Her father rushed forward. “My daughter here is the eldest, and she will soon have a respectable marriage. She cannot go in ... in her younger sister’s place. I will only approve of Maggie leaving.”
Her father’s desperation cut through her.
“How can you be so cold-hearted,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “So ruthless to your child?”
Her father’s head snapped up at her words, his eyes gleaming with tears. “I can’t lose you, Aga.”
Her chest constricted with hurt. “But you can lose Maggie?” she snapped, her voice cracking. “Maggie isnotleaving. I will not allow it, Papa.”
His gaze narrowed, and his nostrils flared. “Margaret is my daughter and, by right of law, my property; I make whatever decision necessary to save this family!”
Agatha’s heart ached. The truth was in the silence that followed, like a knife twisting inside her. She was no stranger to broken promises or unfulfilled dreams. It had always been painfully clear that her father held little affection for his daughters. One might have assumed that Carson, his only son, would have been his pride and joy, yet even Carson received indifference. Their father made no plans for his future and left his education entirely in her hands.
Agatha had always known that Maggie—who bore fewer of their mother’s features than she or Sarah—was treated with even less warmth. But to send Maggie to a place like that ...
Agatha would never forgive her father.
The man, growing impatient, leaned forward. “Either Agatha or Maggie will leave with me. Someone will be leaving this house today.”
Her father flinched. “Not Aga!”
Tears welled in Agatha’s eyes. It had come to this. Her father was willing to sacrifice her sister—his daughter—for his own mistakes. The weight of it was crushing. Agatha had savings, laboriously acquired from the perfumed sachets she sold. She had to prepare for her siblings’ future, as her father seemed determined to squander it away. It would pain her to start over or lose any of it, but she was willing to do anything to save her sister.
“I have some money saved,” she said quietly. “It is not the full amount, but—”
“No.”
Agatha had sixty pounds, and it had taken her three years of diligence to set that money aside. She hoped to offer it and suggest a bargain where she could work that remainder off. She stood on shaky legs, squaring her shoulders, and turned to face the man. “Please, sir, we—”
“My employer gave me a task,” the man said with icy disdain. “Return with the money in full ... or his body.”
Agatha’s breath hitched, and she recoiled as the man’s sharp gaze cut into her.
“Consider this,” he added, his tone unsettlingly calm, “with your beauty, you could earn the sum in a single night. It might take your sister months.”
A sharp tremor ran through her body. The thought—horrifying and vile—crept into her mind before she could stop it.
Perhaps it might be better if Mr. Wright did whatever he wanted with him!
She squeezed her eyes shut, disgusted with herself. No matter how despicable her father had become, no matter the shame he’d brought upon their family with his gambling and lies, he was still their father. The children needed him, especially in a society that left women vulnerable without the protection of a man. Agatha knew this all too well—Mr. Randall, the owner of their humble cottage, had refused to rent it to her directly. Only when he spoke to her father had Mr. Randall reluctantly agreed.
A woman alone couldn’t even secure a roof over her head. How absurd. And yet, it was true. Despite his failings, her father’s presence was crucial to their survival. Without him, they would be lost.
A breath-crushing tension wrapped its cruel arms around her. “I will go with you,” Agatha said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “To repay the debt.”
“No!” her father shouted, his voice panicked as he rushed toward her.
His hand clamped down on her shoulder, shaking her roughly. “You don’t understand, Agatha! You can’t—”
Wrenching free from his grip, Agatha glared at him, her anger spiking. “You do not get to decide for me! You do notget to sacrifice Maggie for your disgusting habit. You should be ashamed to face your children. Mama would be—”
The slap came out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, snapping her head to the side. Silence filled the room as her father stumbled back, his eyes wide with horror at what he’d done. He collapsed onto the worn sofa, his body shaking with sobs.
The man looked on, unmoved. “You have an hour,” he said, his voice like steel. “I’ll await you in my carriage outside.”
Agatha didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she walked out of the parlor and into the small kitchen, where her stepmother, Gloria, and her siblings sat around the breakfast table. Sarah, twelve years old, was cheerfully spooning the last of her porridge into her mouth while Carson, only five, sat beside her, swinging his legs beneath the chair.
“Sarah,” Agatha said, her voice steady, “take Carson to the garden to play.”
