Later, as the sun dipped lower and golden shadows stretched across the lawn, Abigail slipped away with her mother. They stood near a rose arbor, the distant strains of a waltz drifting through the garden.
"You and Jasper seem well," Grace said gently, her voice thoughtful, her gaze warm.
Abigail hesitated, then nodded. "We are. I think we are. He's been... patient. Kind. And I missed him more than I realized. I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to fight what I still feel."
Grace touched her arm. "And what do you feel?"
Abigail gave a soft, helpless laugh. "That I love him. Still. That I want more. But is it foolish? After everything? Am I wrong to want him back? Would you think less of me?"
Grace's expression didn't falter. "Never."
She paused, then added, "No marriage is perfect, Abigail. Even the happiest couples leave small wounds on one another with carelessness or pride. Most of those wounds are healable—they fade with time and care. What Jasper did... it caused a grievous wound. But a wound, no matter how deep, can heal. And when it does, it leaves a scar."
She looked at her daughter with quiet tenderness.
"Scars don't vanish, Abigail—but they do soften. They fade. The memory remains, but the pain dulls. It becomes part of your story, not the whole of it."
Abigail swallowed hard, blinking fast against the sting in her eyes.
"Only you can decide," Grace continued softly, "whether to keep it raw and aching—or to allow him, with care and time, to help you heal. It won't be easy. But if you choose to let love in again—truly let it in—I believe it can become something stronger than what was lost."
Abigail breathed in slowly.
"Thank you, Mama."
Grace smiled, her voice tender. "You always had the most beautiful heart, Abigail. It hurt me so to see it wounded—but it's a joy to see it healing again."
They stood in silence for a moment longer, surrounded by roses, the music drifting behind them as the golden light settled over the gardens like a blessing.
Chapter 55
Two days before the Winterset Ball, Abigail sat at the drawing room desk, reviewing lists with far more diligence than necessary. Final confirmations had been received weeks ago. The florists were scheduled. The orchestra was booked. Martha had memorized the seating chart, Grace had ordered extra champagne, and Sophia had lent two footmen from her and Philip's new townhouse to assist the Winterset staff.
There was nothing left to be done.
And yet, Abigail lingered over the paper, pen in hand, absently tracing flourishes in the margin of the menu.
Her mind had been full since the garden party. The conversation with her mother had left her with clarity—she knew she wanted to move forward. To stop holding herself back. To let herself hope.
But knowing what she wanted and knowing how to begin were entirely different things.
"Your gown arrived," Mrs. Rigby had informed her just before the evening meal. "I took the liberty of hanging it in your room. From Madame Mercier. Special delivery."
Abigail had blinked in surprise. "Truly? I know she mentioned at the beginning of the Season during our initial sitting that she would handle it, but I assumed she'd request a fitting—or at least inquire about color preferences."
Mrs. Rigby had only smiled. "She may have been helped along by a special someone."
Abigail had smiled too, naturally assuming Martha was the culprit.
"She said it was one of her masterpieces. Said it needed no further work." Martha said with a satisfied nod.
Her mind kept circling back to her mother's words—how only she could decide how to move forward, whether to keep the wound raw or allow Jasper the chance to help her heal. Grace had believed that love, if given room to grow again, could become something stronger than what was lost. The thought lingered all through dinner. Abigail had tried to focus on the roast and Emmeline's drowsy chattering about the "big brown dog" she'd seen in the park that afternoon, but her mind refused to settle.
But once the plates were cleared and Emmeline carried off, yawning in Marthas arms, Jasper had offered Abigail a glass of dessert wine—and she had stayed.
As she often did now.
They spoke easily, as they had most evenings since her arrival. Of the weather. Of Emmeline's new fascination with bugs. Of books they had both read. Occasionally, they debated plot or theme with passionate resolve—each fiercely loyal to their own interpretation.
