“My lord?”
It was Hensley, the house steward, his tone cautious. “The Dowager and her ladyship request your presence in the drawing room.”
William exhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Very well,” he said. “Tell them I’m coming.”
He lingered at the window a moment longer, reluctant to surrender the only quiet sanctuary he had found in this mausoleum of a house. Then, with a steadying breath, he turned from the glass and left the study, pulling the door softly shut behind him.
His footsteps echoed along the polished floor as he made his way down the corridor, each step carrying him closer to the performance waiting in the drawing room.
From within came the smooth, deliberate tones of his mother and wife; when he entered, both women turned to him with poised expectation, as though they had rehearsed this moment.
William crossed the room to a single chair and sat, rubbing a hand over his face. “Mother, you wished to speak with me?” he asked after a long pause.
“Victoria and I have been patient,” Lady Ashford replied, her tone composed but edged with authority. “But your father is gone, and the estate requires an heir.”
A short, mirthless laugh escaped him. “You cannot be serious.”
Victoria’s hands fluttered together like pale birds.
“I do not wish to quarrel,” she began, her voice soft, carefully measured. “I know things have been… strained between us. But I would forgive the past if only we might begin anew. The servants talk, William. It is unseemly.”
“Unseemly,” he repeated softly, his mouth twisting. “How very tragic for you.”
“Do not take that tone,” his mother snapped. “You are the Earl of Ashford now. It is time you ceased this self-indulgent mourning and fulfilled your duty to the title—to your name.”
He looked at her, then at Victoria—two women bound together by pride and the comfort of privilege—and for the first time in a long while, he felt something like clarity.
“My name,” he said quietly, “is a curse. And the title a shackle you forged yourself.”
Lady Ashford’s brows rose. “You will not speak to me so—”
“I will speak as I please,” he cut in, his voice still low but sharpening with each word. “I have done with obedience. I have done with all of it. You destroyed what decency might have been left in me. You took the one thing that was mine—the only pure thing I ever had—and you ground it beneath your heel.”
“William,” Victoria hissed suddenly, glancing toward the doorway where the servants moved quietly about, clearing away the remnants of the wake. “Do not raise your voice.”
He ignored her. “You ruined my life to protect your precious name, Mother. Now you may keep it. I am leaving England—far from Ashford, far from the estates you bargained my future away to protect. And you will remain here at Ashford Manor with your chosen daughter,” he said, his gaze sliding to Victoria, “since you both love this place—and each other’s company—so dearly.”
His mother’s lips thinned. “You speak nonsense. Where would you go?”
He gave a short, hollow laugh. “Away. I have accepted a diplomatic posting abroad—at Her Majesty’s pleasure—and I will go anywhere she sends me, so long as it bears no trace of Ashford.”
She stared at him. “You would abandon your estate, your wife, your birthright?”
“I would,” he said quietly. “Because I never wanted any of it.”
Neither woman spoke. Their eyes went wide—the first honest emotion either had shown all day. He inclined his head in curt farewell and took his leave.
Later that night, as the house slept, he sat alone in his father’s study, the single candle guttering low as long shadows pooled across the desk. Upon the desk lay a sealed letter—his formal acceptance of the diplomatic post in Vienna. The Queen’s own secretary had written earlier to commend him on the appointment, but even that left him empty.
He felt nothing.
He reached into his coat pocket, drew out his pocketbook, and from it a folded letter—creased and faded with time. He unfolded it slowly, tracing the familiar, work-worn hand. The words had burned into him the day he first read them.
We know what was done to our daughter.
We will not serve a house that could show such cruelty and deceit.
Some things cannot be forgiven.
