Chapter 11
The night was bitter cold, the kind that made the very glass in the windows shiver. Vicky and Gracie had locked the shop tight and drawn the curtains, but sleep would not come. The wind rattled the shutters like bones, and every creak of timber set her nerves on edge.
Then—scrape. Shuffle. A faint bump against the back door.
Gracie’s eyes went wide. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” Vicky whispered, clutching the poker from the hearth. “Stay behind me.”
But before she could take three steps, heavy boots thundered across the yard. Male voices shouted, a scuffle broke out, and the unmistakable cry of a boy yelping in pain echoed.
By the time Vicky flung the door open, two of Nathan’s men already had the culprits by the scruffs of their necks—a gang of grimy-faced urchins, scarcely taller than the counter. Their thin coats flapped, and one clutched a pilfered loaf of bread.
“Well,” muttered one guard, hauling a squirming lad upright. “Here’s your grand thieves, Miss Abbott. The scourge of the High Street.”
The watch arrived minutes later, rounding up the boys with weary efficiency. None were older than twelve. One darted a defiant glance at Vicky before being shoved into the cart.
Her heart twisted, torn between relief and pity. She lowered the poker, ashamed of the way her knees trembled.
“So,” Gracie said when the yard was clear again. “That is that. No more shadows, no more break-ins.”
Vicky tried for a smile, but it felt brittle. “Yes. Quite finished.”
But inside, panic whispered. If the danger was past, what reason had Hubert to remain? What excuse could she cling to, to keep him close?
The next day Beatrice and Nathan announced they would return home to the children before the week’s end. Bea insisted on one last outing before they left, sweeping Vicky into her carriage with promises of shopping.
The carriage jostled through the snowy streets. Bea’s gloved hand squeezed hers. “You are too quiet, Vicky. Something weighs on you.”
“Nothing,” Vicky said too quickly.
“Liar,” Bea said sweetly. “I am your sister. I know your every trick. Out with it.”
Vicky pressed her lips together, but Bea’s steady gaze was impossible to evade. The words spilled before she could catch them. “I thought I was merely… enjoying his company. But when he left, I feared—” Her throat closed. “I feared he had taken advantage. That I had been a fool.”
Bea’s brows lifted, then softened. “Ah. So that is the truth. You and Mr. Stouts.”
Vicky buried her face in her hands. “You needn’t look so smug.”
“I am not smug, only sorry,” Bea said gently. “I never meant to frighten you with my warnings. I only wished to guard you. I did not know you had given your heart.”
“My heart?” Vicky repeated, startled.
Bea smiled, a little sad, a little wise. “Yes, dearest. You are in love with him.”
The words hit like a bell toll. Vicky’s breath caught, her hands falling to her lap. Love. The word she had never dared name. Yet as soon as it was spoken, she knew it was true. Every stolen glance, every sparring word, every desperate ache in his absence—they all pointed to the same conclusion.
“Oh, heavens.” She pressed her gloved hand to her racing heart. “I had no idea.”
Bea squeezed her hand. “Then now you do. The question is—what will you do with it?”
“I do not know,” Vicky confessed, her voice breaking. “What if I misjudged him? What if it was only convenience for him? What if he never comes back?” Tears welled again, stinging.
Bea brushed them away like she had when they were children. “Then you will survive, as you always have. But if he does return, if he is the man I suspect him to be, then you must be brave enough to trust your heart. Independence is noble, but love, when freely chosen, is not chains. It is wings.”
Vicky leaned against her sister, shaken, the truth sitting new and fragile within her chest. Love. Terrifying, impossible, undeniable.
**
That night, when she returned to the empty shop, she stood a long while at the door, staring at the settee where Hubert had slept. The blanket still lay folded neatly where he had left it.
She touched it, fingers lingering on the fabric, and whispered aloud the truth she had only just admitted to herself.
“I love him.”
The words felt dangerous. But also, for the first time, right.