May God judge you as He will.
“I was a coward,” he murmured. “You trusted me, Violet, and I ruined everything. And for what?”
He rose and crossed to the window. Beyond the glass, night pressed close against the rain-streaked panes—no moon, only darkness pooling over the wet lawns and the blurred outlines of rain-soaked trees.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would leave Ashford Manor behind.
He would leave the title, the wealth, the ghosts.
He would go where no one sought his rank, where his name carried no privilege—where he might serve quietly, live honestly, and spend what remained of his life atoning for what he had done.
His gaze drifted to the portrait above the hearth—his father and mother on their wedding day, those same cold, painted eyes staring back at him.
“You made me in your image,” he whispered. “But I will not bow to the fate you chose for me.”
He snuffed out the candle, plunging the study into darkness.
At first light, he would leave this house of ghosts behind—and begin, at last, the long work of becoming something better than the man he had been.
Chapter Eighteen
Fall 1849
Snow had fallen softly through the night, leaving the world outside her windows shining white and still. The air beyond the glass was crisp and faintly blue, the ground glimmering beneath a thin veil of frost. Inside, the fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, while voices mingled in easy conversation.
Violet stood near the window, tying a ribbon around a small bunch of winter greenery Clara had brought. She smiled faintly as she listened to the familiar sounds around her—the soft murmur of her mother and Mrs. Pembroke in the kitchen, her father’s low hum as he adjusted a ribbon on the carved wooden horse he had made for Lily, and the bright peals of childish laughter from the hearthrug.
For all the uncertainty she’d carried with her into this village a year and a half ago, her life was full now—rich with friendship, with love, with the simple joys she had once believed forever lost.
On the carpet before the fire, Lily and Alice Pembroke sat facing each other, their legs splayed in front of them, their dolls and wooden cups set neatly between them for a little tea party. The dolls’ stitched smiles were faint, their bonnets forever slipping, and a chipped wooden pot served for pouring invisible tea. Lily’s black curls gleamed in the firelight, her cheeks flushed pink with laughter, while Alice—older by some months—tipped the little pot with grave concentration and held out a button-sized cup for Lily to take.
Clara laughed from her chair nearby, one hand resting lightly on the gentle curve of her expectant belly. Beside her, Samuel smiled over the rim of his teacup, his eyes soft with quiet amusement.
“She’ll be teaching Lily to host her own little tea parties before long,” Clara said fondly.
Mrs. Pembroke had joined them from the kitchen and now sat nearby, her eyes soft on the girls. “She’s grown so strong,” she said quietly. “Hard to believe she came into the world so small and early, and now look at her.”
Her father chuckled, setting down his knife and the toy horse. “Now she’s off like a shot the moment you set her down.”
The cottage brimmed with warmth—the clink of china, the murmur of friends, the squeals of the children. Mrs. Harrow had arrived earlier with a cake from the bakery—spiced with nutmeg and topped with a curl of sugared peel—and insisted she “could not let Lily’s first birthday pass without a proper cake.” Mr. Harrow followed with his usual booming laugh and a small parcel of sweet rolls “in case anyone arrived hungry.”
To Violet, they had become more than employers. They were family. When she had once shyly thanked Mrs. Harrow for her kindness, the woman had pressed her hand and said gently, “My husband and I were never blessed with children, dear. But you and that little one of yours feel rather like ours.”
Those words had stayed with her.
When the time came to mark Lily’s first birthday, Violet set the little cake Mrs. Harrow had brought on the table while everyone gathered close—the Pembrokes, her parents, the Harrows—smiles warming the room as snow freckled the panes. Her father cut the first neat slice, and Violet gave Lily the tiniest taste on a spoon. Her daughter’s eyes widened at the sweetness, a soft sound of surprise escaping her before she broke into a delighted grin. Laughter rose—soft,delighted—and Violet lifted her daughter, heart swelling with fierce, tender joy.
Later, when the cake was eaten and the girls played again upon the rug, Violet sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap. The firelight caught the curve of Lily’s cheek, the soft fall of her dark hair, and the unmistakable glimmer of her father’s eyes.
Grey-blue, like the lake water she had once compared them to when the sun caught it.
Her breath caught. For a moment she was not in the little cottage but back in the rose garden at Ashford—the scent of roses clinging to the air, her heart soaring with hope at the sight of him—right before his voice, cool and unyielding, broke her world apart.
She blinked hard and looked again at her daughter, toddling after a runaway ball, Alice’s shrieks of laughter following close behind.
What would he think, if he saw her—if he saw the child he had rejected? The quickness of her smile, the music of her laughter, the way she loved so openly and without fear?
