Page 10 of More than Words Can Say

Thankfully, there was no way Sophia could know about that particular humiliation. She simply spoke in generalizations. Unflattering ones. As if Abigail would ever insinuate herself into her sister’s marriage like an awkward third wheel. She was the eldest. It was her responsibility to provide for Rosie, not the other way around.

And if Sophia patted her arm one more time . . .

Abigail smiled through gritted teeth. “I’m not selling the bakery.”

“Oh, then you’ve found a partner? Good for you.” Pat, pat, pat.

Abigail snatched her arm out of Sophia’s grip with enough force to cause the other woman’s eyes to widen in surprise. Then a sparkle of triumph flashed. Abigail bit the inside of her cheek. Drat it all. She’d let Sophia goad her into losing her temper. She knew better.

“Mercy, Abigail. Are you quite all right? Perhaps you should schedule a visit with Dr. Sellers to see about that twitch. That can’t be healthy.”

How could Sophia sound so genuinely solicitous while throwing verbal daggers? She was an artist. Too bad Abigail’s hide was her favorite canvas.

“Thank you for your concern.” Abigail took full advantage of her freedom and stepped off the boardwalk into the street. Sophia hated to soil her hems, so she’d be unlikely to follow. The mayor’s wife might know Abigail’s insecurities, but Abby knew Sophia’s foibles too and wasn’t afraid to use them to her advantage when necessary.

“Sorry I can’t stay and chat,” Abigail said as she gauged the distance between herself and the plodding farm wagon making its way toward her, “but I have an appointment. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.” Sophia’s condescending expression clearly communicated her understanding. She had Abigail on the run. And while she might be disappointed at having her fun in jabbing needles into her favorite pincushion cut short, she still derived satisfaction from displaying her dominance in a game Abigail had never been interested in playing.

Mostly because she tended to come out on the losing end.

As she crossed in front of the farm wagon and mounted the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street, Abigail fought for composure. She couldn’t afford to doubt herself. Too much depended on her success. Yet as she made her way to the Taste of Heaven Bakery, she couldn’t seem to focus on anything but doubts.

Why would any man willingly chain himself to her? Too fat, too bossy, too busy with the bakery to feather a nest. She had nothing to offer. Zacharias Hamilton had recognized the truth and all but run in the opposite direction. Could she blame him?

Abigail pushed open the back door to the bakery and nearly stumbled over her sister, who had apparently been lying in wait.

Rosalind jumped up from the chair by the kitchen workbench and set aside the issue of The Delineator she’d been perusing. She took one look at Abigail, and the hopeful smile that had started to bloom across her face withered. “He said no?”

Abigail nodded, unable to voice her failure. Then she met her sister’s gaze, and the tears she’d valiantly held at bay leaked past her defenses.

“Oh, Abby.” Rosalind was at her side in an instant, wrapping her arms around her. “Men can be such dunderheads.”

A giggle broke through Abigail’s tears. Leave it to Rosie to find the right thing to say.

Abigail sniffed and wiped her cheeks even as a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “It wasn’t as bad as all that,” she insisted as she pulled back from her sister’s embrace.

She did take Rosie’s hand, though, and held it tight. She might be the eldest, but Rosie was the strongest. No inner demons to weaken her spirit. Just an anchor of loyalty and support.

“Mr. Hamilton was kind. He didn’t laugh or anything.” Abigail took some measure of comfort in the fact that she’d managed to hold on to her dignity throughout the entire ordeal. It could have gone much worse. “I’m sure my pulling a proposal out of thin air stunned him. I’ll try to refine my presentation before I visit Mr. Beekman. Of course, running into Sophia afterward didn’t help matters.”

Rosalind squeezed Abigail’s hand, a fierce light in her eyes. “What did that shrew say to you? No. Don’t tell me. I’m sure it’s not worth repeating. Whatever she said was nonsense. You will ignore it.”

Abigail grinned. “I love you, Rosie.”

“I love you too, and whichever man is lucky enough to marry you will love you as well. He won’t be able to help himself.”

Well, that was probably taking things a bit too far, but Abigail appreciated the sentiment. Heaven knew her fragile ego could use a bit of shoring up before she tried to barter herself to the next man on her list.

“Now, I want you to go upstairs,” Rosalind ordered, “fix yourself a cup of tea, and pamper yourself for at least thirty minutes. Read over that contract again. Remind yourself of all you have to offer. Then list at least ten things you offer that are not in that document. I’ll even give you three to start with: you’re smart, hard-working, and sweeter than the day is long. You’re a catch, Abigail Kemp. But you have to believe it yourself before anyone else will. So take some time to get in the proper frame of mind.”

Rosalind was the true catch, as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. If only Abby could mimic her confidence and self-assurance. But outside the kitchen, those commodities proved incredibly slippery. Even now, she found herself shaking her head and taking refuge in what she knew she was good at—work.

“As lovely as your advice is, Rosie, I don’t have time to sip tea and make lists. I need to deliver the widow bread, then pay my call on Mr. Beekman. If I delay, he might be sitting down to supper when I arrive, and no man appreciates having his supper interrupted.”

Rosalind didn’t usually demand her way, but her expression took on a decidedly mulish cast as she strode to the basket that held the day-old loaves they donated each evening to a family in need. “I’ll take the bread,” she insisted, fitting the basket handle to the crook of her elbow. “You”—she pointed to the stairs—“sip tea and clean the mental slate. Mr. Beekman’s boardinghouse doesn’t serve supper until six. You’ve got time.”

Abigail surrendered with a shake of her head. “All right, all right. I’ll take a few minutes to regroup.” It wouldn’t hurt to go over her persuasive tactics again anyway, seeing as how she’d fumbled the delivery with Mr. Hamilton. Although the distracting flutters that beset her whenever she was in his presence were probably more to blame than her arguments. Since Mr. Beekman’s presence was blessedly flutter-free, conversing with him should be less prone to disaster.