He was torn between the ache of yearning and the gnawing guilt of his own cruelty. How many times had he let anger drown out love? How many wounds had he inflicted in the name of pride and punishment?
Was it too late to fix this?
Was it even possible to fix?
The question echoed in his mind as the horses trotted steadily on. Jasper leaned back in his seat, hands clenched in his lap. Theroad ahead was uncertain, but one truth had become painfully clear:
He had once wanted Abigail to hurt — to bleed inside like Charlotte had, likehehad.
Now, he wasn't even sure what he wanted. Just that the bitterness no longer filled the emptiness.
The journey felt eternal, each mile dragging him closer to a place he had never expected to return to — a place he thought long settled.
When he arrived, Greystone Hollow stood quiet. Too quiet.
Eerily still. Abandoned.
He called out, but there was no answer. No staff. No Abigail. No one.
The silence was deafening.
Jasper's heart pounded as he made his way through the deserted halls, unease growing with every step. The air felt wrong, hollow. Room by room, he searched — each one emptier than the last — until he reached the one that must have been Abigail's.
It wasn't untouched. It looked lived in, barely. A faint trace of life still clung to the room. On the vanity sat her brush — the one he had given her during their courtship, its pearl backing catching the dim light. The sight of it struck him like a blow to the chest.
A chill swept through him.
He wandered the house again, but the silence remained. Pressing. Unrelenting. There
were no signs of where the staff had gone. No clues. No answers. It was as if the house
had swallowed them all whole.
Greystone Hollow had been meant as a punishment — a sentence handed down in his rage, for the sins her brother had committed against his sister.
But now... now it felt like the punishment was his.
Abigail's disappearance, just as he had learned the truth, left him paralyzed. He couldn't inquire about her whereabouts without revealing what he had done — that he had sent her there, isolated and shamed, without proof, without compassion.
Karma, he thought grimly. Perhaps this was his penance.
He could only hope she was safe. Somewhere. Somehow.
Chapter 20
The difference between Greystone Hollow and Bramblewick was immediate.
Greystone had been cold and crumbling — its faded grandeur suffocating in its silence. Abigail had spent days wrapped in shadows, the chill of the stone floors seeping into her bones, the weight of abandonment hanging heavy in the air. Even breathing there had felt like a chore.
Bramblewick, by contrast, was warm and quiet — not grand, but gracious. The kind of place where firelight softened the corners and sunlight touched every room. Elegant rugs cushioned her steps, floral wallpaper lent a touch of charm, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. Her parents had said she was coming here to rest, to be cared for. Abigail hadn't argued. She hadn't done much of anything.
When Mrs. Rigby helped her into the waiting carriage, Abigail remained silent.
"I'll be along shortly, Miss Abigail," the housekeeper murmured as she adjusted the lap blanket. "The Duke and Duchess of Everly have offered me a place. A few of us, actually."
Abigail nodded but said nothing.
Now, a doctor — kind-eyed, elderly — murmured quiet instructions while her mother held her hand. She sat on the edgeof a bed she did not recognize, wrapped in a pale blue dressing gown someone had chosen for her.
