Abigail stared at her luggage, at the seat across from her, at nothing. Jasper's voice echoed in her head.
"Especially for you."
What did that mean? He had always been kind. They had grown up together—he, her brother's friend; she, close to his sister. Jasper had once braided flowers into her hair and told her she was lovely. He had courted her. Kissed her. Promised her forever.
Had it all been a lie?
Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. She could not breathe. Could not move. She did not remember how long she sat like that—only that, at some point, the room was washed in moonlight... and then she blinked and daylight again flooded the room and Mrs. Rigby returned. Her voice was low and soothing, and Abigail let herself be helped from the chair, unfastened from her gown, her hat removed, her hair unpinned.
The dress—she had bought it especially for their journey. Pale lavender, soft silk. She had imagined Jasper admiring it.
Now Mrs. Rigby eased her into a warm bath. The water was fragrant. Abigail was handed a soaped cloth and instructed to wash. She obeyed. Mechanically. She could still hear the woman's voice, but the words didn't land. Her hair was washed, then dried. A fresh nightgown replaced her traveling dress. Her body moved, but her mind drifted far behind.
She returned to her chair. Her hair was brushed and braided gently. Now and then, she glimpsed the woman's face—tender, worried—but the room soon blurred again into silence.
The days that followed became a haze.
Each morning, she was led to a drawing room with faded settees and gauzy light. A fainting couch—chaise longue,perhaps—was placed by the window. There she sat, staring at the road.
The road the carriage had taken when it brought her here.
The road the carriage had taken when Jasper left.
She stared until her eyes burned. Leaves began to change outside—russet, gold, and ochre. Autumn. How long had she been here? Her wedding had been at summer's end...
Every day, Mrs. Rigby would sit with her. Press a cup of tea into her hands. Urge her to eat a bite of bread, a spoonful of broth. She obeyed, sometimes. She drifted.
And always, the questions circled.
Why? Why did he leave? Why say those things?
She thought of his kiss the morning after their wedding. The way he had looked at her. The tenderness in his hands.
And then the way he had waved at the manor—mocking. Detached.
"Especially for you."
She thought of the boy she had known, the man she had loved, the stranger who had abandoned her.
Still, every day, she waited.
Waited to wake from this dream.
Waited for an answer.
Waited for him to return.
Chapter 13
The envelope was heavy, sealed with her brother's wax—firm and deliberate, as though it carried the weight of a decision already made. Charlotte's hands trembled as she broke the seal, she was expecting some reassurance, a promise that Philip would do what he should, that everything would be sorted out. Instead, the letter was far worse.
My dearest Charlotte,
I have made arrangements for you to travel to Great Aunt Eugenia in Norfolk. She has kindly agreed to take you in and see to your care, given your... delicate state. The air will be good for your constitution, and she is experienced in such matters. You will be comfortable, and above all, safe.
I am concerned by the things you said—about not wishing to live. These are not words to be spoken lightly. Grief clouds the mind, but I must ensure you come through this whole. I cannot risk anything happening to you.
It is no longer suitable for you to remain at Roselawn. The Browning’s have made their stance clear, and their indifference speaks volumes. I cannot allow you to stay next door to such coldness.
