They descended the staircase slowly, Abigail's free hand trailing lightly along the polished banister. Sunlight glinted off the tall windowpanes, casting golden streaks across the floor. Her steps were measured. Composed. Her skirts whispered softly with each descent.
At the entrance to the morning room, Abigail paused.
The table had been set. Crystal gleamed, silver shone, and a modest floral arrangement rested at the center.
Jasper stood near one of the sofas by the hearth but straightened the moment he saw them. His eyes moved quickly — first to Emmeline, then to Abigail, then back again. He looked uncertain, his posture stiff with restraint, as though bracing himself against hope.
"Good afternoon, Abigail. Emmeline," he said quietly, offering a respectful bow.
Abigail inclined her head. "Your Grace."
The formality in her voice was unmistakable.
She crossed the room with composed grace. Jasper moved quickly to pull out a chair for her. She hesitated only a moment before sitting.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, soft but distant.
Jasper blinked at the title. It stung more than it should have, but he made no protest. Instead, he took the seat opposite her. "Please... I wish you'd call me Jasper, sweetheart."
Her eyes lifted sharply. She didn't flinch — didn't gasp — but the air between them shifted. Tightened. He couldn't tell if her reaction was to the name or the endearment.Sweetheart— a word he had once used so often, when she would blush and lean toward him without realizing she had done so.
Now, she was still. Composed. Almost unreadable.
Emmeline, mercifully unaware, babbled to her doll. Jasper reached into his coat and pulled out a soft grey rabbit — clearly handmade and carefully stitched. He placed it on the table between them.
Emmeline's eyes lit up. With a delighted squeal, she snatched it up, hugging both toys tightly and bouncing in Abigail's lap with glee.
Abigail glanced at the toy, then back at Jasper. Her expression didn't change.
Lunch began in silence. Trays were passed; portions shared. Emmeline chattered happily to her new companions — the doll and the rabbit — her joy the only warmth at the table.
Jasper cleared his throat. "How are you both today?"
"We are well," Abigail replied, her voice polite, cool.
He nodded, trying to push past the discomfort. "Did you receive the letter I sent?"
"Yes."
He waited. Nothing more came.
"I meant what I wrote," he said quietly.
She didn't answer. Instead, she shifted Emmeline gently and offered her a piece of soft potato.
He studied them — the easy way she held their daughter, the serene joy in Emmeline's face.
"Our daughter is amazing, Abigail. You've done an incredible job with her."
"She is a joy," Abigail said, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
"She's remarkable," Jasper murmured. "She has your eyes."
Abigail glanced at him, surprised. "And your chin."
He chuckled softly; the sound tinged with something wistful. "Yes... I noticed that."
The rest of the meal passed in near silence — the clink of cutlery, the soft crackle of the fire, Emmeline's occasional giggles. When the dishes were cleared, tea was brought in, accompanied by shortbread and sugared fruit.
