Jasper
He set the pen down with a soft exhale, the last of his thoughts settling onto the paper. The words were imperfect, perhaps—but they were honest. And they were hers.
For a moment, Jasper simply sat there, the finished letter before him, his fingers brushing the edge as though it were fragile. Carefully, he began to fold it. In a way, it was fragile. Not the paper itself—but the trust it hoped to earn.
So instead of going straight to Emmeline's room, he made a quiet detour to the breakfast room. Walking to Abigail's usual place at the table—the seat with the view of the garden—he set the letter beside her teacup, where her hand always reached first.
Abigail would be down soon. Every morning, she joined them here—knowing Jasper would bring Emmeline for breakfast after waking. They always ate together. As a family.
The word caught in his chest.
He left the letter there, her name written in his hand, and exited the room as quietly as he had entered.
By the time he stepped into the nursery, Emmeline was beginning to stir from sleep. He lifted her gently, settling into the rocking chair with her nestled against his chest.
For a while, he simply held her. Pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Let the weight of her—the quiet, drowsy warmth—anchor him.
Eventually, she let out a small, impatient sound and began to squirm, eager to start her day. Jasper smiled and rose, carrying her over to get her changed and dressed.
But today, he didn't rush.
Most mornings, he would hurry them both to breakfast—eager to see Abigail. But this morning, he gave her time. Time to find the letter. Time to read it. Time, if she wished, to slip away to her room to leave it there before he arrived.
Still holding Emmeline in his arms, he looked down at her sleepy face and whispered with a grin, "Mama wrote me a letter."
Emmeline giggled at her father's theatrics, her small fingers patting his cheek, and Jasper laughed softly amazed that something so small could bring him so much joy.
Whatever the morning held—whatever she thought of his words—he would wait.
He would show up.
He would keep trying.
And for now, that was enough.
Chapter 42
Today was Emmeline's first birthday.
In the soft light of the nursery, Abigail knelt beside her daughter, fastening the last tiny pearl button on the back of a delicate white lawn gown—fine muslin edged in embroidery and finished with a beautiful aquamarine silk sash that matched her eyes. The gown had been a gift from her mother and father, along with a pair of ivory kid slippers and a silver rattle Emmeline had already tossed beneath the settee.
Abigail smiled faintly as she ran a gentle hand over her daughter's golden curls. In the past few weeks, they'd begun to take shape—soft honey-blonde ringlets that sprang free no matter how carefully she tried to tame them. Today, she'd tied a small ribbon to one side, just enough to keep them from falling in her eyes.
When Abigail straightened, Emmeline caught her finger and tugged insistently. She had begun walking just days ago and seemed determined to walk everywhere now—never mind how slowly or unsteadily.
"All right," Abigail said softly, letting the little girl lead her as far as the nursery stairs.
At the top step, Emmeline paused, looked down, then lifted her arms with perfect trust. Abigail gathered her up and kissed herwarm cheek, breathing in the scent of lavender and something uniquely Emmeline.
They descended together, Abigail's hand firm on the railing, her daughter tucked close. At the landing, Abigail let Emmeline down again, watching her toddle toward the next flight of stairs with bright, eager eyes. Then she carried her the rest of the way to the ground floor.
The Winterset townhouse had awakened early for the occasion. The staff had been bustling since dawn, and the scent of sugared buns and lemon cakes drifted in from the kitchens. Emmeline's laughter echoed softly through the corridor.
The ballroom hadn't seen a celebration since the Winterset Season's End Ball held during Abigail's debut Season. Jasper had danced every set with her. He had proposed the very next day. Now, the same polished floors gleamed once more beneath silken slippers and tiny feet. Garlands of pale spring flowers were strung along the corniced archways, sunlight pouring through the tall windows to touch the crystal with gold.
Jasper was waiting just before the ballroom doors. Abigail adjusted Emmeline in her arms, the baby's soft curls brushing her cheek as she nestled closer. Jasper offered his arm. Abigail took it without hesitation, and together they entered—his Duchess and their daughter, stepping forward as a family.
And at the heart of it all—Emmeline. Their daughter.
