My Brother's Bride

by Rachael Anderson

  Her stomach in knots, she descended the staircase to the drawing room, wondering how her mother-in-law had reacted to the news. Had she been as understanding as Brigston had been, or had it upset her? Would she even speak to Abby this morning? Had the warmth in her expression turned cold?

  Perhaps Abby should speak to Brigston first.

  Coward, said a voice inside her head, prodding her feet into the room.

  Lady Brigston sat on a cozy settee, humming quietly while she sewed neat stitches into the same white muslin she’d shown Abby yesterday.

  She looked up and smiled. “I was only just thinking that I ought to look in on you. Are you feeling more the thing?”

  Abby barely registered the question. She was still focused on the christening gown and its meaning. Had Lady Brigston come to terms with the news already? Did she still think of the child as Jasper’s? Had all of Abby’s fears been for naught? What had Brigston said to her?

  “You appear to have more color,” noted Lady Brigston.

  “Er… yes. My headache has nearly subsided, I’m sure in part to Monsieur Roch’s tea and to you. It was good of you to read to me last night. Thank you.”

  Lady Brigston waved a dismissive hand. “I used to get the most dreadful headaches. When they were at their worst, my late husband would read to me. I always found it soothing.”

  “As did I, my lady.”

  Lady Brigston smiled. “I am glad. Has your nausea subsided as well? You ran out of here like the devil was after you yesterday. Perhaps I should have followed, but I never liked an audience when I experienced bouts of sickness.”

  “I… yes, my lady. I am feeling much better now. Forgive me for leaving so abruptly.”

  “I understand completely, my dear,” said Lady Brigston. “During my confinements, I would feel fine one moment and ill the next. It was quite vexing, to be sure, but it did not last forever. It’s only a matter of time before it will subside completely for you. Do sit down. Are you hungry at all? Shall I ring for tea?”

  “I’ve had some already,” said Abby somewhat distractedly. Lady Brigston returned to her needlepoint while Abby watched her in confusion. How strange this was. She had been expecting a cold reception and an uncomfortable confrontation, but Lady Brigston was behaving as though nothing had changed, as though she had no idea about—

  No.

  Surely she knew. Brigston had made Abby a promise, and he was a man of his word—or, at least he’d always seemed to be.

  She eyed her mother-in-law worriedly. “Have you spoken to Brigston lately, my lady?”

  The woman continued to sew. “I haven’t seen him this morning. Smithson mentioned he left in a hurry before sunrise.”

  “Did you not speak to him at dinner yesterday?”

  Lady Brigston looked up from her needlepoint, her expression wary. “Should I have spoken to him?”

  Abby tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it didn’t budge. Brigston hadn’t told his mother anything. He hadn’t kept his promise.

  That hurt almost as much as his rejection had.

  Lady Brigston set aside the christening gown and clasped her hands together, watching Abby with a firm, unwavering look. “You have never been one to mince words, Abby. Is there something you wish to tell me?”

  “Yes,” said Abby weakly, ready to rid herself of the weight she’d been carrying.

  I will be the one to tell her when the time is appropriate, Brigston had said. Please, Abby, you must trust me on this.

  She had trusted him. She’d agreed to keep quiet if he promised to explain everything to his mother before she began working on the christening gown. That was the bargain they’d made, the one he’d failed to follow through on.

  Abby walked over to the doors and pulled them closed. Then she inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and turned around to meet her mother-in-law’s gaze. She should never have listened to Morgan or Jasper. She should have told Lady Brigston the truth as soon as she’d crossed the threshold into this house.

  “Yes,” she said again, her voice stronger this time. “There is something I need to tell you before you put another stitch in that gown.”

  MORGAN RETURNED FROM an exhausting morning spent overseeing some repairs on a ditch. It had overrun during a storm the previous night and had flooded a tenant’s fields. He could only pray the damage had not been too extensive or he’d need to recompense the man with funds he didn’t have at the moment. Jasper’s debts had been steeper than Morgan had initially realized.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so physically and mentally drained. Perhaps if he’d slept better, but the crashes of thunder and thoughts of Abby had kept him awake much of the night. He was stripping off his gloves in the great hall when the door to the drawing room opened and Abby rushed out, looking pale and stricken. She glanced at him briefly before lifting her skirts and darting up the stairs.

  He stared at her in confusion, wondering what had put her in such a state.

  “Abby,” he called out.

  She stopped and stiffened, but only turned her head slightly to the side. “You promised you would tell her,” she said before continuing up the stairs and out of sight.

  Morgan muttered a curse under his breath as he tossed his gloves and hat to a nearby footman. He strode into the drawing room, finding his mother standing with her back to him, her hands fisted at her sides.

  Not a good sign.

  “What did you say to her?” he demanded, almost afraid to hear her answer.

  She spun around and glared at him, her eyes flashing. “Did you know?”

  He sighed and blinked against the dryness in his eyes. “She informed me not long after Jasper’s passing.”

  His mother gaped at him, the shock in her expression confirming what he’d already suspected. Either Abby had kept his involvement to herself or his mother hadn’t given her the opportunity to explain much of anything. It was probably a combination of both. Morgan remembered his own reaction to Abby’s confession well enough, along with the conclusions he’d initially drawn about her character. Thankfully, he’d listened to her entire tale before reacting too harshly. Judging by the way Abby had looked just now, his mother hadn’t done the same.

  “All this time you’ve let me carry on about my grandchild and a possible family resemblance when you knew it wasn’t really Jasper’s. Why would you keep this from me—your own mother?” Her voice was quiet and harsh, filled with pain. He’d expected this reaction. It was the reason he’d asked Abby not to tell her immediately. He just hadn’t expected it today.

  “Abby wanted to tell you. It was I who asked her not to do so.”

  “What right did you have to make such a request?” she cried.

  “You were mourning the loss of your son. I didn’t want you to have to mourn the loss of his child as well.”

  She rolled her eyes, showing him that she wasn’t grateful for that kindness. “Did you ever intend to tell me?”

  “Yes, I promised to explain everything before you began work on the christening gown.” He glanced at the fabric on the settee, realizing he’d been too late. Abby was probably wondering why he hadn’t already spoken to his mother.

  Another promise broken, he thought, recalling his irate tenant from that morning. A month ago, Morgan had assured the man that the ditch he’d positioned near a field of crops would not overrun its banks. It had.

  He sighed. “I planned to discuss the matter with you last night, but you didn’t come down for dinner. This morning, a crisis pulled me away before we could speak.”

  His mother began pacing. Even the rustling of her black skirts sounded furious. “I don’t know what to say. How could you keep this from me? How could Jasper? To think, he married a ruined woman and willingly gave his name to someone else’s child! Why would he do such a thing?”

  Morgan stiffened. What had his mother said to Abby, exactly? If she was this irate, it couldn’t have been kind. Why had Abby not waited for him?
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  “Did you allow her to explain?” he asked.

  “I heard enough. To think how I blathered on about that child and ordered fabric for a christening gown and quilts. I feel ill just thinking about it.”

  “She was ravished, Mother,” Morgan said bluntly. He didn’t care if she thought him vulgar. She needed to know the facts.

  “Yes, by a man she encouraged.”

  The coldness of the statement struck a nerve in Morgan. Apparently, Abby had been permitted to explain at least some of her story. It had just fallen on stubborn, unfeeling ears. “A mild flirtation or a chaste kiss does not grant a man permission to take advantage of a woman. For months, she attempted to break the connection.”

  “I realize that,” said his mother. “But she was wrong to encourage his advances at all—she, a gentlewoman!”

  “She was naive and lonely. Did you not kiss another man before Father?”

  It was the wrong question to ask. The look she cast him was nothing short of indignant. “How dare you suggest such a thing? I most certainly did not.”

  Morgan ought to have assumed as much. His mother had been born proper. She’d probably never deviated from that course her entire life, other than to play a harmless game of shuttlecock with him once. She’d always behaved with utmost decorum and expected the same from others. Perhaps that was one of the reasons Jasper stayed away, if not the reason.

  “She didn’t have a mother to instruct her about proprieties as you did,” Morgan said instead.

  “She had a governess.”

  “An old and inadequate governess.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Why are you defending her?”

  “Because I’ve come to know Abby. She is a good person, Mother. The only thing she could possibly be accused of is naivety. But she learned her lesson in the most vile and despicable way possible and doesn’t need to suffer any more for her mistakes. She is more deserving of our compassion than our censure.”

  “Compassion,” his mother scoffed. “It is plain that she has pulled the wool over your eyes as well. Can you not see she has manipulated us? She probably invented that story to gain Jasper’s sympathies, and now she’s trying to sink her clutches into you as well. Perhaps she already has.”

  “Enough.” Morgan’s jaw clenched. His mother was too upset to think rationally, and Morgan would soon lose his temper if he didn’t put a stop to this.

  He stared at the woman who’d given him life and strove for a calm voice. “Do you recall the bouquets of wildflowers that your maid placed on your bedside table most mornings soon after Jasper’s funeral? I spotted Abby carrying in a handful of flowers one day, and when I spied the same posy on your table, I asked your maid about them. She said that nearly every morning, Abby rose early to gather some blooms for your breakfast tray, then asked the servants to keep her part in it to themselves.

  “Does that sound like the workings of a conniving and manipulative woman? You are hurt, and you are speaking in anger. But you’ve come to know Abby as well. Do you truly believe her capable of lying to us—she, who has brought so much joy into this house and shows the same kindness to all, regardless of station? I admire her, the servants admire her, and up until this morning, you did as well.”

  His mother did not take the chastisement well. She glared at him before spinning around and putting her back to him again. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation another time.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Morgan strode from the room. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated, peering down the hall in the direction of Abby’s bedchamber. Should he go to her now and explain why he hadn’t followed through on his promise, or would it be better to wait?

  After his confrontation with his mother, he decided the latter.

  Unfortunately, neither Abby nor his mother made an appearance at dinner. Morgan ate alone and sipped his port in silence, staring out the window into the darkness. After a time, he took himself off to bed.

  AS SOON AS the sun appeared over the horizon, Morgan dressed and went down to breakfast, intending to wait for Abby in the parlor. To his surprise, he discovered her in the great hall, dressed in a black linen bonnet and matching redingote that didn’t quite button over her midsection. His mother’s castoffs. She was tucking something that looked like a letter under a vase while two footmen carried a large trunk from the house.

  She’s leaving.

  A chill washed over him, and he trotted down the last few steps.

  “Going somewhere, Abby?” he asked, mentally cursing himself for not seeking her out yesterday afternoon. If he had, would they be here now?

  She picked up her pair of gloves and faced him with a sad smile. “For now, to Lord and Lady Knave’s country estate in Lynfield. After my confinement, I hope to find a small cottage somewhere that will meet my needs.”

  “This is your home,” Morgan insisted. “Don’t go.”

  Another sad smile. “I should have left weeks ago, but I am glad I didn’t. I shall always remember my time here with fondness—you, especially. Thank you for your many kindnesses and understanding. Please thank your mother for me as well.”

  So formal and detached, as though they were nothing more than acquaintances. “Abby, please—”

  “I was going to leave this for you, but now that you are here…” She picked up the letter that she’d tucked under the vase and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it right away, she set it back on the table and added quietly, “Take care, Brigston.”

  This felt wrong, so horribly wrong, but he knew there was nothing he could say or do to make her stay. The determination in her expression told him that much.

  “Will you allow me to drive you to the stage?”

  She shook her head. “Your coachman is already waiting to take me. Let’s not prolong the inevitable.”

  The footmen returned for her second trunk, and Morgan waited impatiently for them to carry it from the house. Then he pushed the door closed with one hand and took hold of her hand with the other. “I never got the opportunity to tell her, Abby,” he said. “I planned to, I swear I did, but she didn’t come down to dinner, and the next morning I was called away for an emergency.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “It should have been me who told her anyhow. It was my burden to share.”

  “Will you be all right?” he blurted, not willing to relinquish her hand just yet.

  She touched her stomach with her free hand and managed a smile. “I already am. I have a child I’ll soon meet and dear friends to help me through it. You needn’t worry about me any longer.”

  I can’t help it, he wanted to say, but he held the words back, knowing they would only make this harder.

  Could it be any harder?

  Brigston closed the distance between them and enfolded her in his arms. She stiffened at first but soon relaxed against him, resting the brim of her bonnet against his chest and clutching the lapels of his coat in her fists. He breathed in the familiar scent of apples and committed the feel of her to his memory. When he heard footsteps approach from somewhere down the hall, he dropped a kiss on her cheek and croaked, “Goodbye, Abby.”

  She looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Goodbye,” she whispered before she tore herself away and strode out the door. In no time at all, she was in the coach and driving away.

  Every muscle in Morgan’s body tensed with the desire to race after the carriage and beg her to marry him. He hated letting her go. He hated duty and honor and responsibility. He hated his title and station. And he hated the law.

  “Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” Smithson asked from below. He’d been overseeing Abby’s departure and was now returning to the house.

  “No.” Morgan pulled himself together and walked back inside. As he passed by the side table, he grabbed the letter Abby left before seeking the solace of his study.

  He sat at the desk, staring at his name in bold script. The handwriting wasn’t the finest he’
d ever seen, but it reminded him of her—unrefined, imperfect, kind, loveable Abby.

  When he could stand it no longer, he tore open the seal.

  Brigston, my friend,

  I will not refer to you as my brother because I do not think of you in that way. Someday, I hope to be able to look upon you and not yearn for the impossible, but for now, I must go in a different direction.

  Bless you for helping me to smile once again, for giving me the means to live independently, and for understanding my plight. You cannot know how much your friendship has meant to me.

  All my gratitude and love,

  Abby

  Brigston clenched his fingers around the letter and fought the emotion threatening to consume him. He’d always known it would be hard to say goodbye to Abby. He just never realized how hard.

  ABBY ARRIVED IN the village of Lynfield feeling like she’d been thrown from a horse. Every bit of her ached, even her feet, which was odd since she hadn’t used them much at all. She stepped from the airless, foul-smelling coach into a bleak afternoon. A gust of wind swept through her thin, black redingote, chilling her instantly. She inhaled and listened, but there was no smell of the sea or lapping of the waves here.

  She followed the other travelers into a bedraggled inn that smelled only marginally better than the coach. Much to her relief, she was ushered into a private parlor where she found Lord and Lady Knave waiting for her.

  “Abby!” Prudence saw her first and rushed to embrace her. “How good it is to see you. I was worried I’d have to wait until the middle of the season, and that wouldn’t do at all. I’m beyond thrilled that you have come to stay with us again. It feels as though part of our family has returned.”

  Abby couldn’t have asked for a warmer welcome, not that she was surprised. Prudence had always treated her like family.

  Abby took a seat on a comfortable chair and leaned back. It felt good to have space to herself and less stuffy air to breathe. She wanted to drag another chair over, kick off her shoes, and prop up her feet, but that kind of relaxation would have to wait until she was tucked away in her bedchamber at Radbourne Abby, and only after a long soak.