"She's underweight," the doctor said gently, pressing a hand to her abdomen. "But yes, there's no doubt. The child is growing. By your accounts, I would say around three months. Late April-early May, I'd wager, for the birth."
Her mother's hand tightened slightly around hers. Abigail did not return the pressure.
She listened or tried to. The doctor's words came as if muffled, distant.Three months.That was right. Jasper had left the day after the wedding. The child had begun with the marriage and kept growing long after it had ended
People spoke around her — about her — but she could not summon the will to care. It all sounded like echoes from behind a thick pane of glass.
He left me.
The words rang louder than anything else. Clear, cutting, undeniable.
He had courted her. Married her. Told her she was everything he wanted — only to claim, less than a day after exchanging vows, that he regretted it. He left her. Abandoned her at Greystone Hollow with cruel words and colder silence.
Why?
She tried to trace his reasons, to find the moment she'd failed him. Her thoughts wandered to the parties, the laughter, the closeness between their families. Her brother and Jasper had been friends since childhood. What had changed? What had she done wrong?
Perhaps she had never been enough.
What life could she possibly offer a child? And if Jasper discovered she was pregnant... would he care? Would he resent that it washercarrying his heir? If it was a boy, would he come for it? If a girl, would he expect her to bear another?
Would heevercome?
Her thoughts spiraled. Guilt, shame, fear — until the fog took her again. Better that way. Easier. Safer.
Days passed, or perhaps weeks — she barely tracked them. Martha arrived and quietly resumed her place at Abigail's side, slipping into the rhythm of each day as though she had never left. She read to her, linked arms with her for slow walks, or led her to the library to sit before the picture window. She coaxed Abigail into sunlight, into the garden, as the leaves began to bud on the trees. Abigail felt the first fluttering of life within her and began — slowly, languidly — to eat, to walk, to exist. But she did not engage. Words floated past without sticking. Hope felt dangerous. Worse than hearing Jasper had written was the fear that he hadn't. That he didn't care. So she drifted.
Until the night she could no longer ignore her body.
The pain woke her from a dead sleep. A cramping pressure deep inside. Her breath caught, and then the next wave hit — sharp, undeniable.
She gasped. Then screamed.
The sheets were damp. She knew, instinctively, the child was coming.
Martha was first through the door. Then her mother. Panic rose and then was overtaken by something else — something primal. Urgency. Fire. The pain owned her now.
"Call for the doctor!" Martha shouted, steady even in alarm.
There was a cool cloth on her brow. Her mother's voice. The doctor again.
"Push, Lady Abigail. Push."
The world narrowed into pressure and pain and sound. Then —
A cry.
A squalling, furious cry. And then warmth — a weight placed on her chest.
"It's a daughter," the doctor said.
Her daughter.
Abigail blinked, staring down at the tiny creature. She was wrinkled and flushed, mouth open in outrage, fists clenched as if already ready to fight the world. A daughter.
She felt her gown lifted. The baby's mouth found her breast and began to suckle.
Tears stung her eyes. Not sadness, not quite. Just... everything. Overwhelming.
