Chapter 12
Hubert Stouts had scarcely stepped through his mother’s door before a chorus of female voices descended upon him.
“Hubie!” cried Lydia, launching herself forward with all the force of a musket ball. “You’ve come at last!”
“Don’t smother him,” scolded Anna, the eldest, though she clung to his arm with equal fervor.
Margaret sniffled into her handkerchief. “We were so sure you’d be too busy with that dusty shop of yours to bother with your poor mother.”
Hubert endured the onslaught with the stoicism of a man used to drowning in skirts. “How is she?” he asked, gently disentangling himself.
“In bed,” Anna said. “The fever has eased, but she grows weak quickly.”
He strode upstairs, his sisters trailing like ducklings, and found his mother propped on pillows, pale but smiling faintly. She lifted her hand. “My son. You always come when I call.”
“Of course I do.” He kissed her knuckles, then sat beside her. “You must rest. I’ll see to everything.”
For three days he fetched, carried, soothed, and ordered the household as though it were his regiment. His sisters hovered, alternately grateful and exasperated, but Hubert hardly noticed. His thoughts, no matter how he tried to bury them in duties, strayed back to a bookshop on High Street.
On the fourth morning, as he packed a basket with broth for his mother, Margaret leaned on the doorway, her grin far too sly.
“You’re in a dreadful hurry, Hubie. Afraid your girl will forget you?”
He nearly dropped the ladle. “My what?”
“Your girl,” Lydia chimed in, eyes dancing. “Word is you’ve been haunting the Abbott bookshop like a lovesick hound.”
Hubert straightened, ladle in hand like a weapon. “Who told you such nonsense?”
“Everyone,” Anna said serenely. “The neighbors gossip. The watchmen talk. Apparently, you’ve made yourself indispensable to Miss Vicky Abbott.”
Hubert clenched his jaw. His sisters exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.
“She must be remarkable,” Margaret said, fanning herself with a tea towel. “To make our grim brother blush!”
“I am not blushing,” Hubert snapped, though his ears burned traitorously.
“You are positively scarlet,” Lydia crowed.
He set the ladle down with deliberate care. “She is not—she is—” He broke off, defeated, and muttered, “She is extraordinary.”
The laughter ceased. His sisters blinked, surprised into silence.
“You mean it,” Anna said softly.
He nodded once. “I do. And I must get back to her.”
**
That evening, as his mother dozed, Hubert slipped into her small jewelry box. Nestled among trinkets lay a simple gold ring, worn but sturdy, set with a single garnet. His grandmother’s. She had given it to his mother, who had worn it until her hands grew frail.
He lifted it reverently. It was not extravagant, but it was solid, enduring—the kind of ring that spoke of a life built together, not a passing fancy.
Margaret appeared in the doorway, eyes suspiciously bright. “Taking it, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then she must be special indeed.”
“She is,” he said quietly. “And I must make her mine before my sisters descend upon her like vultures.”
Margaret laughed through her tears and hugged him tight. “Then go, Hubie. Do not dally.”
**
Before returning to town, Hubert made one more stop: the Duke’s estate. The Stouts had long held their lease under the Duke’s family, and while Hubert could marry without permission, he would not insult Vicky by neglecting propriety.
The Duke listened gravely as Hubert spoke—about the break-ins, about Vicky’s courage, about his intentions. At last the Duke smiled faintly.
“You have chosen well, Stouts. She is a woman of spirit. Bring her to me when all is settled.”
**
When Hubert finally returned to High Street, snow crusting his boots, he found Beatrice Abbott waiting in the shop as though she had laid siege to it. She crossed her arms the instant she saw him.
“Well, Mr. Stouts. You have a remarkable talent for breaking hearts.”
He stopped short, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do not pretend ignorance.” Bea’s eyes snapped with the kind of fire that made Nathan tread carefully. “Vicky has been half out of her mind since you left. Tears, fretting, pacing. I nearly dragged you back myself.”
Guilt slammed into him, sharper than any blade. “I—my mother—”
“I know,” Bea said, her tone softening. “I know you went because you are good. But good men sometimes forget that absence wounds more than silence. She cares for you, Mr. Stouts, more than she realizes. Do not make her suffer needlessly.”
Hubert bowed his head. “You have my word. I shall make it right.”
Bea studied him, then smiled wickedly. “See that you do. For if you make her cry again, you will answer to me.”
Hubert almost pitied himself. Almost.
That night, he stood once more at the shop door, grandmother’s ring hidden in his pocket, his heart pounding like a hammer. He had braved fire, thieves, and sisters—but nothing had ever terrified him so much as knocking on Vicky Abbott’s door and asking her to let him in.