The carriage ride to Lord Grantham's estate was quiet. As always, I tried to fill the silence with quiet musings and with stolen glances, wondering what you might be thinking — and suspecting I already knew.
When they announced us at the top of the stairs, every head turned. And you — poised as ever — let a smile touch your lips. No one else would have known it wasn't genuine, but I knew. It was beautiful, yes, but a pale imitation of your true smile.
We danced a waltz, just as we had at your debut. I remember watching you then as we danced
— the girl I had known across the years, a constant thread woven through the fabric of my life, becoming, suddenly, the woman that I knew would be my future.
After the waltz, we danced again — a country dance — before I escorted you to a seat and stepped away to retrieve refreshments.
It was then I heard them.
The whispers behind fluttering fans — speculations spoken as softly as secrets and twice as cruel.
They whispered about last Season. About your absence. About Emmeline. About us.
They questioned my devotion. They wondered aloud if ours had been a marriage of necessity, not affection. That perhaps I had doubted the child was mine. That I had sent you away.
Not one word of blame was laid at my feet. No one questioned my honor, my decisions, my failure. They questioned yours.
I was stunned. Stung. Ashamed.
I turned and gave them a look I doubt they'll soon forget. And when I spoke to the Baron of Haffordshire about the consequences of his wife's continued gossip, he nearly choked on his wine.
But I tell you this not to boast. I tell you this because I am sorry. Because I should have foreseen it. Because every cruel word spoken about you last night was borne of my own choices.
I long for us to move forward, but the past continues to follow — and reopen wounds I caused.
Your parents arrived in town yesterday. I considered inquiring if you wished to stay with them for a few days, but I hesitated, fearing it would undo the fragile progress we've achieved. I worried, too, that you might never return if you left, and that it would also provide the gossips with fresh cruelty to wield.
And so, I will not ask. But if you should choose to leave, I will not decide for you. But I will share a dream, if you will permit me that.
I dream of a day when we no longer sleep in separate rooms — no longer live with locked doors between us.
I dream of your affection given in abundance, of giving Emmeline siblings — of witnessing every milestone I missed with her, of us discovering you are with child together, of watching you grow round with our baby. Of naming them together. Holding them together. Watching them grow together.
I dream of taking you to the villa by the water, as I once promised as our honeymoon destination, and sharing lazy afternoons and unhurried evenings — not as strangers learning to coexist, but as lovers who have found one another again.
I dream of small things — your hand in mine, your laughter beside me, your voice saying my name with warmth again.
These are my dreams, not my expectations. And you owe me none of them.
But I will hold them close all the same.
Yours, with love,
Jasper
Mrs. Rigby folded the second letter as carefully as the others, pressing its creases flat before slipping it into the drawer to join the previous ones. She paused for a long moment, fingers lingering on the drawer pull.
She had once had a husband and two children— twins, a boy and a girl. They had been her everything — until the Lord had seen fit to take them in a house fire while she was away visiting her sister. It had taken her years to find her way back to the living.
But she had not truly felt like herself again until a heartbroken young bride had arrived at Greystone Hollow — and somehow, she had been needed again. Loved again. Welcomed, not as a servant, but as family.
Now Emmeline — the bright, laughing child of the daughter of her heart — filled the empty, scarred chambers of her soul with light. And Abigail — strong and aching and brave — had brought her back to life.
In time, she had grown to care for the Duke and Duchess as well—more than she ever expected.
She had come to think of the three of them — Nathaniel, Grace, and herself — as a team that had, in time, evolvedinto something akin to family. Bound by their devotion to one extraordinary woman and a fierce need to protect her gentle heart, they also shared a quiet hope for Abigail's future happiness. And maybe, just maybe, a hope for something more.
