He had written his first letter to the Queen’s Private Secretary, requesting an audience, on the night he repaired Violet’s fence, long before he ever held her again, long before the storm, long before her words cut him to the bone. He had wanted something to place in her hands, something undeniable—proof that this time he was truly choosing her.
But after the argument in the bakery… after she begged him to leave, his determination sharpened into something fierce and unyielding.
Every morning, he wrote again—letters drafted with meticulous care, rewritten until his vision blurred.
Every afternoon found him outside the Home Office or the Foreign Office, speaking with clerks, chamberlains,secretaries—anyone who might push his petition forward even an inch.
He slept little.
Ate even less.
His hands—still rough and sore from the weeks of labor in the village—ached as he penned draft after draft, pleading not for privilege… but for justice.
The replies were always the same—
Her Majesty’s schedule is fully engaged.
Her Majesty regrets she cannot grant an audience.
Her Majesty thanks you for your service in Vienna.
But he persisted.
Because Violet’s words—her fears and her truths—haunted him.
Because he knew, with a clarity that burned through every sleepless night, that Violet had been right about everything except one thing—he was not finished. He was not walking away.
And with each passing day, the ache in his chest sharpened.
Two months had passed in London—eight relentless weeks of petitions, waiting, and the gnawing fear that Violet might believe he had abandoned her again.
The message arrived on a rain-glossed morning, slipped beneath the door of his rented rooms.
He recognized the seal instantly.
The Lord Chamberlain.
Acting under direct instruction of the Queen.
With shaking fingers, he broke it open.
Drawing a steadying breath, he forced himself to read.
Her Majesty requests Lord Ashford at Buckingham Palace for a private audience.
One o’clock this afternoon.
He closed his eyes just once and allowed himself a single moment of fierce, desperate hope.
He drew another breath, forcing his hands to still.
Then he dressed.
Gathered himself.
And went.
He set out at a near-run, walking fast enough to draw glances, weaving between carriages and clerks and errand boys. By the time the palace gates rose before him, his breath was unsteady and his palms damp. He wiped them against his trousers, forced his breathing to even, and stepped inside.
