Now seated on opposite sofas near the hearth, Abigail stirred her tea slowly, deliberately. Jasper sat across from her, his own cup untouched. Emmeline lay curled at her mother's side, the rabbit tucked beneath her chin, the doll clutched in one small fist, already half-asleep.
He watched them for a long moment before speaking again.
"I hope I'm not intruding by being here."
"You were invited," she said evenly, her spoon still circling her cup.
"But how do you feel about it?"
She met his gaze directly. Steady. Clear. "It hardly matters how I feel. You are my husband. And Emmeline's father."
"It matters to me." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I want to be welcome. I want to do better. If you're willing... I'd like us to work toward something real. A future — the one we used to talk about."
Abigail's hand stilled in her cup.
He pressed on. "I know I've made mistakes. But if we could somehow find a way past all of it... maybe we could still have the life we dreamed of. Back when we were courting. When we were engaged."
There was a long pause.
Then the quiet clink of metal on porcelain. Abigail had let the spoon slip from her fingers.
She looked up slowly.
"What you said to me," she said quietly, her voice clear, "the day after our wedding — at Graystone Hollow. Do you remember?"
Jasper's mouth tightened. "Yes. I hear those words in my head often. What I did... haunts me. It's my greatest regret. I would give anything to take it back."
She continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "You said it was fortunate that most aristocratic marriages function best with distance. That I was too quiet. Too plain. A shadow of what a duchess ought to be."
He closed his eyes.
"You said Charlotte was right. That I wasn't suited to the title."
Her voice didn't rise. She wasn't angry. She was simply stating the truth. And in a way, that unnerved him more than rage might have.
"So perhaps," she said, "you were right. Perhaps we are fortunate. Because I would never wish to embarrass, Your Grace."
She rose then, lifting Emmeline into her arms with practiced care.
"I will not keep you from seeing your daughter," she said as she turned toward the door. "But I will not pretend we are something we are not."
"Abigail—" he said, standing abruptly.
She paused in the doorway and looked back.
"Words are easy," she said. "But trust, Jasper, is earned. And what you broke won't be repaired over lunch."
Then she turned and walked away — her daughter safe in her arms, her spine straight, her silence louder than fury.
Jasper was left alone in the morning room, the scent of tea and orange peel still hanging in the air... and the echo of a future he might have had ringing in his ears.
Chapter 34
Jasper had returned many hours earlier, and yet the memory of Abigail's cool composure and Emmeline's quiet wonder wouldn’t leave his mind. He had tried to read. Tried to pace. Tried to pour himself into the ledgers waiting patiently on the corner of his desk. But nothing held.
Nathaniel had spoken with him before he left. Not formally, not sternly — just a quiet exchange in the hall as the afternoon sun spilled through the high windows of the drawing room nearby, casting long beams across the polished floor. He had asked if Jasper might like to join Abigail and Emmeline in the nursery during their time together in two days' time. Jasper had agreed before the older man could finish. The invitation had been unexpected — a small mercy.
Now upstairs in his room, the fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the modest chamber. Jasper sat at the small writing desk tucked beneath the window, a half-filled tumbler of brandy untouched at his elbow, and a sheet of paper laid before him. His hand hovered over the inkwell, the pen's nib glinting in the firelight.
