Chapter Eight #2
“…Did you see the way he looked at her?”
Nellie.
With a quick glance behind her, Abigail paused, pretending to adjust her gloves. Beyond the column, Nellie stood with several of the same girls from the New Orleans shop.
“Someone really should warn her.” Nellie’s voice dripped with false concern.
Abigail stayed tucked behind the column a heartbeat longer, straining to catch more.
The girls’ voices rose and fell, the words threading through laughter and the clink of glasses.
Snatches drifted past the column—“his wife’s dress,” “scandal,” “far too pretty for her own good.” Each fragment needled under her skin.
Abigail narrowed her eyes. She was no stranger to society’s claws, but the ease with which they wielded his grief sparked something sharper than embarrassment. She shifted her weight, ready to step into view and let them taste their own venom.
But a new voice cut across the chatter, this one low and speculative. “Didn’t she say she was his cousin?”
Another laughed, cruel and tight. “I suppose that sort of man would be reckless enough to cross any line.”
The words landed like a slap. Heat climbed Abigail’s neck, burned across her cheeks. With her fingers bunched in her skirts, she turned and slipped through the nearest doors onto the veranda.
The night air hit like a plunge into cool water.
Abigail gripped the balustrade, fingers pressing into the stone until they numbed.
Below, the garden lay silvered under moonlight, fountains whispering in the dark.
She dragged in a breath, but it came shallow, catching on the fire still burning in her cheeks.
She’d been one step from cutting them down with a few well-placed words. One sly “cousin” had stolen the fight from her. Confronting them now would mean explaining, and explaining would only feed the attention she’d been warned to avoid.
“Miss Ross?”
She spun as Mr. Moreau approached.
He joined her at the railing, leaning against it with a casual tilt that belied the intensity in his gray eyes. “You seem upset.”
“How do you know?”
He glanced down at her hands, clenched in fists, and back up. “Do you deny it?”
She unclenched her fingers. “I suppose I don’t hide it very well.”
“Are you alright?” His gaze held a steady concern.
“Yes.” She cast a quick glance toward the ballroom then nodded. “It’s just…some people have little regard for discretion.”
“I would think someone of your standing would be used to ballroom gossip.”
The knot in her stomach tightened. “I’m just not used to it being directed at me, or those I care about.”
He stilled, then his lips twitched. “We’ve only been friends for a day, and you already care for me?”
“How do you know I’m talking about you?”
A soft chuckle answered her. “Well, first, no one would ever say an unkind word about Eloise, so by process of elimination, that points to me.” His smile faded, and he stared out into the garden below. “I’m not naive, Miss Ross. I know what people whisper about me behind my back.”
She met his gaze. “Rumors don’t make the truth.”
His eyes darkened, the storm in them making her stomach clench. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t know the truth.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“They could be right.”
She straightened, though a twinge of unease curled through her. “They aren’t.”
He hesitated, his eyes lingering on hers a moment too long, as if he might tell her she was wrong. But after a long moment, the edge in his expression softened. “They aren’t.”
“What happened to Isabelle?”
For a moment, she thought he might not answer.
“I used to be a sailor.” His voice was barely above a whisper, already unraveling. “I left on a voyage. When I came back…”
He couldn’t finish. His jaw locked so hard the tendons stood out like cords beneath his skin. He stared into the shadows as if they might swallow the rest of the sentence for him.
“She passed the first night I left.”
Abigail’s throat tightened, the weight of his loss pressing against her own careful composure. “Do you blame yourself?”
His head dipped in a single, almost imperceptible nod, as though speaking the truth aloud might shatter him entirely.
“They say—” His voice cracked, throat convulsing as each syllable seemed to tear something from his chest. “They say I poisoned her. That there’s no other way she went from being so healthy one moment to so ill the next.
She died. Alone. In our bed. While I stood at the rail of that damned ship, watching the horizon, thinking of how I’d bring her back a bolt of silk the color of her favorite roses. ”
He swallowed, the sound raw and painful, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Abigail reached out, her hand settling on his forearm.
He flinched, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he stood there shaking, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the darkness, tears spilling over without a sound.
“If I had only stayed…” A shudder tore through him, violent enough to travel up her arm.
Abigail’s chest tightened until she could barely breathe. “It must be a heavy burden to carry.”
He gave another stiff nod and set his hand over hers, the warmth radiating through her. “Thank you. For not telling me I’m wrong. That I shouldn’t feel like it’s my fault.”
She couldn’t look away from where their hands met. “My mother died in childbirth with me.” A familiar ache settled over her chest as she spoke the quiet words aloud. “I know the feeling well. I’ve carried the responsibility every single day of my life.”
He lifted storm-filled eyes to hers. “Seems we’ve more in common than we knew. Kindred spirits in our inability to forgive ourselves”
Abigail’s gaze dropped to the railing, her fingers curling around it. The weight of his words pressed against her, forcing her to reckon with her own stubborn guilt.
After a beat of silence, he broke the tension with a heavy exhale. “We should go back inside”
Abigail waited for him to move, but he remained rooted in place, his gaze tracing the edges of the veranda. “You don’t want to.”
His eyes slid back to her, unblinking. “No.”
“You must be miserable. Your aunt mentioned how little you care for gatherings like these.”
“She knows me well.” He raised a brow. “And what about you, Miss Ross?”
“I love going to parties…” Her voice trailed off as she glanced at the open doors where a fresh song spilled out onto the veranda. “Just not tonight.”
He gave her a wry grin. “Misery loves company.”
“So they say.” She couldn’t help a small smile. “I suppose not all of the evening has been so dreadful.”
“I believe you’re right. Thank you, Miss Ross, for making tonight bearable. It reminded me…” He trailed off. “It reminded me of better days.”
His words, soft and unguarded, tugged at the edges of her composure and her throat went dry. When she remained silent, he inclined his head toward the open doors. “Shall we?”
She took his offered elbow, and they slipped back into the ballroom, the sweep of silk and candlelight surrounding them once more.
If possible, even more people had crowded into the room, and she bumped against Mr. Moreau as a couple pushed past them.
His hand shifted to the small of her back, a steadying support as they navigated the crush.
“Ah, there you two are.” Eloise swept up next to them. “I was beginning to get worried. And hungry.”
Abigail reached out and squeezed her arm. “We were just catching some air on the veranda. Let’s go get some refreshments.”
His aunt gave her a knowing look but said nothing more. Abigail’s gaze flicked to where Mr. Moreau remained just behind them. Each careful step through the crowd felt charged, the memory of their earlier dance still humming beneath her skin.
As they approached the refreshment table, Eloise stopped short. “I’m not feeling well. I think it would be best for us to go.” Her cheeks had gone pale, and Abigail frowned.
Mr. Moreau followed his aunt’s worried gaze and nodded. “Of course.” Without another word he took Abigail’s elbow, and they crossed the room.
Abigail slowed, twisting back. A flare of recognition swept through her as a man angled their way across the dance floor toward them. Mr. Warstein.
She tugged at Mr. Moreau’s arm. “I think he wants to talk to us.”
He sped up. “Some conversations are best to not have. He’s likely to be upset that you left the house.”
She craned her neck and caught one more glimpse of the merchant as they swept from the room. “He looks quite…. determined.”
“Yes, well, I’d rather not have a confrontation here. If he wants to be angry, he can send a letter or call on me at the house.”
She slid him a quick glance. “Wait, are you scared of him?”
A quiet huff answered her. “No. But he’s a powerful man. I don’t want to be on his bad side.”
Her brows furrowed. “I would expect deliberately slighting him might upset him even more than a confrontation.”
He shrugged. “We’ll have to risk it. If Aunt Eloise isn’t feeling well, I don’t want her to be caught in the middle.”