Prologue
Derbyshire – Ashford Manor
Spring 1840
The stables smelled of hay and leather. William tugged at the reins, his jaw tight as the gelding shifted beneath him, its ears flicking back in irritation.
"Steady, lad," the stable master, Mr. Hayes, murmured, his broad hand settling on the horse's bridle. "Patience. He's green yet. You've got to earn his trust same as he's to earn yours."
William’s lips thinned. He was fifteen, heir to an earldom, and no amount of careful words eased the sting of failing at something that ought to have come naturally. Stable dust clung to his boots, to his pride, to the part of him that already feared he would never be enough. He wanted the horse to bend to him, to obey at once; instead, the beast tossed its head, and William’s pride burned hotter than the midsummer sun.
“Take him back,” he snapped, sliding from the saddle with all the grace of a tumble. He shoved the reins into the horse master’s hands, his voice clipped. “He’ll never take to me.”
Mr. Hayes only sighed—the same weary sound he’d made yesterday when William refused to listen then, too—and turned to lead the gelding toward the stalls.
William looked away sharply, frustration burning hot and tight beneath his skin, every movement stiff with the effort not to show how much it stung.
It wasn’t even his horse, only one of the stable’s younger geldings Mr. Hayes insisted he learn on before he would be trusted with Apollo, his own spirited stallion.
That was when Violet, Mr. Hayes’s daughter, appeared in the wide doorway, her skirts dusty from the yard. She was only ten, all black curls and thoughtful green eyes, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose from too many afternoons in the sun. When she smiled, he noticed the small gap where one of her front teeth was missing.
"You gave up too quickly," she said softly.
His eyes narrowed, the sting of her words pricking deeper than he wanted to admit.
"What do you know of it? You're only a child."
She stepped closer, seemingly unbothered by his sharp tone. "I know horses, and Papa says they don't give their hearts to just anyone. You have to be patient. And kind."
William stared at her, this slip of a girl with dirt on her hem and a stubborn look in her eyes. Before he could think of a reply, she added, “That horse of yours, Apollo, he’s a fine horse. I’ve been helping Papa care for him.”
“I like helping with Mama and Papa’s work,” she said proudly. “Mama says it’s good practice for me.”
He should have laughed, should have sent her away, but something in the way she spoke—so earnest and sure—made the knot in his chest loosen.
"Do you now?" he muttered, trying not to smile.
Violet grinned. "Yes, very much so." She tilted her head as she studied him, her eyes seeming to weigh far more than her years. "You have very fine eyes, my lord. Like the lake when the sun shines on it."
Heat climbed his neck, unexpected and unwelcome. No one had ever spoken to him so plainly.
“Would you want to be my friend?” she asked suddenly, an eager lilt threading through her voice.
For a long moment, William simply looked at her—at the black curls tumbling over her shoulders, the gap-toothed smile, the freckles, and the earnest eyes watching him as if his answer mattered more than any title.
"Perhaps," he said at last, the word carrying more weight than he understood.
Her smile warmed at once, as though his single word had been a gift.
And though William would laugh at it later, brushing off the foolish words of a child, he carried the memory with him—of Violet Hayes with her freckles, her dark curls, and the promise of friendship he had not meant to keep. A promise that grew into something more. A promise he forgot when it mattered most. A promise he burned to ash—one he would spend the rest of his life wishing he could take back.
— ACT I —
INNOCENCE & RUIN
“I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death; and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen, and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him.”
—Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights(1847)
