Eliza felt tears prick her eyes. “You mean that?”
“Of course I mean it. Your dreams aren’t foolish, Eliza. They’re part of what makes you who you are. Your life is yours to live. I am grateful to be a part of it.”
She stopped walking, turning to face him, her heart impossible full. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she said quietly.
“You survived,” Morgan said simply. “You fought for your freedom, for your life. That’s more than deserving, darling. You are a marvel.”
He pulled her close, and they stood there on the beach, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the sun sank into the sea.
“I need to tell you about Abigail,” Eliza said, later that evening after dinner.
They were in Morgan’s study. She sat in the chair across from his desk while he reviewed some correspondence, but the words had been building in her chest all day.
Morgan set down his papers immediately. “Tell me.”
So, she did.
She told him about meeting Abigail when they were both twelve years old, at some tedious musicale their mothers had dragged them to. How they’d sneaked away to the garden and spent the entire evening making up stories about the other guests. How that friendship had bloomed into something deeper, something true.
“She was the only person who really knew me,” Eliza said, her voice thick with emotion. “The only one who saw past all the expectations and just… saw me. When she married Whitfield, I was happy for her at first. He was charming, wealthy, well-respected. She could have done worse, but a part of me always knew. And then…”
Her voice broke.
Morgan came around the desk, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. “It’s all right. Take your time.”
“She changed,” Eliza continued, her face pressed against his chest. “She became quiet. Nervous. She’d flinch when he entered a room. She started wearing long sleeves even in summer, and I knew… Then, when I asked her about it, she’d just smile and say everything was fine.”
“Eliza. Oh darling…”
“The night she died, at the Fontaines’ ball, she told me she was scared. She said Whitfield had been in a rage all week because she wasn’t pregnant yet. That he blamed her for failing in her wifely duties.” Eliza pulled back to look at Morgan, tears streaming down her face. “She said she was going to ask her parents if she could come stay with them for a while. And then, an hour later, she was dead.”
“You think he pushed her,” Morgan said quietly.
“I know he did. I know it in my bones. But no one believed me. Everyone said it was a tragic accident. That she’d had too much wine and lost her balance. But Abigail never drank more than a single glass. She was careful. She wouldn’t have…”
She broke off, sobbing now.
Morgan held her tighter, his hand stroking her hair. “I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” His voice was hard. “I’ve met Whitfield. I’ve seen the coldness in his eyes. And three dead wives is not a coincidence.”
“I want justice for her,” Eliza said fiercely. “I want him to pay for what he did to Abigail. But I don’t know how. I don’t have proof. I don’t have anything except my certainty that he’s a monster.”
“Then we’ll find proof,” Morgan said. “I have resources, connections. We’ll investigate his past, look into the deaths of his other wives. If there’s evidence to be found, we’ll find it. I will leave no stone unturned.”
“You’d do that? For Abigail?”
“For Abigail,” Morgan agreed. “And for you. Because her death haunts you, and I won’t let him get away with taking someone you loved.”
Eliza threw her arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as she could. “Thank you. God, Morgan, thank you.”
“We’ll bring him to justice,” Morgan promised. “I swear it.”
Morgan sat at his desk before dawn, writing by candlelight.
