up, confused, when the butler entered — his usually stoic face betraying a hint of surprise.

"Lady Beatrice to see you, Lady Abigail."

Abigail blinked, setting down her cup with a soft clink. "Lady Beatrice? At this hour? Oh, please show her in, Thompson."

As Beatrice entered, resplendent in a morning gown of pale blue silk, Abigail rose to greet her, smoothing down her own simple muslin dress self-consciously. "Lady Beatrice, what a pleasant surprise. I am afraid you've caught us at an odd time. The household is still reeling from yesterday's excitement."

Beatrice's eyes widened, a look of concern crossing her delicate features. "Oh my! I hope nothing is amiss? I know I am dreadfully early, but I simply had to speak with you after the events of the ball."

"Quite the contrary," Abigail assured her, gesturing for Beatrice to take a seat. "My sister-in-law gave birth to a healthy baby boy. It was a long day, but everyone is well. Just... exhausted."

"How wonderful!" Beatrice exclaimed and a smile settled around her lips. "Congratulations on your new nephew. Perhaps I should come back another day when the household has had a chance to recover?"

Abigail shook her head, already pouring a fresh cup of tea for her guest. "Nonsense. Please, join me. I could use the company, and everyone else is still abed."

Once they were settled with steaming cups before them, Beatrice leaned forward, her eyes alight with barely contained curiosity. "Now, dearest Abigail, we simply must discuss the events of the ball. The ton has been abuzz with talk of little else. I've been positively dying to hear your side of the story."

Abigail felt her cheeks warm, her fingers tightening around her teacup. "I am sure it has been greatly exaggerated. You know how people love to gossip."

"Oh, you poor thing," Beatrice cooed, reaching out to pat Abigail's hand. "To be caught up in such a scandal. I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. Your first season, and already the center of such controversy!"

Abigail frowned and she set down her cup with perhaps more force than necessary. "Is it truly such a dire situation? I mean, I am engaged to the Duke of Grouton now. Surely that resolves the matter?"

Beatrice's teacup clattered against its saucer as she stared at Abigail in shock, her eyes wide and her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of surprise. "Engaged? To the Duke of Grouton? My dear, are you certain that's wise?"

"What do you mean?" Abigail asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Charles — I mean, the duke — has been nothing but kind and honorable."

Beatrice hesitated, glancing around the room as if to ensure they were truly alone. Then she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, it is just... he is a known rake, Abigail. There are rumors... whispers of other ladies he's ruined and never looked back."

Abigail felt as though she'd been doused in ice water, a chill running down her spine. "What? But... that can't be true. Charles would never…"

Her face paled when she thought of the rumors she'd heard — but then, was it not said that he refrained from sullying the names of innocent ladies?

"Charles, is it?" Beatrice raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "My dear, I know you're new to London, but surely you've heard the stories. There have been... incidents. Nothing that could be proven, of course, but where there's smoke…"

"I do not believe it," Abigail said firmly, trying her best to suppress the seeds of doubt sprouting in the back of her mind. She thought of Charles's gentle hands guiding her through a dance, his patient explanations of the ton's convoluted societal rules. Could that same man be capable of such callousness? "Surely there must be some misunderstanding."

Beatrice sighed, shaking her head in a gesture of exaggerated sympathy. "I wish that were the case, for your sake. But oh, I should not even say this… Darling Abigail, there are a trail of broken hearts left in his wake."

"Broken hearts ?" Abigail echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. How was it possible that Charles she had never heard this. Certainly he would not have married her had it been true?

"Oh yes," Beatrice nodded solemnly, leaning back in her chair with the air of one about to impart a great secret. "I have unfortunately been the one to dry the tears of many a young woman… who believed he would marry them…"

Abigail paled at this. "They… they did?"

Beatrice nodded carefully. "Indeed. In fact there was one… no. No, I have already said too much."

Abigail's mind was reeling, her thoughts a jumbled mess of confusion and disbelief. Could it be true? Was Charles truly so callous? She thought of his kindness, his patience as he taught her the ways of the ton. It seemed impossible to reconcile that man with the cad Beatrice was describing.

"Maybe… maybe you are mistaken," " Abigail insisted, trying to keep her voice steady even as doubt gnawed at her insides. "Perhaps the ladies you talk of misunderstood or…maybe there were circumstances we do not know about. It seems unlike Ch — the duke to act so callously."

Beatrice shrugged, her expression a perfect blend of sympathy and worldly wisdom. "Perhaps. But the fact remains, that he has quite the reputation. . I just think you should be... vigilant, my dear. Guard your heart carefully. Men like the Duke of Grouton... well, they are not always what they seem. And you… forgive me, but you are quite naive when it comes to the ways of the men of the ton."

Abigail felt a surge of frustration, not just at Beatrice's words, but at the entire situation. Here she was, barely out in society, and already embroiled in scandal and intrigue. It was maddening. "It seems I have little choice in the matter now, vigilant or not," she said, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from her voice. "It is the only way to manage the other scandal. I already said yes — and to refuse him now would only cause more scandal."

Beatrice reached out, squeezing Abigail's hand sympathetically. "Oh, you poor dear. I am so sorry to have upset you. I only wanted you to be prepared. Knowledge is power, after all, especially in our world."

They sat in silence for a moment, Abigail's mind whirling with this new information. Finally, she shook herself, forcing a smile onto her face. "Thank you for your concern, Lady Beatrice. I... I appreciate your candor."

Beatrice nodded, rising gracefully to her feet. "Of course, my dear. That's what friends are for, aren't they? To look out for one another. I should take my leave now, let you process all of this. But do remember, if you ever need someone to talk to…"

Abigail nodded with a watery smile then stood to walk Beatrice to the door. As she watched the other woman's carriage pull away, she could not help but feel a slight spark of unease. Was Beatrice truly looking out for her? Or was there more to her visit than simple friendly concern?

After Beatrice took her leave, Abigail found herself unable to sit still. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She paced the length of the parlor, her skirts swishing around her ankles, her hands clasped tightly behind her back.

Could it be true? Was Charles truly the rake Beatrice painted him to be? But if so, why had he offered marriage? Why go to such lengths to protect her reputation if he truly cared nothing for the women he supposedly ruined?

Without really thinking about it, she found herself at her writing desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and dipping her pen in ink. Her hand hovered over the paper for a moment before she began to write:

Your Grace,

I hope this finds you well. Might I impose upon you to call tomorrow? Perhaps we could take a turn about the park and talk. There are matters I wish to discuss.

Yours,

Abigail

She read over the note, biting her lip in indecision. Was she being too forward? Too vague? But no, she decided. If they were to be married, surely she had the right to speak with him openly.

She folded the note and sealed it with a drop of wax, then rang for a footman. "Please see that this is delivered to the Duke of Grouton at once," she instructed, handing over the missive.

As the footman departed, Abigail resumed her pacing, her thoughts in turmoil. Was Beatrice telling the truth? Or was this just more of the ton's endless gossip and speculation? And if it was true, what did that mean for her future?

A soft cry from upstairs pulled Abigail from her troubled musings. With a start, she realized it must be the baby. Eager for a distraction, she made her way up to Harriet's room, knocking softly before entering.

The room was bathed in soft morning light, the curtains drawn back to let in the sun. Harriet was propped up in bed, looking tired but radiant, a small bundle cradled in her arms. Hugh sat beside her, his usually stern face softened with wonder as he gazed at his son.

"Abigail," Harriet said softly, her face lighting up as she caught sight of her sister-in-law. "Come and meet your nephew."

Abigail approached the bed, her earlier worries momentarily forgotten as she peered down at the tiny, red face peeking out from the blankets. "Oh, Harriet," she breathed, her heart melting at the sight. "He's beautiful."

Hugh looked up at his sister, a rare smile gracing his features. "Would ye like to hold him, Abby?"

With trembling hands, Abigail took the precious bundle, marveling at how light he was, how perfectly he fit into her arms. The baby yawned, his tiny fist waving in the air, and Abigail felt a surge of love so strong it nearly took her breath away.

"Hello, little one," she whispered, gently rocking him. "I am your Aunt Abigail. We're going to have such wonderful adventures together, you and me."

"Have you decided on a name?" she asked, looking up at Hugh and Harriet.

Harriet nodded, her eyes shining with joy. "We're calling him Graham, after your father."

"Graham," Abigail repeated, smiling down at the baby. "It suits him perfectly."

As she stood there, holding her nephew and surrounded by the warmth of her family's love, Abigail felt her earlier worries begin to fade. Tomorrow would bring what it would, but today, in this room, all was right with the world.

"He truly is perfect," Abigail said, reluctantly handing Graham back to Harriet. "You must be exhausted, though. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Harriet shook her head, stifling a yawn. "Just having you here is enough, Abby. Though perhaps you could run interference with any callers? I am not quite up to receiving visitors just yet."

"Of course," Abigail agreed readily. "I'll make sure you're not disturbed." She paused, then added hesitantly, "Actually, I... I may have a caller of my own tomorrow. The Duke of Grouton."

Hugh's head snapped up at this, his earlier contentment replaced by a look of concern. "Grouton? Why would he come and visit so quickly again?"

Abigail swallowed hard, steeling herself. "I've asked him to call. There are... matters we need to discuss. About our engagement."

Hugh opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Harriet laid a hand on his arm. "I think that's wise, Abby," she said softly. "You two have much to talk about, I am sure."

Abigail nodded gratefully, relieved at Harriet's understanding. "Thank you. I... I should let you rest now. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

As she left the room, closing the door softly behind her, Abigail could not help but wonder if she too would one day experience the joy she saw now in Harriet. Would she hold her own son or daughter in her arms? Would the baby look like her or like Charles?

A blush rose to her cheeks at the mere thought of it and she shook her head. There was no time to think of it now — the first thing she had to do was face Charles.