In her mind, she saw a little brother for Emmeline, with Jasper's pale blond hair and her wide blue eyes. The image came so clearly, so sweetly, it made her chest ache—because she knew it was only a dream.
And maybe—just maybe—Abigail would let herself believe in that dream again.
Chapter 50
The days warmth lay thick inside the Winterset townhouse, despite the open windows ushering in the faintest breath of air. Even with the midday hush of the London streets beyond—hooves on cobbles, the occasional call of a street vendor—there was something still and private about the sitting room.
Martha Rigby stepped inside, her needlework tucked beneath one arm. She saw Abigail at once, perched on a chaise near the open window, a light shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders despite the heat. A book lay open in her lap, but her eyes lingered on the same page.
The girl was mending slowly. Her wounds had closed, but Martha could see it in the way she held herself—the fatigue, the caution. That part hadn't faded yet.
A few moments later, Grace swept in with quiet purpose, setting down a tea tray and beginning to refresh the cups. Her movements were brisk but gentle. She urged Abigail to eat something, as she always did, in that matter-of-fact way mothers had.
Sophia was already seated near Abigail, her fingers curled around a half-finished cap for baby Frederick. The knitting needles in her lap had been idle for some time.
Martha settled into the armchair across from them. Her hands ached to move—stitch, smooth, fold—but the reason she'd asked them here today would not be served by distraction.
From farther down the corridor came a burst of laughter—Emmeline's—and the lower
murmur of Jasper's voice in reply. The sound drifted in like sunlight.
"She adores him," Grace said softly, her gaze flicking toward the door. "You can hear it in her laugh."
Abigail's mouth curved in the barest smile, though she didn't lift her head. Martha saw the tension in her shoulders ease, just slightly.
It was time.
"And he dotes on her," Martha said, her tone warm but measured. "Every morning, before the household even stirs, I find them curled together in the nursery. He listens to all her little stories like they're scripture."
She paused, watching Abigail carefully, noting how her gaze shifted, softened.
"And the way he looks at you, my dear," she added gently, "as though he's afraid you'll vanish if he blinks too long."
Abigail let out a shaky breath. "I know he loves her. And he says he loves me. I just..."
Sophia reached across and brushed her fingers over Abigail's hand in quiet support.
"I'm scared," Abigail admitted softly. "What if I let him in and he hurts me again? What if I lose myself like I did before, and it all falls apart? I was so broken when he left. If it happens again, I don't know if I could be what Emmeline needs. I can survive disappointment. But I can't survive losing myself. Not again."
The room went still.
Martha set her needlework aside and folded her hands in her lap. She'd heard what she needed to. Now it was time to speak.
"My George and I married young," she began, her voice low and steady. "I adored him from the start. He was kind, hard-working... and foolish."
Abigail looked up, just slightly, drawn in despite herself.
"Before he met me, he'd courted a young lady who came from money," Martha continued. "She turned him away because he couldn't give her the life she wanted. A few years into our marriage, she returned—a widow. She started showing up where I shopped. Sent little notes. Pretended to be a friend. And George, the fool, thought nothing of it."
Her voice sharpened, only a little.
"I was newly pregnant. And I left. Went to stay with my mother. Not because I stopped loving him—but because he needed to see what he was about to lose."
She saw the flicker of surprise on Abigail's face—the faint widening of her eyes.
"He came after me," Martha said. "Not once, but again and again. And when he finally saw what she was doing—when he understood what he'd nearly allowed—he spent the rest of his life making it right."
She looked down at her own hands, weathered and still, resting in her lap.
