Friends and family had gathered to celebrate the first birthday of Lady Emmeline Finch.
They moved slowly through the room at first, greeting well-wishers and introducing Emmeline to a few familiar faces—friends of Jasper's, Abigail's, and their parents'. Though she could not possibly understand the significance of the day, Emmeline accepted each new greeting with delight, waving and babbling as if she had been born to it.
Abigail's parents, the Duke and Duchess of Everly, had arrived earlier and now stood near the far end of the ballroom.
Jasper's great-aunt, Lady Eugenia, had made the journey down from Norfolk and would remain with them for another two days. She'd declared Emmeline to be "the image of a Finch," and then had promptly stolen her away for a long cuddle beneath the rose-draped garlands.
Abigail's mother, too, took Emmeline for a time, chatting fondly with Mrs. Rigby and occasionally pausing to speak with friends and family who approached. The little girl basked in it all, tugging on whatever ribbon or ruffle caught her eye.
Music drifted from a trio in the corner—a soft waltz, then a lively country reel. Jasper had engaged a small ensemble for the day, not to fill the room with sound, but to make it feel alive.
When Emmeline was happily distracted, Jasper turned to Abigail. "Will you dance with me?"
She hesitated just long enough to feel the echo of old heartbreak, then nodded. "Yes."
He held her lightly, carefully—but she felt every place their bodies touched. As the music swelled, he guided her through the steps of the same dance they'd shared at her debut.
"You still remember it," she said.
"I couldn't forget if I tried."
They moved together through the crowd—not quite the center of attention, but not unnoticed either. A few older ladies whispered behind fans. The younger ones watched with thinly veiled envy. But Jasper's gaze never left her face.
When the dance ended, he bent low, brushing a kiss over the back of her gloved hand.
"I'm glad you remember," he said softly. "The memory of that dance has kept me warm on colder days than I care to admit. And I'm glad it meant something to you too."
Chapter 43
A great deal had changed since Emmeline's birthday.
In the days that followed the celebration, something had quietly begun to shift between Jasper and Abigail. He caught her smiling more often—and not the brittle, guarded smiles she once wore like armor, but real ones. Warm. Soft. When their eyes met, her smile didn't vanish. Sometimes, she even spoke first when they shared a meal. And more than once, she laughed—at his stories, at his gentle teasing. The sound was soft and fleeting, but it stayed with him long after it faded.
It wasn't everything. But it was more than he'd dared hope for.
She still only wrote to him in response to his letters, but each one had grown longer, less formal, more familiar. Then, that morning, he received something unexpected: a letter from her entirely unprompted.
A single page. A few neat lines in her steady hand.
She had written to tell him he was a good father.
She said it was clear how deeply he loved their daughter—and that she, Abigail, was glad Emmeline would grow up with a father like hers: one who adored her, who would do anything for her. Jasper had sat with the letter for a long while after, unmoving, unable to breathe past the ache in his chest. He would never be able to tell her how much her words meant to him.
But the past week had been difficult for the household.
Emmeline had fallen ill— restless and feverish, her nose running, her cheeks flushed. The doctor had visited twice and assured them it was a common catarrhal fever. Nothing dangerous, merely stubborn. He recommended plenty of rest, fluids, patience, and time.
Abigail had taken that caution to heart—and then some.
She refused to leave the nursery—except for quick, necessary absences. Mrs. Rigby had offered to help. So had Jasper. But Abigail shook her head each time, brushing them off gently, murmuring, "She needs me." She slept on the small settee by the window, barely touched her meals, and rarely wore anything clean—her gowns stained with milk, tears, and the residue of sleepless nights.
Jasper had watched helplessly as she wore herself down to the edge of collapse—and still, she would not let go.
Now, after feeding Emmeline her midday meal, Abigail stood pacing the nursery once more, the child still softly crying in her arms. Her eyes were dark-circled and hollow, her arms trembling with fatigue.
"I spoke with your parents," he said gently. "They'd be glad for a visit, just for a little while. A few hours away might do you some good."
She didn't answer.
