My dearest Abigail,
The fire crackles in my chamber as I write, though its warmth does little to touch the chill I carry inside. A chill I earned.
You once shared with me that you loved the quiet between winter and spring — the hush before everything blooms. Inever understood it until now. There is something sacred in the waiting, in the stillness. Something aching and full of hope.
I cannot say which moment today lingers most — the sound of your voice, steady and calm despite everything, or the way Emmeline smiled up at me, as if she had known me always.
She undid me, Abigail. Completely.
You asked me today if I remembered what I said before leaving you at Greystone Hollow Manor. I told you it haunts me — and it does. The words I flung at you echo often in my mind. I assure you, every last one was a fiction. Crafted not in truth, but in fear and cruelty. Words meant to inflict the deepest wound upon the one person I should have cherished most.
I have many regrets where you are concerned. But loving you — and choosing you — has never been one of them.
I still see you in your blue silk gown at your debut ball. Even now, the memory is clear. That night, I knew I'd found more than a match — I'd found a true partner.
When my parents died, and the ducal title was passed to me, I felt the weight of it settle onto my shoulders. It hardened me. I believed I had to cast off softness and dreams, to live only for duty.
But then I saw you — and I knew. I had only been waiting for you.
I remember the day I asked your father for permission to court you. My voice shook, though I tried to mask it. He must have noticed, because he gave my shoulder a reassuring pat before calling you in and letting me ask you myself. I remember your smile — surprised, almost shy — and how something inside me shifted. The world tilted, just enough to make space for you.
If I close my eyes, I can still see you in the meadow that summer — flowers in your hair, laughter on your lips, thesunlight catching in your eyes. I didn't know then what it meant to hold something sacred in your hands.
I do now.
I find people reveal their truest selves not in grand gestures, but in quiet moments — how they speak when no one listens, how they act when no one sees.
So, this is me, Abigail. Unseen. Unheard. Writing to you by firelight, with only silence for company, hoping that these quiet words carry something true across the distance between us.
Not to persuade. Not to plead. Just... to show you the man who still carries you in his heart — the man you once believed in.
I will write again. Not to demand your attention or forgiveness — only to offer the truth as I live it. I will write until the image of who I was is no longer a ghost, but a memory you can hold without pain.
Give Emmeline my love, if you are willing. And know that in this stillness, I remain —
Yours, in patience and in truth,
Jasper
When he had finished, the fire was little more than a low, glowing ember. The clock chimed half-past midnight.
He folded the letter neatly and sealed it with wax. His hand lingered on the crest as it cooled — then he opened his chamber door and called for a servant.
"See this posted in the morning," he said to the young man who appeared wordlessly at the end of the corridor. The man bowed and took the letter without question.
Jasper waited until the footsteps had retreated down the hall before turning back into his now-dark bedroom. He stared at the hearth for a long while before finally getting into bed, shoulders heavy, the ache in his chest as familiar now as breath.
Sleep came slowly, as it often did. And when it finally overtook him, it brought no peace — only memories.
He dreamed of Abigail's laughter as he spun her across the dance floor at her debut, the way her eyes shone like blue flame beneath the candlelight. He saw her again on their wedding day — luminous, full of wonder, as though the very sun rose and set upon his shoulders.
Then the dream shifted — her face as she stepped into the room of the country inn that night, cheeks flushed with love and nerves, trust written in every delicate line.
And finally, that trust breaking — her expression confused, stricken, and quietly shattered as he stood in the drive of Greystone Hollow, spitting cruel, false words at her. He remembered the way she didn't chase him, didn't cry out after he slammed shut the carriage door — only watched as he drove away, her figure shrinking in the distance until even her silhouette vanished.
And then today — her face composed, her voice even. Distant. Cool.
"Your Grace," she had said, as if they had not known each other for most of their lives.
