Chapter 20
The difference between Greystone Hollow and Bramblewick was immediate.
Greystone had been cold and crumbling — its faded grandeur suffocating in its silence. Abigail had spent days wrapped in shadows, the chill of the stone floors seeping into her bones, the weight of abandonment hanging heavy in the air. Even breathing there had felt like a chore.
Bramblewick, by contrast, was warm and quiet — not grand, but gracious.
The kind of place where firelight softened the corners and sunlight touched every room.
Elegant rugs cushioned her steps, floral wallpaper lent a touch of charm, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.
Her parents had said she was coming here to rest, to be cared for.
Abigail hadn't argued. She hadn't done much of anything.
When Mrs. Rigby helped her into the waiting carriage, Abigail remained silent.
"I'll be along shortly, Miss Abigail," the housekeeper murmured as she adjusted the lap blanket. "The Duke and Duchess of Everly have offered me a place. A few of us, actually."
Abigail nodded but said nothing.
Now, a doctor — kind-eyed, elderly — murmured quiet instructions while her mother held her hand. She sat on the edge of a bed she did not recognize, wrapped in a pale blue dressing gown someone had chosen for her.
"She's underweight," the doctor said gently, pressing a hand to her abdomen. "But yes, there's no doubt. The child is growing. By your accounts, I would say around three months. Late April-early May, I'd wager, for the birth."
Her mother's hand tightened slightly around hers. Abigail did not return the pressure.
She listened or tried to. The doctor's words came as if muffled, distant. Three months. That was right. Jasper had left the day after the wedding. The child had begun with the marriage and kept growing long after it had ended
People spoke around her — about her — but she could not summon the will to care. It all sounded like echoes from behind a thick pane of glass.
He left me.
The words rang louder than anything else. Clear, cutting, undeniable.
He had courted her. Married her. Told her she was everything he wanted — only to claim, less than a day after exchanging vows, that he regretted it. He left her. Abandoned her at Greystone Hollow with cruel words and colder silence.
Why?
She tried to trace his reasons, to find the moment she'd failed him. Her thoughts wandered to the parties, the laughter, the closeness between their families. Her brother and Jasper had been friends since childhood. What had changed? What had she done wrong?
Perhaps she had never been enough.
What life could she possibly offer a child? And if Jasper discovered she was pregnant... would he care? Would he resent that it was her carrying his heir? If it was a boy, would he come for it? If a girl, would he expect her to bear another?
Would he ever come?
Her thoughts spiraled. Guilt, shame, fear — until the fog took her again. Better that way. Easier. Safer.
Days passed, or perhaps weeks — she barely tracked them.
Martha arrived and quietly resumed her place at Abigail's side, slipping into the rhythm of each day as though she had never left.
She read to her, linked arms with her for slow walks, or led her to the library to sit before the picture window.
She coaxed Abigail into sunlight, into the garden, as the leaves began to bud on the trees.
Abigail felt the first fluttering of life within her and began — slowly, languidly — to eat, to walk, to exist. But she did not engage.
Words floated past without sticking. Hope felt dangerous.
Worse than hearing Jasper had written was the fear that he hadn't. That he didn't care. So she drifted.
Until the night she could no longer ignore her body.
The pain woke her from a dead sleep. A cramping pressure deep inside. Her breath caught, and then the next wave hit — sharp, undeniable.
She gasped. Then screamed.
The sheets were damp. She knew, instinctively, the child was coming.
Martha was first through the door. Then her mother. Panic rose and then was overtaken by something else — something primal. Urgency. Fire. The pain owned her now.
"Call for the doctor!" Martha shouted, steady even in alarm.
There was a cool cloth on her brow. Her mother's voice. The doctor again.
"Push, Lady Abigail. Push."
The world narrowed into pressure and pain and sound. Then —
A cry.
A squalling, furious cry. And then warmth — a weight placed on her chest.
"It's a daughter," the doctor said.
Her daughter.
Abigail blinked, staring down at the tiny creature. She was wrinkled and flushed, mouth open in outrage, fists clenched as if already ready to fight the world. A daughter.
She felt her gown lifted. The baby's mouth found her breast and began to suckle.
Tears stung her eyes. Not sadness, not quite. Just... everything. Overwhelming.
As she watched her child nurse, a memory stirred. Martha had once read to her in the library — the lilting tones of a novel from her school years. Emmeline. Charlotte Smith's heroine. Graceful, courageous, resilient. A woman who had survived a world not built for her.
Abigail looked down again at her child — her first real look. This little life she had brought into the world alone, but not unloved.
"Emmeline," she whispered. The name left her lips without thought.
A small gasp. Her mother's hand closed over hers.
"Oh, my darling," she murmured. "I'm so glad you chose a name for her."
"Emmeline," Abigail said again, firmer now.
Martha's voice broke slightly. "It's a beautiful name. Perfect for her."
Abigail said nothing more. She simply held her daughter — her body aching, but for the first time in what felt like forever, her arms and her heart were full.
For the first time in months, her heart stirred. She was not alone anymore.