Jasper stood by the window of his study, gazing out at the water below, though his thoughts were far from the serene landscape. Charlotte had arrived safely at their Great Aunt's home, but the reports since her arrival had been far from reassuring. She had not taken well to the change of scenery, nor had she accepted the separation from her life at Roselawn with the grace he had hoped for.
The letters from Great Aunt Eugenia's estate had been difficult to read. The staff had been displeased with Charlotte's behavior—impertinent, defiant, and, worst of all, confrontational. How could she act so recklessly when her future was in his hands? He had been forced to write again, a letter he had dreaded sending.
His message to Great Aunt Eugenia had been brief, but its intent was unmistakable: halt Charlotte's misbehavior immediately. He had warned Charlotte that if the disruptions continued, he would cease sending funds for her frivolous spending. There was no room for negotiation. He had made his decision, and Charlotte's actions would not sway him. She would not get the better of him. Not this time.
The burden of everything that had transpired in recent months weighed heavily on him. The decision to leave Abigail at Greystone Hollow had been agonizing, but necessary. He had not written to Mrs. Rigby, the manor's caretaker, because hefeared he would cave—he feared he would turn back and beg for Abigail's forgiveness. He had been weak before. Not anymore.
For weeks, he had been lost in restless contemplation, questioning why Philip had done what he had. Philip had used Charlotte, promised her things he never intended to fulfill, and then abandoned her without a second thought. He had ruined her, and in doing so, he had forced Jasper into an impossible position.
Didn't Philip think of his own sister when he dallied with Charlotte? Didn't he care about the consequences of his actions? Or had he been blinded by his own desires, too selfish to consider how his behavior would destroy everything? Charlotte's heartbreak had left Jasper cornered, and now both their sisters were suffering for it.
The weight of his sister's downfall loomed over him, but it was nothing compared to the guilt that gnawed at him regarding Abigail. He had thought of her constantly, yet no resolution had come. He had written to her parents, extending as much courtesy as he could muster, informing them that neither he nor Abigail would attend Philip and Sophia's wedding. Stating that Abigail had been unwell, and he had no intention of leaving her side. He didn't want to stir suspicion over their absence before he had reached a permanent decision regarding Abigail.
Jasper was still mourning the loss of the life he had envisioned with Abigail. He had loved her deeply, and the devastation Philip had caused shattered the bright future they had planned—the love, the children, the travels, the togetherness. His plans with her had crumbled, and now he was left to confront the cold reality of what remained. There was no future for him and Abigail. No reconciliation. They had been doomed the moment Philip had treated Charlotte like little more than trash. Jasper could see no way forward that didn't involve further dishonor.He couldn't bear the thought of a future where he and Abigail lived as husband and wife.
The very thought of Abigail in his presence now, after all that had happened, made him shudder. The affection he had once felt for her was buried, replaced with bitterness—perhaps even resentment. He could no longer offer her the love she deserved.
At that moment, he was staying at the house he had once planned to take Abigail to on their honeymoon. It should have been a sanctuary, a place where they could begin their life together. Or so he had hoped. But now, it felt hollow. The beauty of the place, once something he had imagined enjoying with her, was lost on him. Every corner reminded him of the life they could have had—the future he had imagined with Abigail by his side.
There was no way he could have returned to Roselawn without Abigail with him, without her parents noticing her absence. He couldn't see himself ever being comfortable there again, not with how he saw it now.
He had ensured that the manor where Abigail now stayed had enough funds to last through the winter and into spring. It was a remote location, far from society's comforts, and the closest town was a considerable distance away. He could already picture the difficulties: the cold, the drafty halls, the struggle to keep the fires going in the winter. It would not be easy. But it was no longer his concern.
Jasper had washed his hands of Abigail. It was his right. As the head of his household, he had the final say in these matters. Both Charlotte and Abigail were legally his responsibility now, and neither of them had a choice but to accept the path he had set before them. Both women had trusted the wrong men, and now they would both have to bear the consequences.
The decisions had been made. There was no turning back. He had no time for second-guessing or sentiment. They would learnto accept their fate, just as he had learned to accept his own. And as for his marriage to Abigail—it had never truly existed in the way he had hoped. No, it was too late for that. There would be no reconciliation, no coming back from the chasm that had opened between them.
He suddenly felt a familiar weight—the same weight he had felt when the Dukedom had first passed to him after his parents' death, as if the world rested squarely on his shoulders. He had once hoped for a companion, a partner to share in his responsibility. But now, he accepted that he would never have that.
Just as Charlotte and Abigail had to learn to accept the reality of their circumstances, so too did he.
Chapter 15
Two and a half months had passed since Abigail arrived at Greystone Hollow. The weather had grown cooler, and the trees that once blazed with the vibrant colors of autumn had shed their leaves. Now, the grounds and gardens lay beneath a quiet carpet of amber and rust. Mrs. Rigby had always found comfort in the rhythm of the changing seasons, but this year, the onset of autumn brought with it a deep sense of unease. Winter would come soon—and with it, a chill she feared Abigail could not endure.
Abigail had remained largely unresponsive during her time at the Manor. At first, she had been distant, withdrawn in her grief, but not completely lost. She had spent her days in the drawing room, gazing out of the window at the road leading to the house. She would sit so still, just watching—waiting, Mrs. Rigby suspected, for Lord Jasper to arrive and retrieve her.
But that had stopped a month ago. Abigail no longer sat at the window, no longer showed any interest in the world beyond the manor walls. It was as though she had given up hope entirely, as though the last thread tying her to the life she'd once known had frayed and snapped. Mrs. Rigby, who had lived and worked at Greystone Hollow for many years, recognized the signs all too well. The light in Abigail's eyes had dimmed. The fragile hope she had clung to had all but disappeared.
And now, the physical changes were undeniable. From the moment she arrived, Abigail had eaten little— picking at her meals without interest. But lately, even that effort had ceased. Her portions grew smaller and smaller, until they were barely a mouthful. Her cheekbones had grown sharp, hollowing her once-soft face. She looked ghostly—like a fading memory of herself.
Mrs. Rigby had seen illness before. She had nursed others through sickness and sorrow. But this felt different. This felt like something quietly stealing Abigail away. One of the maids had voiced a suspicion: that Abigail might be with child. Mrs. Rigby had brushed it off at first, unable to reconcile the idea with the pale, fading girl before her. But the possibility had begun to take root. If Lord Jasper had truly made Abigail his wife in every sense of the word, then he had not only abandoned her—but done so with unimaginable cruelty.
A decision had to be made. Mrs. Rigby considered calling for a doctor, but their resources were meager. They had only been given enough funds to last until mid-spring, and a physician's visit could cost more than they could spare. Still, Abigail's condition could not be ignored. If she was ill—if she was with child—she needed care. Real care. Not the limited comfort an old housekeeper could offer.
That was when Mrs. Rigby thought of Abigail's family.
She had heard whispers among the staff—rumors that Abigail was the daughter of a Duke, her mother a Duchess. It had seemed improbable at first, but Mrs. Rigby had seen enough of the girl's grace and refined manners to suspect there was truth to it. If her parents could be found, perhaps they could intervene. Surely, if they knew what had become of their daughter, they would come for her. Surely, they would not leave her to suffer alone in a half-empty manor on the edge of nowhere.
She began asking discreet questions among the staff. No one knew much. Just murmurs—noble birth, a titled father, a life far above this one. With no solid answers, she realized she would have to ask Abigail herself.
That evening, Mrs. Rigby stood outside Abigail's door for a long moment before entering. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting weak orange light over the room. Abigail sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders stooped, her eyes fixed blankly on the dying embers.
"Miss Abigail," Mrs. Rigby said softly as she stepped into the room, "I need to ask you something important. I hope you'll forgive me, but I believe it may help you."
There was no answer.
Mrs. Rigby approached gently and sat beside her. Abigail didn't flinch or draw away, only stared.
