Thomas’s hand on his shoulder tightened briefly before falling away.
“I have known you since you were a boy,” he said quietly.
“I hoped you’d grow into the man I believed you could be.”
His stare softened, just barely.
“For Violet’s sake—and for Lily’s—I hope you still can.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Morning light crept soft and pale across Violet’s coverlet, tugging her gently toward waking.
Tap.
…tap.
The sound drifted into her half-dreaming thoughts—familiar, but distant.
She let her eyes close again, bone-tired after finally drifting off only a few hours before; her mind had refused to quiet after William Ashford’s sudden reappearance in her life.
Silence followed.
Then—
THUD.
THUD—THUD.
Her eyes snapped open.
Hammering.
Close.
She pushed herself upright, her mind still foggy with sleep, straining to listen. The blows came again—steady and deliberate, the sure rhythm of someone working with purpose.
Her mind fumbled through possibilities, sluggish with waking.
Another clang.
Another clack.
And suddenly, memory surfaced—her father had promised to mend the fence when he had a moment. Perhaps he’d found the time at last.
Before she could rise from the bed, a rustle sounded in the next room, followed by the unmistakable thump of small feet hitting the floor.
“Mama?” Lily’s voice, thick with sleep.
Before Violet could answer, another hammer strike rang—loud enough that Lily gasped.
“Who’s that?” her daughter whispered, followed by the familiar scrape of a chair being dragged—Lily’s tell-tale move when she wanted to see out the window.
“Lily—wait—”
Too late.
By the time Violet reached the parlor, her little girl was already perched on the chair, small palms pressed to the glass.
