Chapter 15
Two and a half months had passed since Abigail arrived at Greystone Hollow.
The weather had grown cooler, and the trees that once blazed with the vibrant colors of autumn had shed their leaves.
Now, the grounds and gardens lay beneath a quiet carpet of amber and rust. Mrs. Rigby had always found comfort in the rhythm of the changing seasons, but this year, the onset of autumn brought with it a deep sense of unease.
Winter would come soon—and with it, a chill she feared Abigail could not endure.
Abigail had remained largely unresponsive during her time at the Manor.
At first, she had been distant, withdrawn in her grief, but not completely lost. She had spent her days in the drawing room, gazing out of the window at the road leading to the house.
She would sit so still, just watching—waiting, Mrs. Rigby suspected, for Lord Jasper to arrive and retrieve her.
But that had stopped a month ago. Abigail no longer sat at the window, no longer showed any interest in the world beyond the manor walls.
It was as though she had given up hope entirely, as though the last thread tying her to the life she'd once known had frayed and snapped.
Mrs. Rigby, who had lived and worked at Greystone Hollow for many years, recognized the signs all too well.
The light in Abigail's eyes had dimmed. The fragile hope she had clung to had all but disappeared.
And now, the physical changes were undeniable.
From the moment she arrived, Abigail had eaten little— picking at her meals without interest. But lately, even that effort had ceased.
Her portions grew smaller and smaller, until they were barely a mouthful.
Her cheekbones had grown sharp, hollowing her once-soft face.
She looked ghostly—like a fading memory of herself.
Mrs. Rigby had seen illness before. She had nursed others through sickness and sorrow.
But this felt different. This felt like something quietly stealing Abigail away.
One of the maids had voiced a suspicion: that Abigail might be with child.
Mrs. Rigby had brushed it off at first, unable to reconcile the idea with the pale, fading girl before her.
But the possibility had begun to take root.
If Lord Jasper had truly made Abigail his wife in every sense of the word, then he had not only abandoned her—but done so with unimaginable cruelty.
A decision had to be made. Mrs. Rigby considered calling for a doctor, but their resources were meager.
They had only been given enough funds to last until mid-spring, and a physician's visit could cost more than they could spare.
Still, Abigail's condition could not be ignored.
If she was ill—if she was with child—she needed care.
Real care. Not the limited comfort an old housekeeper could offer.
That was when Mrs. Rigby thought of Abigail's family.
She had heard whispers among the staff—rumors that Abigail was the daughter of a Duke, her mother a Duchess.
It had seemed improbable at first, but Mrs. Rigby had seen enough of the girl's grace and refined manners to suspect there was truth to it.
If her parents could be found, perhaps they could intervene.
Surely, if they knew what had become of their daughter, they would come for her.
Surely, they would not leave her to suffer alone in a half-empty manor on the edge of nowhere.
She began asking discreet questions among the staff. No one knew much. Just murmurs—noble birth, a titled father, a life far above this one. With no solid answers, she realized she would have to ask Abigail herself.
That evening, Mrs. Rigby stood outside Abigail's door for a long moment before entering. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting weak orange light over the room. Abigail sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders stooped, her eyes fixed blankly on the dying embers.
"Miss Abigail," Mrs. Rigby said softly as she stepped into the room, "I need to ask you something important. I hope you'll forgive me, but I believe it may help you."
There was no answer.
Mrs. Rigby approached gently and sat beside her. Abigail didn't flinch or draw away, only stared.
"Do you know where your parents are?" she asked. "Are they nearby? Where is home, child?"
For a long moment, there was only the quiet crackle of the fire. Then, at last, Abigail's lips parted.
"Lyndhurst Manor," she whispered. "Browning... my maiden name... Browning."
That was all. Her voice cracked as the words escaped her, and her gaze drifted back to the fire.
It was enough.
Mrs. Rigby felt a heaviness settle in her chest. Lyndhurst Manor. The name rang with old nobility. Browning. A family that belonged to another world entirely—one of wealth, protection, warmth. A world where Abigail should have been. Not here. Not like this.
She rose without another word and sat at her desk.
There, by candlelight, she penned a letter addressed to Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Browning.
She told them everything—how Abigail had been abandoned at Greystone Hollow after her marriage to Lord Jasper, and of her steady decline since.
She did not dress the truth in pleasantries. The time for delicacy had passed.
She ended the letter with a plea: Come for her. Take her home. If she is expecting, she will need her mother's care. She will need you.
When she sealed the letter, her hands trembled.
"If they know what's best," she whispered, "they will come. She does not deserve this. Not when there's still time to save her."
And with that, the letter was sent, carrying with it all of Mrs. Rigby's hope that Abigail might yet be rescued from the sorrow that had claimed her.