Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
D ays later, something had changed.
Ewart couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the shift was there—subtle, quiet. Like a draft slipping under a door, it made Ewart shiver.
Abbey wasn’t avoiding him, exactly, but she wasn’t herself. He’d caught it when she passed him in the hall earlier that morning, offering only a polite nod. She did her work with the same care and attention, still offered to help when asked, but she’d lost the joy in her step. In fact, she’d lost it in her eyes, too.
What could have happened?
He missed her fleeting smiles, the warmth in her gaze when it settled on him, the way her eyes sometimes lingered just a moment longer than necessary. Now, her glances were brief. Distant. She barely met his eyes at all. It shouldn’t have bothered him. But it did.
They’d never had a conversation about anything beyond work, really. And yet somehow, she’d become the quiet center of his day. The moment he looked forward to. The soft voice he strained to hear above the din of hammering and sawing behind the house when she served coffee or tea to the workers. She grounded him, in a way.
And she was the one person who looked at him and didn’t see a baron’s son or a fool with ink-stained fingers trying to be a writer. She just saw him .
He’d been hoping to build something with her slowly and carefully over time. He might scare her otherwise. When he’d received his father’s letter, Abbey came to mind. Along with the possibility of marrying an American woman. Of raising a family here. Not that he’d been thinking specifically of Abbey, instead he realized she was already integrated into his life in a myriad of subtle ways.
But now he wasn’t so sure. Would she even have him?
He’d tried to speak to her twice that morning, and both times she’d slipped away with some vague excuse, bobbed a curtsy, and scurried off without looking back. By midafternoon, he could hardly take it, as if all his nerves were raw.
When had the pretty little Irish maid gotten under his skin? He wasn’t sure but she had. Then thecomments about Rebeccastarted up again. And that scraped his nerves rawer still.
“Well, well, Mr. Bailey,” he muttered to himself, trying to mimic Mr. Prosser, who’d passed him grinning like a fool. “Didn’t peg you as the kissing booth type.”
Ewart rolled his eyes. Rebecca Harrington is going to be the death of him.
Mr. Prosser had hurried off before Ewart could even question him. Not ten minutes later, one of the seamstresses asked if she should make sure his jacket lookedextranice. Adelia was having a suit made for him, after all. Then she asked if she could be the first in line to kiss him.
He’d barely managed a flustered denial before fleeing the room. By the time he found Adelia in the library, he was ready to pull his hair out. “I need to speak with you.” He glanced around as if Rebecca might pop out from beneath a piece of furniture. This was ridiculous! Rebecca was reducing him to a nervous wreck. Or was this Abbey’s doing?
Adelia arched an eyebrow at him. “Goodness gracious. Did you receive more bad news? Or is this about Miss Harrington’s kissing booth?”
His jaw dropped. “You know ?”
“My poor Ewart.” She sat behind the huge desk. “Everyone knows. I suspect even the horses have an opinion.”
Ewart groaned. “I never agreed to anything. I helped her build it, that’s all. I tried to make that clear. But then she dragged me into the maze and…”
“Ah,” Adelia said knowingly, nodding. “What happened?”
He exhaled. “I think Abbey saw us.”
Adelia’s face softened. “And now she’s giving you the cold shoulder. Is that it?”
He nodded.
“Well, my dear boy,” she said gently. “You have two options. You can let this misunderstanding fester between you, or you can go to Abbey and explain yourself.”
He looked at her, uncertain, and sat in one of the leather wing chairs. “But what if she…?”
Adelia left her seat, came around the desk and stepped toward him. “Let me give you a word of advice. If you wait too long to tell her, someone else might explain it for you. And not the way you’d like.”
She glanced at the cold hearth before turning back to him with a somber look. “Understand?”
Ewart sighed. “All too clearly. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good,” Adelia said, and left him to his thoughts.
He watched her walk away and sat for a moment before he left the library and went in search of Abbey. If he didn’t take care of this now, he might lose his nerve, or worse, Rebecca might have gone and muddled things up even more.
Outside he spotted Rebecca glancing around and wondered who she was trying to find. With his luck, it was him. Ewart cut toward the pond to avoid her as he searched for Abbey. When he didn’t see any sign of her, he circled around the far edge and slipped through the double French doors leading into the house.
Inside, he found Abbey in the main drawing room, bent over a tray of teacups. She looked to be setting them out for the dressmaker and her assistants, who were chatting near the fireplace. “Abbey,” he said quietly. “May I speak with you a moment?”
She didn’t look up. “I’m rather busy, Mr. Bailey.”
The formality stung more than it should have. Not that she’d ever called himEwart that often, but still… “Of course. It won’t take long. I promise.”
She paused, glanced at the tray as if counting cups, then straightened. “Very well.”
He motioned toward the hall, and she followed, hands clasped in front of her. They stopped just beyond the doorway near a large fern where Ewart turned to her. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
She picked at an invisible piece of lint on her apron. “About what?”
“About Miss Harrington and her kissing booth.”
She looked up, and her jaw twitched. He couldn’t tell if it was from amusement or something else. “I see,” she said.
“I never agreed to help her run it,” he said quickly. “She’s been telling people I have, but I didn’t. I have no intention of participating in such a…well, aspectacle. Just because I helped build it doesn’t mean…”
“Ye don’t need to explain, Mr. Bailey,” Abbey interrupted, calm and composed.
That worried him. “But I do,” he said. “I think you may have overheard something—or seen something—that wasn’t quite right.”
Her eyes met his. For one brief second, something flickered there. Hurt? Disappointment? “It’s really none of my business,” she said.
Ewart stepped closer. “I’d like it to be.”
She blinked. Her face twisting into a look of confusion. “Why? I’m not running any of the booths. I’ve not been asked to. I’ll be too busy serving.” Then, more quietly, “But it’s very kind of ye to think of me.”
“It’s not kindness, Abbey,” he said gently.
“Ye…ye shouldn’t say things like that,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because yer…” She snapped her mouth shut and shook her head. “Well. Yer you. And I’m me.”
“Are you talking about my father’s title?” he asked.
She didn’t answer right away and instead twisted her apron in her hands a moment. “Ye know ye’ll inherit it,” she said. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is,”
An ache formed in his chest. “If something’s been made harder, I can promise you it wasn’t by me.”
She gave him a sad smile. It tightened the ache in his chest into something sharp. “I should get back to work,” she said, stepping back.
“Abbey…”
“Good day, Mr. Bailey.” She turned and walked away. And this time, she didn’t look back.
Abbey fled to one of the few places she still felt safe, the kitchen.
The scent of baking reached her before she stepped inside. When she did, the warm air wrapped around her with more than just the scent of fresh bread. Something sweet was in the oven and she wondered whether it was pie or cookies.
Mrs. Fraser moved pots around on the stove while one of the hired cooks whisked cream at the worktable. In the corner, the two temporary scullery maids Mrs. Pettigrew hired bickered over who’d used the last of the sugar and who was going to fetch more.
Mrs. Fraser was having none of it. “You two stop that ruckus and get back to work!” she snapped.
The girls exchanged a look and frowned. “But Mrs. Fraser…” one began.
“Don’t you ‘Mrs. Fraser’ me. You figure it out.” She marched into the pantry, and when she came back, she slapped some coins onto the worktable. “You,” she said, pointing at the dark-haired one, “run to the grocer and get sugar. Better get ten pounds.” She turned to the blonde. “Andyouget back to scrubbing those pots.”
The two girls exchanged the same look of annoyance, but neither argued. They knew the position was temporary, and that they only had to put up with Mrs. Fraser’s crankiness a little while longer.
Abbey went to the wall near the stove and leaned against it. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth settle into her bones as she tried to still her racing heart. Her conversation with Ewart—if one could even call it that—was still ringing in her ears. She’d meant to be calm. Polite. But it hadn’t lasted. Now here she was, hiding in the kitchen.
But could she help it? Her heart had twisted the moment he said, “I’d like it to be.” What did thatmean?
All the things she didn’t let herself think, didn’t let herself want, had risen at once and threatened to break her in two. Her traitorous heart wanted to rule her, and she wasn’t about to let it. If she did, she knew it would tear her apart.
Mrs. Fraser glanced up from the pot she was stirring and eyed her. “Well, there you are.”
Abbey straightened and stepped away from the wall. She tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m here. Just taking a wee break, if ye don’t mind.”
Mrs. Fraser squinted at her, wiped her hands on her apron, and came around the worktable. “Did the dressmakers get a look at you yet? Do they need more tea?” She took some dough out of a bowl and started kneading it.
Abbey blinked. “Pardon? I just poured for them, but I suppose they’ll be wanting another pot.”
Mrs. Fraser rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking about the tea, though I’ll get the kettle ready. No, did they have you try on your gown yet? They brought mine today. They should have yours, too.”
“My gown?”
“They need to make sure of the fit, so they can make any last-minute adjustments.”
Abbey stared at her blankly. “What gown?”
Mrs. Fraser rolled her eyes again. “Your ball gown, of course, you ninny.” She shook her head, irritated, and spread more flour on the table.
“I’m not going to the ball,” Abbey said softly. “Not like that.”
“Of course you are. We all are.” She looked up. “Even Mr. Tugs and Mr. Prosser.”
“I’d rather work,” Abbey murmured, staring at the flour jar.
Mrs. Fraser narrowed her eyes. “Would you now? On one of the few occasions we get to kick up our heels?” She clucked her tongue. “Although I’ll be doing it from the pastry booth.”
Abbey gave a small smile and clutched her hands in front of her. “It’s easier if I work.”
“And being miserable is easier too, is it?” Mrs. Fraser snapped.
Abbey’s jaw slackened. She shut her mouth and turned away, feigning interest in the pot on the stove.
Mrs. Fraser’s voice softened just a touch. “Come now, girl. Only an idiot wouldn’t notice how down you’ve been the last few days. And I haven’t been an idiot since I was ten years old.”
Abbey laughed once, low and breathy. “I’m fine,” she said. But even she didn’t sound convinced.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I just…” Her voice cracked. “It’s nothing.”
Mrs. Fraser’s gaze bore into her, so Abbey stared at the floor, trying to ignore it. But then the words came out anyway. “I don’t want to pretend. That’s all. I don’t want to get all dressed up and smile like nothing hurts. Because itdoes.” Blast it! Why did she say all that?
Mrs. Fraser stepped closer and touched her arm lightly. “You listen to me, young lady. There will always be reasons to stay small and quiet and try to hide your heart and soul in some dark corner. But that’s not where your life is meant to be lived. Stop trying to hide.”
A chill went up Abbey’s spine. “I don’t belong in a ballroom.”
“Yes, you do,” Mrs. Fraser said firmly. “You belong exactly where youwantto be. And if that’s in the kitchen, so be it. But if it’s out there, then stop telling yourself you have no right.”
Abbey didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight. Could she even breathe ?
Mrs. Fraser gave her arm a pat. “Your gown’s probably in the sewing room where the dressmakers have been working. Go! Try it on. If it doesn’t fit, they’ll make it fit. And if you change your mind by tomorrow night, well—no one will stop you from picking up a tray.”
Abbey nodded faintly and turned toward the hallway. But her heart still stayed behind.