He had murdered something sacred.
Abigail's light.
Her trust.
And maybe—if he was too late—her love.
Chapter 29
The door clicked softly behind Philip as he left to fetch Abigail. In the hush that came after, Grace unknowingly wrung her hands in her lap. Beside her on the couch, Nathaniel reached over and gently threaded his fingers through hers, stilling the motion. The morning room had never felt so suffocating.
Jasper sat stiffly in his chair, shoulders coiled with tension, gaze locked on the door. He hadn't spoken much since he arrived that afternoon, but the silence between them now was louder than any argument. Grace didn't look at him. She didn't trust herself to.
Then—finally—the latch lifted again.
Abigail entered quietly, head bowed, cradling a sleeping Emmeline in her arms. Philip, ever mindful, stayed close but gave her room, guiding her only as far as the chair placed with deliberate thought near the door—ensuring she wouldn't feel confined.
Jasper stood abruptly, as though yanked to his feet by an invisible string.
"Abigail," he whispered.
She sat slowly, movements careful and measured, her gaze fixed downward as though the weight of the room was too much to meet. She didn't look at anyone. Not Grace. NotNathaniel. Certainly not Jasper, whose eyes—now glistening—hadn't strayed from her since the door opened.
She wasn't being rude. Grace knew that. If anything, this was the most present Abigail had seemed in months. It was as though the only time the fog in her mind ever lifted was when she looked at Emmeline. And it broke her heart.
Emmeline stirred faintly in Abigail's arms, but didn't wake.
Jasper remained standing, eyes fixed on her. Then he cleared his throat.
"I need to be honest," he began hoarsely. "Once I realized Abigail was no longer at Greystone Hollow... I hired a private investigator to find her.
"We didn't have any luck. Not until just before Christmas, when I saw Philip and Sophia preparing to leave town. I contacted the investigator, and he sent one of his runners to follow your carriage."
Abigail didn't move. She didn't blink. She might as well have been carved from marble.
"So now you know how I found you," Jasper said. He paused, the weight of what came next gathering in his throat. "But there's more. After I arrived, I came across the runner—he'd remained in town in case further instructions came. He shared what he'd learned."
Jasper hesitated. His voice dropped.
"He said one of the townsfolk he'd spoken to reported that Abigail was usually seen pushing a pram. And another claimed that the Duke and Duchess introduced the child as their grandchild." He continued quickly, as though rushing toward something heavier.
"I suspected there might be a child. Before I came here today, I went to the local seamstress and picked up a doll... for Emmeline." He stumbled slightly over her name.
From inside his coat, Jasper drew a soft rag doll with brown yarn curls framing a smiling face. It wore a delicate white lace bonnet and a pale pink frock with little embroidered roses.
Grace's breath caught as she watched him hold it carefully and begin moving toward Abigail's chair, clearly intending to place it on the table beside her.
Abigail hadn't looked at him—hadn't moved, hadn't spoken.
But when Jasper was within reach and extended his arm to set the doll down, Abigail startled.
She recoiled all at once—her entire body flinching like someone struck. Emmeline cried out, roused from sleep by the sudden jolt, her face scrunching as she wailed.
Jasper froze mid-step, the doll still outstretched in his hands.
But Abigail... she lifted her eyes. And for the first time since entering the room, she looked directly at Jasper.
It wasn't warmth, nor was it hatred—it was stunned, unreadable, brittle. But it was something.
