He shook his head.
"Once Charlotte admitted everything, I left at once. I rode to Graystone Hollow to beg your forgiveness."
He paused.
"But when I arrived, it was empty. Deserted. You were gone."
And thus he returned to the first truth he had confessed—that he had hired an investigator to aid him in his search. He had moved into Roselawn, trusting that proximity to Lyndhurst—and to Philip and Sophia—might grant him some glimpse of Abigail or her parents. Some clue as to where she had gone. Then just before Christmas, he saw Philip and Sophia's carriage leave late at night and, desperate, had it followed.
Now he stood slowly, crossing the room to kneel at her feet.
He looked at Emmeline, who was chewing on the hem of her doll's dress. His eyes filled with tears.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, voice breaking.
Emme reached toward him, baby-curious, and Abigail tensed instinctively—but didn't pull her away.
Jasper extended a finger, and Emmeline wrapped her drool-covered hand around it. Jasper smiled through his tears, looking at his daughter.
"I'm so sorry, Abigail," he said, turning his gaze to her. "When I saw you at your debut, I knew you were my forever. And still, I believed a lie. I left you. Pregnant. Alone. I deserve to be on my knees until the end of my days."
She said nothing.
"My sister is not well," he added after a moment. "She's violent, manipulative... unpredictable. She behaves almost childlike—demanding things with the voice of a toddler and expecting the world to give in. She's kept under constant care now. Specialty nurses. Maids. All under our great-aunt's roof."
He looked into Abigail's eyes.
"I thought I was honoring my duty to her. But I see now—I only shamed my duty to you. My parents would have been horrified at what I did."
His voice dropped.
"I don't expect forgiveness. But I needed to tell you the truth. You deserved that much. And I beg you... please don't send me away."
Abigail looked past him. She had listened, but not all the words had stayed. Some drifted past her like wind.
She stood slowly, adjusting Emmeline in her arms. The baby let go of Jasper's finger without protest.
"It's time for Emme's lunch," Abigail said, announcing it to the room flatly. "We'll retire to my room."
Jasper remained kneeling.
She paused at the door. "Good day, Your Grace," she added, not turning to look at him—her voice distant.
As she walked out, she passed a servant in the hall and asked for porridge with fruit to be brought to her room for Emme's lunch.
Outside her door, Mrs. Rigby waited, her eyes full of concern. Abigail said nothing, brushing past into the quiet sanctuary of her room. She sat silently until Martha arrived with the tray.
Emmeline reached eagerly for Martha, and Abigail relinquished her—reluctantly. The older woman settled the baby easily and began feeding her, smiling and murmuring something silly that made Emme giggle.
Abigail turned toward the window.
The winter sun shone bright in the otherwise clear sky. No clouds. No snow. Just sharp light—harsh and brilliant.
Behind her, Emmeline laughed, soft and content. Martha responded with cheerful nonsense.
And Abigail sat still. Staring.
Her daughter was safe. Nearby. Loved.
