"Pwetty, Papa?" she asked, tilting her head with hopeful eyes.
He brushed a lock of hair from her brow. "More than pretty. You look like my girl."
Emmeline beamed and turned to show her mother. "Mama! Look!"
Abigail reached for her daughter and kissed her temple. "He did. And it's perfect."
Jasper leaned back on his hands, the garden blooming around them, the air thick with warmth and quiet joy.
A butterfly flitted past, hovering above the crown on Emmeline's head before darting toward the hedge. With a delighted squeal, she leapt up and ran after it, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon on the breeze.
Beside him, Abigail shifted. She leaned her head gently against his shoulder.
Jasper didn't move. He didn't speak.
He simply let the moment settle around him—sunlight on his skin, her weight at his side, and their daughter's joy echoing through the garden.
And for the first time in a long time, he was not thinking about the past.
He was simply—gratefully—here.
Chapter 52
By the beginning of June, the air in London had grown heavy with the promise of summer. The drawing room windows stood open, allowing the occasional breeze to stir the sheer curtains, but the atmosphere inside remained still, as though the house itself were holding its breath.
Jasper sat in the study, the morning post laid out before him. He had just finished reading the latest dispatch from his estate steward in Derbyshire, but his attention lingered on another letter—this one bearing the tidy, round script of Dr. Abbott, the attending physician at Langdon Hollow, a discreet country facility specializing in nervous disorders.
Charlotte had arrived without incident, and according to the physician's report, she was settling in well. The change of environment appeared to soothe her, and there had been no outbursts since her arrival. It was the first hopeful news regarding her in quite some time.
He set the letter aside gently, fingers lingering on the edge of the paper. Relief settled in his chest—warm and unfamiliar. If she could not be cured, at least she would be safe and comfortable.
Still, there was other business that weighed on him—more personal, and just as pressing.
He rang the bell.
"Ask Mrs. Rigby to come to the study, please," he told the footman.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Rigby entered, her expression composed as always. "You sent for me, Your Grace?"
"Yes. Please, have a seat."
She settled herself in the chair opposite him, hands neatly folded in her lap.
"As you know, Abigail has been planning the Winterset Estates Ball."
"Yes, Your Grace. She mentioned a few details to me just yesterday. The arrangements are all settled now."
He nodded. "They are. But I was hoping you might assist me with a surprise I've been quietly preparing and am not entirely sure how to fulfill."
Jasper reached into the drawer and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, placing it on the desk in front of her. "This is a sketch I made—a rough one—of the gown Abigail wore at her debut. It was the first night I looked at her and saw in her eyes the very promise of my future. I've included a description of the color and material as best I could recall. I made an appointment with Madame Mercier, and she has agreed to help create a new version of it. Something reminiscent but updated to suit current fashions—and who Abigail is now."
Mrs. Rigby's brows lifted slightly, though her expression remained touched and pleased. "Include whatever notes you have, and I'll take it to Madame Mercier personally."
"I know little about dressmaking," he said quietly. "But I remember how she looked that night. And I wanted her to feel something of that again—not as the girl she was, but the woman she's become. This is not about appearances or spectacle. It's something personal. For her."
The older woman nodded slowly. "She's been getting better since we arrived in London. Clearer. Stronger. Still guarded,but... there's more of her in the room now. I never knew Abigail before Greystone Hollow, but from the stories her family shares, I believe the young woman they remember—the bright, thoughtful, generous girl who lit up every room—is beginning to return. Not the shadow I met at the Greystone... but the real Abigail."
"I see it too," Jasper murmured. "And I don't want to push. But she has been working so hard planning the ball, and I hoped the dress could be something thoughtful but personal—a gift just for her."
