Chapter 16
Nathaniel Browning, the Duke of Everly, sat in the quiet elegance of the west-facing parlor, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hand, his wife Grace opposite him near the window.
The early afternoon sun slanted through the lace curtains, casting warm patches across the patterned rug.
From their vantage point, they could see Roselawn Manor—Jasper's estate—just across the Gardens.
For weeks now, they had watched the manor with cautious hope, expecting signs of life—of Abigail and Jasper returning from their honeymoon.
But Roselawn remained eerily still. No carriage, no fluttering draperies, no sounds of laughter or life.
It had been over two months since the wedding, and still, nothing.
Grace had taken to standing at the window more often than usual, worrying the edge of her shawl between her fingers.
Their anxiety had only deepened after receiving a letter from Jasper, sent without a return address, stating that Abigail would not be able to attend Philip and Sophia's wedding due to illness. It had been curt, impersonal. Cold.
They had tried writing to the estates the Duke and Duchess of Winterset were known to own, in hopes of locating their daughter. Not a single reply had come.
Philip had confided in his father after the wedding, recounting a strange moment with Jasper the night before the ceremony.
Another accusation from Charlotte. She claimed to have lost Philip's child and no longer wished to live.
It had rattled Philip—but Jasper had married Abigail the next day, looking every bit the besotted groom. They had assumed the worst had passed.
But now? They weren't so sure.
The footman entered with the day's correspondence.
Nathaniel murmured a thank you as he took the tray.
Among several items, one envelope stood out—misaddressed to "the Duke and Duchess of Browning.
" It was from a place called Greystone Hollow.
He glanced at it briefly, then moved past it, picking up a letter from his accountant, nodding in acknowledgment at the familiar handwriting.
Grace, however, had taken the odd envelope into her hands and opened it. As Nathaniel began reading about estate matters, her sudden gasp shattered the peace of the room.
"Abigail!" she cried, her voice high and sharp with fear. The letter trembled in her hands. "Oh God—Nathaniel—it's Abigail!"
He dropped the accountant's report and rushed to her side. Her face had gone pale. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
He took the letter from her and began to read, dread pooling in his stomach. The words blurred for a moment, then crystallized into unbearable truth.
“Abandoned. Alone. Ill.”
Abigail had been left at a distant manor with no explanation, no escort. The woman who wrote the letter—Mrs. Martha Rigby—described a slow, devastating decline. His daughter, the light of his heart, had been discarded like refuse by the man who vowed to love and protect her.
He gently but firmly guided Grace to her chambers, summoned her maid, and helped her to bed. Only once she was resting did he return to the parlor to read the letter again. His eyes caught on a sentence he had missed before:
"She has been largely unresponsive.”
And then the final line:
"Come for her. Take her home. If she is expecting, she will need her mother's care. She will need you." —Mrs. Martha Rigby.”
Nathaniel rose with purpose.
"Ready the carriage," he told his butler. "We leave at dawn for Greystone Hollow. Pack for the road. Send riders ahead to the Hawthorne Inn to have horses prepared for exchange—we will need to ride through the night."
He roused his wife early the next morning. Grace was quiet, pale, her face composed with grim determination. They traveled through the day and into the night, stopping only to change horses. Neither spoke much—each lost in fear and worry.
By late afternoon the following day, the carriage rolled to a stop before the aged manor. Nathaniel was appalled that his Abigail had been forced to live in such derelict conditions. Martha Rigby met them at the door, her face lined with concern and exhaustion.
"Your Graces," she said, curtsying. "Please, come in."
"Take us to her," Grace said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Martha led them through the halls to a chamber on the second floor. Abigail sat in a chair by the window, her gaze unfocused, hands folded in her lap. A tray of untouched food rested nearby.
Grace knelt before her daughter, her hand trembling as she reached out. Nathaniel crouched beside her, his heart breaking.
"Abigail," Grace whispered.
But there was no response.
Thin. Silent. Lost.
They left Abigail in the care of a maid, asking that her belongings be packed, and followed Mrs. Rigby to the sitting room.
Martha poured tea and quietly recounted all that had transpired since Abigail arrived at Greystone Hollow.
There had been nothing—no letters, no inquiries—only silence and a slow, heartbreaking decline.
Lord Jasper had left just enough funds to sustain the household until mid-spring, but with Abigail so unwell, Martha feared that calling a doctor would exhaust what little remained.
Jasper had given no forwarding address, no way to reach him to ask for more.
When she finished, Nathaniel looked to his wife.
"We'll take her to Bramblewick. Jasper doesn't know of it, and it's quiet. Safe."
"Would you and the staff here consider entering our employ and coming with us?" he asked Martha. "We have housing near the estate for all who serve in our household, and we'd be grateful to have trusted people by our side."
Martha's eyes welled up. "Yes, Your Grace.
As you can see, our manor has been all but forgotten.
Before Abigail was brought here, we hadn't seen a visitor in almost a decade.
All of us—except Mr. Arnold, our butler—will likely be interested in your offer.
He plans to retire and be with his grandchildren nearby. "
"Of course," Nathaniel said with a nod. "We will leave with Abigail at first light. Then in three days' time, two of our carriages will return for anyone who wishes to join us."
Nathaniel and Grace rose and followed Martha down the hall to a guest room she had prepared in case they came after receiving her letter.
As they passed Abigail's doorway, Nathaniel paused.
The door was ajar, and through the opening he could see her, still seated, unmoving.
A maid knelt beside her, gently braiding her hair back from her face.
A basin of water sat nearby, a cloth resting on its edge.
A knot tightened in his chest.
These strangers had shown his daughter more care than the man who had sworn to cherish her. He owed them his gratitude. Their worry was etched into every gesture, every glance toward Abigail.
Nathaniel's thoughts swirled with disbelief. Jasper—his childhood friend's son, the boy he had watched grow and once trusted—had abandoned his Abigail. Left her like this. His failure as a father stung bitterly.
But he would not allow her to be failed again.
Not again.