William nodded numbly before taking the stairs toward the guest room Nathaniel had shown him to when he arrived. He navigated the corridor until he found the correct door, let himself inside, and lowered onto the edge of the bed.
For a long moment he simply sat there, staring at nothing, replaying every word spoken since he arrived—each one cutting deeper than the last.
The truth pressed down on him like a sentence long overdue.
He had lived his life by lies—his mother’s, his own, the comforting ones that excused cowardice.
But truth was here now.
Clear. Cold. Unavoidable.
And if truth was a punishment,
redemption would have to be a choice.
He could not erase what he had done.
But he could refuse, from this moment onward, to remain the man who had done it.
And God help him…
he would begin now.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Violet scrubbed the kitchen table as though it had personally offended her.
The cloth squeaked over already-clean wood. Her jaw ached from clenching; her shoulders burned from tension; her breath came in sharp, uneven pulls she refused to call trembling.
Anger was easier.
Anger kept her standing.
She had sent Lily down the lane to Clara and Samuel’s cottage, having asked the day before if she might play with Alice and Gregory until supper. She had forced herself to smile, to kiss Lily’s curls, and to say lightly that she had “a great deal of work to do today,” pretending everything was exactly as it should be.
Everything perfectly ordinary.
Everything perfectly false.
Because if William Ashford came knocking on her door—
if he came to speak with her—
if he so much as looked at Lily—
well, she could not be held to account for what might follow.
She scrubbed the same spot again, harder, unable to still her hands.
A knock came.
Firm.
Measured.
The cloth hit the table with a sharp slap before she realized she'd thrown it.
She wasn’t ready.
