Snow gathered in a thin white veil upon the windowpanes, and inside, Violet watched over her hope as she slept.
Chapter Fourteen
Winter 1848
The frost had crept in thick over the windows of the servants’ cottage, the glass turning pale beneath the weak morning light. Thomas Hayes sat hunched at the wooden table, trying to coax feeling back into his stiff fingers. His hands—forty years wrought by cold iron and coarse stable-straw—were red and raw, etched with small fissures that mocked the meagre warmth of the hearth.
He rubbed them together, the sound dry and rasping, before reaching for the small corked vial of glycerine lotion he kept tucked away for the worst of the winter chapping.
He hadn’t yet pulled the stopper when a brisk knock sounded at the door.
He frowned and rose stiffly, his joints protesting as he crossed the narrow room. When he opened the door, a boy stood there—no more than twelve, red-cheeked from the cold, a letter clutched in one mittened hand.
“For you, sir,” the boy said, breath clouding in the chill air.
Thomas took the envelope, his brow furrowing. “Thank you.” The boy nodded and tipped his cap before turning back toward the yard.
He closed the door behind him, shutting out the draught, and turned back to the table, the letter in hand.
His wife, Edith, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, the warm scent of yeast and rising dough following her. She came to his side, and he held the envelopeout to her. She took it carefully and sat beside him. For a long moment she only turned the letter over in her hands, her thumb brushing the seal as though afraid to break it.
“Thomas,” she whispered. “It’s from Violet.”
Then Edith broke the seal, her fingers trembling, and they leaned close together as she unfolded the page. Her voice, when she began to read, was low and unsteady—but as the words went on, her composure gave way, the sound of them fracturing beneath their own sorrow.
Thomas reached for her hand, holding it fast as she read to the end—then fell silent, tears slipping down her cheeks.
My dearest Mother and Father,
Forgive me. I should have written sooner, but I feared what you might think of me if you knew the truth. You were right about him—about everything. William made me promises he never meant to keep. He told me we would be married, and I believed him. I loved him, and I was foolish enough to think love might matter more than station or duty.
When he returned from London, it was not to claim me—even after he knew I was with child—but to tell me he was engaged to another. His mother soon learned what had passed between us. She came to me herself, saying she had arranged for a carriage to take me away the following morning—to a cottage she had chosen, far enough that neither I nor the child could bring scandal or embarrassment upon the Ashford name. She warned that if I refused to go, you both would lose your positions and be cast out in disgrace.
She told me he did not want me. That he did not want his child. That she acted on his instruction.
I tried to stay strong. They have placed me far from you, in a cottage in another county. It was purchased under false pretences—they told the townsfolk that I was a widow, that my husband had died in the war, and that I had only just learned I was expecting his child. I havekept to that lie, even now, because I cannot risk your livelihoods. I am sorry for that too.
Please forgive my silence. I have recently delivered a daughter—a healthy, beautiful little girl. Her name is Lily. I would give anything for you to know her, to hold her. There is room here for you, should you wish to come. The cottage has two bedrooms and all I could ever need, though my heart aches for home—aches for you.
Your loving daughter,
Violet
For a moment neither of them moved. The letter rested in Edith’s hands, fragile, as though the paper itself might tear beneath the weight of its words.
She handed him the page, and he read it twice more—the lines blurring and steadying by turns—before setting it down slowly, his jaw clenched. The room was silent save for the faint hiss of the fire.
Edith pressed a hand to her mouth, tears streaking her cheeks. “Oh, Thomas,” she whispered. “They took her from us—our little girl, frightened and alone. Their son took advantage of her, and they threatened her as if she were a criminal.”
His voice came low, roughened by anger. “That woman—the Countess—knew what she was about. And him…” He could not bring himself to speak William’s name. “I told her he’d break her heart. I told her. But she believed in him—said he was different.”
Some part of him had believed it too. He had hoped the young master might prove better than his breeding—better than the name he carried.
He pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “We’ve served that family twenty years—fed their horses, scrubbed their floors, buried our pride for the sake of our child’s future—and this is what they do to her?”
Edith caught his sleeve. “Thomas, think—”
“I’ve done nothing but think,” he snapped, though the edge in his voice cracked beneath the weight of grief. He turned toward the small window that looked out toward the manor, its grand chimneys rising beyond the trees. “I’ll not set foot in their service again. Not while I draw breath.”
