Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

A bigail sank onto her bed, her mind whirling with the events of the day. The warmth of her evening with Charles lingered, a soft glow that made her smile despite herself. She could still hear his laugh and see the twinkle in his eye as he read the society columns praising her.

He had carried such pride in his voice when he read what they had written about her and it sent a pleasant warmth all through her chest. She wanted to make him proud. She quite liked the feeling.

Now, as she changed into her nightgown, Abigail caught sight of herself in the mirror. Was she truly as beautiful as Charles claimed? As the society papers raved?

But then, Beatrice's words echoed in her mind, harsh and cutting. "Men like Charles do not change, Abigail. They just get better at hiding their true nature."

Abigail shook her head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. Charles had been nothing but kind, patient, and understanding. The way he looked at her sometimes... it made her heart race and her cheeks flush.

And yet, as she slipped between the cool sheets, doubt continued to gnaw at her. She had never truly trusted Beatrice, she realized. Not that she had a reason not to, but she didn't quite know her. She was nice enough — and her only friend in the ton, but they weren't exceptionally close.

Sleep eluded her for hours, her mind a battleground between the warmth of her feelings for Charles and the chill of Beatrice's warnings. When she finally drifted off, her dreams were a confusing jumble of images.

She found herself in a grand ballroom, watching as Charles danced with a succession of beautiful women. They hung on his every word, their hands lingering on his arm, their laughter too loud and too intimate. Abigail tried to reach him, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor.

Suddenly, Beatrice appeared at her side. "I told you," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "I told you he could not be trusted. Look at him, surrounded by his conquests."

Abigail woke with a start, her heart pounding. The room was still dark, the first light of dawn barely peeking through the curtains. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease from her dream.

As she dressed for the day, Abigail made a decision. She needed to talk to someone, someone she could trust implicitly. She needed to see Harriet.

The carriage ride to her brother's home seemed interminable, but finally, Abigail found herself being ushered into the drawing room where Harriet sat with little Graham. To her elation, Jennifer was there as well, cooing over her grandson.

"Abigail!" Harriet exclaimed, rising to embrace her. "What a lovely surprise. Are you well?"

"Oh, yes," Abigail said, forcing a smile. "I just... I wanted to see you. And Graham, of course."

Jennifer looked up from the baby, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in Abigail's strained expression. "Nonsense," she declared. "Something is bothering you, my girl. Out with it."

Abigail sank into a nearby chair, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to confide in these women who had become more like family than she had ever dared hope.

"It is quite complicated," she said at last. "But I suppose it has a little to do with Lady Beatrice…"

Harriet lifted a brow at this. "I was not aware that you were friends," she said simply and Abigail sighed.

"I would not call us close friends," she admitted. "But we met at a ball and she was kind to me and I suppose she became something of a confidant. Only now… she has said some things... about Charles. And I cannot seem to stop thinking about them."

Harriet frowned, concern etching lines on her forehead. "What sort of things?"

Abigail hesitated, but Jennifer cut in before she could speak. "Oh, that Beatrice," she scoffed. "I do not have time for that little gossipmonger. Always sticking her nose where it doesn't belong."

"Mother!" Harriet scolded, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone.

"What?" Jennifer said, unrepentant. "It is true. That girl is about as trustworthy as a fox in a henhouse."

Despite herself, Abigail felt a laugh bubble up in her throat. "She is rather... intense," she admitted.

"Intense?" Jennifer snorted. "I suppose that is one way to put it. I prefer ‘meddlesome harpy' myself."

"Mother!" Harriet exclaimed again, but she was laughing now. "Really, you are too terrible sometimes."

Jennifer shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I am old, my dear. I've earned the right to speak my mind."

Abigail found herself relaxing, the tension that had coiled in her chest beginning to ease. "She told me... she said Charles could not be trusted. That despite our marriage, he had not… given up… on his conquests and other women, that he was merely pretending to be a good husband."

Harriet's expression softened. "Oh, Abby," she said gently. "You do not believe that, do you?"

Abigail shook her head. "No… I do not think… not really. But it is hard not to wonder, sometimes. There is so much I do not know about him, about his past."

"Poppycock," Jennifer declared, shifting Graham in her arms. "That girl would not know the truth if it danced naked in front of her wearing nothing but a feather boa."

"Mother!" Harriet gasped, though she had given up on trying not to smile at her mother.

Abigail could not help but laugh. "You certainly have a way with words, Lady Lourne."

"It is a blessing and a curse, I hear," the older woman laughed. "But of course I do. I believe it is one of my many charms." She paused, her expression turning serious. "Now listen to me, Abigail. I know I am just an old woman, but I have learnt a thing or two over the course of my life. And you have a choice now. You can listen to the words of someone who is not part of your marriage, or you can ask yourself… what it is you see when he is with you."

Abigail nodded slowly, considering Jennifer's words. "He has been nothing but kind," she admitted. "Patient, understanding…"

"There you have it," Jennifer said with a decisive nod. "Trust your own judgment, my dear. Not the nattering of some society miss with more hair than sense."

"Mother!" Harriet exclaimed again but she was laughing outright now.

Abigail felt a wave of affection wash over her. "Thank you," she said softly. "Both of you. I do not know what I would do without you."

"Nonsense," Jennifer said briskly, but her eyes were warm. "Now, enough of this maudlin talk. Who wants to hold this adorable bundle of joy?"

As Abigail cradled Graham in her arms, inhaling his sweet baby scent, she felt the last of her worries melt away. This was what mattered, she realized. Family, love, trust. Everything else was just noise.

When she finally took her leave, Abigail felt lighter than she had in days. The carriage ride home passed in a blur of pleasant thoughts and hopeful musings about the future.

As she entered Grouton Manor, Thompson approached with a silver salver. "A letter arrived for you while you were out, Your Grace," he said, offering her the tray.

Abigail took the envelope with a furrowed brow. She could not imagine who would want to send her anything. She tore it open and her eyes quickly scanned over the parchment.

Dearest Abigail,

I cannot express how deeply I regret my behavior during our last meeting. My words were harsh and uncalled for, and I beg your forgiveness. The truth is, I am consumed with worry about my own situation, and I fear I projected those anxieties onto you and your marriage.

I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I would be eternally grateful if you would meet me tomorrow in Hyde Park. I would very much like you to meet Frederic and give me your opinion of him. Your judgment means the world to me, and I trust you to see him clearly, without the rose-tinted glasses I fear I am wearing.

Please, Abigail. I know I do not deserve your kindness, but I implore you to give me this chance to make amends.

Your devoted friend,

Beatrice.

Abigail lowered the letter, her mind whirling. Part of her wanted to dismiss Beatrice's plea outright. The girl had been cruel — and angry when she didn't listen. Still… she had also been kind to her, one of the only other ladies in society to extend that courtesy, and perhaps it was true that she was merely worried.

"Is everything alright, Your Grace?" Thompson's voice startled her from her reverie.

Abigail managed a small smile. "Yes, thank you, Thompson. Just... a lot to think about."

As she made her way to her chambers, Abigail found herself torn. Should she give Beatrice another chance? Or was Jennifer right to be so dismissive of her?

She paused by the window, gazing out at the manicured gardens below. The roses Charles had planted were in full bloom, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the turmoil in her heart.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Come in," she called, turning to see Maria enter with a tea tray.

"I thought you might like some refreshment, Your Grace," the maid said, setting the tray on a nearby table.

Abigail smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Maria. That's very thoughtful."

As she sipped her tea, Abigail's mind drifted back to the letter. Perhaps, she thought, meeting Beatrice and her beau wouldn't be such a terrible idea. It would give her a chance to gauge Beatrice's sincerity, to see if there was any truth to her apology.

And, if nothing else, it would be an opportunity to see this Frederic for herself. On one hand, of course, she was curious. But if Beatrice was truly nervous about the man, it would be her duty as a friend to see what she thought of him.

Decision made, Abigail set down her teacup and moved to her writing desk. She penned a quick note to Beatrice, agreeing to meet her in Hyde Park the following afternoon.

She rang for Thompson at once, handing him the sealed letter as he stopped at her chamber door.

"Please Thompson," she asked softly, "Would you have this delivered to Lady Beatrice in the morning?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Thompson agreed with a bow of his head. As the butler took his leave, Abigail found herself wondering whether she ought to tell Charles about the meeting with Beatrice.

Of course she had not — and would not — tell him about their argument, and the cruel things Beatrice had said. Still — a part of her wanted to confide in him, to seek his counsel. But another part, the part that still clung to her independence, hesitated.

This was something she needed to handle on her own, she decided. A test, perhaps, of her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of ton friendships without relying on Charles to guide her.

As she climbed into bed and drifted off, her last thoughts were not of Beatrice or their impending meeting, but of Charles. Of his warm smile, his gentle hands, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

Most of all she thought of the way her heart raced whenever he smiled at her.