Mrs. Harrow had been wise to take her on as an apprentice at the bakery; the work suited her—steadying her mind and filling her days. And when she came home to Lily, her smile was more at ease, her eyes softer.
She watched her daughter draw nearer, her heart swelling with pride and something deeper—an unspoken vow that, nomatter how cruel the world had been, she would see her daughter safe from it now.
Behind her, Lily let out a small cry of delight as Alice rolled a ball toward her. Edith laughed softly and rose to kneel beside them.
“Your mama is brave,” she murmured, drawing her granddaughter into her arms and breathing in the faint, sweet scent of her dark curls, so like her mother’s.
“You and your mama are so dearly loved, my little one,” she promised. “And your grandpa and I will make sure you know it—every single day.”
Spring stirred new life all around her, and she felt the weight of the past year begin to ease—the fear of that terrible spring day when they had returned home to find Violet gone, and the blessed relief of her letter arriving just before Christmas, guiding them here at last.
Now, with the girls’ laughter mingling in the warm hush of the cottage, Edith felt a peace she had thought forever lost.
The grief that had once hollowed her had given way to something gentler—a sense of belonging, of life continuing on in small, ordinary joys. The world beyond might still turn cruel, but here, within these humble walls, her heart had finally come home.
Chapter Seventeen
The church bells tolled across the valley, their sound rolling over the damp fields like a dirge. The graveyard lay slick with rain, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and lilies.
William stood beside the open grave, gloved hands clasped before him, his face composed into something that only resembled sorrow.
A year ago, he might have felt it. But that was before—before he’d been pushed into obedience, before his mother’s quiet manipulations, before the day he’d been driven to wound the only woman he had ever truly loved. It had been a year since he last saw Violet Hayes, a year since he had shattered her heart among the roses in the Ashford garden.
Now, as the coffin descended with the slow groan of ropes, he felt no grief that was not tangled with regret. His father’s name—Edmund, Earl of Ashford—was spoken with reverence by the vicar, and answered by a dull chorus ofAmenthat seemed to fall flat against the rain.
Beside him, his mother dabbed delicately at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
Victoria, his wife, stood on his mother’s other side, her arm tucked through Lady Ashford’s, her expression carefully schooled into the polite sorrow expected of a grieving lady. It was all posture—no feeling.
When the final clod of earth fell, the sound was softer than he expected. Almost merciful.
They returned to Ashford Manor in silence—a house he had refused to inhabit since Christmastide, preferring instead one of the lesser Ashford properties in Surrey, far removed from his mother and the life she had arranged for him. Only yesterday had word arrived—his appointment to the Diplomatic Service had been granted. In scarcely a day, he was to depart for his post abroad.
He had been preparing to leave England behind entirely when the telegram came—his father dead after a sudden decline. Duty, once again, had summoned him back to this place, not home—not anymore.
The carriages creaked through the gates, wheels grinding against the rain-slick gravel. Within, the lamps had already been lit, their glow turning the rivulets on the windows to streaks of dull gold. The manor loomed ahead, vast and hollow, its light seeming less a welcome than a reminder of everything he wished to forget.
William paused in the entryway, shaking the rain from his coat. The familiar scent of polished wood and old brandy lingered in the air. Everything appeared precisely as it had when he was last here—every chair, every clock, every portrait in its proper place—and yet the house felt different. Not quieter, exactly, but emptied of something vital, as though even the walls were holding their breath.
From the corridor ahead came the low hum of conversation; the clatter of dishes, the rustle of silk against the polished floor. The staff moved briskly about, carrying trays and decanters, voices pitched low but hurried. Grief, it seemed, had its own choreography at Ashford Manor—efficient, orderly, rehearsed.
The wake that followed was a dull, suffocating affair. The great dining hall had been opened and the long table laid with cold meats, wine, and sugared fruits no one truly wanted. Conversation drifted through the room in muted, practiced tones—words of condolence that meant nothing, spoken by people who were only playing at grief, mourning a man none of them had ever truly liked.
William stood apart from them, a glass of untouched brandy in his hand, accepting murmured sympathies from distant relatives and political acquaintances with the same vacant civility he offered at Parliament dinners. Each word felt rehearsed, every bow hollow. His father had been neither kind nor cruel—only exacting, the sort of man who measured affection in obedience and disappointment in silence.
Around him, the hall thrummed with movement—servants clearing dishes, boots scuffing across the polished floor, voices rising and falling in muted clusters. His mother sat before the fire, dressed in mourning black, surrounded by a small audience of sympathetic friends. She looked radiant in grief, her lace veil pinned perfectly, her every sigh calculated to inspire pity.
Victoria lingered at her side, murmuring soft comforts, her gloved hand resting delicately on Lady Ashford’s shoulder. Between them, they formed a tableau fit for a painting—elegant, composed, and entirely false.
William watched them for a long moment from the doorway. He had not seen one true tear, nor any sign of genuine sorrow between them. With a quiet exhale, he set the untouched brandy on a passing servant’s tray and turned away, the soft murmur of polite, subdued laughter trailing after him down the corridor. Whatever life had once been in this house had died a year ago, he thought—with Violet. If it had ever lived at all.
He retreated to his father’s study, the mourners still drifting through the corridors behind him. The room smelled faintly of pipe smoke and old leather. He had never liked being there; as a boy, his father had made him pore over account books until his eyes burned. The dark oil portrait above the hearth—his parents on their wedding day, already looking miserable together—seemed to watch him still, their painted eyes following his every movement about the room.
He moved to the window and stood for some time, watching the rain streak in thin, uneven trails down the glass,the grey afternoon darkening by degrees as the hours slipped past.
From the hall came the muted sounds of departure—coat hems brushing, quiet farewells, the soft thud of footsteps moving toward the front doors.
A knock came at the door.
