Only madness could explain it. Madness born of grief, of guilt, of a soul unraveling beneath the weight of shame. He had believed himself unworthy — a failed brother, an undeserving husband.
He had imagined his parents' disappointment. Not for loving Abigail — never that — but for daring to love her after Charlotte's accusations against Philip.
Yet now, with the clarity of hindsight, he knew the truth.
They would not have condemned the marriage.
They would have been devastated by what he had done to Abigail.
Even if Philip had done what Charlotte once claimed— his parents would never have sanctioned cruelty.
He needed to see Abigail. He had to try.
At first light, he began making arrangements. Once it was confirmed that the Duke and Duchess of Everly were indeed in residence at the coastal estate Philip and Sophia had traveled to, he instructed his solicitor to secure a lease for a nearby property. His trunk was packed with sufficient personal effects for an extended stay.
His carriage and horses were made ready.
Yet through it all, one thought circled ceaselessly:
Nathaniel and Grace had discovered the truth — that he had abandoned their daughter at Greystone Hollow. They had come for her, spirited her away to a place he had never known them to possess. They had not returned to Lyndhurst. Nor had they gone on to London.
They had vanished — to protect her.
To keep her safe fromhim.
Coming to terms with the fact that his parents' oldest friends had felt compelled to protect their youngest child, their daughter—his wife—fromhimwas awful truth indeed.
But then again, he had no one to blame but himself.
Chapter 23
The wind stirred in slow spirals through the bare branches of Lyndhurst's grand oaks, sweeping flurries of snow across the gravel drive where the carriage stood waiting, its lamps dimmed to slits of golden light. In the distance Roselawn lay cloaked in winter hush, its stone face bathed in moonlight, the windows dark. Philip scanned the estate carefully, searching for any sign of movement — trying to be certain that no one was watching them slip away under the cover of night.
Philip stood beside the carriage, his gloved hand steadying Sophia as she carefully stepped up and settled inside, one hand resting instinctively on the swell of her belly. At nearly five months along, she moved more slowly now, and he fussed over her with quiet diligence.
Behind them, the house remained still. No farewells. No goodbyes. Only the cold hush of snow and the crunch of boots as two footmen carried the last trunk to the to be loaded onto the carriage.
Philip cast one last glance toward Roselawn. "No movement," he murmured, more to himself than to his wife. "We've seen him, but he's not come out in months."
Sophia, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, drew the blanket over her knees. "Then let's not wait for him to start now."
With a whistle to the driver, they were off — wheels rolling slow at first, then gaining momentum as the carriage disappeared into the night, bound for Bramblewick.
By the afternoon of their second day of travel, they arrived — weary but eager — the inn they'd left that morning already a faded memory of restless sleep and hurried meals. The carriage crested a snowy rise overlooking Bramblewick Estate, the bright winter sun glinted off the untouched snow blanketing the lawn. The house stood in the midst of it all, a warm and welcoming beacon after two days marked by tension and secrecy.
As the carriage rolled to a gentle stop, Philip stepped out first, turning to offer his hand to Sophia as she descended carefully beside him. The chill in the air was sharp, but the warmth ahead was unmistakable.
His father, Nathaniel, stood waiting at the doors, with his mother, Grace, beside him—her arms already outstretched.
Smiles lit their faces, and behind them, the front hall glowed with lantern light and the welcoming scent of pine and cloves.
Sophia reached Grace first, Graces hands flying to her daughter-in-law's face, then down to her growing belly. "Oh, my sweet girl," she whispered, tears gathering. "You're finally here."
Nathaniel pulled Philip into a firm embrace. "You made it. No trouble?"
Philip shook his head. "Nothing. Not a soul on the road. Roselawn was quiet when we left — same as always."
Inside, the warmth enveloped them. Servants bustled discreetly, and Mrs. Martha Rigby appeared in the hall to greet them, her kind eyes and flour-dusted apron a comforting sight. She offered tea and biscuits, and Grace quickly agreed, suggesting they be brought to the drawing room so they could enjoy them by the fire.
