Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Matilda could not move. The sound of the bell still reverberated through the chapel, mingling with the hush that followed his words. Every eye was on them, the abbess, the sisters, Sister Agnes hovering near the altar, but all she saw was him.
He looked nothing like the composed Duke of Harrow she had once known. His coat was damp and wrinkled, his cravat undone, his expression stripped of all the calm elegance that had once infuriated her. He looked human and broken, and she didn’t know what to feel.
Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Anger came first, bright and fierce. How dare he. How dare he come here, into this place of solemnity, after all he had said, after the humiliation she had endured.
And yet, there it was. That dangerous flicker of warmth beneath the fury. He had come for her. He had followed her.
Her voice failed her. Her lips parted but no words came. The room seemed to tilt around her. The sisters were murmuring in alarm, and the abbess stood frozen in scandalized disbelief.
“Matilda,” he said, “you deserve to know why I pushed you away, why I said the things I did.”
She looked at him with eyes that were sharp despite the tremor in her hands. “I know why. You were cruel. And afraid.”
He winced at the word. “Afraid, yes. Cruel, never by choice. I was a coward, Matilda, a fool who mistook fear for control.”
Sister Agnes made a soft, uncertain noise, but no one dared interrupt him.
He drew a slow, unsteady breath. “You know some of what my father was. But not all.”
Her brow furrowed, as confusion flickered beneath her anger. “You told me enough.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I never did. I could not. I thought that if I said it aloud, I would be him again.”
Matilda’s heartbeat quickened. “What are you saying?”
He met her gaze fully now, no longer hiding behind composure.
“He was not just cruel, Matilda. He was a monster. Every day of my childhood was a performance to please him. And when I failed, he reminded me, with words, with fists, with the weight of his silence, that I was nothing. That I existed only to carry on his name.”
The sisters gasped softly, glancing between them, but Jasper continued.
“When he died,” he went on, baring himself, “I swore that I would end his legacy. That I would never marry, never sire a son, never let another bear the Everleigh name. It was the only way I knew to punish him.”
Matilda stared at him, her anger slipping into stunned quiet.
He gave a bitter smile. “For years, that vow was my pride. My defiance. But after I met you, it became my prison. Every moment with you made that promise feel like a wound I kept opening myself.”
She whispered, “Jasper…” but her voice faltered.
He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “I thought I was protecting you from me, from my father’s blood, from his temper and his shadow. But it was you who made me realize how foolish I’ve been, how childish. My vow doesn’t punish him. It only punishes me.”
He took another breath, steadier this time. “And I have never wanted anything in my life as I want you.”
Matilda shook her head faintly, tears glinting though she fought them. “You cannot mean—”
“I do,” he said fiercely. “If you will still have me, Matilda, if you can forgive me, I would ask for your hand in marriage. Not from duty, nor guilt, nor fear. But because I love you. Because you are the only peace I have ever known.”
Silence fell again, thick and trembling.
The nuns stood transfixed, with scandal and awe mingling on their faces.
Matilda’s whole body trembled as she looked at him, at this wild, flawed, beautiful man who had laid his soul bare before her and half of heaven.
He looked at her as if she were the only soul in existence, as though the rest of the world, even heaven itself, had vanished.
But then the abbess’s voice cut through the silence, with the authority of decades behind it. “This house is for vows to God, not to one another,” she said, her tone softened only by the faintest glimmer of amusement. “If such declarations are to be made, let them be made outside, under God’s sky.”
A murmur swept through the nuns, half scandal, half delight.
Matilda turned toward the abbess, ready to apologize, but before she could form a single word, Jasper moved. He strode forward, the weight of decision in every step, and before she could protest, he swept her into his arms.
“Jasper!” she gasped, startled. “You cannot—”
“I can,” he said, his voice fierce and joyful. “And I will.”
The sisters gasped again. Some were appalled, others were smiling behind their hands as he carried her down the chapel aisle.
Outside, the sunlight broke through a bank of clouds, washing the cloister courtyard in gold.
The air was cool and clean, and the distant sound of the bell gave way to birdsong.
He stopped in the center of the courtyard and gently set her down. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Jasper dropped to one knee before her, his eyes never leaving hers.
Matilda’s breath caught. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them: the sunlight, the faint hum of wind and his voice.
“Matilda,” he said, his tone trembling with emotion, “I came here to stop you from giving up on the world. But now I find I cannot imagine one without you in it. You have seen every part of me worth despising and still, I hope, something worth forgiving.”
Her throat tightened, and she could feel tears stinging her eyes.
He took her hand gently and reverently. “You said once that love nearly ruined you. Let me prove that it can also save us both. Will you marry me, Matilda Sterlington, and make a fool like me the happiest man alive?”
She could no longer hold back the tears. They fell freely now, though her smile broke through them like sunlight through rain.
“You are impossible,” she whispered.
He grinned faintly. “So I have been told.”
She laughed softly, helplessly, and shook her head. “Yes,” she said finally, her voice trembling with disbelief and joy. “Yes, Jasper. I will marry you.”
For a heartbeat, he simply stared at her, as though afraid to trust what he’d heard. Then, with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a breathless prayer, he rose and pulled her into his arms.
The sisters, who had gathered at the chapel doors, broke into spontaneous applause. Some were clapping timidly, while others were cheering outright. Even the abbess’s lips twitched into a restrained, knowing smile.
Matilda pressed her face into Jasper’s shoulder, laughing through her tears. “You’ve caused an absolute scandal,” she murmured.
He held her tighter, spilling his voice warm and low against her ear. “Then I suppose we shall have to live with it.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Under God’s sky, then.”
“Under God’s sky,” he repeated, smiling against her forehead.
And as the sunlight bathed them both, Matilda realized that perhaps vows made here in the open air, in the presence of faith and forgiveness, were not so very different from those spoken at an altar.
But as the noise quieted, Matilda turned, her eyes finding the abbess standing in the open doorway of the chapel. Her veil stirred gently in the breeze, and the light behind her made her seem almost carved from gold and shadow.
Matilda stepped forward, untangling herself gently from Jasper’s arms. Her heart still raced, but her voice was sincere.
“Mother,” she said, dipping her head. “I owe you an apology. I did not mean to bring such disorder into your house of peace. I only—” She faltered, glancing back at Jasper, then finding the abbess’s calm gaze again. “I only meant to find quiet. And now I fear I have shattered it.”
The abbess smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held more wisdom than reproach. “You have not shattered it, child,” she said gently. “You have merely reminded us that peace and stillness are not always the same.”
Matilda blinked, startled by the kindness in her tone. “You are not angry?”
“Angry?” The abbess’s smile deepened. “No. I have lived too long to mistake love for chaos. When you first came to our gates, I looked into your eyes and saw no calling to our silence, only grief. It was clear that you sought refuge, not faith.”
Matilda’s lips trembled. “I thought if I stayed long enough, I might learn to forget.”
“And now?” the abbess asked quietly.
Matilda turned her head toward Jasper. He was watching her with that same unguarded tenderness, as if she were something sacred he dared not touch too roughly. Her heart gave a small, aching flutter.
“Now I think forgetting was never the answer,” she said softly. “Only forgiving. And perhaps, beginning again.”
The abbess nodded once, as though she had been waiting for that answer all along.
“Then it is well. You were never meant for these walls, Lady Matilda. Your spirit was too bright, too restless. I am glad this young man came when he did. God often works through the foolish courage of those who love.”
A gentle and knowing ripple of laughter passed through the nearby sisters. It almost made Matilda wonder if this hadn’t happened before.
Jasper, half-smiling, bowed slightly to the abbess. “Then I must count myself doubly blessed, madam, both foolish and courageous.”
The abbess’s eyes sparkled. “Indeed, young man. But I suspect you shall make up for your intrusion by cherishing her well.”
“I intend to,” he said, and the quiet certainty in his voice made Matilda’s heart twist.
The abbess stepped forward, resting a hand lightly on Matilda’s cheek. “Go, child. Leave this place with peace in your heart. You have found your path, and it is not here among us.”
Matilda’s eyes stung. She took the abbess’s hand in hers and pressed it to her lips. “Thank you for your kindness, and for seeing me more clearly than I saw myself.”
The abbess inclined her head. “It is not I who saw you, my dear. It was God, and He sent someone equally stubborn to bring you home.”
Jasper gave a soft, almost reverent laugh. “I shall take that as divine approval.”
The abbess chuckled lightly. “Do. But remember, love, like faith, must be tended daily, or both will fade.”
Matilda turned to Jasper, her heart swelling with gratitude, wonder, and something fierce and fragile all at once. He extended his hand to her.
And as she placed her hand in his, the abbess stepped back toward the chapel and said quietly. “Go with my blessing, my children. And may peace follow you both, though I suspect your lives will be far livelier than ours.”
The sisters laughed again, their soft applause following them as Jasper and Matilda turned toward the sunlight.
Matilda looked back one last time and met the abbess’ gaze. The old woman smiled, and in that moment, Matilda understood: peace had never been a place.
It was a person.
And she was walking beside him now.