She avoided gatherings.
She avoided questions.
She avoided Lord Nathaniel’s estate entirely—Emily and Mary had sent word that they missed her, though she could not bring herself to walk up that hill and risk seeing the place he had once occupied.
She avoided every reminder of the man she’d sent away.
Her reasons had been right.
They had been.
But rightness did nothing to quiet the ache.
Or stop the nights she woke with tears drying on her cheeks, missing him with a grief she had no right to feel.
But Lily…
Lily asked after him often.
“Will Mr. Ashford visit again, Mama?”
And Violet would steady herself and answer gently,
“He was only visiting Lord Hamilton, darling. He had duties elsewhere.”
This morning, she had dropped Lily at her parents’ cottage under the excuse of chores and errands.
Instead, she had come straight home and… stalled.
Sat.
Stared at her hands.
Achieved nothing.
A soft knock startled her.
When she opened the door, Mrs. Pembroke and Clara stood waiting—Clara holding a small basket that smelled of fresh scones, both women wearing expressions far too gentle to be casual.
“Mrs. Pembroke,” Violet managed. “Clara. I wasn’t expecting—”
“No, you were not,” Mrs. Pembroke said warmly, sweeping inside before Violet could protest. “But we’ve hardly seen you this month, and we feared you might be unwell.”
“I’ve just… had much to do,” Violet murmured. “Lily is with my parents so I could—”
“We know,” Clara said with a soft smile. “We saw her there earlier. That is why we came.”
Violet froze.
The older woman laid a gentle hand on her arm and guided her toward the table, her voice softening as she did.
“My dear, you have seemed… weighed down. And we worried.”
Clara set the basket down beside them, already reaching for the kettle.
Their simple kindness—gentle, unquestioning—hit Violet so hard her eyes stung.
She sank into the chair gratefully, unsure whether she was relieved or undone by it.
