Epilogue Ii
The long meadow grass in the fields between Roselawand Lyndhurst swayed in the warm breeze, flecked with wildflowers that bobbed their bright little heads toward the sun.
Somewhere ahead, Emmeline’s laughter rang out, high and bright, a sound so full of joy that Jasper felt it settle deep in his chest, grounding him in a way nothing else could.
He played at searching for her, pretending not to see her blonde curls darting through the grass, until he finally swooped in and caught her, sweeping his daughter into his arms and tickling her until she squealed with glee.
Then the two of them flopped onto the blanket they had laid out in the meadow, and he began weaving daisy chains with slow, careful fingers.
Emmeline sat across from him, mimicking his every move, her tiny tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in fierce concentration, though more often than not she crumpled the flowers in her little hands.
Every so often she abandoned her crown entirely to pluck a fresh flower and press it into his hand with solemn importance, as though adding it were a matter of great ceremony.
Beside them on the blanket, Abigail reclined with her own crown already perched atop her head, one hand resting lightly over the gentle curve of her rounded belly.
She was glowing—there was no other word for it.
Windswept hair, a simple day gown, bare feet in the grass—and yet she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
His wife. The mother of his child. And soon, the mother of their second.
They had first suspected their family would be growing just before Christmas, when Abigail began feeling unwell in the mornings and found herself weeping over the smallest things—a dropped hair ribbon, a song played softly on the pianoforte.
Two months along, the physician had later confirmed with what he called his “best judgment.” Now, six months later, spring had brought with it the promise of new life—a future that, only a year ago, Jasper had thought utterly lost to him.
He tied off the end of his daisy chain and placed it on Emmeline’s head. She squealed in delight, then promptly snatched it off and set it, somewhat lopsided, on his instead.
“Papa,” she said very seriously, her words still rounded with baby softness. “Papa king.”
He laughed, kissing her sun-warmed cheek as Abigail watched on, her smile tender, her eyes full of a love that still undid him. When his gaze met hers, she reached out, brushing her fingers along his wrist, and whispered, just for him, “I love you, Jasper.”
He had been given a rare, precious gift in Abigail’s forgiveness.
For a time, all hope of the future they had once dreamed together had withered and died, leaving nothing but ash.
Now, as he wrapped one arm around his daughter and slipped the other across Abigail’s back, his fingers grazing the gentle swell of her pregnancy, he felt life’s second chance beating strong and sure around him.
With a sudden giggle, Emmeline darted off the blanket, snatching the daisy crown from Jasper’s head and plopping it back onto her own with triumphant glee.
Holding Abigail’s hand firmly, as their daughter’s laughter floated on the breeze and new life stirred between them, Jasper’s heart filled with gratitude. This second chance—a rare and precious blessing—was one he vowed to cherish all his days.