by Bree Wolf
After a small eternity, Winifred finally took her leave and made her way back across the large room, stopping here and there to exchange a quick word with one of their host’s guests. “She is doing this solely to torture me,” Griffin growled, willing himself to hate his sister with every fibre of his being…and still failing miserably.
Trent laughed, “I suppose that’s fairly obvious.”
When Winifred and Berenton finally reached them, Griffin was close to exploding. “You cannot be serious,” he snapped for what seemed like the millionth time that night, his disbelief stretched too thin.
Winifred frowned in confusion. Still, the soft twitch of her upper lip did not escape Griffin’s attention. “What do you mean? She’s such a lovely lady, but gravely misunderstood.” She sighed, glancing over her shoulder at Miss Abbott, who in that very moment spilled her drink on yet another unfortunate gentleman who had dared to come near her. “What do you have against her?” Winifred enquired innocently, batting her eyelashes.
In that moment, Griffin wanted to strangle her. Still, all he could do was open and close his mouth a couple of times before his mind was back in order and supplied him with what to say. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he stammered, his pulse hitching higher with each moment. “That woman is impossible. Look at her! You cannot be serious.” Shaking his head, he frowned at the sister he had known all his life. “What do you have against me? I’m your brother, remember? I thought you cared about me.”
Laughing softly, Winifred placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Do not worry, dear brother. Yes, I do love you, and I would never do anything to make you miserable. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
Griffin could only hope so.
Sighing, Winifred turned to her husband. “Poor Miss Abbott is still fairly new in town. I believe I shall call on her and see that she is settled in and not lacking company.” Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Griffin. “Who knows, soon we might be the best of friends!”
As Trent led his wife back to the dance floor, casting an apologetic glance over his shoulder at his old friend, Griffin gritted his teeth to the point that he thought they would splinter in his mouth.
“Not having a good day, are we?” Berenton observed beside him, a touch of suppressed humour in his voice, and clasped a hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “Should we get drunk?”
Griffin sighed. That sounded like as good a plan as any.
After all, he had learnt long ago that he was no match for his sister’s devious mind. All he could do was hope that she hadn’t forgotten that she loved him.
She would not truly suggest he marry Miss Abbot, would she?
Chapter Three − Something Rather Unexpected
“Grandfather, I need to speak with you!” Not bothering to knock, Abigail burst into the duke’s study, pleased to see his head jerk up and his eyes settle on her with a hint of annoyance.
Merely a hint? That was progress! Abigail thought.
“Your grace,” her grandfather reminded her, leaning back in his leather armchair, the scowl on his face daring her to ignore him.
Which, of course, was a challenge Abigail could not help but accept. “Certainly, Grandfather.”
Rolling his eyes at her, he gestured to the chair opposite his large desk. “What can I do for you this morning?”
Settling onto the chair, Abigail frowned as she scooted left and right, trying to get comfortable. When all her attempts failed, she looked up at her grandfather, a hint of annoyance in her eyes. “You don’t want people to stay long,” she accused, her lips curling up in amusement. “These chairs are uncomfortable for a reason, are they not?”
The hint of a smile flashed over her grandfather’s weathered face, and she thought to detect an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Is this all you came to say?”
Abigail sighed, “Not at all.” Meeting her grandfather’s gaze openly, she leaned forward in confidence. “Before I can say anything at all, I need your word that what I’m about to tell you will remain between the two of us. Do you promise?”
A deep frown drew down her grandfather’s brows. “I will do no such thing.”
“Grandfather!” Abigail chided. “This is important. It’s about Aunt Mara.”
A scoff escaped his lips, “Then it’s not important at all.”
Shocked by his cold words, Abigail rose to her feet, her gaze not wavering from his. Then she stepped toward his massive desk and leaned down, resting her hands on the smooth surface. “She respects you greatly. She does whatever you ask of her without ever−”
“She’s my son’s widow,” her grandfather snapped. “It’s her duty to−”
“You owe her−”
“I owe her nothing!” he retorted, a touch of red crawling up his neck as he stared at his granddaughter, indignation at her forward behaviour all too visible in his grey eyes. “She knows her place, as should you.”
Inhaling a deep breath, Abigail knew what was expected of her, and yet, she could not back down and bow her head.
Raised far away from London society and its rules, Abigail had never been taught to be subservient to titled families, to see them as her betters, to believe that they deserved more than she did. No, indeed, her father had taught her that people were born equals and that one could only set oneself apart by doing what was right and fair and just…not by what was easy.
After everything Aunt Mara had done for her, she deserved Abigail’s loyalty, her support, her strength. She had welcomed her into the family and−more importantly−into her heart, easing the pain of her father’s passing with her kind words and gentle reminders that he would have wanted her to be happy.
“I know very well where my place is, Grandfather,” Abigail said, her own grey eyes resting on his, her voice not disrespectful but determined nonetheless. “Do you?”
His jaw tensed as he stared at her, momentarily taken aback, and she could see that he was at a loss. Never in his life had people dared to speak to him thus.
“I came here,” Abigail began as she straightened, lifting her hands off the desk, “to ask about her son, her grandchildren. She seems to miss them terribly, but she never sees them. Never even speaks of them.” Shaking her head to emphasise her confusion, Abigail sank back into her chair, wincing slightly when the hard wood cut into her back. “What happened? She always looks so miserable.”
For a long moment, her grandfather’s gaze remained on her before he drew in a slow breath, his eyes moving with the indecision she knew he felt. Did people in his family never speak of how they felt? What they loved? Feared? Hoped for? “My son died almost a decade ago,” he finally said, his voice low, quiet, almost imperceptible. “However, I do not believe it affected her much.” A grim tone had come to his voice.
Abigail frowned. “They did not love each other.”
The duke shook his head. “I suppose not.” He swallowed. “She did as any widow is expected to, but I never saw deep sorrow in her.”
“Can you blame her?” At her words, her grandfather’s head snapped up, and he stared at her with shock. “I don’t mean to speak ill of your son, but from what I’ve learnt of marriages among the upper class, there is very little emotion involved. How do you expect her to mourn someone she never cared for?”
Her grandfather’s lips thinned, but he did not question her reasoning.
“What about her son? Your grandson? Are they not close?”
“They were. Once.” Meeting her gaze, the duke crossed his arms in front of his chest, and Abigail could see the reluctance to speak about such personal matters in the way he held himself rigid as though he was the one sitting in the tortuously uncomfortable chair. “When Bradish made his intention known of proposing to Lord Simwell’s daughter, his mother counselled him to reconsider. Apparently, she did not believe they were a good match.”
“And she was right, wasn’t she?”
Her grandfather nodded. “Theirs was never a happy marriage. At least not after t
he first year. I suppose my grandson’s wife found out about his mother’s objections. Ever since, they’ve become estranged and she’s been doing her utmost to keep the children away from their grandmother.”
Abigail sighed, finally understanding the loneliness and regret that filled Aunt Mara’s life. “Have you never tried to help her? To smooth things between her and her son as well as her daughter-in-law?”
“It was not my place,” her grandfather bit out.
“Not your place?” Abigail echoed. “You’re a family. He’s your grandson. They’re your great-grandchildren. It most certainly is your place.” Inhaling deeply, Abigail tried to calm her rattled nerves. Never in her life had she heard such nonsense. “What do we do?”
“What do you mean?”
Rolling her eyes, Abigail once more stepped toward his desk. “Grandfather, I can see that all of you have been a little out of practice but let me tell you how family works.” A teasing curl came to her lips as she looked at him, trying to break the ice that had frosted over her family’s hearts for too long. “When one of us is miserable, so are the others because we care about each other. And even though you will probably never admit to it, you know that I’m right. We need to help her. Any suggestions?”
As her grandfather stared at her a bit open-mouthed, a sharp knock came on the door. “Enter,” the duke croaked, then cleared his throat as he forced the mask of detachedness back on his face before Orwel entered.
“I apologise for the intrusion, your grace,” he said, giving a slight bow before his gaze momentarily shifted to Abigail, “but there’s a Lady Chadwick here to see Miss Abbott.”
Taken aback, Abigail blinked. Lady Chadwick? Was that the young woman who had spoken to her the other day at the ball? She had certainly been kind, surprised Abigail by even addressing her, but Abigail would never have thought that she truly meant to call on her. Few people meant what they said.
“Do you intend to let her wait all day?” her grandfather asked, a teasing tone in his voice now that the focus had shifted back to her. “The ton might not look on that with kind eyes.”
Abigail snorted, “Quite frankly, I couldn’t care less about what the ton does or doesn’t do.” Then she turned on her heel and headed for the door. However, with her hand on the handle she stopped and turned back to look at her grandfather. “Perhaps you should speak with your grandson. He might be able to find a way to smooth things between his wife and his mother.”
Her grandfather scoffed, “At this point, I do not believe he cares.”
Fed up with her family, Abigail heaved a deep sigh. “Then make him care,” she snapped, then rushed out the door before her grandfather could object.
Trying to put her family’s issues out of her mind, Abigail wondered what had brought Lady Chadwick over that morning. After all, never had any lady sought Abigail’s company for her devious plan to drive away all eligible bachelors had also succeeded nicely in convincing the ladies of the ton that she was not good company and they did not wish to be seen with her.
Her reputation had indeed suffered. Unfortunately, a few gentlemen still insisted on pursuing her. Only friends she had none.
As Abigail walked by the large mirror in the front hall on her way to the drawing room, she caught sight of her reflection and realised with a start that she had not bothered to dress in her usual hideous fashion that morning.
But why would she have? After all, she had not expected any visitors today. Her hair was gathered in the back and pinned up gently while some tendrils danced down from her temples, and she wore a simple pale-yellow dress, quite unlike the one that made her look like a bumblebee.
Well, it could not be helped, and besides, she was not receiving an eligible bachelor bent on procuring her hand, now was she?
Drawing in a deep breath, Abigail had to admit she was a tad nervous. Never had she found herself craving the good opinion of a lady of the ton, and she realised how much she wished for a friend.
Stepping into the room, Abigail found the young woman admiring a watercolour hanging on the wall by the pianoforte. “Good morning, Lady Chadwick,” she greeted her, trying to still her trembling hands. “How nice of you to call on me.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Lady Chadwick replied, her eyes aglow and a genuine smile decorating her lovely features. Instantly, Abigail felt herself relax.
“Would you care for some tea?” she asked, already ringing the bell.
“That sounds wonderful,” her visitor replied. “It’s still a bit chilly outside.”
Gesturing for Lady Chadwick to take a seat, Abigail chose a spot across from her. Deciding there was no use in dancing around the bush, she asked, “What brings you here?”
An amused smile spread over her guest’s face as she leaned forward as though wishing to share a secret. “I’ve come to be your friend.”
Abigail could not keep her jaw from dropping just a tad. “My friend?” she echoed, wondering if the young lady across from her had the ability to read minds. “Quite frankly, I’ve rarely had someone speak to me so…”
“Bluntly?” Lady Chadwick offered. “Well, I find being honest about one’s intentions saves time.”
Abigail laughed, “I suppose it does. May I then ask what made you want to be my friend? I admit I’m rather surprised.”
Lady Chadwick shrugged. “For one, I know you to be new in town and as I find myself in a similar position, I thought we might be a good fit.”
“You’re new in town?”
Lady Chadwick nodded. “My brother and I only returned from the continent a few months ago. We’d been away from England for about five years, and we’re only just getting reacquainted with society.”
Abigail nodded, feeling excitement rise in her chest. Would she truly have a friend by the end of the day? “May I enquire if there were other reasons?”
A slight blush came to Lady Chadwick’s face as she tried to control the large smile that threatened to draw up the corners of her mouth. “Well, quite frankly, my brother has always accused me of being too rational-minded, and I admit lately I’ve come to realise that he might not have been…completely wrong.”
Abigail laughed.
“Well, to make it short, when I saw you at the ball, I was intrigued and decided to follow an impulse. I don’t try to make a habit out of it, but I suppose there is no harm in doing it occasionally.”
Again, Abigail laughed, realising that she liked Lady Chadwick quite a bit. The young woman had a refreshingly open way of speaking her mind as well as a sense of humour that spoke to Abigail. “You were intrigued?”
Lady Chadwick nodded. “I mean no offence, but you looked quite…odd that night.” Her gaze held Abigail’s for a moment before she continued. “That hideous dress and your hair pulled back so tightly I swear I felt my own scalp tingle. I couldn’t help but wonder why a young woman would do such a thing and thought to myself that a remarkable mind and fascinating character were most likely at its root.” She shrugged, a questioning smile curling up her lips.
Not having expected such a compliment as well as the depth of her guest’s observation, Abigail could not deny that it pleased her nonetheless. After all, despite the open disapproval she saw at every ball when people regarded her appearance, they never dared say so to her face. Instead, they tried to find one way or other to give her a compliment whenever they found themselves put on the spot. “You’re here to enquire about my reason for dressing so…oddly?”
Lady Chadwick laughed, her gaze gliding over Abigail’s appearance. “Well, quite frankly, today you do look a lot more like yourself. So, there must be a reason? Isn’t there always?”
Abigail inhaled a deep breath. Although she wished to share her motivation with Lady Chadwick, she knew she ought to be cautions. After all, what did she truly know about her? “You’re quite right, my lady. I certainly do have a reason; however, I find that−”
“You’re not quite ready to share it with a stranger?” Lady Chadwick chu
ckled good-naturedly. “That’s quite all right. Well, then tell me what has brought you to town. I was told that you’re his grace’s granddaughter.”
Abigail swallowed, not fond to retell the story of her father’s passing. However, to her great relief, she soon saw honest sympathy in Lady Chadwick’s gaze, who reciprocated by telling her of losing her own parents in a carriage accident five years ago. Their loss had upended her life as much as losing her father had changed Abigail’s. While she had come to London to stay with her grandfather, Lady Chadwick and her brother had travelled the world, trying their best to find a way to cope with the loss while remembering that life continued and that feeling happy was no reason for feeling guilty as well.
Over the course of the next fortnight, Abigail spent many wonderful days in Lady Chadwick’s company, delighting in their new-found friendship. They had a lot in common and discovered more every day. Most days Abigail walked around with a deep smile on her face, noticing that Aunt Mara delighted in seeing her so happy. In consequence, Abigail continued to prod her grandfather, urging him to speak to his grandson.
So far, he was resisting, but Abigail had no doubt that he would eventually admit defeat. Perhaps not as straightforward as saying it out loud. He would most likely conjure ridiculous excuses; however, the result would be the same.
“And she never sees them?” Winifred asked one afternoon as they walked around the new conservatory her husband had added to their townhouse. “How sad!”
Abigail nodded. “She tries not to show it, but whenever we go through the park and she sees children their age, her eyes tear up.” Sighing, Abigail shook her head. “I wish I could help her, but my grandfather is currently less than willing.”
Winifred laughed, “I’m certain you will convince him before too long.”
“I do hope so,” Abigail exclaimed, wondering if she ought to speak to her cousin herself.
“Ah, there you are!”
Turning toward the voice, Abigail found two men walking into the conservatory, their faces cheerful as they seemed to be in conversation with one another. One of the two men was Winifred’s husband, Lord Chadwick, whom Abigail had met once or twice while visiting her friend. The other, however, she could not recall ever having met.