Chapter 32
The clock had just struck three when Jasper stepped into the leased house he was calling home until further notice. The air inside was dry and warm from the fire the staff had kept burning, but it did nothing to thaw the knot behind his ribs.
He shrugged off his coat, passed it wordlessly to the waiting footman, and made his way through the front hall. Walking directly to the study — a handsome chamber tucked in the east wing, paneled in walnut and fitted with shelves of unread volumes and a wide desk of polished oak.
The house had come fully furnished, as most respectable leases did, and the study was well-appointed — a gentleman's room, made for letters and ledgers. It had everything he needed.
Still, when he sat down at the desk and laid his hands on the leather blotter, he was surprised by the small jolt of familiarity. It was worn at the corners — not his, not really, but well-used, well-loved by those who had once sat here day after day, perhaps writing letters of their own.
God, how could it only be three?
He had arrived at Bramblewick for noon. Spoke with Abigail. He had seen his daughter. And yet it felt as though the sun ought to have set hours ago — as if the weight of what had passed since midday had stretched time itself.
She had looked at him with a kind of measured calm — not cruelty, not anger — something worse. Distance. As though he were not the man who had once kissed the back of her gloved hand and whispered that she made the stars look common.
Her indifference, he realized, was earned. She had every reason to guard herself. But it wounded him, nonetheless.
And then, his daughter. That tiny miracle with Abigail's eyes and his dimpled chin—how easily she had grinned at him, drool clinging to her lip as she wrapped her damp little hand around his finger and held on.
In the other, she clutched the rag doll he'd given her, looking up at him with perfect trust.
That—more than anything—nearly undid him.
He pulled a blank sheet of paper toward him and reached for the pen. He bent his head and began to write.
My dearest Abigail,
I do not know if you will read this. You would be justified if you did not.
But if you do — know that I will write again. And again.
Not to plead for forgiveness, though I ache for it. Not to persuade or pressure you. But because I need you to see me clearly — the man you once loved, who now feels like a stranger to you.
I am writing so you might come to know me again.
Not because I have changed, but because I have become unrecognizable to you — buried beneath the wreckage of my choices. And that may be the greatest grief of all: not that I failed you, but that in doing so, I made myself into someone you cannot even look at without distance.
I fear I have become a stranger to you — a ghost wearing the face of someone you once trusted.
And yet, the man who asked you to dance at your debut.
.. who asked to court you the very next day because he could not imagine walking away from something so luminous.
The man who danced with you under lanterns, who braided wildflowers into your hair that spring afternoon near the Heath, who held your hand too tightly in Hyde Park because he could not bear to let it go — he was real. He is still real.
And he still loves you.
But I failed you. Utterly. When you needed the best of me, I gave you my worst.
I cannot change what has passed. I cannot erase what I did.
But I can be present. I can be honest. And I can write to you— not because words can fix what I shattered, but because they are the only way I know to lay myself bare.
To hand you the truth, piece by piece, in hopes that you might one day recognize me again.
Not a version I want you to believe in — the truth of me.
Of who I was. Of who I still am. And who I hope still to become.
And I will write, too, because of her.
Emmeline.
She took my finger in her tiny, damp hand today — curled her fist around it like it belonged to her, as if we'd never been apart. She smiled at me. Without hesitation. Without fear. Clutching that little rag doll I gave to her like it was the finest treasure in the world.
She does not yet know who I am. And I do not deserve the way she looked at me. But I want to. I want to be the kind of man who earns that smile a thousand times over. Who earns the right to be her father in every sense.
I will come to Bramblewick when I am told I may to see both you and her. You owe me nothing, Abigail. But I owe you everything.
Until you feel, without hesitation, that you know who I am — I will keep writing. Because you deserve that clarity. Because she deserves a father who is no longer hidden behind shame. And because I love you.
I hope these words might one day begin to soothe the jagged edges of your heart, the very wounds I inflicted. I know I do not deserve the chance — but I am asking for it nonetheless.
Still. And always.
Yours in all humility,
Jasper
He signed his name and set the pen down.
For a long moment, he remained there, hands clasped, brow resting against the backs of his knuckles. The fire crackled softly behind him. Somewhere down the hall, someone closed a door.
Then, with slow precision, he folded the page, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it with his ring.
It would be posted immediately.
Whether Abigail read it or not, she would receive it. And perhaps — if he was very lucky — someday she would believe that somewhere in the hollow of his chest, that same man still lived.
The one who had seen her at her debut ball and known, in a heartbeat, that she was the beginning and end of everything.