CHAPTER 67

YOU HELD YOUR GROUND...

The Vandell gardens were at their peak in early spring, a riot of roses and lilies framed by carefully pruned hedges. The family estate had been chosen to host a luncheon for a select circle of aristocratic women an event that, on the surface, appeared to be a simple gathering of elegance, but in truth, was as much about power as it was about leisure.

Kate Vandell had orchestrated the luncheon with her usual precision. Invitations had been sent only to those whose names carried weight. Nothing in the event was left to chance, not the seating, not the menu, not even the order of conversation. And now, as the guests began to arrive, Kate watched them with the poised gaze of a queen surveying her court.

Among the guests, Abigail stood out. Not because of flamboyance, but because of her restraint. She wore a soft ivory dress, simple yet graceful, her dark hair pinned neatly back, a touch of pearl at her ears. She moved with careful steps, offering greetings where needed, never too forward, never too hesitant.

Kate observed her from a distance, her expression unreadable. She had not told Abigail this luncheon would be a test, but in truth, every detail had been designed as one.

The guests were women with sharp tongues and sharper minds. Some admired Abigail for her boldness at the gala; others resented her for it. They whispered behind their fans, ready to measure her worth.

Kate raised her glass lightly, her signal for the luncheon to begin. The women took their seats at the long table set beneath a pergola woven with wisteria. The air carried the faint sweetness of flowers, mingled with the polished aroma of wine.

Abigail found herself seated three places down from Kate, beside Lady Helena Cruz, a distant cousin of the influential Lois Cruz family. Helena was older, her face lined with age but her eyes keen. She greeted Abigail with a small nod, neither cold nor warm—merely watchful.

As the meal unfolded, the conversations began. At first, they were polite, full of compliments on the gardens, the weather, the menu. But soon, as always, the undercurrents surfaced.

“So,” Lady Marianne drawled, her voice laced with curiosity disguised as sweetness, “Abigail… I hear you’ve been quite… spirited at recent gatherings. Not afraid to put people in their place, hmm?”

A few chuckles rippled down the table. Some glanced at Obetta’s empty seat, for though she had not been invited, her absence was as loud as her presence.

Abigail smiled faintly, her hands folded around her wineglass. “I believe in standing when necessary. Silence is not always the right answer.”

Marianne arched a brow. “And yet, sometimes silence spares one from embarrassment.”

The words were subtle, but the meaning was not. A few women exchanged looks, waiting for Abigail to falter.

But she did not. She inclined her head slightly, her voice calm. “That may be true. But silence also allows falsehoods to thrive. I prefer truth, even if it makes the air uncomfortable for a moment.”

Helena Cruz gave the faintest smile, almost imperceptible, but Kate noticed. The matriarch’s eyes flicked between them, watching Abigail’s composure.

Lady Celeste chimed in next, her tone sharp. “Truth is admirable, but one must know one’s place. Not all truths should be spoken by everyone.”

Abigail’s fingers brushed the rim of her glass, but she did not flinch. “And yet,” she said softly, “those who claim the right to truth often forget they were once untested themselves. Everyone begins as an outsider until they prove their place.”

A silence settled for a moment. It was not a silence of dismissal, but of surprise. A few women glanced at Kate, curious to see her reaction, but the matriarch gave none.

The conversation shifted, flowing into matters of estates, trade, and family ties. But time and again, the barbs returned to Abigail. Questions were asked in tones too sweet to be innocent, remarks delivered with a smile too sharp to be genuine.

“How does one manage to hold Luke’s interest?” Celeste prodded at one point, her words dripping with implication.

Abigail, her lips curving just slightly, replied, “Perhaps by not trying to hold it, but by walking beside it.”

A murmur ran through the table. Some smirked. Others frowned. Helena Cruz, however, gave a small approving nod.

Kate, from her seat at the head, sipped her wine. Her gaze remained cool, but inwardly, she noted every detail—the steadiness in Abigail’s voice, the absence of fluster, the way she redirected each attack without losing grace.

It was not perfection. Abigail was still young in these circles, her pauses sometimes revealing thought before speech, her answers cautious at times. But caution was not weakness. It was patience, and patience in this world was a weapon.

As the main course cleared, Kate shifted the conversation herself. “Tell me, ladies,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying authority, “what do you think separates strength from folly?”

The women leaned in, eager to impress her with their answers.

“Strength is dominance,” Marianne said quickly. “The ability to make others bend.”

“Strength is wealth,” Celeste added, her bracelets jingling as she gestured. “The kind that silences critics without words.”

“Strength is endurance,” Helena Cruz said quietly. “The kind that survives storms and is still standing when the noise has passed.”

Kate’s gaze slid toward Abigail. “And you? What say you, Abigail?”

The table fell silent, all eyes turning to her. Abigail inhaled slowly, her hands folded neatly before her.

“Strength,” she said after a pause, “is knowing when to speak and when to listen. It is not dominance for its own sake, nor silence out of fear. It is the balance between the two—the ability to endure without losing one’s self, and to act without being reckless.”

A hush followed. Even Marianne and Celeste, so eager to find fault, had no immediate retort.

Kate held Abigail’s gaze for a long moment. Her face revealed nothing, but inside, she felt the faint stirrings of something she rarely allowed herself: respect.

The luncheon wound down, desserts and coffee replacing the heavier courses. Conversations lightened, though the tension lingered beneath the surface.

When the guests finally departed, Kate remained in the garden, the fading sun casting long shadows across the marble paths. Abigail approached her quietly, offering a polite curtsy.

“Thank you for including me, Mother Vandell,” she said softly.

Kate studied her. “You held your ground.”

Abigail dipped her head modestly. “I did what was necessary.”

Kate tilted her head, her eyes sharp. “Necessary is a word used by survivors, not by those who play at power. Perhaps you are learning.”

Abigail met her gaze evenly. “I hope so.”

Kate allowed herself the faintest curve of her lips—too slight to be called a smile, but enough to reveal the edge of approval. She turned away then, dismissing Abigail with a graceful flick of her hand.

But when Abigail walked back toward the house, Kate’s eyes lingered. She thought of Obetta’s whining, of Carmen’s games, of the countless women who had tried and failed to carve a place in this family. None had stood with such quiet conviction.

Kate would not admit it, not even to Luke. But today had confirmed what she had begun to suspect: Abigail was no longer merely an outsider struggling to belong.

She was a woman who might, in time, shape the family’s future.

And that realization unsettling reflections and her next subtle “trial” for Abigail?