She drew in a breath that caught halfway down, her chest tightening painfully, and then she spoke again before she could lose her nerve.
“My father was a good man,” she said, the words coming faster now, as though she feared they might be taken from her if she hesitated. “I had love when he was alive. Safety. But after his passing, my mother…”
Her fingers twisted together at her waist, nails biting into her skin as memories surged forward relentlessly.
“I was fifteen when he passed,” she continued. “The house changed almost immediately.” Her gaze drifted, unfocused now, fixed on a memory rather than the room. “I remember standing outside my mother’s sitting room, meant to be in lessons, and hearing my name spoken through the door.”
Her breath slowed.
“She was speaking with the solicitor,” Madeline said. “I did not mean to listen. But I heard her say that my father left our entire fortune as my dowry. My inheritance.” A faint, brittle smile touched her mouth. “My mother was asking for ways to make it her own. Not once did she speak of me as a daughter. Only as an obstacle.”
She swallowed.
“I fell ill shortly after,” Madeline said. “At first, it seemed like exhaustion. Then pain.” Her hand rose unconsciously to her chest. “My mother insisted on a tonic. She watched me drink it.” The memory made her flinch. “I did not understand why I woke unable to breathe. My body burned as though it were tearing itself apart from within.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she kept speaking.
“It was weeks later that I realized the truth,” she whispered. “She had tried to poison me.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
“I would not be standing here if not for the housekeeper,” Madeline shrugged. “She had served my family for decades. One night, she came to my room and told me I had to leave. Immediately.” Her breath hitched. “She packed what she could. Gave me money. Put me in a carriage before dawn.”
She drew a steadier breath then.
“I fled to a distant aunt in the countryside,” she steadied her voice, eyes fixed on her hands. “With her, I was safe enough.” Her voice softened. “She helped me complete my education, encouraged me to work, to teach. It was she who suggested I take another name.”
“Watton,” Wilhelm murmured.
Madeline nodded. “My aunt gave me shelter and opportunity,” she continued. “But she was not without her own cruelties.” Her fingers flexed. “She commented on my body often. On my appearance. On what men might think.” Her voice tightened. “I learned to doubt myself even there.” She lifted her chin slightly. “My mother remarried the Marquess of Ashwich a few years after I disappeared,” Madeline said. “But she never stopped looking for me.”
Wilhelm’s jaw set.
“She wanted my dowry,” Madeline said plainly. “And she wanted the stain of my disappearance removed from her reputation.”
The silence that followed was heavy, reverent.
“I have lived ever since knowing she might find me,” Madeline finished, her voice low but steady now. “There’s this former officer she has hired to find me… Captain Hale. That is why I hid.That is why I ran. And that is why this…” she gestured faintly, as though the scandal sheet still lay between them, “terrifies me.”
The last words left her trembling. Her chest was heaving with the weight of everything she had finally allowed herself to reveal.
Wilhelm’s expression had darkened with each word, shock giving way to something colder, more dangerous. When she finally fell silent, the room felt charged, the quiet vibrating with unspoken fury.
“You should have told me,” he said at last.
“I know,” she whispered. “But I could not.”
“Why?” he demanded, the restraint in his voice fraying. “Why would you keep this from me?”
“Because I did not want to involve you,” she said, the tears finally spilling over. “Or Tessa. You have lives, reputations, futures. I did not want my past to destroy them.”
He stared at her, disbelief warring with anger. “You think I would have turned you away?”
“I think,” she said, her voice breaking, “that I never wanted to destroy your life.”
The words hung between them, fragile and devastating.
His anger seemed to falter then, replaced by something quieter, heavier. “You should have trusted me,” he said, not accusing, but wounded.
