Chapter 11
Martha Rigby had seen many strange things in her thirty years tending to old Greystone Hollow — once a proud manor, now little more than a ghost of itself.
She'd seen lords arrive in high dudgeon and leave in disgrace, young heirs with flushed cheeks and empty heads, and one mistress of the house who swore the entire manor was haunted — though Martha had never seen hide nor hair of a spirit.
All of it came before the estate was absorbed into the Duke of Winterset's holdings a few years earlier — won, so the story went, in a game of cards.
But never, not once, had she seen a bride arrive on her honeymoon in silence, alone, with her husband already vanishing into the horizon.
She exited the manor, walking past the doorman to greet their guest — it had been her job for years, no matter what airs Jasper Finch put on by hiring a doorman too old to stand — and watched the fine carriage trundling along the dirty road without pause.
She'd caught only the briefest glimpse of the man inside, rigid and unreadable, as if dusting his hands of something unpleasant.
And then, there she was.
Lady Abigail Finch.
Pale, trembling, and dressed in the most delicate traveling gown Martha had ever seen.
Her gloved hand still hovered near where the carriage had stood moments ago, her tear-streaked face turned to the distant road as if, at any moment, it would return.
She looked carved from alabaster, unmoving save for the steady leak of tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
Martha cleared her throat gently and walked closer. "My lady? Would you care to come in?"
Abigail didn't respond. Her gaze was still locked on the empty lane. As if she might
will the dust to rise again, might summon the man who had clearly abandoned her here
like yesterday's news.
A sudden rush of protective heat filled Martha's chest. Whatever this poor woman had done — or not done — she didn't deserve this.
She turned her head and called behind her, "Tommy! Get down here and bring the lady's trunks. Gently, now — those are quality pieces."
A shuffle echoed from the stairwell, and the sound of quick steps heralded young Tom's arrival. Martha didn't miss the boy's curious glance toward the motionless bride on the gravel path.
"Go on, lad. Bring the trunks up to the rose chamber."
Tommy nodded and darted past them.
Martha stepped forward slowly, careful not to spook the poor woman. "Let's get you inside, shall we, love? There's a bit of warmth on the hearth and some tea on the boil."
Abigail finally blinked, as though hearing her through a fog, and allowed Martha to guide her, holding her arm gently. She moved stiffly, but she moved.
The entry hall was dim, despite the summer light outside — ivy strangled most of the windows, and time had dulled the paint and rugs. But the fire Martha had set earlier offered a bit of life, and the scent of baking bread drifted faintly from the kitchen.
"This way, my lady," Martha murmured. She led her up the curving stairs, past shuttered rooms and peeling portraits, until they reached the rose chamber — a faded but lovely space with a canopied bed, a dressing table, and high ceilings that once whispered of grandeur.
The curtains were pulled back to let the sun in. Dust motes danced in the light.
Abigail sat where Martha gestured, in a comfortable chair next to the bed, hands still gloved, lips slightly parted. Her tear-streaked face remained expressionless. She stared at the far wall, unmoving.
"I'll give you a moment," Martha said softly, tucking a throw over the woman's lap before slipping from the room.
She didn't expect much to change by dinner, but still she peeked in when the hour came.
Nothing had moved.
Not Abigail. Not her trunks. Not even the slight fold in the throw that Martha had placed on her lap.
Her traveling hat still sat on her head, now askew.
Her hands remained in her lap, fingers laced tightly.
Her gown — fine silk with embroidered trim — was wrinkled now, rumpled from sitting, but she made no effort to rise or undress.
The girl hadn't even wiped her cheeks.
Martha's heart clenched as she stepped in.
"My lady," she whispered.
Still, no response. Just the slow trail of tears continuing their quiet descent.
Martha stepped closer, resisting the urge to kneel in front of her like a mother might. "Shall I bring you a tray?"
Abigail blinked. That was all.
Martha paused. She'd heard that the young duke and his bride had married not even two days past — in some beautiful countryside chapel, no doubt, filled with fineries. No scandal had reached the servants' grapevine. No whispers of disgrace.
This wasn't a fallen woman. She didn't look broken in the way those women did.
No — this was something different.
Something darker.
Martha stood quietly for a long moment, then reached down and brushed a strand of hair gently behind Abigail's ear. The girl didn't flinch, but her lashes fluttered as though she wanted to cry harder but had nothing left.
"I'll leave a light supper in the sitting room," she said at last. "And some broth. Just in case."
She turned to go, glancing one last time at the unmoved trunks and the still, crumpled bride.
She didn't know what had happened.
But she was determined to stay near until she found out.