“She came early,” Violet said softly. “But she’s strong.”
His wife reached out, her voice shaking. “May I?”
Violet nodded and gently placed the babe into her arms.
He leaned closer, brushing one roughened finger against the child’s cheek. The baby stirred, lips parting in a tiny sigh.
“She’s perfect,” he murmured hoarsely. “Perfect.”
His breath caught, and a rough sob escaped him as he gathered her into his arms and held her tight.
“I’m so sorry, my girl,” he whispered. “I knew something was wrong, but I could not protect you.” His voice broke. “But I swear to you both—I will now. I’ll move heaven and earth if I must, to keep you safe and whole.”
Violet’s arms went around him just as tightly, her face pressed to his shoulder.
“I’m just so glad you’re both here,” she breathed. “I have missed you beyond words.”
The fire crackled softly. Snow drifted beyond the glass.
And in that small, humble cottage, love—battered, bruised, but enduring—took root once more.
Chapter Fifteen
The road was rough where the snow had begun to melt and freeze again, the carriage wheels dragging through ruts of mud and slush. William sat across from his wife, who hummed softly beneath her breath—content in the way only the ignorant could be. His mother dozed beside her, wrapped in furs, her face composed in the same serene, self-satisfied expression that had ruled his childhood. He, however, could scarcely breathe. Each turn of the wheels brought him nearer to the place he hated most on earth—Ashford Manor, after weeks spent at Viscount Whitcombe’s estate in Kent.
The house rose from the frost like a monument to all he despised—its chimneys breathing thin trails of smoke, its windows dimmed by frost and gathering dusk. And though he knew the servants had kept the fires burning and the lamps trimmed, the place still felt hollow—emptied of life. He remembered running through those halls as a boy, before he’d learned what it meant to be an Ashford—before he’d understood that love was weakness and duty a weapon sharpened by those who wielded it.
When the carriage stopped at the steps, Hensley, the house steward, was already waiting. He bowed deeply as the family descended.
“Welcome home, my lord,” he said, his tone cautious, almost subdued. “I trust your journey from Kent was tolerable.”
William stepped down first, cold air stinging his lungs. He did not look back as his wife followed—did not offer his arm, did not speak. Their distance had become a habit, a quiet wall neither cared to breach. The hem of her cloak swept past him as she moved into the entrance hall, and even that small nearness felt like intrusion.
His father followed, and then his mother, her furs trailing the faint scent of rosewater and jasmine.
“See that the fires are stoked in the drawing room, Hensley,” she said without looking at him.
“As you wish, my lady.”
When his parents and wife disappeared down the corridor, the steward lingered near the entrance.
“My lord,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder to be sure they were alone. “Might I have a word, if it please you?”
William turned. “What is it, Hensley?”
“It concerns Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, sir.”
The name made him still. “Go on.”
“They’ve not been seen since a week before Christmas,” Hensley said, lowering his voice. “At first, the staff thought they had gone away on some errand or leave, but they never returned. I sent a boy to their cottage yesterday. He found the door unlatched, the hearth long gone cold. He said it looked deserted, my lord.”
William’s pulse began to hammer. “Thank you, Hensley. I will see to the matter myself. That will be all.”
Hensley bowed and withdrew, leaving him standing alone in the entrance hall. For a long moment William stood there, the weight of unease pressing against his ribs. Then he turned on his heel, still in his coat, and crossed the frozen courtyard.
The Hayes cottage stood silent. No smoke rose from the chimney; the windows were dark, the path buried in snow. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was cold, heavy with disuse. Everything had been left in order—chairs tucked neatly in, dishes cleaned and stacked—as though they had simply walked away and never returned.
He drew back the curtains, letting in a wash of cold grey light. In its dim glow, he noticed an envelope lying upon the scarred wooden table, the paper pale against the dark grain.
