That was two days ago. She’d spent all day yesterday waiting for some word. A visit, a letter, something. Instead, the day had crawled by. She hadn’t slept well last night, and by morning her nerves were scraped raw.
She was picking half-heartedly at the keys of the pianoforte when there was a knock at the door. It would be the marchioness, of course, but that didn’t stop her foolish heart from leaping into her throat.
She didn’t wait for the butler but made her way to the front entryway, where the man was closing the door behind Amelia.
Neither said a word as she led her new friend into the drawing room and Amelia swept her into a quick hug.
Abigail winced. “How much do you know?”
Amelia shook her head. “Nothing. Cranston called two days ago, and he spent the night at our house. He was drinking heavily, and my husband didn’t want him to leave in that condition.”
Abigail lowered herself onto the settee, and Amelia sat next to her. “I assume your husband knows what happened? And he didn’t tell you?”
Amelia shook her head. “They served together in the war. There is a bond between them, and Ashford as well, that will never be broken. And since I assume whatever Lord Cranston shared didn’t have anything to do with me, my husband wouldn’t betray his confidence. But…”
Abigail could only look at the woman. Her lack of sleep must have muddled her thoughts because it was clear the marchioness expected her to know what she’d left unsaid. She could only shake her head in confusion.
“If the matter concerns you, there is nothing to stop you from telling me. Perhaps together we can come up with a solution. Or at least some way to make things easier for you and the baron.”
Abigail was sorely tempted to do just that. But in the end, she shook her head. “If Gideon… I mean Lord Cranston… wanted you to know, he would have shared. Or he would have allowed your husband to share the details with you. I owe it to him to respect that decision. I’ve already taken so much away from him.”
It didn’t matter that her father had well and truly compelled her to his will. Nor did it matter that she’d acted in what she’d thought was Cranston’s best interest at the time. Making excuses for her actions wouldn’t change the fact that he had lost so much. She only hoped he wouldn’t allow bitterness to keep him from becoming acquainted with Gemma. He’d already missed far too much of her young life.
She leaned back against the cushions of the settee and closed her eyes, the hopelessness of her situation an oppressive cloud hanging over her. “I shouldn’t have asked you to visit today. I was being selfish. I don’t want to place you in the middle of something that could cause difficulty between you and your husband.”
“Nonsense,” Amelia said.
Abigail opened her eyes and met the woman’s gaze.
“I know firsthand just how stubborn men can be,” Amelia said. “Women need the comfort and support of a friend during these times even when there are no easy solutions to be found.”
Warmth filled her chest, and she sat up again. “And if I’m the villain?”
Amelia’s head tilted to one side. Somehow Abigail kept from flinching under the woman’s close examination.
“Is that true?”
Abigail let out a breath. “Yes? No?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t really matter. Cranston will always see me that way, especially now.”
Amelia wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “I think you need a distraction. Tell me, can you be trusted to keep a secret?”
Abigail knew what the woman was doing. Amelia wanted her to know that she’d be safe confiding in the marchioness, and what better way to do that than by sharing a secret of her own?
“I am the queen of keeping secrets.” Truer words had never been spoken.
Amelia’s smile was enigmatic. “Do you know that I like to write?”
Abigail shook her head, confused. “Letters?” She didn’t have anyone with whom to correspond, but she looked forwarded to doing that with Amelia when the woman left London.
The marchioness’s grin widened. Her voice was low when she said, “Novels.”
Abigail almost thought the marchioness was being dishonest when she confided that she was the author of A Fallen Lady, the most popular novel in London at the moment. Perhaps in all of England. No one knew who’d written the book, but it seemed that everyone had a theory.
“Is that true, or are you trying to distract me?”
Amelia laughed. “Oh, it’s true. And it’s very amusing to listen in to everyone’s theories about the author.”
Abigail shook her head in wonder. “I haven’t read it yet. I want to, but I’m waiting for new copies to arrive at the bookstore. They keep selling out before I can claim one for myself.”
