Violet murmured something polite; the words passed her lips without thought. She could think only of her parents, still back at Ashford Manor, still working in those same kitchens and stables. She pictured her mother humming as she kneaded dough, her father wiping his brow in the stables—unaware their daughter had been swept away like a stain to be scrubbed clean.
She thought of the letter she had left behind on her narrow bed at the cottage she had shared with them.
William is engaged. I cannot bear to watch him marry another.
Forgive me.I must go.
Her hand had trembled as she wrote it, her tears blurring the ink. She had folded the lie with care, as if gentleness could make it hurt less. It was the only story she could leave them—better they think she had run from heartbreak than know the crueler truth of her banishment.
After a moment of silence, Violet forced herself to ask, “And… is there a doctor nearby?”
“Oh yes,” the older woman said warmly. “My husband is Dr. Pembroke, he runs the practice in town and is as reliable as they come. He’ll see to you whenever you’ve need.”
Violet hesitated, her pulse racing.
The lie she was about to tell scraped like gravel in her throat.
She lowered her eyes, folded her hands together, and said softly, “I had only just discovered I was with child when the news of my husband’s passing came. He had made provision for me, and Lady Ashford was kind enough to see the arrangements completed. But… I am in need of a doctor’s examination.”
She held her breath, hoping Mrs. Pembroke would not see through her lie, but the woman only patted her arm. “Poor thing. God will see you through.”
After Mrs. Pembroke’s footsteps faded down the lane, silence settled over the cottage.
Violet walked through the rooms again slowly, moving as though through a stranger’s house.
Everything had been chosen for her, provided for her, decided without her.
Even her name had been replaced with one that fit the story better.
She sat at last on the bed, clutching her shawl. Her parents’ faces rose before her—her father’s soft-eyed pride whenever she helped him in the stables, her mother’s bright laughter as they kneaded dough side by side. She wanted nothing morethan to run home, to breathe in the comfort of them. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t place their livelihoods in danger. The longing cut through her so sharply she nearly doubled over under its weight.
She lowered her hand to her belly. “It’s just us now,” she whispered, the words breaking in her throat. “Just us.”
And though the cottage was warm, and Mrs. Pembroke had proved to be kind, Violet had never felt so cold, or so alone.
Here, in a house that bore a name that wasn’t hers, Violet felt her old life slipping from her grasp—as if the girl she had been was already gone, and only a stranger remained in her place.
Chapter Ten
Violet had not slept.
The cottage was too quiet—too still—and every unfamiliar creak in the rafters had tugged her back from the edge of rest. She had never spent a night anywhere but the small worker’s cottage she’d shared with her parents on the Ashford estate, snug and crowded and full of the soothing noises of life. Here, the silence felt foreign. Lonely.
Morning light filtered through the shutters, bright and steady.
She sat near the hearth with a cup of tea clasped in both hands, the shawl her mother had knitted wrapped around her shoulders—a small comfort against the chill she could not seem to shake, no matter how the weather had warmed with summer’s approach.
Violet drew a slow breath, steadying herself through the sharp, sudden waves of panic and sorrow that struck without warning. The air smelled faintly of steam and lavender—from a small satchel Mrs. Pembroke had hung near the hearth—its scent sweet but unfamiliar, a stranger’s kindness offered in consolation.
Her parents were miles away. William farther still.
And in the clear light of day, the loneliness pressed tighter than it ever had in the dark.
Her ears caught a faint humming outside—cheerful and soft, drawing nearer along the path. A moment later came apolite knock. Setting her cup aside, Violet rose and crossed the small room to the door.
She opened the door to find Mrs. Pembroke standing there, a covered basket in one hand, and beside her a tall, grey-templed man with a physician’s bag at his side. Mrs. Pembroke gave her a soft smile.
“I thought you might not have settled enough to bake yet,” she said kindly, giving the basket a small, meaningful lift. Then she nodded toward the man beside her.
