CH 44

In my distracted state of mind, I almost neglected to see Abigail leaving the market with her three children in tow. I offered to carry their bags for the duration of the time we were headed in the same direction, but Abigail declined. Her children, however, could not hand me their bags fast enough.

"Shall I walk to your home first tonight or would you rather meet me there?" I asked.

Abigail lifted a brow. "To my home? For what?" she asked.

My lips parted. "I–I–thought–"

Abigail chuckled to herself. "Phelan, do you honestly think I forgot? I have the address for your cousin's home on two dozen tickets in my shop. I can meet you there or ring the bell at your apartment and we can walk together."

"I understand you have the tickets, but do you know where any of them are located?" I asked, raising a brow.

It was Abigail's turn to gawk at me before she grinned and shook her head. "I suppose I deserve that."

"I would prefer meeting at your doorstep. No proper gentleman would allow a lady to walk by herself."

From behind us, a male voice bellowed, "Do you think for a moment I'd allow my sister to walk alone at night in this dreadful city?"

I stopped in my tracks at her brother's words and slowly turned to face him, having completely forgotten he was visiting from out of town.

I'd only caught a glimpse of Abigail's brother in the smoke-filled tavern with little more than votives to illuminate the tables. What struck me about him immediately was his oversized mustache, like a bristle brush affixed to his face beneath his bulbous nose.

"Howard, this is one of my clients and friends, Phelan Kimmer," Abigail said. "And Phelan, this is my brother Howard Kent."

Praise God his name isn't Howard Sowards, I thought to myself, amused by the notion.

"What are you grinning about?" her brother snapped.

"Nothing," I said, "aside from that it is quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Howard sneered at me. "A pleasure indeed. I've met plenty of men like you."

"Like me? I assume you mean art professors with macaws? How fascinating. I thought I was the only one."

Abigail pursed her lips and turned away, fussing with her oldest son's collar so that her brother didn't see her smiling.

"A rake," Howard angrily responded. "Plain and simple, you are little more than a treacherous man looking for one thing."

"Brother, please, not in front of my children," Abigail insisted.

Howard straightened his tie, his face a livid shade of red. "Be at my sister's home ten minutes early so we may speak. If I determine you are satisfactory for my sister, we will discuss the curfew. Is that understood?"

As much as his words annoyed me, I still nodded in agreement and bent forward, feeling Elvira display the same polite gesture. Living with a drunk for my most impressionable years had made me quite good at appearing compliant when I didn't have the energy to be combative.

"I will see you at five-fifteen," I said, meeting Abigail's eye before I proceeded to hand all of the market bags to Howard. "I look forward to speaking with you tonight."

"I doubt you will when we are face-to-face," Howard said before he stormed off, ordering Abigail and her children to follow him like a general leading his troops into battle.

"Good day to you, Howard and Sowards," I said, unable to help myself.

As expected, Howard turned and scowled at me while Abigail looked over her shoulder and grinned before her brother led her away.

OoO

Three hours of my Sunday were dedicated to preparing for the week ahead in the university studio, an hour of which was mostly procrastinating as I detested written assignments with quite spirited passion. Fully aware that I did myself no favors and merely dragged out the process, I still made no attempt to proceed.

It was almost four when I finished reading through eighteen one-page essays, proofread the assignments for the week ahead, and organized my binder of lessons. I placed everything into my satchel and set it on the table by the door for the following morning. With everything in order, I enjoyed a peaceful cup of coffee while Elvira napped on the back of my chair.

By four-thirty, I was freshened up, dressed and out the door to escort Abigail to my cousin's home.

Howard Kent was waiting for me in the shop when I arrived, furiously tossing bolts of fabric into a bin. I walked in, bell above the door announcing my arrival.

"Good evening, Monsieur Kent," I said.

He appeared quite annoyed by my greeting. "I will not waste a moment of your time, Monsieur Kimmer. What are your intentions with my sister?"

"Merely an evening of playing cards at my cousin's home on Fayette," I answered. "A gathering of friends."

"And how late do you intend to keep my sister out?"

Well into the night, until I've thoroughly ravaged her like some insatiably wicked beast, I thought to myself.

"Normally I am asleep by eight, so I would think I'd return Abigail safely to her apartment no later than eight-thirty as I have an appointment at five tomorrow morning."

Howard narrowed his eyes. "What sort of dealings do you have at such an hour?"

Smuggling goods across the Seine and murder, of course. Bodies dumped left and right into the river. It's truly the only satisfying end to a night after womanizing half the city.

"Maintaining my physical strength in the university gymnasium," I answered.

"I admire a man who takes his physique seriously," he said. "Sound of mind and body are important qualities."

Howard tossed two more larger bolts of fabric into the bin and pulled others off the racks against the walls.

"What are you doing with all of Abigail's fabric?" I asked.

"Putting it out with the rest of the refuse," he answered. "This place is an utter disaster, just like Clarence."

I furrowed my brow. "Is your sister aware that you are tossing out the very tools of her trade?"

"She won't miss any of this clutter," he assured me.

"With all due respect, Monsieur Kent, I do not believe it is for you to decide what is of use in her shop."

"As her brother, it is my decision far more than yours," he snapped.

"Perhaps, but you should still take into consideration that we have been in the process of reorganizing the shop. I'm afraid you're ruining our system."

"We? Our? What madness do you speak of?"

"The fabric arranged by groups of colors first and then patterns. I've put quite a lot of effort into keeping the bolts tidy."

"You? You've done this?"

I nodded. "A bit of a difficult undertaking for a widow raising three children. I offered my services and your sister accepted."

"In exchange for what?"

I took a breath, held it, and exhaled in an attempt to keep my annoyance manageable and dry replies nothing more than thoughts in my head. "I do not expect anything in return from your sister," I assured him.

Before Howard could continue his interrogation, the door to the upstairs apartment opened and a few moments later Abigail appeared in a plain pearl white blouse and lilac patterned skirt.

"Howard," she sighed, "I must insist that you cease meddling with my shop."

"You should be embarrassed by the state of this…" He gestured around wildly. "This pigsty, Abigail. You may as well cover the floors in mud."

"Do not insult my shop," she warned. "Why don't you visit with the children instead of tearing about my business?"

Howard's nostrils flared. "I think I am better off here, making certain you do not return at the end of the night with a fourth child in your womb."

"You will not speak to me in that manner," Abigail said through her teeth.

"I will speak to you as I wish."

"You can speak to the wall then."

Abigail turned on her heel and marched toward the door, leaving me momentarily face-to-face with Howard.

"Return her no later than eight, is that understood?" Howard said to me.

"I understand, but I cannot guarantee she will be through this door again by eight," I replied.

"I said–"

"I heard you perfectly the first time, however, I shall leave the decision to your sister. Good evening, Monsieur Kent."

Abigail was fuming by the time I stepped onto the street. She glared at me, but didn't speak, and I hesitated to offer my arm.

"He is impossible," she grumbled under her breath. "I haven't seen Howard in at least five years and he struts into my life like a gamecock and criticizes my shop and my home. And then he orders me about as though I am chained to him and unable to provide for myself. He treats me like I am a wayward child in need of his guidance, wandering aimlessly, unable to possibly make a decision."

I simply nodded in agreement, realizing that even if I wished to speak, Abigail was barely taking a breath between her sentences.

"How dare he come here under false pretenses, claiming he has missed me and the children. He says that he has no desire for Clarence to grow up not knowing his own uncle while at the same time acting as though he is my father and not my younger brother. And of course he simply had to make certain that Genevieve and Reginald were being properly raised and to his standards. His standards! Oh! Do you know how many children Howard has to compare to my children? He has none. He isn't able to father children, and he remains unmarried, little more than a rogue with far too much time on his hands to meddle in my affairs."

I inhaled and nodded again.

"Why are you nodding?" she snapped impatiently.

"Forgive me for not disagreeing with you."

Abigail exhaled, snorting like a horse. "I am tired of men telling me what to do."

I turned and looked at Abigail, my brow furrowed. "Have I somehow found myself in that category?"

"No," she replied. "No, you are not a man who has ever told me what to do. In fact, you are a man who never tells me anything at all."

I removed my arm from hers and came to an abrupt pause, feeling quite insulted by her accusations. "I see."

Abigail whirled around to face me, her lips parted in shock at her own words. "That was rude of me," she admitted. "And completely unwarranted. Phelan, I did not mean to speak harshly to you. It's just that Howard has put me in such a mood today and I feel the need to be combative."

"The two of you seemed to be enjoying yourselves at Sterois the other night when I saw you," I said.

Abigail lightly placed her hand on my elbow, but I didn't offer my arm to her.

"Yes, we certainly did."

"What happened?"

"That was his first day visiting," she said. "Every time Howard has come to see me, he always starts out on the right foot, showering his niece and nephews with books and candies. They love all of the gifts he brings to them and I admit it's nice to have another adult in the house again.

"And then on the second and third day he starts asking them to visit him in Vancouver for the summer where they can ride horses and journey into the wilderness to see mountains and waterfalls. He makes it sound as though he is a magician fulfilling wishes, granting their every desire in ways that I cannot."

"And they want to go with their uncle rather than stay with you?"

Abigail frowned. "They would never return to France if that were an option. Especially Reginald. He wants to be a man of the world and carry a rifle slung over his shoulder, taking down bears and moose with his beloved uncle. Who would ever want to stay in a tiny little apartment above our cluttered little shop when there is wilderness to explore? When your uncle that you haven't seen in five years promises he will show you how to take down a moose?"

"A moose? They have moose in Canada?"

"Apparently so and Howard is going to teach my children how to mount antlers on the wall."

"I don't suppose he will allow the son or daughter I put into your womb this evening to accompany his other niece and nephews in a few years?"

Abigail shot me a significant look. "There will be none of that."

I chuckled at her response. "I am well aware and not asking for you to share anything more than a game of cards this evening and perhaps a plate of fruit and cheese."

Again she placed her hand on my elbows and I lifted my arm to support hers, feeling her fingers against mine.

"Howard would be livid if he knew about...your previous visits," she said under her breath.

"Are you certain he does not?"

Abigail scoffed. "Yesterday morning Howard accused me of having an affair with Jacque Yerkes," she said.

"Should I know who that is?"

"He's always at the park."

"There are quite a few parks," I pointed out.

"The one with the pond and the ducks."

"You must think there is only one pond with ducks in all of Paris," I commented.

"The one on the other side of the market," she said impatiently. "He's always there with a bag of crumbs. You'd know him if you saw him."

"Would I?"

"Yes. Everything that man owns is in a shade of brown."

"I see. Sounds sensible."

Abigail gave me a sideways look. "He appears to be at least a hundred years old," she said. "And there's more hair growing out of his ears and nose than there is on his head."

"Ah, I understand now."

"Good."

"You sound bewitched by his appearance."

"Phelan!"

"I do believe if you are interested, Monsieur Yerkes would propose. I will speak to him if you'd like."

Try as she might, Abigail was unable to scowl at me. "I may retch on the street thinking of that proposal."

"Howard would be over the moon for you to find a suitable spouse."

"I'll send him over the moon and straight back to Vancouver."

"And onto the back of a moose, no doubt."

Abigail genuinely laughed at our exchange, and as we approached my cousin's home, she leaned closer into me and I smiled to myself, appreciating her company.

oOo

"Uncle Phelan!" Elizabeth squealed when she opened the door and saw me on the doorstep. She was dressed in white, including the ribbons in her hair, appearing quite like an angel. "You're really here! And you brought me flowers!"

I had nothing in my hand, and turned my head to the side, assuming she had practiced her dramatic response for the moment she saw me.

"Oh," she said, shoulders slumping in great disappointment. "It's just you and a guest."

"Madame Abigail Soward," I said. "You've undoubtedly met her a few times with your mother."

My niece gasped. "The seamstress? You look different this evening."

Abigail chuckled at Elizabeth's reaction. "I should hope so. I've dressed for a party, not sewing."

Elizabeth dipped into a curtsy. "Good evening, Madame."

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Kimmer. It is lovely to see you again. That dress suits you very well."

Elizabeth grinned back at Abigail and twirled around. "It's my favorite."

"Elizabeth?" Carmen called from another room in their home. "Who is at the door?"

"It's Uncle Phelan and our seamstress."

Abigail and I exchanged looks of amusement before Carmen appeared in the foyer. My sister-in-law eyed me with a slightly elevated level of warmth that had been missing for many years.

"Joshua said you would be here tonight," Carmen said, her tone giving little indication of whether she was pleased or disappointed to see me in her home. "You may come inside. No need to linger on the steps."

Abigail reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of wine once we were both inside. "For the gracious hostess," she offered.

Carmen immediately lit up when she accepted Abigail's token of gratitude. "You are too thoughtful, Madame Soward."

"I had a bit of assistance in the matter." Abigail turned to me and smiled. "Phelan advised me that you enjoy a good grenache."

Carmen looked at Abigail and I with astonishment. "Joshua never brings home the kind I prefer. This is an exceptional gift. Please, come into the parlor and make yourselves comfortable."

"Grenache?" I whispered to Abigail while Carmen took the wine into the kitchen.

Vaguely I recalled Carmen talking about a particular vineyard in Spain known for their wine, but it had been many years since Carmen had said much of anything to me, least of all about wine.

"Poor Carmen relayed her wine woes to me on several occasions while browsing through the catalogs," she explained. "If I can remember Madame Kimmer's wine preference, your cousin surely can as well."

"Too bad he isn't here for you to tell him yourself," I said as I looked around the empty parlor.

Elizabeth popped into the room.

"Where is your father?" I asked.

Elizabeth shrugged. "He said he had to go into the office."

"On a Sunday evening?"

Again, my darling niece shrugged. "He goes into the office frequently on Sundays before game night. He always returns looking as though he's run across town and back again."

Perhaps that was the reason Valgarde had been so intolerable in recent weeks. I wondered if he had been overworking himself at the bank.

"Eliza!" Carmen called. "Where are you, my child?"

"I'm with Uncle Phelan and the seamstress," Elizabeth shouted back.

"Quit bothering our guests and help me before the other guests arrive."

Elizabeth frowned. "I'm not bothering you, am I?"

"No, but you had better do as your mother asks," I said.

With a hmph, Elizabeth whirled around and stomped her way back to the kitchen, leaving Abigail and I in the parlor by the stained glass window that overlooked the gated courtyard.

"Are we terribly early?" Abigail whispered.

"Not that I am aware of," I answered, glancing at the clock across the room. "However, I assumed being here early was preferred as Monsieur Kent made it very clear I needed to deposit you at the door of your shop by eight."

"Deposit me," Abigail muttered. "That man, assuming I will abide by his curfew. I have three children and run a business on my own."

I sat forward in my chair and narrowed my eyes. "True, but I don't believe I've ever seen you after dark. Perhaps you turn into a mouse or something and Howard Kent, saint that he is, merely wishes to protect you from such embarrassment or me from the horror of witnessing your transformation into a rodent."

Elizabeth returned a moment later with a plate of various cheeses, which she set on the buffet table.

"Are you tempted by the cheese?" I whispered.

Abigail immediately swatted at me, but smiled and shook her head. "A mouse indeed."

"Like the Perrault fairytale," I said. "Cendrillion."

"I was referring to the Brothers Grimm retelling."

I smiled tightly. "You refer to the Germans, I shall stand beside my fellow Frenchman."

"Regardless, you have forgotten the story entirely if you think Cinderella turned into a mouse."

Elizabeth appeared a moment later with various breads and hard meats, which she placed beside the cheese. "Are you discussing fairytales?" she asked.

"Are you eavesdropping on our conversation, Elizabeth Elaine?" I sternly questioned.

"Not intentionally." She paused and regarded the two of us. "You could talk about literally anything, yet you discuss fairytales?"

"It's what adults do," I assured my beloved niece.

"Next we are discussing finance if you'd care to offer your input."

Elizabeth sighed in despair before returning to the kitchen, dragging her feet like a petulant child.

"What on earth does that poor girl think adults talk about?" Abigail questioned.

"I haven't the slightest idea, but please tell me you aren't honestly expecting a discussion on finances," I said.

Abigail folded her hands in her lap and inhaled. "I do seem to be having an issue with balancing the books for the month of January."

"What sort of balancing issue?" I asked.

"Nothing that needs to be discussed at a party. Howard will sort it out for me in the morning."

I lifted a brow. "We are the only guests thus far. Hardly an enthralling party."

"Does the artist wish to discuss an unbalanced ledger?"

I would have rather walked off a bridge and into the Seine with a rock chained to my ankle, but given that there was no one else in attendance and I hadn't taken a moment to compile a list of topics to discuss should we be the only people in the parlor, numbers were at least familiar territory.

"By all means, explain what has happened."

Abigail explained in great detail–most of which had nothing to do with the ledger–that the balance was off by thirty-six francs and fifty centims, showing she had lost income in the month of January. In her dizzying fashion of storytelling, she also manage to tell me about all of the gifts she received over the holidays, including a shipment of buttons from Ireland in different Celtic knots, some of which she had used on the new coat she made for Ink.

"I can certainly take a look if you'd like," I offered once she stopped speaking.

"Perhaps you are better at math than me," she replied.

I paused and looked Abigail over, realizing that I'd never discussed any part of my life with her, including the miserable years I'd been employed at a bank, hunched over ledgers for hours looking for minuscule mistakes of seven francs here or there when the total of an account was hundreds of thousands of francs.

"I'm not at all implying that I am better at mathematics than you," I said, "but I've had quite a bit of practice."

"Is there math involved in art?"

I couldn't tell if she was speaking lightly, and as we sat together in my cousin's home, me beside this lovely woman whose bed I had occupied on multiple occasions for a number of years, I felt increasingly uncomfortable in how little I had told her of myself.

"I…" I looked away from her and swallowed. "I worked in a bank for a number of years prior to my employment at the university."

Abigail placed her hand over mine, securing me to the armrest and I turned my head toward her. She smiled back at me.

"For safekeeping," she said, nodding at my hand beneath hers.

I hadn't moved my arm, but appreciated her intuitive gesture.

"Which bank were you employed by?" Abigail asked.

"This is suitable conversation for naps, I'm afraid, and I would not wish to bore you with such dull topics."

Abigail inhaled. "Nord Mutual," she guessed. "The branch on Rue de Canal. And you were there for twenty years."

"I either look terrible for my thirties or outstanding for a man in his fifties."

"Well, Monsieur Kimmer, if you have no intention of telling me about your occupation at the bank, then I shall make up my own details. What shall it be?"

"I started when I was twenty-three," I answered. "And I left for the university shortly after my twenty-eight birthday. Society General, the one on Defense."

Abigail wrinkled her nose. "The drab building with no windows?"

"There were windows, but I admit it looked and felt like walking into a prison."

The jail had better lighting, but I decided not to mention that as I had no desire for a conversation regarding how I knew the abundance of natural lighting of the city's jails.

"What made you decide to work at a bank?" Abigail asked.

"My cousin had been employed there from the age of eighteen."

"And you wanted to work with him?"

Her question made me chuckle to myself. "Not quite. Val said there was an opening and I was not employed at the time, so he suggested quite firmly that I come work for him."

"For him? He was in charge of the bank?"

"Not the whole bank. Val was running one of the departments at the time. I was hired as a courier between branches."

Despite no access to funds or accounts, Society General probably would not have hired me without Val's recommendation, and I assumed he promised to keep an eye on my every move should I suddenly decide to become a thief and empty the vaults on my first day.

"A courier?"

"Six months of riding around on one of those Lallement pedal contraptions," I replied. "Or rather, attempting not to collide with carriages, wagons, and pedestrians while carrying important documents in satchels strapped to both sides of the rear wheel."

Abigail absently stroked her fingers down the length of my hand. "Phelan Kimmer riding around Paris on a pedal bicycle?"

"I think I would have preferred a horse or one of the bicycles powered by my own two legs rather than the pedals. They were difficult to steer."

I hadn't thought of those days in quite some time, of how ridiculous I'd felt clutching the handlebars that seemed far too small to properly control such enormous wheels. The seat was terribly uncomfortable and I felt every bump or dip in the road.

"What happened after six months?" Abigail asked.

"One of the bankers caught a fever and died quite suddenly, and Val was asked to find his replacement.

"How terrible."

I nodded in agreement. "Rather than hire someone outside of Society General, I was offered the position as well as quite significant compensation. A few months later, I was sitting in on meetings with investors and prominent account holders and spending the rest of my time going line by line in ledgers until I thought for certain my eyeballs would detach from my skull and roll across the desk."

Abigail made a face. "Quite a lovely thought."

"My apologies if I have been overly descriptive, but after seven hours of looking over books filled with numbers, I am positive you would feel the same."

"It does sound dull," Abigail admitted.

A single word gave me pause. I would have most certainly pressed my fingers into my arm if Abigail hadn't kept her hand over mine.

"My apologies for boring you," I muttered as I planted my feet on the floor, preparing to indulge in the food Elizabeth had set out.

"Not you," Abigail said quickly. "I meant the task of sitting at a desk for hours on end without a paintbrush in your hand or graphite pencils and a sketchbook. That must have been torture for an artist to spend his day with numbers instead of images coming to life on a canvas."

I felt myself ease back into the chair. "Thankfully I survived mostly unscathed."

The tips of Abigail's fingers gently caressed the spaces between each of mine, and I turned my hand over, palm up. Her index finger ran the length of my palm, tracing along one of the creases. Immediately I felt a zip of pleasure ricochet through my insides, a sensation that was familiar while at the same time different than anything I'd previously experienced.

Mossy green eyes blinked at me, cheeks flushed with the pink of blushing roses. Abigail offered a close-lipped smile and I did the same, the two of us staring at one another like shy school children whose hands had accidentally touched in the school hall.

"How did you become an art professor at the university?" Abigail asked.

Our fingers entwined, the heat of her palm resting against mine. There was something serene about the interaction, simple and still profound.

"My mentor, Hugo Duarte, was set to retire and recommended me to replace him," I answered. "It took a lot of convincing on his part for the dean to consider me as I had no prior experience, but after a half-dozen meetings with the university board and the head of the art department, I was offered the position and accepted the job at once."

"You must have been elated to leave Society General," Abigail commented.

"I was," I admitted, "up until I had to submit my resignation to Valgarde."

"Surely he was pleased for you to be employed in art."

I inhaled and forced a smile, recalling the heated exchange and how thoroughly Val expressed his disappointment in me accepting a position that decreased my income. He had told me I was a fool, that I would fail and come crawling back to him, begging for my job at the bank. He said my art wasn't good enough, repeatedly telling me that his words weren't meant as an insult, but as the hard and difficult truth.

You finally had your life together and now you are throwing it away again. Do not ever ask for my help again, do you hear me, Phelan?"

I didn't ask for your help the first time, Val. You practically threatened me into accepting.

My apologies for attempting to steer your life in the right direction. God knows you could not navigate it on your own.

We didn't talk for months after I resigned from the bank, and although part of me did miss his company, I also found his absence in my life a welcomed relief.

"He had a difficult time finding a suitable replacement for my position at the bank," I replied.

Abigail looked as though she wished to say something else, but reconsidered. "And now you are teaching art and sharing your work with all of Paris at the gallery."

"A very small fraction of Paris," I said. "I doubt more than a few hundred people have seen my paintings."

"A few hundred this time," Abigail said. "And then the next show, perhaps a few thousand until there are lines of people eagerly waiting to see what Phelan Kimmer has on display next."

"Perhaps I shall dismiss my broker and hire you instead," I said lightly.

We both chuckled to ourselves and simultaneously looked down at our joined hands. We were familiar with one another in the most intimate of fashions, but in one remarkable moment, it felt as though I knew Abigail in a way that was in the furthest reaches of uncharted territory. I had kissed her passionately, unbuttoned and unlaced her clothing and tossed them aside until we stood in each other's arms, flesh to flesh, and yet none of those moments felt as satisfying as it did to sit beside her and hold a conversation.

"I am overjoyed for you, Phelan, truly elated that you have sold some of your work." Abigail fixed her hair with her free hand and smiled at me.

Our eyes locked. If I had leaned forward, I was certain she would have allowed me to kiss her gently, the first spark of heat to start the slow boil into undeniable passion. Perhaps I could have whispered in her ear that I would like to take her back to my apartment and we would find ourselves tangled in the sheets giving in to our primal needs.

"What would you be doing if you didn't own the shop?" I asked instead, desiring to know her mind more than her body

Abigail looked away, her eyes narrowed in thought. "I would very much prefer being the wife of a foreign dignitary who spends all of his time traveling to different countries while I maintain the house and enjoy gourmet meals with our children."

"That was a much more thorough explanation than I expected."

"A woman raising three children alone while attempting to make the ends meet has fantasies," she replied. "Ones involving someone else doing all of the cooking and the majority of the cleaning." She smiled at me in devilish fashion. "Perhaps I could be your broker in exchange for your services of organizing."

"You know I would absolutely do that for no compensation whatsoever," I assured her.

Abigail squeezed my hand. "And this, Monsieur Kimmer, is why you are in need of a broker so that you do not give your valuable talent away."

"I'm afraid I already have," I said, sitting back.

"Oh?"

"The sets for the Opera Populaire," I replied. "My students were asked to help paint when the opera's set designers walked out, but they didn't have enough time to complete the task, so I was on my hands and knees alongside them."

"You should send them a bill," Abigail playfully suggested. "And threaten them with a letter from your lawyer."

I lifted a brow. "A lawyer indeed." I paused, looking Abigail over, amused by her words. "I actually do have compensation, but it wasn't monetary in nature and not directly from the theater."

"What did you receive?"

"I have tickets to opening night, courtesy of one of their top patrons."

Abigail's eyes widened. "Opening night?"

"Rear orchestra," I replied.

"That's wonderful."

"Would you like to attend?" I blurted out.

Abigail silently stared at me, her lips parted. "A night at the opera?" she questioned.

"If you do not have commitments that evening," I said, quickly adding, "I will not be offended if you are otherwise engaged for the night."

My feelings were quite the opposite of my words as I wanted nothing more than for Abigail to agree to a night at the theater.

With our hands still entwined, Abigail smiled at me. "I would absolutely love to attend the opera with you, Phelan," she answered. "It's been ages since I've been to the theater."

"And I would be honored as well as delighted to have you as my guest," I replied.

Before Abigail could say another word, Elizabeth shot through the door at the end of the hall separating the kitchen from the parlor. She stared wide-eyed at me, her lips upturned in a peculiar smile.

"Uncle Phelan!" she exclaimed. "A word, please. Madame Seamstress, if you wouldn't mind me borrowing my uncle."

"Of course not," Abigail replied.

I sighed and excused myself, walking down the hall where Elizabeth held the door open. It swung closed behind me and she motioned me into the darkened pantry.

"What on earth are you doing?" I scolded.

Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and wriggled with uncontainable excitement.

"Have you gone mad?" I questioned.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Uncle Phelan," she whispered, "I do believe the seamstress fancies you."

My heart truly stuttered, and I smiled to myself before clearing my throat. "A belief I trust you will keep to yourself."

Rather than disappointing my niece, my words seemed to overjoy her. "A secret romance. How very lovely, Uncle Phelan." She threw her arms around me, then stepped back and straightened my overcoat. "Like the plot of the greatest opera ever written. I shall die of joy for you."

Before I could say a word, she turned on her heel and marched back to the kitchen, leaving me quite dumbfounded over her observation.

"That girl," I said under my breath, shaking my head.

The shake of my head was not enough to dislodge the thought that perhaps Elizabeth had noticed something that seemed wholly impossible and quite terrifying: the gate that I had kept guarded for as long as I could recall, locked and barricaded to preserve myself, had creaked open.

Once I returned to the parlor, I knew the gate would be kept open and there would be no keeping Abigail out. Physically I had allowed her in close proximity, but that no longer felt like enough.

"May I bring you something from the table?" I asked once I returned.

Abigail chuckled to herself. "Cheese, I suppose. And don't you dare call me a-"

"As you wish, my little mouse," I teased, watching her from the corner of my eye.

She shook her head at me and I felt the gate within me swing open, allowing her the opportunity to step closer than anyone else had in decades.