Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

A s Abigail settled into the plush seat of the carriage, she was woefully unable to shake the twinge of regret at not traveling with Charles. Still, she reminded herself, this meeting with Beatrice was important — and she did not want to anger the other woman by arriving on the arm of her husband. She still could not understand why Beatrice had such dislike for Charles.

"Are you comfortable back there, Your Grace?" the driver called from his perch, drawing her from her musings.

"I am, thank you," Abigail replied, smiling at the weathered old man's kindness. "Forgive me, but I do not remember us being properly introduced. What is your name again?"

"Tom, Your Grace. Tom Hawkins," he said with a tip of his hat. "I have been driving for the Grouton family for nigh on thirty years now."

Abigail leaned forward, intrigued. "Thirty years? That is quite some time. I suppose you know Charles… His Grace… quite well, then."

Tom chuckled at this, a warm grandfatherly sound. "That I do, Your Grace," he said gently. "Watched him grow from a mere babe and a mischievous lad into the fine young man he is today."

Abigail's nerves about her meeting with Beatrice dissipated at this. "What was he like as a boy?" she asked quickly, unable to contain her curiosity. Tom laughed at this.

"Oh, he was more than a handful, make no mistake," he said, though his tone was fond. "Always getting into scrapes, that one. But he had a good heart, even then. Never forgot a birthday, always had a kind word for the staff. Why, when he was just a lad, he asked my Mary to teach him how to make a cake for my birthday."

Abigail could not help but smile at the mental image of a young Charles with tousled hair, scraped knees and flour on his face. "He is so serious now," she said softly.

"He had no choice, Your Grace," Tom said melancholically. "After his father's death and all. But he is a good man — a generous one. Why, he even offered to pay for my grandson's schooling. Said every child deserves a chance at an education."

Abigail felt a warmth bloom in her chest at this revelation. "I… I did not even know that," she admitted softly. Tom merely nodded.

"Aye, he's changed many lives, has His Grace," he said now. "Mine included. When my Mary fell ill last winter, he made sure we had the best doctors, the best care. Would not hear of us paying him back, either."

As Tom shared more stories of Charles's kindness, Abigail found herself falling even deeper in love with her husband. By the time they arrived at Hyde Park, her heart was full to bursting with affection and pride.

"Here we are, Your Grace," Tom said, helping her down from the carriage. "Shall I wait for you?"

Abigail nodded, her eyes already scanning the park for Beatrice. "Yes, please. I should not be too long."

She spotted Beatrice near a cluster of elm trees, accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman. As Abigail approached, Beatrice's face lit up with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. She was nervous, Abigail supposed.

"Abigail, darling!" she exclaimed, embracing her warmly. "Thank you so much for coming. Allow me to introduce Frederic Proctor, Baron Drowshire."

The gentleman bowed, his movements precise and elegant. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace," he said, his voice smooth as silk.

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Drowshire," Abigail replied, curtsying in return.

She could not deny that she was surprised at Beatrice's association with a baron — not that she thought him less, but she'd expected Beatrice to settle for no less than a duke. Still, she supposed, the heart wanted what it wanted.

As they began to stroll along the path, Abigail could not help but notice how subdued Beatrice seemed. The usually vivacious girl was uncharacteristically quiet, her gaze distant and thoughtful.

"Are you feeling well, Beatrice?" Abigail asked, concern coloring her voice.

Beatrice startled, as if drawn from deep thought. "Oh! Yes, of course. I am just... it is rather warm today, isn't it? I seem to have forgotten my parasol."

"We could walk in the shade if you would prefer that," Lord Drowshire suggested, gesturing towards a stand of trees.

"I would appreciate that," Beatrice said coolly.

As they moved off the path and into the dappled shadows, Abigail found herself falling into step beside the baron. With Beatrice still lost in her own world, Abigail felt compelled to make polite conversation.

"Do you come to Hyde Park often, Lord Drowshire?" she asked, grasping for a topic.

"Not as often as I would like," he replied, his tone pleasant but unremarkable. "My estates keep me quite busy, you see. But when I am in London, I do enjoy a good promenade."

"I see," Abigail nodded, searching for something else to say. "And... how do you find London this time of year?"

"Oh, it is pleasant enough," Lord Drowshire answered, his voice betraying no real enthusiasm. "The weather has been agreeable, which makes for good walking conditions."

Abigail nodded again, feeling the conversation growing stale. "Indeed," she murmured, glancing around for Beatrice.

"Have you attended many events this season, Your Grace?" the baron inquired politely.

"A few," Abigail replied, her mind drifting to the Fairfax ball and her dance with Charles. "Though I must admit, I am still adjusting to the social whirl of it all."

Lord Drowshire made a noncommittal sound. "Yes, I imagine it can be quite overwhelming for those not accustomed to it. But I am sure you are managing admirably."

"You are kind to say so," Abigail said, forcing a smile. She cast another glance around, frowning slightly when she realized she could no longer see Beatrice.

"The Serpentine is quite lovely this time of year," Lord Drowshire remarked, gesturing towards the water. "Don't you agree, Your Grace?"

Abigail frowned. It was quite odd that the man did not seem to notice the absence of the woman he was courting at all. She turned in a circle, confusion furrowing her brow. "Where is Beatrice?" she asked, interrupting the baron mid-sentence.

The baron did not respond. Instead, Abigail felt strong arms wrap around her waist, pulling her roughly against a broad chest. She gasped in shock, her heart racing as Lord Drowshire pulled her into his unwanted embrace.

* * *

For his part, Charles drummed his fingers nervously on his knee as the carriage rolled towards Hyde Park. Though he tried to focus on the impending meeting with his mother, his thoughts kept drifting back to Abigail. A sense of unease had settled in the pit of his stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment.

"We've arrived, Your Grace," his driver announced, and Charles nodded stiffly, pushing his thoughts aside.

"Thank you, Jenkins," he replied, stepping down from the carriage. His eyes scanned the park, searching for any sign of Abigail or her mysterious friend. The crowds of fashionable Londoners strolling along the paths obscured his view, and he felt frustration coursing within him.

With a shake of his head, Charles reminded himself that Abigail was perfectly capable of handling herself. He needed to trust her, to give her the independence she deserved. Still, he could not quite shake the feeling that something was amiss.

As he made his way towards the Serpentine, Charles's thoughts drifted towards his mother. There was no denying that he was surprised by her sudden desire to apologize, but he welcomed the opportunity to mend their relationship. Still, there was a lot they had to agree on before he'd allow her back in his home. He would not have his wife disrespected.

He finally spotted Vivian standing near the water's edge, her posture rigid and her face set in its usual haughty expression. Charles frowned, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. This did not look like a woman prepared to offer an apology.

"Mother," he greeted her, bowing slightly. "It is good to see you."

Vivian's eyes narrowed as she regarded her son. "Charles," she replied, her tone cool. "I must say, I was surprised to receive your message. Though I suppose it is about time you came to your senses."

Charles blinked, confusion washing over him. "My message? I am afraid I do not understand. I came because of your letter, asking to meet and apologize."

A look of genuine bewilderment crossed Vivian's face. "I sent no such letter, Charles. I received a note from you, stating that you wished to meet and make amends for your behavior."

Charles felt his stomach drop. Something was very wrong here. "Mother, I certainly did not send you any message. I have a letter from you right here, asking to meet and apologize."

He reached into his coat pocket, producing the missive he had received from her. Vivian lifted a brow as she read it.

"One would think that my own son would know his mother's handwriting," she said coldly. "This letter is not from me."

Charles shook his head, suppressing an outraged laugh. He opened his mouth, but before he could respond that she too had fallen for the note he supposed she received, Vivian's expression hardened even more. "Is this some sort of trick, Charles? Some ploy to embarrass me in public?"

Charles felt his own temper rising to match his mother's. "Of course not! Why would I do such a thing? I came here in good faith, hoping to reconcile with you."

"Reconcile?" Vivian scoffed. "After the way you have behaved? Defending that Scottish girl, chasing me from your home…"

"Abigail is my wife," Charles growled, his patience wearing thin. "And you hurt her. It is my job to protect my wife. She is my family now and if you can't accept that, then perhaps we have nothing more to discuss."

Their voices had risen, drawing the attention of nearby park goers. A small crowd had begun to gather, watching the spectacle with undisguised interest. Charles was about to suggest they move somewhere more private when a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Your Grace! Oh, thank goodness I have found you!"

Charles turned to see Beatrice hurrying towards him, her face flushed and her breath coming in short gasps. She grabbed his arm, tugging insistently.

"You must come quickly," she panted. "It is Lady Abigail. Please… hurry."

Charles felt his heart leap into his throat. "What's happened? Where is she?"

Beatrice pointed towards a thick copse of trees. "This way, hurry!"

Without a second thought, Charles allowed Beatrice to lead him towards the trees. He was vaguely aware of his mother and several concerned onlookers following behind, but his focus was solely on reaching Abigail.

As they neared the tree line, a small voice in the back of Charles's mind warned him that something about this situation felt off. He slowed his pace, turning to address the group trailing them.

"Wait here," he instructed, his voice low and urgent. "I'll assess the situation first. If I need assistance, I'll call for you."

There were murmurs of agreement, and Charles saw his mother's face tighten with worry. Despite their argument, it was clear she understood the gravity of the moment.

Beatrice tugged at his arm again, her eyes wide with what appeared to be fear. "Please, Your Grace. We must hurry!"

Charles nodded, allowing her to guide him into the trees. They pushed through the underbrush, branches catching at their clothes as they moved deeper into the woods. The sounds of the park faded away, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird.

After what felt like an eternity, they emerged into a small clearing. Charles's eyes immediately locked onto a familiar figure, and his heart stopped.

Abigail stood in the center of the clearing, locked in an intimate embrace with a tall, dark-haired man. Charles felt as though he had been punched in the stomach, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He stared, unable to comprehend the scene before him.

This could not be happening. Not Abigail. Not his sweet, kind, wonderful Abigail. She wouldn't do this to him. She couldn't.

And yet, there she was, in another man's arms.