"Do you know where your parents are?" she asked. "Are they nearby? Where is home, child?"
For a long moment, there was only the quiet crackle of the fire. Then, at last, Abigail's lips parted.
"Lyndhurst Manor," she whispered. "Browning... my maiden name... Browning."
That was all. Her voice cracked as the words escaped her, and her gaze drifted back to the fire.
It was enough.
Mrs. Rigby felt a heaviness settle in her chest.Lyndhurst Manor.The name rang with old nobility.Browning.A family that belonged to another world entirely—one of wealth, protection, warmth. A world where Abigail should have been. Not here. Not like this.
She rose without another word and sat at her desk. There, by candlelight, she penned a letter addressed to Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Browning. She told them everything—how Abigail had been abandoned at Greystone Hollow after hermarriage to Lord Jasper, and of her steady decline since. She did not dress the truth in pleasantries. The time for delicacy had passed.
She ended the letter with a plea:Come for her. Take her home. If she is expecting, she will need her mother's care. She will need you.
When she sealed the letter, her hands trembled.
"If they know what's best," she whispered, "they will come. She does not deserve this. Not when there's still time to save her."
And with that, the letter was sent, carrying with it all of Mrs. Rigby's hope that Abigail might yet be rescued from the sorrow that had claimed her.
Chapter 16
Nathaniel Browning, the Duke of Everly, sat in the quiet elegance of the west-facing parlor, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hand, his wife Grace opposite him near the window. The early afternoon sun slanted through the lace curtains, casting warm patches across the patterned rug. From their vantage point, they could see Roselawn Manor—Jasper's estate—just across the Gardens.
For weeks now, they had watched the manor with cautious hope, expecting signs of life—of Abigail and Jasper returning from their honeymoon. But Roselawn remained eerily still. No carriage, no fluttering draperies, no sounds of laughter or life. It had been over two months since the wedding, and still, nothing.
Grace had taken to standing at the window more often than usual, worrying the edge of her shawl between her fingers. Their anxiety had only deepened after receiving a letter from Jasper, sent without a return address, stating that Abigail would not be able to attend Philip and Sophia's wedding due to illness. It had been curt, impersonal. Cold.
They had tried writing to the estates the Duke and Duchess of Winterset were known to own, in hopes of locating their daughter. Not a single reply had come.
Philip had confided in his father after the wedding, recounting a strange moment with Jasper the night before the ceremony.Another accusation from Charlotte. She claimed to have lost Philip's child and no longer wished to live. It had rattled Philip—but Jasper had married Abigail the next day, looking every bit the besotted groom. They had assumed the worst had passed.
But now? They weren't so sure.
The footman entered with the day's correspondence. Nathaniel murmured a thank you as he took the tray. Among several items, one envelope stood out—misaddressed to "the Duke and Duchess of Browning." It was from a place called Greystone Hollow. He glanced at it briefly, then moved past it, picking up a letter from his accountant, nodding in acknowledgment at the familiar handwriting.
Grace, however, had taken the odd envelope into her hands and opened it. As Nathaniel began reading about estate matters, her sudden gasp shattered the peace of the room.
"Abigail!" she cried, her voice high and sharp with fear. The letter trembled in her hands. "Oh God—Nathaniel—it's Abigail!"
He dropped the accountant's report and rushed to her side. Her face had gone pale. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
He took the letter from her and began to read, dread pooling in his stomach. The words blurred for a moment, then crystallized into unbearable truth.
“Abandoned. Alone. Ill.”
Abigail had been left at a distant manor with no explanation, no escort. The woman who wrote the letter—Mrs. Martha Rigby—described a slow, devastating decline. His daughter, the light of his heart, had been discarded like refuse by the man who vowed to love and protect her.
He gently but firmly guided Grace to her chambers, summoned her maid, and helped her to bed. Only once she was resting did he return to the parlor to read the letter again. His eyes caught on a sentence he had missed before:
"She has been largely unresponsive.”
And then the final line:
"Come for her. Take her home. If she is expecting, she will need her mother's care. She will need you." —Mrs. Martha Rigby.”
Nathaniel rose with purpose.
