"Our twins were born not long after. Samuel and Charlotte. We had a good life. And then a fire took them both. Took him too. I was away, visiting my sister. I lost all three."
A silence fell—soft, reverent. A moment carved out for grief.
"But never—not once—did I regret going back to him," Martha said. "Loving him again. Forgiving him."
She held up her hand as Abigail opened her mouth.
"Forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting," she said gently. "It means deciding what will shape your life—the wound, or the love. I didn't forget George's mistake. But I chose to let his love help heal the hurt. One day at a time."
Grace moved closer, settling beside her daughter.
"You don't have to decide anything today, darling," she said, brushing a curl from Abigail's temple. "But whatever you choose—you won't lose yourself. We won’t allow it."
Sophia added softly, "You already found your way back to yourself, Abigail. Everything that comes after this? That's just deciding who you want beside you as you keep going."
Martha watched Abigail look down at her teacup, her fingers trembling slightly around the porcelain.
"I don't know if I'm ready to forgive him," Abigail whispered. "But... maybe I can stop running from the part of me that still hopes."
From somewhere outside the room came Emmeline's laughter—bright, ringing—and a moment later, Jasper's low, affectionate chuckle.
Martha rose quietly and crossed to the writing desk. From its drawer, she retrieved a small bundle wrapped neatly in soft linen and tied with a ribbon. She had gathered the letters herself—the ones Abigail had read and abandoned around Bramblewick, and the newer ones she had found, tucked into corners of the townhouse.
She set the bundle gently in Abigail's lap.
"These are yours, dear," she said softly. "You don't have to open them now. But you ought to have them."
Abigail didn't speak. She only spread her good hand over the bundle, a gesture both fragile and dear.
And as Martha returned to her seat, she watched Abigail turn her face toward the open window, eyes closed, as though listening—not only to the sounds of her home, but to the quiet invitation of a future still unwritten. Still waiting.
Chapter 51
The letter arrived mid-morning, delivered by express and carried directly to the study where Jasper was seated.
After glancing at the return address, he broke the seal before the footman had even closed the door behind him.
It was from his Great-Aunt Eugenia—a terse, unsentimental missive written in her familiar spidery hand. Charlotte had set a fire in her rooms. The flames had been contained before reaching the main wing, but not before scorching the tapestries and damaging the wood paneling. One of the footmen had suffered burns putting it out.
Eugenia, ever dry in her wit, had written:"Your sister's decline, it seems, now affects not only her mind but my wallpaper."
Jasper closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, the letter sagging in his hand.
He had known this day would come.
Not long after Eugenia's visit to London in May, when they gathered to celebrate Emmeline's first birthday, Jasper received a letter letting him know Charlotte had manipulated a young groundsman into helping her leave the estate, eventually making her way into town before being discovered and returned.
Since then, she had required constant supervision.
Soon after, Jasper had begun inquiring discreetly with a private asylum in Surrey. A
reputable place, known for both its discretion and its humane care. Since the truth of
Charlotte's lies had been revealed—and her mind had begun its decline—he had clung to the hope that with physicians, nurses, and round-the-clock oversight, she could remain safely at Eugenia's estate in Norfolk.
But it had only delayed the inevitable.
The arrangements were already in place. The institution had been notified. All that remained was to confirm the date of her arrival.
