In the drawing room, flames crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light on the bookshelves and polished floor. Philip andNathaniel settled into winged chairs, their voices hushed but weighted.
"She's better with the baby than any of us dared hope," Nathaniel said after a pause. "But it's as though... she lives only for Emmeline now. There's little else that reaches her."
Philip leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You weren't sure she'd come back to us at all."
"We weren't," Nathaniel admitted, his voice low. "After the birth, Grace helped Abigail to nurse her. When she looked down at the baby for the first time, she simply said, 'Emmeline.' A name from a novel Mrs. Martha read to her during the pregnancy, apparently. She hasn't let her out of her sight since."
Philip's brow furrowed. "And Abigail herself?"
Nathaniel hesitated. "She's here. But she's not yet whole."
It was near dinnertime when Abigail appeared. The door to the drawing room opened soundlessly, and she stepped in, Emmeline nestled in her arms. The baby's dress was white lace trimmed in red ribbon, a festive bow tied just under her chin. Her wide eyes took in the room with quiet curiosity.
Everyone stilled.
Grace was the first to move, reaching for her granddaughter with practiced gentleness. Abigail allowed it, her fingers lingering on Emmeline's tiny hand a moment longer than necessary. She accepted Philip's embrace, and then Sophia's, her arms holding them in return.
"You look well," Philip said softly, though it wasn't quite true. She looked thinner, paler. But there was a strength there — a mother's instinct, sharp and ever-watchful.
She nodded but said nothing, her eyes already drifting back to her daughter.
After a time, she took Emmeline back and crossed to the tall window overlooking the snow-covered gardens. The firelight behind her turned her silhouette soft and still. Snow driftedlazily from the sky, and Abigail watched it as though it might whisper something back to her if she stayed quiet enough.
Later that evening, as candles burned low and the house quieted for the night, Sophia sat beside Abigail on the drawing room settee. Emmeline had fallen asleep in her mother's arms, one small hand curled in the lace of her gown.
"May I hold her?" Sophia asked, gently.
Abigail hesitated. Her arms tightened almost imperceptibly. But at last, she nodded and passed the baby into Sophia's waiting arms.
Emmeline stirred, blinking up at the new face now holding her. After a moment's study, she smiled — then reached for Sophia's brown curls, her tiny fingers twining in the soft strands before giving them an unexpectedly firm tug. Sophia let out a surprised laugh, her eyes wide. "Goodness, she's strong!" Abigail watched, her gaze lingering on Sophia's middle.
"You're... expecting."
It was not a question, more a realization spoken aloud.
Sophia smiled. "I found out near the end of summer. I'm due in the spring — not far from when Emmeline was born."
A beat of silence. Abigail looked down at her hands.
"That's... nice."
Sophia didn't press. She simply rocked Emmeline gently, letting the silence stretch between them.
Christmas morning came, and Abigail remained largely elusive.
She spent most hours in her rooms. Sometimes, Grace coaxed Emmeline into her arms when Abigail needed a bath or when Mrs. Martha browbeat her into baking — cinnamon pies, cranberry cakes, sugar-dusted biscuits — anything to occupy her mind and, perhaps, remind her of simpler joys.
The house was quiet, but not cold. It hummed with cautious hope.
On the morning after Christmas, a hush fell over the house as snow drifted in fine sheets across the countryside.
Logs snapped in the hearth, and breakfast was still being cleaned up when the knock came.
Three raps — firm, deliberate — on the front door.
A footman, startled by the unexpected visitor, moved to answer.
No one had been expected that day. No deliveries were due from town, and the mail was not running.
