Chapter 40
Abigail sat at the small writing desk in her room, the moonlight casting long shadows across the floor.
The house was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel and the occasional crackle from the dying fire.
She had woken not long after falling asleep, the remnants of a nightmare still clinging to her.
It had been a month since their arrival in London.
Earlier that day, a letter had come from Philip. Sophia had been safely delivered of a son—Frederick—born at the beginning of April. A nephew. The news had filled her with joy, warm and bright, and yet now, in the stillness of night, it stirred something else entirely.
She thought of the past winter, when Philip and Sophia had stayed at Bramblewick.
Sophia's belly had been round with child then, and Abigail had watched—quietly, mostly detached, but sometimes enviously—as her brother reached out to rest his hand upon that growing curve.
She had seen Sophia smile and guide his hand to where the baby moved.
And Philip—he had looked at his wife with awe, with wonder, with a tenderness so profound it seemed to soften every sharp line of his face.
It had pierced her.
Because she had missed that. All of it. The wonder. The shared anticipation. The quiet, daily intimacy between husband and wife preparing to welcome their child together.
When she had been expecting Emmeline, there had been no such joy. No husband
resting a reverent hand upon her belly, marveling at the life within. No whispered
hopes exchanged across a shared bed. Jasper had deserted her the morning after their wedding. And though she had later been surrounded by the love of her family, there had always been an ache in knowing she had carried her daughter alone—not merely in body, but in spirit.
She did not resent Sophia. Nor Philip. Their happiness was well-earned. But at times, it cast her own grief into sharper relief, like sunlight thrown against stained glass—beautiful but edged in shadow.
Emmeline's birthday was mere weeks away, and Abigail could not help but reflect on how much had changed in a single year.
Nearly twelve months ago, she had delivered her daughter—exhausted, uncertain, but safe at Bramblewick. Loved. Rebuilding. Still healing from the months before, when she had lived not merely at Greystone Hollow, but in the hollows of herself.
That she and Emmeline had survived at all felt, at times, nothing short of miraculous.
Abigail often found herself lost in the what-ifs—what if her parents had not rescued her from the exile Jasper had cruelly left her to endure?
What if they had not welcomed her home so warmly, alongside Philip and Sophia?
What if dear Mrs. Rigby had not followed her from Greystone Hollow, becoming like family—caring for her and Emmeline as tenderly as a beloved grandmother?
Abigail counted herself blessed beyond measure to have them all.
She did not know what she would have done if her family had not come for her.
She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands against them.
Some nights, she still woke in a cold sweat, dreaming she was back in that place.
That hollow house. That hollower state of mind.
Sometimes, in her dreams, Emmeline was there too—but cared for by someone else, because Abigail could not rise, could not move, could not mother.
She despised those dreams. Despised how they clung to her like ash, even in the daylight.
It angered her—that after all this time, after all her progress, her mind still betrayed her.
That her body still remembered the weight of despair so vividly.
And in those raw hours before dawn, when she was at her most vulnerable, she found herself resenting Jasper all over again.
For the choices he had made. For the cruelty. The abandonment.
She had sworn she would never trust him again. That forgiveness was beyond her. That nothing he could say or write would undo what he had done.
And yet... she kept reading his letters.
Even now, the most recent stirred within her like the aftertaste of a bittersweet draught—lingering, persistent, impossible to ignore.
She had tried not to read it. It had been slipped beneath her door the previous morning, and she had left it there, untouched, for hours. But before dinner, she had returned to her room and picked it up, telling herself it was only curiosity. And then she had read every word. Twice.
Afterwards, she had wandered into the morning room and deliberately left it upon the window bench.
She had never responded to a single one of his letters.
And still, he wrote.
She hated how his words affected her—how they reached the parts of her that remembered laughter and happiness, the quiet joy of planning a beautiful future together; that remembered the overwhelming relief and happiness that had flooded his face when she accepted his proposal, when he slid the ring onto her finger and then kissed it tenderly.
That remembered the faith she once held in their future—the girl who believed in true love and soulmates, certain she had found hers.
But that girl—the girl who had once loved him without question—had been wounded beyond recognition.
She would be a fool to let him close enough to do it again.
He claimed he was the same man he had always been—that Charlotte's lies had only changed him temporarily.
That now, freed from that web of deceit, he saw clearly.
She could not deny that he was a good father.
Doting. Patient. Joyful. And with her, too, he was gentle—cautious, even when she made it difficult.
But was that enough? Could anything ever be enough to warrant forgetting what he had done?
Because she could not forget. That was the trouble. The dreams ensured it. The version of herself she had become ensured it. The bitterness that sometimes tightened her chest without warning. The way she still flinched—silently, invisibly—at certain tones, certain gestures, certain words.
Jasper had suffered too—she saw that now.
He had missed the entire span of her pregnancy, the birth of their daughter, and the first seven months of Emmeline's life—her earliest milestones, her first smile, her first laugh.
All because he had believed Charlotte's lies, losing the woman he loved to his own misplaced fury.
And then, worst of all, he had been forced to reckon with the bitter truth: Charlotte was not a victim, but the architect of their ruin.
She had not died, but in a way, he had lost her all the same.
Abigail was grateful that Philip had escaped that trap. That Charlotte's plans to ensnare him had failed.
But none of it erased what had been done.
None of it unmade the pain.
Her hands trembled as she reached for a fresh sheet of stationery. She hesitated—then dipped her pen.
-Jasper,
Here I am, sitting up at night, unable to sleep. Angry.
Angry because I keep thinking of you. Of us. Of all that has happened—and all that you promise in your letters for the future, if only we might find our way back to one another.
Your apologies and promises, though well-aimed, are deflected against the armor I've been forced to wear. You write of our future as though I might forgive and forget—but I cannot forget, Jasper. And because of that, forgiveness feels impossible.
I am awake at this hour because I dreamed again.
Dreamed I was still at Greystone Hollow.
Still lost in that fog, unfit to mother the daughter I love more than my own life.
In the dream, someone else cared for her—because I could not rise from my bed.
And I heard your voice again. The words you spat at me before slamming the carriage door.
I woke gasping.
So, there it is. Your letters, no matter how hopeful, are met by memories that refuse to fade. Even if I could believe in your promises, I am still haunted by your past actions. And as long as those memories linger, how can I ever move forward?
She paused, her heart pounding. She had not intended to write so much—nor so honestly.
But perhaps he needed to hear it.
And perhaps she needed to say it.
With a trembling breath, she signed simply:
—Abigail
She folded the letter, slid it into an envelope, and walked to the door. Opening it as quietly as possible, she stepped into the corridor and walked the short distance to Jasper's chambers. Then, before she could think better of it, she knelt and slipped the envelope beneath his door.
Back in her room, she closed the door silently behind her. Then she climbed into bed—not asleep, not at peace, but unburdened.
Or rather... slightly less burdened.
Tomorrow would come. With more silences. More decisions.
But for tonight, she had spoken her truth.
And for now, that was enough.