After today, there was the faintest glimmer that perhaps she could do this—that she and her child might not simply survive, but live.
Chapter Eleven
Summer 1848
The Season ended in a whirl of wedding celebrations and social obligations. When it was over, William returned to Ashford Manor with a wife—Victoria Whitcombe, now Victoria Ashford—his parents having secured a marriage license months before he’d agreed to anything. The congratulations that greeted him at the door should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt nothing at all.
He told himself not to look for her—not to seek the glint of dark curls in the yard or listen for her laughter in the stables. He ordered himself to forget. To be the man everyone expected him to be.
Yet his eyes betrayed him, scanning every corridor, every doorway, searching for what he already knew he would not find.
Since his return, he had not seen nor heard anything of Violet.
He did not even know what he had hoped for—that she might still cross his path, that he might catch a glimpse of her, that she might look at him with something other than the devastation he had put in her eyes. But she did not appear. And in the quiet hours of the night, regret choked him until he could scarcely draw breath.
He refused to touch his new bride. Victoria, ever poised, assured him he would “come to her bed in time,” as though patience were a virtue she expected to be rewarded for.
He wanted to tell her not to hold her breath.
Several days passed before he could bring himself to seek out Violet’s father.
He found Mr. Hayes in the stables, pitchfork in hand, shoulders bowed with years of labor. The older man stiffened when William approached, though he made no move to bow. His jaw tightened, his eyes filled with a tired, simmering anger.
“Violet,” William said, forcing the word past the tightness in his throat. “Where is she? I’ve not seen her since my return.”
Mr. Hayes’s hand tightened on the fork. “She left, my lord.”
“Left?” The word struck like a blow. “What do you mean, left?”
“I mean she is gone.” His voice was clipped,his expression pained. “Packed her things and went, not long after you returned in the middle of the Season. We came home to a note.” His voice thickened. “Said she could not stay to watch you bring home your new bride.”
The world tilted. “She left… a note?”
Violet's father fixed him with a look that pierced straight through him. “I work for you, my lord. I owe you respect. But do not play foolish with me. I know there was something between you and my girl. I warned her not to trust you. Told her your promises would be empty, that duty would always mean more to you than love. But she…” He drew in a breath, shaking his head. “She believed in you. Said she knew you. That you would never choose ambition over her. That you were hers, and she yours.”
The pitchfork scraped hard against the floor as he set it down.
“And now she’s gone. My little girl, out there alone… because of you. My lord.”
The title landed with scorn.
William couldn’t breathe.
Violet’s stubborn, unwavering faith in him—faith he had shattered with his own hand—settled over him then, crushing him beneath its weight.
He left the stables not knowing where his feet carried him.
Only when the great oak came into view did he realize where his heart had led him.
Their tree.
As he drew closer, he saw it—the damage first. Deep gashes scored the trunk like claw marks in the fading light.
A sick dread rushed through him, and he closed the distance in a few uneven steps, almost a run, as if fearing what more he might find.
The initials he had carved the year prior—their declaration of love—were now scratched through, gouged and torn until nothing remained but raw, angry scars. He lifted a trembling hand to the bark, but his vision blurred.
His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground.
