Chapter 36
Abigail stood by the window in the morning light, Jasper's latest letter open in her hand. He had given it to her as he was leaving after visiting for breakfast that morning, passing it to her without a word. She hadn't meant to read it—not right away—but her curiosity had betrayed her.
Despite never writing him back or speaking of their contents, Jasper kept sending letters.
If she had to guess, there were at least twenty by now.
She couldn't be certain. She usually opened them in passing, scanning over the contents and then quickly setting them aside wherever she was, as if to prove how little she cared for whatever love, admiration, repentance, or other musings he had poured into each one.
Now, as the final lines blurred on the page, her fingers tightened around the paper. She could still hear his words from earlier that morning.
They would be leaving for London in a week.
Not she and Emmeline with her parents, as she had assumed when her father first mentioned they'd be traveling to London for the Season. No. Jasper. Emmeline. Herself. Together. In the same house.
Her jaw clenched.
Jasper had delivered the news with infuriating calm, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He'd waited until the end of breakfast, after Emmeline had been carried off with Mrs. Rigby, before quietly informing Abigail of the plan.
"You, Emmeline, and I will be leaving for London next week for the Season," he had said. "We'll all be living together in my townhouse there. Nothing else is acceptable."
She had stared at him, dumbstruck. Then the protests came.
Emmeline would miss her grandparents.
They would need to hire a nurse.
Surely the townhouse wasn't ready for a child.
And she—she wasn't prepared to go.
He had listened to each objection without interruption, his expression unreadable. Then he answered them all—gently, efficiently.
He'd begun preparing the nursery a month ago.
He'd asked Mrs. Rigby weeks prior to accompany them as Emmeline's nurse, and she had agreed without hesitation.
Her father had approved the arrangement. He and her mother would be nearby, living in their own townhouse.
She had run out of objections—at least the ones she dared voice. Because the truth, the real reason, she could not say aloud. Not to him.
It wasn't the townhouse. It wasn't propriety. It wasn't Emmeline.
It was Jasper.
He had thought of everything. Anticipated every excuse. But he couldn't anticipate the fear still lodged in her bones. The cold buried pain that lingered, no matter how many gentle words he wrote or nursery rhymes he read.
She pressed a hand to her temple and closed her eyes.
Some weeks ago, he had brought a box of childhood belongings to the estate—books, a spinning top, a wooden horse carved long ago. Emmeline had delighted in them. Abigail had watched her daughter giggle as Jasper spun the top on the nursery floor, her laughter bubbling like champagne.
Abigail had smiled, too.
Secretly. Softly.
She wanted this for Emmeline. A father who cherished her. Who protected her. Who would never let her feel unloved or forgotten. Her own father had given her that. She wanted no less for her daughter.
But she couldn't give Jasper her heart again. She couldn't even bear to let him near it.
He was not good for her.
Not for her heart, her mind, or her peace.
The pain he had caused—calculated and cruel—still lived inside her, festering.
She had spent months wasting away in a decaying manor, confused, pregnant, frightened, alone.
Some mornings, she still woke gripped by the dread that she had dreamt her way out of that place—that she had never truly escaped.
He had known what he was doing when he left her there. He had wanted to punish her for her brother's supposed sins. To break her heart. To crush her soul.
And he had.
That was why she would resist. Why, though she would walk through the doors of his
London townhouse, smile and curtsy, and play the proper wife and duchess in public,
her heart would remain locked in ice.
She would protect Emmeline's respectability at all costs.
Abigail couldn't risk her daughter's future for the sake of her own pride.
There could be no speculation of scandal—not when Jasper had been present last Season while she had not.
People might speculate. They might try to put the pieces together.
They might think she had been cast out. Or worse—they might question Emmeline's very place in the family.
She would uphold appearances. She would survive the Season.
The world would see a united Duke and Duchess of Winterset. A well-loved child. Nothing more. They would not see the fracture beneath the surface or guess at the frozen heart beating beneath silks and smiles.
And when Jasper tired of her silence—when he realized that her forgiveness would not be easily won, that the damage he had wrought was not something he could mend with letters or nursery preparations or even gentle smiles—then he would leave again.
She told herself it would be better that way.
Let him grow weary. Let him reveal his true face once more. At least this time, she would be ready.
At least this time, she would not break.
Abigail folded the letter neatly and slid it back into its envelope. Her fingers lingered for a moment at the edge, hesitant.
Then she turned from the window, her expression smooth and composed, and left the letter on the sill—as if it, too, meant nothing to her.
One week.
Just one week until London.
And the next chapter of her performance would begin.