Chapter 51
The letter arrived mid-morning, delivered by express and carried directly to the study where Jasper was seated.
After glancing at the return address, he broke the seal before the footman had even closed the door behind him.
It was from his Great-Aunt Eugenia—a terse, unsentimental missive written in her familiar spidery hand.
Charlotte had set a fire in her rooms. The flames had been contained before reaching the main wing, but not before scorching the tapestries and damaging the wood paneling.
One of the footmen had suffered burns putting it out.
Eugenia, ever dry in her wit, had written: "Your sister's decline, it seems, now affects not only her mind but my wallpaper."
Jasper closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, the letter sagging in his hand.
He had known this day would come.
Not long after Eugenia's visit to London in May, when they gathered to celebrate Emmeline's first birthday, Jasper received a letter letting him know Charlotte had manipulated a young groundsman into helping her leave the estate, eventually making her way into town before being discovered and returned.
Since then, she had required constant supervision.
Soon after, Jasper had begun inquiring discreetly with a private asylum in Surrey. A
reputable place, known for both its discretion and its humane care. Since the truth of
Charlotte's lies had been revealed—and her mind had begun its decline—he had clung to the hope that with physicians, nurses, and round-the-clock oversight, she could remain safely at Eugenia's estate in Norfolk.
But it had only delayed the inevitable.
The arrangements were already in place. The institution had been notified. All that remained was to confirm the date of her arrival.
He would write Eugenia tonight.
Charlotte would be transferred within the week.
Jasper folded the letter and set it aside, then moved toward the window, resting one hand on the sill.
Sunlight spilled across the rear garden, warming the lawn in wide, lazy swaths.
Emmeline ran barefoot through the grass, her blonde curls loose and flying, a clutch of daisies in her hand.
Abigail sat nearby, her arm still cradled in a sling, her good hand accepting and arranging the stems their daughter brought her on the blanket she sat upon.
Her shawl had slipped from one shoulder, and in the bright morning light, her dark blonde hair caught gold at the crown like a halo.
He watched her watching their child—her eyes soft, the corners of her mouth lifted in the smallest smile.
Three days earlier, Mrs. Rigby had asked him to watch Emmeline while she took tea with Grace, Sophia, and Abigail. He hadn't asked what was said—wouldn't have pried—but in the days that followed, he noticed the difference.
Abigail had become more watchful.
Not guarded, exactly. But alert. As though she were waiting—not for him to falter, but to prove that he wouldn't. That the man who had once abandoned her in a crumbling ruin would not return. That he had truly become someone else.
He welcomed her scrutiny.
He wanted her to look closely.
He wanted her to see that he was no longer that man—and never would be again.
And Abigail had been... warmer. Not effusive—she hadn't been that since their wedding day, before he'd made the worst mistake of his life—but there was a gentleness to her now that hadn't been there before.
She lingered in conversation, asked after his day, held his gaze a moment longer than she once had.
The afternoon after Mrs. Rigby had gathered the ladies for tea and left him to mind Emmeline, Abigail had joined him on a bench in the gardens.
Her shoulder brushed his—and, for the first time in so long, she didn't draw away.
She let it rest there, leaning ever so slightly, as though being near him no longer hurt quite so much.
And just yesterday, as they strolled with Emmeline darting ahead to chase pigeons, she had slipped her hand into his without a word.
Brief. Gentle.
But real.
He had felt her fingers threaded with his like an echo of who they once were.
They were not healed. Not whole.
But something had shifted.
Out in the garden, Abigail gently tucked a daisy behind Emmeline's ear.
The little girl stood still, her head tilted as her mother adjusted the stem so it peeked out just right.
Then she gathered the blooms Abigail had settled on the blanket and spun in place, arms flung wide, daisies scattering around her like confetti.
Her laughter rang through the garden—bright, ringing, unburdened.
Abigail looked up.
Their eyes met.
She didn't look away.
Jasper's chest ached—not with pain, but with a slow, measured hope. Abigail patted the empty space beside her on the blanket, her head tilted in a wordless invitation.
He tucked Eugenia's letter into his desk drawer and left his study, emerging into the day's warmth.
Emmeline, upon spotting him, squealed and scrambled to gather the scattered daisies. "Papa! Look!" she called, her small hands full of crushed blooms.
"She's been picking them all morning," Abigail said, smiling up at him. "I was hoping to make our daughter a crown, though I'm afraid I'm not much help just now."
He sat beside Abigail and began sorting the flowers Emmeline had collected, fingers nimble from years of muscle memory.
Abigail murmured to Emmeline while he worked, her voice low and fond. "Your papa used to braid garlands for me when we picnicked in the meadow."
Jasper looked up, catching her eye before glancing down at their daughter. "And I've not forgotten how."
He began weaving the stems together, slow and careful, his hands steady as they always were when it mattered. Emmeline sat in front of him, humming tunelessly as she waited, then giggled as he settled the daisy crown atop her golden head.
"Pwetty, Papa?" she asked, tilting her head with hopeful eyes.
He brushed a lock of hair from her brow. "More than pretty. You look like my girl."
Emmeline beamed and turned to show her mother. "Mama! Look!"
Abigail reached for her daughter and kissed her temple. "He did. And it's perfect."
Jasper leaned back on his hands, the garden blooming around them, the air thick with warmth and quiet joy.
A butterfly flitted past, hovering above the crown on Emmeline's head before darting toward the hedge. With a delighted squeal, she leapt up and ran after it, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon on the breeze.
Beside him, Abigail shifted. She leaned her head gently against his shoulder.
Jasper didn't move. He didn't speak.
He simply let the moment settle around him—sunlight on his skin, her weight at his side, and their daughter's joy echoing through the garden.
And for the first time in a long time, he was not thinking about the past.
He was simply—gratefully—here.