Chapter 33
Two days after Lord Jasper's visit, Mrs. Martha Rigby sat in the nursery with Abigail and little Emmeline. The midday sun filtered through the frosted windows, casting a pale glow across the wooden floor, the light muted by the first flakes of snow drifting down beyond the glass.
Martha's hands moved steadily with her needlework, but her eyes strayed often to where Abigail sat on the rug with Emmeline nestled in her lap.
The young mother's voice was soft as she hummed a nursery tune, her fingers absently threading through her daughter's curls.
Emmeline clutched her beloved rag doll — the one her father had given her during his recent visit.
In just two days, it already bore the unmistakable marks of her fierce affection: food stains on its bonnet, one damp corner from drooling, and several fine wrinkles in the skirt from constant hugging.
Martha had attempted to wash it that morning, only to be met with such a mournful cry of protest that she'd backed away, chuckling softly as she left it be.
It had been a peculiar few days since Lord Jasper's reappearance.
The household, though outwardly unchanged, had shifted.
It was quieter now. Watchful. A letter had arrived only hours after he left — addressed to Abigail in his familiar hand.
Martha, though curious, had waited until the following morning to give it to her.
Abigail had read it in silence, then moved through her day with the same quiet detachment, her expression unreadable. She had not mentioned its contents.
But she'd left the letter behind — on the library settee, its seal already broken.
Whether by accident or quiet intention, Martha couldn't be sure.
And though she knew better than to pry, something in Abigail's face that morning had unsettled her deeply enough to justify reading the words left behind.
The longcase clock chimed from the hall below — twelve sharp.
Martha looked up, her stitching forgotten.
Nathaniel and Grace had spoken with her earlier that morning, pulling her aside to inform her that Lord Jasper would be arriving at noon to dine with Abigail and Emmeline — just the three of them, in the morning room.
The visit, it seemed, had been agreed upon.
"It's time for lunch, my dears," she said gently.
Emmeline squealed at the mention of food and bounced against her mother's lap. Abigail smiled faintly, kissed her daughter's cheek, and stood, lifting the child easily onto her hip.
"Let's go eat, my darling," she murmured.
They descended the staircase slowly, Abigail's free hand trailing lightly along the polished banister. Sunlight glinted off the tall windowpanes, casting golden streaks across the floor. Her steps were measured. Composed. Her skirts whispered softly with each descent.
At the entrance to the morning room, Abigail paused.
The table had been set. Crystal gleamed, silver shone, and a modest floral arrangement rested at the center.
Jasper stood near one of the sofas by the hearth but straightened the moment he saw them. His eyes moved quickly — first to Emmeline, then to Abigail, then back again. He looked uncertain, his posture stiff with restraint, as though bracing himself against hope.
"Good afternoon, Abigail. Emmeline," he said quietly, offering a respectful bow.
Abigail inclined her head. "Your Grace."
The formality in her voice was unmistakable.
She crossed the room with composed grace. Jasper moved quickly to pull out a chair for her. She hesitated only a moment before sitting.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, soft but distant.
Jasper blinked at the title. It stung more than it should have, but he made no protest. Instead, he took the seat opposite her. "Please... I wish you'd call me Jasper, sweetheart."
Her eyes lifted sharply. She didn't flinch — didn't gasp — but the air between them shifted. Tightened. He couldn't tell if her reaction was to the name or the endearment. Sweetheart — a word he had once used so often, when she would blush and lean toward him without realizing she had done so.
Now, she was still. Composed. Almost unreadable.
Emmeline, mercifully unaware, babbled to her doll. Jasper reached into his coat and pulled out a soft grey rabbit — clearly handmade and carefully stitched. He placed it on the table between them.
Emmeline's eyes lit up. With a delighted squeal, she snatched it up, hugging both toys tightly and bouncing in Abigail's lap with glee.
Abigail glanced at the toy, then back at Jasper. Her expression didn't change.
Lunch began in silence. Trays were passed; portions shared. Emmeline chattered happily to her new companions — the doll and the rabbit — her joy the only warmth at the table.
Jasper cleared his throat. "How are you both today?"
"We are well," Abigail replied, her voice polite, cool.
He nodded, trying to push past the discomfort. "Did you receive the letter I sent?"
"Yes."
He waited. Nothing more came.
"I meant what I wrote," he said quietly.
She didn't answer. Instead, she shifted Emmeline gently and offered her a piece of soft potato.
He studied them — the easy way she held their daughter, the serene joy in Emmeline's face.
"Our daughter is amazing, Abigail. You've done an incredible job with her."
"She is a joy," Abigail said, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
"She's remarkable," Jasper murmured. "She has your eyes."
Abigail glanced at him, surprised. "And your chin."
He chuckled softly; the sound tinged with something wistful. "Yes... I noticed that."
The rest of the meal passed in near silence — the clink of cutlery, the soft crackle of the fire, Emmeline's occasional giggles. When the dishes were cleared, tea was brought in, accompanied by shortbread and sugared fruit.
Now seated on opposite sofas near the hearth, Abigail stirred her tea slowly, deliberately. Jasper sat across from her, his own cup untouched. Emmeline lay curled at her mother's side, the rabbit tucked beneath her chin, the doll clutched in one small fist, already half-asleep.
He watched them for a long moment before speaking again.
"I hope I'm not intruding by being here."
"You were invited," she said evenly, her spoon still circling her cup.
"But how do you feel about it?"
She met his gaze directly. Steady. Clear. "It hardly matters how I feel. You are my husband. And Emmeline's father."
"It matters to me." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I want to be welcome. I want to do better. If you're willing... I'd like us to work toward something real. A future — the one we used to talk about."
Abigail's hand stilled in her cup.
He pressed on. "I know I've made mistakes. But if we could somehow find a way past all of it... maybe we could still have the life we dreamed of. Back when we were courting. When we were engaged."
There was a long pause.
Then the quiet clink of metal on porcelain. Abigail had let the spoon slip from her fingers.
She looked up slowly.
"What you said to me," she said quietly, her voice clear, "the day after our wedding — at Graystone Hollow. Do you remember?"
Jasper's mouth tightened. "Yes. I hear those words in my head often. What I did... haunts me. It's my greatest regret. I would give anything to take it back."
She continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "You said it was fortunate that most aristocratic marriages function best with distance. That I was too quiet. Too plain. A shadow of what a duchess ought to be."
He closed his eyes.
"You said Charlotte was right. That I wasn't suited to the title."
Her voice didn't rise. She wasn't angry. She was simply stating the truth. And in a way, that unnerved him more than rage might have.
"So perhaps," she said, "you were right. Perhaps we are fortunate. Because I would never wish to embarrass, Your Grace."
She rose then, lifting Emmeline into her arms with practiced care.
"I will not keep you from seeing your daughter," she said as she turned toward the door. "But I will not pretend we are something we are not."
"Abigail—" he said, standing abruptly.
She paused in the doorway and looked back.
"Words are easy," she said. "But trust, Jasper, is earned. And what you broke won't be repaired over lunch."
Then she turned and walked away — her daughter safe in her arms, her spine straight, her silence louder than fury.
Jasper was left alone in the morning room, the scent of tea and orange peel still hanging in the air... and the echo of a future he might have had ringing in his ears.