Abigail had always possessed that quiet strength—an ability to remain unaffected by Charlotte's barbs or the biting winds of polite society. Where Charlotte crackled, Abigail simply endured.

Jasper turned his gaze back to the clergyman, barely hearing the scripture. What would become of Charlotte now? Her final two years at the seminary would be essential. Perhaps, under Abigail's influence, her rough edges might soften.

As for himself... the estate required sorting, the tenants reassuring. His father's steward awaited his word on repairs to the tenant cottages, and his mother's secretary had begun transferring household accounts. A ducal household did not run itself, and its young master could not falter.

Earlier, before the service began, Abigail had stepped quietly to his side. She had spoken no more than the expected words—"I'm so very sorry, Your Grace"—but the way she had looked up at him, her gloved fingers squeezing his for the briefest moment, was a kindness he hadn't known he needed. No theatrics, no cloying sorrow—just presence. Steady, warm, and genuine.

When the first shovelful of earth struck his father's casket, something within Jasper shifted—hardened.