It was too much.
For a wild, foolish heartbeat Violet had still clung to hope, that William might come, that he might explain, that there wassome cruel misunderstanding. But this, this left no room for hope.
Tears blurred her vision as she whispered, “Please… my lady…”
“There is nothing more to say.” Eleanor’s gloved fingers flexed once, the sound sharp in the small kitchen, before she turned toward the door. “Be ready when the carriage comes. If you are not, you will not like what happens next.”
The door shut behind her with a finality that echoed through Violet’s bones.
The next day dawned grey, her fever lingering, her cough raw. Her parents kissed her goodbye as they left for the manor, smiling in their ordinary way, unaware of the devastation that had swept through their home.
By afternoon, the rattle of wheels came up the lane.
Violet gathered her shawl; her meagre possessions were packed into a single trunk. She climbed into the waiting carriage, her body heavy, her heart heavier still.
Her hand drifted to her throat, seeking the locket, for the comfort she had always clung to, but it was gone. Left in the mud beneath their oak, just like the faith she once had in the man who gave it.
Instead, her palm slid down to her still-flat belly, to where William’s child lay beneath her heart.
“It is just us now,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
The carriage jolted forward. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to look back at the manor. William did not want her. His parents wanted her gone. And she would not make her own parents suffer for her naivety.
As Ashford Manor disappeared from sight, Violet closed her eyes. Her mind betrayed her with one last desperate imagining—that he would come riding after her, breathless, calling her name, begging forgiveness.
But no one came.
Her William had been a lie.
And all she carried with her now was the truth inside her womb,
and the ashes of forever.
Chapter Eight
The ring box sat before him on the polished mahogany. William stared at it for a long moment, dread settling low and cold inside him.
It had been several days since he’d returned to London, fleeing Ashford Manor the very moment he ended things with Violet, unable to remain another second on the grounds where her heart had broken beneath his words. He could still see the shock in her eyes, the way his forced cruelty had hollowed her.
His mother’s voice cut through the silence. “It is time you stopped fighting, William. Victoria Whitcombe will make an excellent countess. This ring will seal the match.”
At last, he forced the lid open.
The emerald winked up at him, green as spring, green as Violet’s eyes when she smiled at him beneath the oak. He remembered her laughter in the summer light, the soft scatter of freckles across her nose, the way she had whispered his name when he made his vows.
And then, the way those same eyes shattered when he tore those vows apart.
The way she stumbled back as though he’d struck her.
The way she ran from him, rain swallowing her slight form.
He had once dreamed of slipping this very ring onto her hand, dreamed of her face alight with joy.
Now, in his palm, it felt like a promise turned to ash.
Victoria’s eyes were brown. Just brown. No flash of green to catch the light, nothing about them to inspire this choice.His mother had selected the emerald for her own reasons, but William knew the truth, this ring had always belonged to Violet, if only in his heart. To see it handed over now, at his mother’s bidding, was another act of control. Another way of crushing what little hope he had left.
His heart bled at the thought of another woman wearing it. At the thought of Violet believing he had never cared at all.
