Chapter Six
“Oh dear, I forgot the handkerchiefs I was looking at. Would you mind running back in and getting them? Tell Monsieur Fontaine to put it on Lucien’s credit.” Eloise hefted two parcels and gave a worried look back into the store they had just left.
“Of course.” Abigail slipped back inside and made her way toward the rear. Hushed whispers drew her to a stop near the display of handkerchiefs, behind which a group of young women had huddled together.
“Did you see the woman who was with Ms. Moreau?”
“Poor thing. Do you think she knows?”
Laughter rang through the room, and Abigail’s fingers tightened around her reticule. “Of course not. No one in their right mind would stay with a murderer.”
A soft gasp slipped past Abigail’s lips. With a swallow, she edged closer to the women.
“It still is beyond understanding how he was allowed to get away with it.”
“He should be locked up or hanged for what he did to Isabelle, bless her soul.”
Abigail reached for the display rack to steady herself. Murderer. The word sat heavy in her gut as her pulse hammered in her ears. Every snippet of conversation painted a clearer picture of the man she barely knew. Mr. Moreau had killed his wife? No wonder he carried himself with such cold reserve.
“My pa said there wasn’t any proof.”
The words pierced the fog in her head, and she took a deep breath. It might not be true. It could be only gossip, like so many rumors she’d heard in Savannah. Besides, Eloise would never have stayed with him otherwise. Would she?
Of course, she wouldn’t.
Pulse easing, she snatched up the handkerchiefs and rushed toward the front of the store. After the shopkeeper added the purchase to the list, she turned toward the door.
“Excuse me.”
Abigail startled. One of the girls she’d been eavesdropping on had stepped in front of her, eyes curious and sharp. “I couldn’t help noticing you arrived with Ms. Moreau. Are you visiting?”
She nodded.
“How nice. My name is Nellie Benoit.”
Abigail curtsied. “I’m Abigail Ro—” She cut off, remembering Mr. Warstein’s warning. “Robertson. A distant cousin.”
“I didn’t know they had any family.” Nellie’s gaze pinned her with a keen intensity. “My parents are throwing a party for my engagement. You should come if you like that sort of thing. Our estate isn’t far from the Moreaus’.”
A pang of longing struck Abigail. If she closed her eyes, she could picture the balls of Savannah—the gowns, the dances, the endless evenings filled with conversation and music. Mr. Ainsley. “Oh, I would love that.”
A gleam flickered in Nellie’s eyes, her smile polished and demure. “Wonderful. I’ll have an invitation sent over. I hope to see you there.”
The bell over the door chimed as she stepped back into the street’s noise and glare. Eloise’s brow creased as she approached. “Is everything alright?” She shifted the parcels to one arm. “You were gone so long I was beginning to get worried.”
Abigail smoothed her skirt. “I ran into a few young ladies. They…invited me to a party.” She managed a small smile, hoping she sounded casual.
“Oh, how nice.” Eloise smiled and nodded ahead. “There’s a dry goods shop ahead. It’s my favorite one in town. We can pick out some things for you.”
Abigail’s fingers tightened over her empty reticule. “I don’t need—”
“Nonsense.” Eloise steered her toward a narrow doorway flanked by bolts of cloth and baskets of ribbons. “You’ve got next to nothing.”
Inside, shelves held neat stacks of stockings, handkerchiefs, and modest gowns. Abigail trailed a hand over a folded shift, half listening to the shopkeeper’s cheery greeting.
Eloise picked up a bolt of blue muslin and glanced back at her. “Pick what you need. This may be your only chance.”
A lightness spread through Abigail’s chest as memories of shopping in Savannah floated through her mind.
The reminder of leisurely mornings wandering through sunlit shops sent her lips curving.
Still, Mr. Moreau already thought her a burden.
Guilt pricked along her skin as she lifted a pair of stockings.
How many times had she gone and filled her arms with packages, never once thinking of the cost?
She took the stockings as well as two cream chemises and handed them to the shopkeeper. A fresh set of petticoats and cotton shawl came next. At the glove display, she passed over the lace-trimmed ones and chose a plain pair of kid leather instead.
Eloise picked out a wooden hairbrush and added it to the small pile then pointed her to a rack of ready-made dresses. “We’ll get some fabric to make you something, but perhaps it would be practical to pick one of these out in the meantime?”
Abigail ran her hands over the selections. All of these dresses were far plainer than anything she’d ever owned—no silks, no laces, no embellishments. But the thought of having something clean and fresh made her heart lift. She chose a soft blue day dress with a simple pattern.
On the way to the counter, she paused at a small display of ribbons, her fingers hovering over the neat rows of silk and satin.
Back home, she possessed more ribbons than she could ever hope to wear, each color chosen to suit a particular gown or season.
She lingered over the soft textures, tracing the delicate weave and vibrant hues, a small smile tugging at her lips.
With a careful breath, she selected only two—one pale blue, one soft lavender.
Her selections made, she stood to the side as Eloise took care of the purchase. A row of perfume bottles caught her attention, and she leaned over, reading the delicate labels.
A portly clerk in an apron approached. “What’s your scent of choice?”
“Do you have jasmine?” She hadn’t breathed in her favorite scent since Savannah, and the thought of it stirred a sharp, aching longing in her chest.
“No jasmine.” Her heart fell as he stared hard at her for a moment, thick brows pushed together. “Jasmine doesn’t suit you anyway. You need something more… unrestrained.”
Abigail stifled a giggle. Unrestrained? Clearly, this man had no idea what he was talking about.
He wagged a finger at her, a sly glint in his eye. “You don’t think it’s true?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had an unrestrained moment in my life.”
The clerk let out a chuckle. “Ah, but that’s exactly what makes it so fitting.” He picked up a bottle and handed it to her. “Here. Have you sampled étoile d’Orange? Of course, you haven’t. It’s just arrived from Paris.”
It was unlike anything she’d smelled before—a hint of orange blossom, a touch of vanilla, and something bright and elusive. She inhaled again.
A low voice came from behind her. “That one?”
She spun, heart in her throat. Mr. Moreau stood only a step away, his gaze intent and assessing. Heat rushed up her neck as the gossip she’d overheard prickled at her skin, leaving her wide-eyed and unsteady.
His eyes softened. “Is something amiss?”
Abigail’s fingers tightened around the perfume and she managed to shake her head. “N-no. Everything’s quite alright.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Did you get everything you need?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She gave a polite nod then flinched as he reached for her.
With a raised brow, he plucked the bottle from her hands and handed it to the clerk. “Wrap it up for her.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t possibly accept. You’ve already done too much.”
He ignored her and nodded to the clerk. “Add it to the bill.” Taking the packages from the counter, he turned to Eloise. “Are you ladies ready to go home? It’s growing dark.”
*
Abigail stepped into the morning sun, the warmth spilling across her shoulders like a gentle invitation. The porch smelled of dew and wood smoke, a faint tang of honeysuckle drifting from the edge of the garden. Eloise sat in the rocking chair, her knitting needle moving with quiet precision.
“Good morning.”
Eloise lifted her eyes from her knitting, studying her for a moment. “You look well-rested, any plans for this fine morning?”
Abigail tied an apron around her waist and pulled down the edge of the wide brimmed hat she’d borrowed. “I’m going to tame those roses on the side of the house.”
A wistful smile passed over Eloise’s lips. “You should have seen how grand the flowers used to be before…” She trailed off.
Before Isabelle died.
Abigail followed her gaze to the tangle of stems and faded blooms leaning against the wall. The roses had grown wild, their branches twisting like unruly hair, petals pale and scattered among dark-green leaves.
“I’m afraid my back isn’t what it used to be, so I couldn’t keep up with them. Amazing how quickly they went wild when left to their own devices.” Eloise stood and walked down the steps.
Abigail followed, and they made their way along the path toward the overgrown bushes.
The garden stretched before them like a tangle of forgotten memories.
Weeds and wildflowers jostled for space, turning the once-ordered space into a riot of green and color.
Here and there, remnants of a more cultivated past peeked through: a wrought iron trellis sagging under the weight of climbing roses, stone-edged beds half swallowed by encroaching greenery, and a statue shrouded in thick ivy.
Abigail stepped forward and began to tug at the stubborn vines, and a spark of recognition flared. The same statue she had seen depicted on the half-finished canvas upstairs. Her fingers lingered over the cool stone, tracing the faint outline of a cherub’s face.
“Isabelle painted them, didn’t she?” She pictured all the scenes of beautiful flowers and manicured gardens in her room. “All of it upstairs… all her work?”
Eloise nodded, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Yes. The garden was her passion,” she said softly.
“She poured herself into it, every bloom, every border. When she painted, she did the same. The garden was her world in the warm months, and when the cold came, she brought it inside, recreating the blossoms she had nurtured.”