I fear I have become a stranger to you — a ghost wearing the face of someone you once trusted. And yet, the man who asked you to dance at your debut... who asked to court you the very next day because he could not imagine walking away from something so luminous. The man who danced with you underlanterns, who braided wildflowers into your hair that spring afternoon near the Heath, who held your hand too tightly in Hyde Park because he could not bear to let it go — he was real. He is still real.
And he still loves you.
But I failed you. Utterly. When you needed the best of me, I gave you my worst.
I cannot change what has passed. I cannot erase what I did. But I can be present. I can be honest. And I can write to you— not because words can fix what I shattered, but because they are the only way I know to lay myself bare. To hand you the truth, piece by piece, in hopes that you might one day recognize me again. Not a version I want you to believe in — the truth of me. Of who I was. Of who I still am. And who I hope still to become.
And I will write, too, because of her.
Emmeline.
She took my finger in her tiny, damp hand today — curled her fist around it like it belonged to her, as if we'd never been apart. She smiled at me. Without hesitation. Without fear. Clutching that little rag doll I gave to her like it was the finest treasure in the world.
She does not yet know who I am. And I do not deserve the way she looked at me. But I want to. I want to be the kind of man who earns that smile a thousand times over. Who earns the right to be her father in every sense.
I will come to Bramblewick when I am told I may to see both you and her. You owe me nothing, Abigail. But I owe you everything.
Until you feel, without hesitation, that you know who I am — I will keep writing. Because you deserve that clarity. Because she deserves a father who is no longer hidden behind shame. And because I love you.
I hope these words might one day begin to soothe the jagged edges of your heart, the very wounds I inflicted. I know I do not deserve the chance — but I am asking for it nonetheless.
Still. And always.
Yours in all humility,
Jasper
He signed his name and set the pen down.
For a long moment, he remained there, hands clasped, brow resting against the backs of his knuckles. The fire crackled softly behind him. Somewhere down the hall, someone closed a door.
Then, with slow precision, he folded the page, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it with his ring.
It would be posted immediately.
Whether Abigail read it or not, she would receive it. And perhaps — if he was very lucky — someday she would believe that somewhere in the hollow of his chest, that same man still lived.
The one who had seen her at her debut ball and known, in a heartbeat, that she was the beginning and end of everything.
Chapter 33
Two days after Lord Jasper's visit, Mrs. Martha Rigby sat in the nursery with Abigail and little Emmeline. The midday sun filtered through the frosted windows, casting a pale glow across the wooden floor, the light muted by the first flakes of snow drifting down beyond the glass.
Martha's hands moved steadily with her needlework, but her eyes strayed often to where Abigail sat on the rug with Emmeline nestled in her lap. The young mother's voice was soft as she hummed a nursery tune, her fingers absently threading through her daughter's curls. Emmeline clutched her beloved rag doll — the one her father had given her during his recent visit. In just two days, it already bore the unmistakable marks of her fierce affection: food stains on its bonnet, one damp corner from drooling, and several fine wrinkles in the skirt from constant hugging. Martha had attempted to wash it that morning, only to be met with such a mournful cry of protest that she'd backed away, chuckling softly as she left it be.
It had been a peculiar few days since Lord Jasper's reappearance. The household, though outwardly unchanged, had shifted. It was quieter now. Watchful. A letter had arrived only hours after he left — addressed to Abigail in his familiar hand. Martha, though curious, had waited until the following morning to give it to her. Abigail had read it in silence, thenmoved through her day with the same quiet detachment, her expression unreadable. She had not mentioned its contents.
But she'd left the letter behind — on the library settee, its seal already broken. Whether by accident or quiet intention, Martha couldn't be sure. And though she knew better than to pry, something in Abigail's face that morning had unsettled her deeply enough to justify reading the words left behind.
The longcase clock chimed from the hall below — twelve sharp.
Martha looked up, her stitching forgotten. Nathaniel and Grace had spoken with her earlier that morning, pulling her aside to inform her that Lord Jasper would be arriving at noon to dine with Abigail and Emmeline — just the three of them, in the morning room. The visit, it seemed, had been agreed upon.
"It's time for lunch, my dears," she said gently.
Emmeline squealed at the mention of food and bounced against her mother's lap. Abigail smiled faintly, kissed her daughter's cheek, and stood, lifting the child easily onto her hip.
"Let's go eat, my darling," she murmured.
