“I care for you deeply,” he said. “And I would have been honored to court you properly.”
“But I also know… I should hope for you to mend things with him.”
Her pulse stuttered.
“He is Lily’s father,” Nathaniel said gently. “That alone carries great weight. But more than that…”
He hesitated—searching her face.
“I’ve seen how he looks at you. How he behaves. A man does not work that hard unless he is fighting for something he fears losing.”
Violet’s throat burned.
Nathaniel’s expression softened even further.
“You are a remarkable woman,” he said quietly. “And you deserve a life that honors what you’ve survived. I hope you find it—with whoever your heart chooses.”
He stepped back, giving her space.
“Good evening, Mrs. Grey.”
Violet nodded. Anything more would have splintered her voice.
She gathered Lily’s hand and exited the estate, stepping out into the cool evening before turning down the path that led toward the village—her heart aching, tangled, impossibly heavy, no longer something she could pretend not to feel.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
She could not wait to go home.
Customers had been sparse all afternoon, the storm-dark sky growing heavier by the hour—no doubt keeping most folk indoors. Violet set the last batch of bread to cool on the rack before untying her apron and hanging it on its peg.
Her back ached, her feet throbbed, and her poor, frayed mind felt worn thin.
Two days ago, she had arrived at work to find William Ashford on the roof beside Mr. Harrow, sleeves rolled and tools in hand.
When she asked what was happening, Mrs. Harrow said that Mr. Ashford had offered to help repair the bakery roof after hearing her father remark on how badly it had been leaking.
Mr. Harrow had estimated the repairs would take two days, and he had been right. Two long days of hearing William’s footsteps overhead; two days of seeing him through the front bakery window from her place behind the counter as he crossed the yard; two days of him stepping inside to ask after one detail or another, or accepting a bite to eat at the Harrows’ insistence.
The roof had been leaking since the last snow thaw, and she should have been grateful he’d offered to help.
Instead, she had spent every hour he was there hopelessly, infuriatingly distracted.
Every time he came down the ladder to speak with Mrs. Harrow, he greeted Violet with that warm, devastatingly handsome smile she had no defense against.
“Good day, Mrs. Grey,” he’d say politely for Mrs. Harrow’s benefit.
And then—quieter, meant only for her—
“You look well today.”
And then that half-line he always swallowed at the last moment—
“I’ve missed…”
He never finished it.
She never knew whether she wanted him to.
