He reached for her in the dream — but she turned away.
Jasper woke before dawn, the hateful words he'd hurled at her still echoing in his mind, bitter as ash on his tongue. The hearth had gone cold. The silence remained.
Chapter 35
By late February, Bramblewick had fallen into a gentle hush.
Philip and Sophia had departed in mid-January for the Earl of Blackwell's country home, intending to remain there through her confinement. Their child was due in April, sometime near Emmeline's own birthdate. Nathaniel, already looking toward the London Season, had quietly purchased a townhouse for the young couple not far from his own. Grace oversaw its preparation, though Nathaniel had also offered them Bramblewick—or the use of any other Everly estate—should they prefer the country's calm after the birth.
Jasper now came at least twice a week, never at the same hour. One visit might find him present for Emmeline's morning romp in the nursery; another, for her supper or bedtime prayers. His letters arrived just as faithfully—posted or hand-delivered—each filled with recollections of his courtship with Abigail, confessions of regret, small observations about their daughter or about Abigail herself, and careful hopes for the future.
Whether Abigail read every letter Nathaniel could not say: they were always found opened, yet she never spoke of them. Mrs. Rigby—quiet, sure-handed—collected each missive and, at Nathaniel's request, brought them first to him. Satisfied that Jasper's words contained no fresh harm, he returned them toMartha, who tucked them into a bureau drawer in Abigail's chambers, waiting for the day she might seek them out.
That evening Jasper arrived with a well-loved volume of nursery rhymes from his childhood and a shawl dyed the precise aquamarine of Abigail's eyes. Nathaniel overheard him explain that he had written to Roselawn for a trunk of his boyhood keepsakes. The book stirred a soft memory for Nathaniel: Jasper's mother reading by candlelight to both Jasper and Philip long ago.
The shawl, however, Abigail would not accept. "You didn't care if I was warm when you left me in a drafty ruin through winter," she said icily, stepping back as he reached to settle it over her shoulders. "Don't pretend you care now."
Jasper merely folded the shawl over a chair and asked leave to help with Emmeline's bath.
A knock followed soon after.
"Enter," Nathaniel called.
Jasper stepped inside, hair damp, waistcoat sleeves rolled. "Emmeline is clean" —he gave a rueful smile— "and so is half the floor."
Nathaniel's answering smile was faint but genuine. He studied the younger man: the calm movements, the quiet affection that hovered whenever Jasper spoke of his wife or child. It still astonished him—the stark contrast between the man before him and the one who had once abandoned his daughter. It was as if Jasper had fallen under some temporary madness, lost to grief or pride or both. The cold, callous figure Martha had described—the man who had left Abigail at Greystone Hollow after cruelly eviscerating her with words—felt like a ghost now, a shadow eclipsed by this quieter, steadier presence. In his place stood a man both penitent and resolute, one who returned again and again without complaint, never pressing, never demanding forgiveness he had not yet earned.
Philip still would not speak Jasper's name, and Nathaniel understood. He himself was trying to forgive. Jasper had once been dear to him, like a second son. Out of loyalty to an old friend, and love for his daughter and granddaughter, he was making the effort — for Abigail, for Emmeline, and for the memory of the man whose son Jasper was.
"Sir," Jasper began, lingering by the door.
"Sit," Nathaniel said, gesturing to the chair before his desk.
Jasper obeyed, his gaze steady but cautious. "I wanted to thank you," he said after a beat. "For everything. For letting me come. For your patience... your magnanimity. I know I don't deserve your kindness, but I hope you know I'm grateful all the same."
Nathaniel leaned back, hands steepled beneath his chin. "I've known you all your life," he said slowly. "You've always been like a son to me, Jasper. I won't pretend your actions didn't cut deep. You hurt my daughter—my family. But... you've acknowledged that. You've taken responsibility. That counts for something."
Jasper said nothing, but his expression was tense with emotion.
"It's no small thing," Nathaniel went on, "swallowing one's pride. And watching you do what you can to mend what you broke... I respect the effort."
Jasper's throat worked silently, but he said nothing.
"She's not making it easy on you," Nathaniel added, his voice softening, "but I'm glad for that. She deserves to make you earn it. She's been... more present lately. Sharper. Wounded still but not lost. And I think you've had something to do with that." He sighed, rubbing his jaw. He let the words settle, then added, "Abigail makes you earn every inch of ground. I am glad.
Emotion flickered behind Jasper's restraint.
"About London," Nathaniel continued, "have you told her where she is to reside?"
Jasper shook his head. "Not yet. I thought it best to wait—until we were nearer the Season. Until I had a better sense of her comfort."
He hesitated, then added, "I'm looking forward to having both my girls under one roof. I know she'll be upset, but for propriety's sake... it must be done. I intend to proceed as I have begun—in patience."
"She'll go," Nathaniel said simply. "Because it's what's expected. She won't risk her daughter's future over pride. If nothing else, she'll do it for Emmeline."
Jasper nodded once, slowly.
"I agreed to it, for what it's worth," Nathaniel continued. "Legally, you're still her husband. You could have appealed to the courts at any time and insisted she live under your roof."
