William stood frozen, every breath a raw ache.
Nathaniel exhaled slowly once they were gone.
Then he turned fully to William.
“What,” he asked in a quiet, steady voice, “was that?”
William dragged a hand down his face.
“Hamilton—please. It has been…a long journey. And this is not a conversation that belongs on your front steps.”
Nathaniel watched him closely. William felt the man’s gaze take in everything he could no longer hide—his exhaustion, his desperation, the hope he hadn’t meant to reveal.
At last, he nodded.
“This way, Lord Ashford.”
They stepped inside together, Nathaniel leading him across the hall and into the study. William heard the soft click of the door closing behind them.
Nathaniel remained standing.
William did the same.
He deserved no comfort.
For several long moments, neither spoke.
Then William forced out—
“Is she well?”
Nathaniel’s features tightened.
“Who?”
“The woman on your steps,” William said quietly. “Violet.”
A silence followed—cool, deliberate.
“I do not yet see how that is your concern, Ashford.”
William swallowed hard.
“It’s obvious I know her—how else would I know her name?”
His throat strained around the next words.
“I came here hoping for the chance to speak with you…to explain why I traveled this far. But she stepped out that door and—”
His voice thinned, collapsing under its own weight.
“Tell me what you know of her.”
Nathaniel’s expression gave nothing away—not agreement, not sympathy, not anger—but he did answer.
“Mrs. Grey has lived here five years. She works at the bakery in town. Her parents live nearby. Her husband died in battle shortly before she arrived.”
He hesitated just slightly.
