"Ready the carriage," he told his butler. "We leave at dawn for Greystone Hollow. Pack for the road. Send riders ahead to the Hawthorne Inn to have horses prepared for exchange—we will need to ride through the night."
He roused his wife early the next morning. Grace was quiet, pale, her face composed with grim determination. They traveled through the day and into the night, stopping only to change horses. Neither spoke much—each lost in fear and worry.
By late afternoon the following day, the carriage rolled to a stop before the aged manor. Nathaniel was appalled that his Abigail had been forced to live in such derelict conditions. Martha Rigby met them at the door, her face lined with concern and exhaustion.
"Your Graces," she said, curtsying. "Please, come in."
"Take us to her," Grace said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Martha led them through the halls to a chamber on the second floor. Abigail sat in a chair by the window, her gaze unfocused, hands folded in her lap. A tray of untouched food rested nearby.
Grace knelt before her daughter, her hand trembling as she reached out. Nathaniel crouched beside her, his heart breaking.
"Abigail," Grace whispered.
But there was no response.
Thin. Silent. Lost.
They left Abigail in the care of a maid, asking that her belongings be packed, and followed Mrs. Rigby to the sitting room. Martha poured tea and quietly recounted all that had transpired since Abigail arrived at Greystone Hollow. There had been nothing—no letters, no inquiries—only silence and a slow,heartbreaking decline. Lord Jasper had left just enough funds to sustain the household until mid-spring, but with Abigail so unwell, Martha feared that calling a doctor would exhaust what little remained. Jasper had given no forwarding address, no way to reach him to ask for more.
When she finished, Nathaniel looked to his wife.
"We'll take her to Bramblewick. Jasper doesn't know of it, and it's quiet. Safe."
"Would you and the staff here consider entering our employ and coming with us?" he asked Martha. "We have housing near the estate for all who serve in our household, and we'd be grateful to have trusted people by our side."
Martha's eyes welled up. "Yes, Your Grace. As you can see, our manor has been all but forgotten. Before Abigail was brought here, we hadn't seen a visitor in almost a decade. All of us—except Mr. Arnold, our butler—will likely be interested in your offer. He plans to retire and be with his grandchildren nearby."
"Of course," Nathaniel said with a nod. "We will leave with Abigail at first light. Then in three days' time, two of our carriages will return for anyone who wishes to join us."
Nathaniel and Grace rose and followed Martha down the hall to a guest room she had prepared in case they came after receiving her letter. As they passed Abigail's doorway, Nathaniel paused. The door was ajar, and through the opening he could see her, still seated, unmoving. A maid knelt beside her, gently braiding her hair back from her face. A basin of water sat nearby, a cloth resting on its edge.
A knot tightened in his chest.
These strangers had shown his daughter more care than the man who had sworn to cherish her. He owed them his gratitude. Their worry was etched into every gesture, every glance toward Abigail.
Nathaniel's thoughts swirled with disbelief. Jasper—his childhood friend's son, the boy he had watched grow and once trusted—had abandoned his Abigail. Left her like this. His failure as a father stung bitterly.
But he would not allow her to be failed again.
Not again.
Chapter 17
The honey-gold sunlight of late autumn filtered gently through the tall windows of the countryside manor, warming the elegant tapestries and polished floors of the estate Sophia's father had gifted them for their honeymoon. Nestled between quiet hills and ancient, whispering trees, the house had been the perfect retreat for the past month and a half—peaceful, romantic, and far removed from the clamor of society.
But even amid the tranquil gardens and hushed halls, Abigail lingered in their thoughts.
Philip sat at the writing desk in the library, pen idle in hand, his gaze drifting to the window where he watched Sophia walk through the gardens just outside. He reread the letter his parents had sent before his wedding. In it, they explained that Abigail had fallen ill and could not attend the ceremony. The news struck him as odd—her absence, the brevity of Jasper's explanation, the lack of a return address for his parents to respond to, and the silence that followed. A few weeks later, his parents had sent another letter, revealing they had written to every estate they had known associated with Jasper's family to inquire about the couple, but they had received no reply.
Philip had tried to convince himself there was a simple answer—an extended honeymoon, perhaps, or an unplanned trip abroad—but the unease had festered. After his final conversation with Jasper, just before the wedding, a seed ofdoubt had taken root. Jasper had seemed... different. Uneasy. Distant.
And now, the silence was beginning to scream.
A footman entered the room, offering a sealed letter on a silver tray. "From His Grace The Duke of Everly, my lord. Marked urgent."
Philip broke the seal at once. The letter was from his parents.
