Martha stood quietly for a long moment, then reached down and brushed a strand of hair gently behind Abigail's ear. The girl didn't flinch, but her lashes fluttered as though she wanted to cry harder but had nothing left.
"I'll leave a light supper in the sitting room," she said at last. "And some broth. Just in case."
She turned to go, glancing one last time at the unmoved trunks and the still, crumpled bride.
She didn't know what had happened.
But she was determined to stay near until she found out.
Chapter 12
The carriage rumbled gently over uneven ground, wheels crunching against gravel as the sun was high in the sky. Abigail clutched Jasper's hand in her lap, smiling softly as she gazed out at the landscape. They were nearing the coast—he had hinted at it, hadn't he? That they would walk by the sea, perhaps even wade into the tide like children. She had pictured sun-dappled waves, windswept cliffs, and long days wrapped in his arms.
He had been so loving last night. Sweet. Attentive. She still felt the ghost of his hands on her skin, the warmth of his breath on her skin last night, tangled in new beginnings. This was to be the start of everything.
But when the carriage began to slow, her brow furrowed.
A crumbling manor loomed ahead, its stonework half-covered in ivy, its windows weather-streaked and dim. The shutters hung unevenly. The garden was overgrown and wild. And at the top of the steps stood an elderly man in a faded but tidy coat—a butler, perhaps, though hardly what one might expect on arrival at a honeymoon retreat.
Abigail leaned forward. "Jasper... where are we?"
He smiled. But there was something strange in it. Something hollow.
He descended first, then offered his hand to guide her down. With a mocking sweep toward the crumbling estate, he declared, “This, my dear wife, is the home I’ve chosen especially for you.”
She blinked. "I... I don't understand."
"Oh, but I think you do." His tone was calm. Far too calm. "It was all far too easy, Abigail. You believed every word. Every touch. Every look. So convenient. So very foolish."
Her stomach twisted. "Jasper..."
"I've decided Charlotte was right," he said, flicking at a speck on his glove as if bored. "You are not suited to be my duchess. You're too quiet. Too plain. A shadow of what a duchess ought to be."
His words struck like cold steel.
"It's fortunate," he went on, "that most aristocratic marriages function best with a comfortable distance. You'll reside here—it's what you deserve."
"But... why would you say this now?" she whispered. "Why wait until now?"
"Because, in the end, I've decided you weren't worth the effort," he said, stepping back into the carriage. "I no longer wish to be burdened by you. And I will not have you embarrassing me."
Abigail stepped forward. "Please, Jasper—"
"I do not wish to hear another word from you." The door shut with a final thud.
The carriage jolted, turned, and was gone.
Abigail stood frozen, staring at the empty drive.
A soft voice at her elbow startled her. "Come now, dear. Let's get you inside."
She turned to find a kindly woman with silver-streaked hair and weary eyes. "Mrs. Rigby," the woman said gently. "This way. Your trunks will be brought to your room."
She followed because she did not know what else to do.
Inside, the manor was no warmer than its exterior—faded rugs, musty air, dim candlelight. She was led to a chamber where a canopied bed stood beneath fabric dulled by age, the wallpaperaround it yellowed and peeling in places. Her trunks were set down with a thud, and Mrs. Rigby eased her into a chair, murmuring that she might need a moment.
Then the room was quiet.
