“Touch her, and you will regret it,” Alexander said, his voice low and lethal.
Her father muttered something incoherently, moved around Alexander, and cursed at her as he walked out the door, slamming it behind him. Beatrice's knees began to shake.
Alexander turned to her, concern etched on his face as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him.
“Thank you, Alexander,” she muttered into his chest as the tears began to flow. Hearing him stand up for her meant more than she could have ever imagined. “I'm glad you came with me.”
Alexander didn't say anything, but he held her tighter, and that alone said enough. He held her until her breathing had slowed and the tears had ceased.
She had been under her father's thumb long enough, and she never would be again.
“Let me just get my things, and we can leave,” she said, taking a step back with a sniffle and wiping her hand over her face. “I don't need much.”
Alexander watched as she hurried around the room. She gathered her books and gently put them into the bag that Alexander held open for her, then crossed the room toward the loft where she had slept for so many years.
She quickly climbed the ladder and looked down at the pallet she had slept on, with the one quilt she'd had since she was a child. It was too small for her now, and she’d had to curl up underneath it to stay warm.
In an act of defiance, she grabbed it. If she left it, her father would simply take it and put it on top of his other quilts. This one was hers.
She gathered the hair comb her mother had left and the two books she kept up here—her Bible and the last book she'd been reading before she left—and turned to climb down the ladder. But Alexander was there, poking his head over the edge of the loft, taking in the only space that had been hers.
“Can I carry anything for you?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers.
She nodded and handed him the quilt, then turned to grab her extra clothes. Her father had no use for them, and she could give them to someone on the estate who might. She felt no need to leave him anything.
Having taken the last of her things, Beatrice glanced around the loft, which now only held the bare mattress and the lantern she used to read at night. Feeling a surge of anger, she grabbed the lantern too.
Her father didn’t need that, either.
Alexander chuckled and handed her a bag, into which she shoved everything.
“I'll take it,” he said, holding out his hand for it.
There was a lump in her throat as she handed everything she had once held dear to her husband, who slung the bag over his shoulder and descended the ladder. He respectfully took a fewsteps away as Beatrice also climbed down, averting his eyes to avoid looking up her skirt.
He was truly a gentleman.
Beatrice looked around what had once been her home and took a deep breath.
She would never come back here again. It held no happy memories for her.
Alexander held out his hand, and she took it. He laced their fingers together, and the gesture felt more meaningful than anything they had previously shared.
Her father had been the person who was forced to have her, but Alexander was the man who had chosen to keep her.
She looked up at him and smiled. It wasn't her usual smile, one full of joy. It was a smile that said all the things she couldn't say—that she was glad this part of her life was over and that she was ready to move forward with Alexander.
“Shall we go to the café and see Thea?” Alexander asked, squeezing her hand gently.
Beatrice's eyes threatened to fill with tears again. How did he know exactly what would make her feel better?
“That would be wonderful,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.
Alexander squeezed her hand again as he led her toward the door. She paused in the doorway, looking back one last time, then turned to smile at Alexander.
No more looking back. She was ready to look toward the future.
“Should we walk or ride?” Alexander asked, as he handed the bags with her things in them to one of the footmen waiting with the carriage.
