Chapter 12
The carriage rumbled gently over uneven ground, wheels crunching against gravel as the sun was high in the sky.
Abigail clutched Jasper's hand in her lap, smiling softly as she gazed out at the landscape.
They were nearing the coast—he had hinted at it, hadn't he?
That they would walk by the sea, perhaps even wade into the tide like children.
She had pictured sun-dappled waves, windswept cliffs, and long days wrapped in his arms.
He had been so loving last night. Sweet. Attentive. She still felt the ghost of his hands on her skin, the warmth of his breath on her skin last night, tangled in new beginnings. This was to be the start of everything.
But when the carriage began to slow, her brow furrowed.
A crumbling manor loomed ahead, its stonework half-covered in ivy, its windows weather-streaked and dim.
The shutters hung unevenly. The garden was overgrown and wild.
And at the top of the steps stood an elderly man in a faded but tidy coat—a butler, perhaps, though hardly what one might expect on arrival at a honeymoon retreat.
Abigail leaned forward. "Jasper... where are we?"
He smiled. But there was something strange in it. Something hollow.
He descended first, then offered his hand to guide her down. With a mocking sweep toward the crumbling estate, he declared, “This, my dear wife, is the home I’ve chosen especially for you.”
She blinked. "I... I don't understand."
"Oh, but I think you do." His tone was calm. Far too calm. "It was all far too easy, Abigail. You believed every word. Every touch. Every look. So convenient. So very foolish."
Her stomach twisted. "Jasper..."
"I've decided Charlotte was right," he said, flicking at a speck on his glove as if bored. "You are not suited to be my duchess. You're too quiet. Too plain. A shadow of what a duchess ought to be."
His words struck like cold steel.
"It's fortunate," he went on, "that most aristocratic marriages function best with a comfortable distance. You'll reside here—it's what you deserve."
"But... why would you say this now?" she whispered. "Why wait until now?"
"Because, in the end, I've decided you weren't worth the effort," he said, stepping back into the carriage. "I no longer wish to be burdened by you. And I will not have you embarrassing me."
Abigail stepped forward. "Please, Jasper—"
"I do not wish to hear another word from you." The door shut with a final thud.
The carriage jolted, turned, and was gone.
Abigail stood frozen, staring at the empty drive.
A soft voice at her elbow startled her. "Come now, dear. Let's get you inside."
She turned to find a kindly woman with silver-streaked hair and weary eyes. "Mrs. Rigby," the woman said gently. "This way. Your trunks will be brought to your room."
She followed because she did not know what else to do.
Inside, the manor was no warmer than its exterior—faded rugs, musty air, dim candlelight.
She was led to a chamber where a canopied bed stood beneath fabric dulled by age, the wallpaper around it yellowed and peeling in places.
Her trunks were set down with a thud, and Mrs. Rigby eased her into a chair, murmuring that she might need a moment.
Then the room was quiet.
Abigail stared at her luggage, at the seat across from her, at nothing. Jasper's voice echoed in her head.
"Especially for you."
What did that mean? He had always been kind. They had grown up together—he, her brother's friend; she, close to his sister. Jasper had once braided flowers into her hair and told her she was lovely. He had courted her. Kissed her. Promised her forever.
Had it all been a lie?
Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. She could not breathe.
Could not move. She did not remember how long she sat like that—only that, at some point, the room was washed in moonlight.
.. and then she blinked and daylight again flooded the room and Mrs. Rigby returned.
Her voice was low and soothing, and Abigail let herself be helped from the chair, unfastened from her gown, her hat removed, her hair unpinned.
The dress—she had bought it especially for their journey. Pale lavender, soft silk. She had imagined Jasper admiring it.
Now Mrs. Rigby eased her into a warm bath.
The water was fragrant. Abigail was handed a soaped cloth and instructed to wash.
She obeyed. Mechanically. She could still hear the woman's voice, but the words didn't land.
Her hair was washed, then dried. A fresh nightgown replaced her traveling dress.
Her body moved, but her mind drifted far behind.
She returned to her chair. Her hair was brushed and braided gently. Now and then, she glimpsed the woman's face—tender, worried—but the room soon blurred again into silence.
The days that followed became a haze.
Each morning, she was led to a drawing room with faded settees and gauzy light. A fainting couch—chaise longue, perhaps—was placed by the window. There she sat, staring at the road.
The road the carriage had taken when it brought her here.
The road the carriage had taken when Jasper left.
She stared until her eyes burned. Leaves began to change outside—russet, gold, and ochre. Autumn. How long had she been here? Her wedding had been at summer's end...
Every day, Mrs. Rigby would sit with her. Press a cup of tea into her hands. Urge her to eat a bite of bread, a spoonful of broth. She obeyed, sometimes. She drifted.
And always, the questions circled.
Why? Why did he leave? Why say those things?
She thought of his kiss the morning after their wedding. The way he had looked at her. The tenderness in his hands.
And then the way he had waved at the manor—mocking. Detached.
"Especially for you."
She thought of the boy she had known, the man she had loved, the stranger who had abandoned her.
Still, every day, she waited.
Waited to wake from this dream.
Waited for an answer.
Waited for him to return.