The Queen's Ball

by Anthea Lawson

  Curiosity ate at her, and thus far she had been able to prevent it from acting out. But for how much longer, she wondered.

  When she was ready, he had said, he would tell her everything. But what could he possibly have to tell? This was not a particularly complicated issue, and surely any explanation was futile at this point.

  And when would she possibly be ready to hear anything from him about what had happened?

  Abigail had been friends with Matthew from childhood, and rather than spend his time with the Thayers, as the rest of his family did, he had elected to choose Abigail and the Sterlings. So it was only natural that they should have grown close, and somehow even more natural that a romance should have formed. Subtle and gradual it had been, but it had also been undeniable, particularly after one memorable night at the queen’s ball in Colchester. The Queen had not been in attendance, of course, but in honor of her birthday, a ball had been held nonetheless, and Abigail had taken it upon herself on that occasion to look her absolute best.

  She had looked her best, and Matthew had never looked more striking to her than he had that night. They had caught eyes, and the air in the room had changed to something magical and wonderful. They had danced and talked and laughed, but everything had changed between them. Absolutely everything.

  There had been an unspoken expectation nearly from that night on that the two would marry, and the Sterlings, at least, had speculated wildly about it among themselves. Which would surprise no one. Sterlings were notorious for their tendency toward speculation, for good or for ill.

  Then he had shocked the lot of them by announcing his engagement to Eliza Thayer, and the marriage had followed nearly the moment the banns were completely read.

  All very businesslike and straightforward, and rather than attend the nuptials to which she had almost callously been invited, Abigail had fled. Or rather, she had retreated to Dorset with her uncle Benedict, a well-respected physician who lived a rather quiet life with his wife and three children, the oldest just younger than Abigail herself. The peace and solitude of the life in Dorset had settled warmly upon her heart and deadened the pain of all she had endured.

  And now she was expected to hear his side of the story? She wasn’t at all sure she could bear to do any such thing without lashing out and letting her raw bitterness show.

  But that was just it, wasn’t it? She knew that was what he expected, but he hadn’t made any sort of motion to bring any of it about.

  So, what was it that he did expect and have planned for all this?

  Groaning, Abigail craned her neck and jerked as one of the maids reached for her cloak, pulling it from her shoulders. “Thank you, Bess. Mind it doesn’t soak your frock.”

  “Yes, Miss Abigail,” she replied with a quick bob, scurrying away with it.

  Abigail brushed back stray strands of hair with her hands and sighed heavily, gripping her neck. All of this pressure that she was placing on herself, and there wasn’t anything to do as yet. Apprehension was a terrible burden of its own, and she was accustomed to its weight.

  “Pardon me, Miss Abigail,” a formal voice intoned nearby. “A letter arrived for you.”

  She made a face and turned toward the butler. So, this was Matthew’s plot. To send her messages in private and maintain distance when in public.

  Conniving wretch of a man.

  “When did it arrive, Tate?” Abigail asked the older man, not bothering to pretend at a polite tone even for appearances.

  If the butler noticed, he gave no indication. “Perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, Miss Abigail. While you were out walking.”

  That made her frown, her fingers pausing just a breath above the note. A quarter of an hour ago she had still been in the park and had seen Matthew perhaps five minutes before that. This letter might actually not be from him after all.

  But then what could it be?

  She shook herself and plucked the letter up, nodding to herself and the butler. “Thank you, Tate.”

  He bowed and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Abigail to stare after him absently.

  She glanced down at the letter, then moved into the nearest parlor and broke the seal, unfolding the paper and scanning it. There was nothing at all familiar in the handwriting, which was another sign Matthew could not have written it. She’d know his writing with one brief glance with all the notes they had sent each other over the years. And this was far too lengthy to be anything of his creation.

  He had always preferred brevity to discourse.

  She had tended to agree.

  She forced herself to focus on the words before her, and to do so with an open and unbiased mind.

  But nothing could have prepared her for what followed.

  I pray you will forgive the anonymity of this letter, my dear Miss Sterling, but I could think of no other way to communicate to you the feelings I currently possess. It has been some time now that I have noticed you and have been unable to do anything else from that moment on. I pray this will not distress you, nor would I have you think that I am incapable of turning my thoughts to any other subject, though, arguably, none other could be so pleasant. I am not a man of many words, much as this letter might suggest otherwise, but I find I can prattle on remarkably well on the topic of yourself. But not to your person directly, for my nerves and more reserved nature prevent me from even approaching you. I will not make any bold declarations, nor will I sully your eyes with words of flattery and excesses, particularly when it would be untrue for the present. I would only express my admiration for you, Miss Sterling, and my hope that soon we may grow more acquainted in the future.

  It was not signed, and nor did it give any indication in any place about who might have sent it. No particular descriptions of anything, no ardency expressed, and not even a hint of praise for her appearance or nature or being.

  What a strange sort of missive to receive. Nothing threatening or frightening, and nothing at all that even made her uncomfortable.

  A simple declaration of admiration and nothing more.

  And yet it made her smile a little as she ventured out of the parlor and down the corridor. A man in London who admired her enough to send her a note about it but was reserved enough to not confess his identity. What a delightful mystery to suddenly have at hand!

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Abigail grinned in the direction of her younger sister, proceeding down the stairs without grace or care. Maren was a rather pretty girl, almost spritely in appearance, and in possession of a carefree spirit and manner that Abigail had always been envious of.

  “My smile, my secrets,” Abigail replied, her smile spreading. “What are you about today? Paying calls?”

  Maren scoffed, her almost-blonde hair bouncing with her steps, one hand gripping the bannister and swinging around to Abigail. “Lord, no. It’s too early in the Season for anyone to want me to call, and I’m not exactly keen on doing so anyway. I thought I might pretend to shop in Bond Street, see what the other ladies are up to and observe London Society in its natural habitat.”

  Abigail shook her head, amused by her sister, as always.

  Maren suddenly tilted her head, her eyes taking on a wiser, knowing look. “Do you know what I think, Abs?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I think you ought to give Matthew a chance.”

  Abigail felt her body jerk in surprise and stared at her sister with wide eyes. “How did you know he was in London? I’ve said nothing.”

  Maren smiled her familiar rueful smile. “I noticed. But I’m a particularly capable eavesdropper, and when we were with Francis and Janet the other evening, I overheard him and Uncle Hensh talking. Matthew’s appearance in London was discussed.”

  Oh, the horror . . . Uncle Hensh was one thing, but their cousin Francis? He was the most paternal extended relation she had and was likely closer to them than their true uncle Benedict was. There was no telling what Francis and Uncle Hensh would do when working together fo
r a common purpose.

  She swallowed painfully. “Does Papa know?”

  This time Maren shrugged in ignorance. “Difficult to say. He was not in the room during the discussion, but that is not to say that he was not informed of it later.”

  “Lord above . . .” Abigail breathed. She wet her lips. “Surely Papa would have said something if he knew.”

  “Most likely.” Maren tossed her hair over a shoulder and folded her arms, fixing her focus on Abigail. “I mean it. You should give Matthew a chance.”

  Heart already racing, Abigail frowned at her. “A chance? After what he did?”

  Her sister nodded twice, her jaw fixed. “Does marrying someone else three years ago mean he is now beyond forgiveness? Or friendship?”

  Whatever pace her heart had been maintaining, it intensified at that, stealing breath as well as strength. “You cannot ask me . . .”

  “I am not suggesting you love him again,” Maren assured her with a gentle interruption. “And I doubt very much that was what he asked for when he spoke with you. Was it?”

  Abigail was shaking her head before she knew what she was doing, and then she seemed to find difficulty ceasing the motion.

  Maren waited a moment, no doubt to see if any verbal reply would be made, then prodded, “And? What does he want?”

  “He said . . . He said he wanted understanding,” Abigail told her simply, finally recovering some sense. “That’s all he said.”

  “Understanding,” Maren repeated thoughtfully. She considered it, then smiled at Abigail. “Surely that is not so beyond you.”

  Abigail wasn’t nearly so certain of that. Her hands were suddenly taken and tightly squeezed, causing her to look up at her sister, feeling suddenly unsteady.

  Maren’s mouth formed a tight line, her eyes soft. “I know you have the capability to listen, if not understand. For the sake of what you once shared, even before there was love . . .”

  “Another chance, you said?” Abigail exhaled slowly. “I cannot risk my heart again, Maren. Not with him.”

  Maren’s mouth curved to one side. “I don’t remember him asking for that, nor did I suggest it. If you don’t want to give your heart, then don’t offer it. Don’t put it up for consideration.” She sobered and released Abigail’s hands, clasping her own before her. “There was friendship long before hearts were involved, wasn’t there? Surely that can be respected, at least.”

  It was odd, but what Maren was saying made a great deal of sense and appealed to Abigail’s logical side, yet when she considered the application of it, the whole thing seemed entirely illogical and impossible.

  There could be nothing perfectly comfortable about engaging with a man one had once loved, she supposed, no matter what capacity in which they would associate now.

  But she had to try.

  “All right,” she conceded with another series of absent nods, though she wasn’t sure if she was nodding to Maren or to the decision she had made. Or to Matthew in absentia.

  Not that it mattered. Any of the three would have done just as well as the other.

  Maren giggled and unlaced her hands, clasping them behind her back and rocking back and forth on her heels. “How does he look? Matthew, I mean.”

  She glared at Maren with darkness, though she did find the antics of her sister amusing in a twisted sort of way. “Well. He looked very well, indeed.”

  Maren grinned, then let it vanish at once. “A well-looking man must always be appreciated.”

  “Sage counsel,” Abigail retorted drily, shaking her head and moving down the corridor past her sister once more.

  “Where are you going?” Maren called after her.

  Abigail glanced over her shoulder but kept her course. “It seems I have a letter to write, if I am to begin this endeavor properly.”

  She didn’t wait to see how her sister reacted and tuned out whatever she said in response. She couldn’t bear any more, not when she was stepping out into the darkness she really ought to have avoided. She needed clarity and focus, particularly when reaching out to Matthew.

  He mustn’t think she was encouraging him, and she mustn’t make it sound as though all was forgiven.

  She was only taking one step.

  Just one.

  Abigail sat at the small writing desk in the front drawing room, extending her fingers in a faint stretching motion, exhaling slowly.

  She could do this. She could.

  Suddenly the weight of the letter still in her pocket seemed to weigh itself down and press rather comfortingly against her. Grounding her, in a way.

  Her lips curved into a smile then. Her heart need not get involved in this muddle with Matthew, she reminded herself. Someone else had an interest in her.

  And if he wrote again, she just might consider letting it take root.

  She turned to the paper at hand, still smiling, and started the note.

  Chapter Four

  He wasn’t sure he’d ever been more anxious in his entire life, and that was saying a very great deal.

  But he was also eager, encouraged, pleased, and rather relieved.

  The note from Abigail had taken him by surprise, but Matthew would be lying if he said this was not all perfectly part of his plan. He needed her to listen before anything else could happen, and he needed her to tolerate his company for longer than a few minutes.

  This was the first step, and he wished most fervently that he wouldn’t muck it up.

  He’d arrived early, as was his way, and wandered the paths of the park without any real direction, breathing in the fresh morning air and taking its solace for his strength.

  He was going to tell Abigail everything, and—if her note was to be believed—she would listen to him.

  Whether she would let it truly reach her was another question entirely, and one he was not sure he knew the answer to.

  He walked until he reached a stray stream from off the Serpentine, where, just as Abigail’s note had said, there was a large, flat rock at its edge. It was big enough for two to be seated on, and he wondered faintly if that was what she had in mind or if she intended to place him on it and then shove him into the water.

  It would not be beneath her, and there was nothing to indicate any particular tone in her note, so it could actually be entirely plausible.

  “I wasn’t sure if you would be here.”

  Matthew turned with a smile toward the sound of Abigail’s voice, pleased to see her expression fairly open and easy. She was even smiling at him!

  Well, sort of.

  It wasn’t a glower, and it wasn’t a frown, so he would consider that a victory.

  “You requested I be at this precise spot at this time, did you not?” he inquired mildly, sweeping his hands behind his back. “Why shouldn’t I have been here?”

  Abigail’s lips quirked to one side. “I wasn’t sure you’d find it.”

  He returned the almost-smile. “Your directions were very precise. It was no trouble to find it.” He looked her over with a quick, polite glance, though his eyes noted every detail from the shade of the sky captured in her dress to the way the wind caught the tendrils of her dark hair in the front where her bonnet could not protect them. “You look well.”

  “Thank you.” She inhaled deeply, then exhaled in a rush. “I don’t know, Matthew, if I can promise understanding, but I can promise you that I will try.”

  That was everything, and he didn’t bother hiding his relief, though he did take care to keep it checked. He swallowed quickly. “You are ready to hear it, then?”

  Abigail laughed very softly and squinted toward the horizon. “I don’t know that I, or anyone else, is ever fully ready or prepared to hear something of this nature. But neither can I avoid it. We were friends once, and out of respect for that friendship, I will hear what you feel you need to say.”

  He smiled with far more warmth than before. “That is more than enough. Please.” He gestured to the large rock, and she nodded, coming past him to sit upo
n it. He waited a moment, then moved to sit on the other side, turning his legs somewhat away from her, mirroring her position.

  “Let me be clear on something,” Abigail murmured in a not-quite-steady voice. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to hear anything about how we were or what might have been felt or any proclamations of any sort of feelings. Understood?”

  “Perfectly,” he agreed with a firm nod. “I hadn’t planned on doing anything of the sort, so you are quite safe there. If I venture into any tone or subject with which you are not comfortable, I give you full leave to stop me by whatever means you think necessary. Including shoving me into the stream.”

  Her perfect lips curved into a true smile, causing something wild to flutter in his chest, and she tilted her head. “I may have to consider that. Now, if you please, you may begin. Wherever you like.”

  Matthew sighed to himself and looked out across the stream to the green beyond. “I cannot say I know where to start, myself, but I suppose the beginning of it all will do well enough. In the weeks leading up to my engagement, my parents seemed to invite the Thayers over a great deal more often than usual. I felt as though I was on display the entire time. Our fathers would discuss the sort of partnership they could form if only they had the right circumstances to bring it about. If you remember, during all of that, I escaped from Chisolm quite often to see you. I’m sure you wondered why.”

  “I might have done.”

  He gnawed the inside of his lip for a moment, then released it on a rush of air. “I sensed what was happening, and I felt that you—that we—were slipping through my fingers.”

  “Matthew . . .”

  “Apologies,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m not trying to be dramatic here, but it is a statement of fact. Anyway, finally my father sat me down and told me what the expectations were, and what the advantages were, and left me with no doubt that any other option would have put the family in danger, as well as diminished any future opportunities for my siblings.”

  Abigail shifted on the rock beside him. “How could that be? The Thayers were not especially wealthy, though well enough off. Nor were they of especially high standing.”