Mrs. Finch fluttered on obliviously. “It is only that you are such a pretty girl already, but… well, one must be cautious. Appearances matter. Who knows when your future husband might appear?”
The words echoed her mother’s voice too easily, drawing to mind the recollection of her mother’s cool eyes, her mother’s hand pushing a plate away from her across a long dining table.
Unbecoming, Madeline. You must try harder. No man wants?—
“Miss Watton?”
Madeline blinked, forcing air back into her lungs. “Yes. Apologies, Mrs. Finch. The cold has made me a little light-headed.”
“Shall we stroll through the tent?” Mrs. Finch asked, unaware of the blow she had just delivered. “It’s warmer there.”
Madeline nodded, ready to follow Mrs. Finch toward the tent, yet as they turned, something, or rather,someone, shifted sharply within her line of sight.
A tall man was weaving through the crowd with deliberate purpose; his shoulders squared beneath a dark coat. He movedquietly, with an acute awareness, as if he knew others would be watching his every movement.
Madeline’s breath faltered, caught somewhere between her lungs and throat, as the name thundered through her.
Captain Hale.
He scanned the festival with a hunter’s patience, his gaze sweeping over mothers, vendors, and skaters before drifting far too close to where she stood.
Her stomach seemed to drop straight through her, a sickening plunge of dread that tightened every muscle in her body.
No. Not here. Not now.
He shifted again, pausing long enough for his eyes to narrow.
And for their eyes to meet.
She had to leave. Now.
She moved instinctively, slipping behind a cluster of villagers whose chatter rose in a harmless cloud around her, trying to make herself small within their winter cloaks. Her pulse pounded against her ribs with desperate force, her skin prickling beneath her layers, and despite the thick mittens on her hands, her fingers had already gone numb.
She had always known this fragile peace was temporary, a thin veil stretched over danger she could never truly outrun. She had known he would eventually trace her steps, no matter how carefully she placed them. Yet the terror swelling inside her now felt nothing like the quiet dread she carried each day; it surged cold and merciless through her chest, closing around her heart with the chilling precision of an icy hand she could not shake free.
“Mrs. Finch,” she said quickly, voice tight, “I am so sorry, but I—oh, I do not feel well.”
Mrs. Finch blinked. “Oh! Are you faint? Shall we find you a seat?”
“No. No, I’ll be fine. I simply… I must go. I think it’s the cold.” She forced a wan smile. “Please enjoy the festival. I’ll head home.”
Jonah looked up, caramel smudged across his lips. “But Miss Watton?—”
“Take care, sweetheart,” she whispered, smoothing his curls with a trembling hand.
Before Mrs. Finch could protest, Madeline stepped back into the moving current of the crowd, then let herself be carried by it.
“Papa, look! They’ve put a ribbon on the sheep. Aredone!”
“Tessa,” Wilhelm murmured, adjusting his grip on her arm before his daughter could dart away again, “you are not chasing livestock through a festival.”
“But it’s festive,” the eight-year-old insisted, blue eyes shining beneath the wool of her bonnet. “Isn’t that the point of a festival? To dofestivethings?”
Mrs. Hayward, the housekeeper who had served his family since before he could walk, gave a weary chuckle beside them. “Pardon my directness, Your Grace, but I don’t think looking at the sheep would do Lady Tessa any harm. Heaven knows she has been begging for this outing for days.”
“I agreed to the outing,” Wilhelm replied, jaw tightening at the reminder. “But that does not include her running wild.”
Tessa leaned toward him, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I am not running wild. I am observing sheep.”
