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And if she were wrong…

There would be children one day. The thought of raising them, of giving every ounce of love she had longed to receive herself, would be enough. And if, through her sacrifice, the orphanage flourished even more, its rooms expanding and filling with the laughter of children who might otherwise have been turned away, then perhaps it would all be worthwhile.

There would be love enough to give, even if she never received it in the way she had always envisioned.

“We shall give you some time to think upon it."

Neither of them waited for a reply.

Mr Didley reached gently for his wife's hand before leading her from the room. A moment later, the door clicked softly shut behind them.

Silence.

Eliza remained standing exactly where she was, staring at the closed door as though she scarcely recognised the room around her. Only when their footsteps had faded entirely did the strength leave her legs.

The knot in her stomach sank like an anchor, and slowly, she crossed to one of the mattresses that lined the nursery walls and lowered herself onto it. The familiar rustle of straw usually brought her comfort. Today it offered none.

She rested her elbows upon her knees and buried her face in her hands.

She closed her eyes.

Instead of darkness, she saw a stranger.

A towering gentleman cloaked in black. Cold eyes. A scarred face. A man murmured about in every corner of the village. A duke so feared that mothers used his name to frighten unruly children into obedience.

Her husband.

The word alone sent another wave of heat creeping into her cheeks.

She scarcely knew what it meant to be a wife.

Her chest tightened painfully.

What was she to do?

Which was the greater absurdity: to refuse the proposal or to accept it?

Chapter 3

Despite not having eaten that morning, Eliza's stomach felt impossibly full.

They had been awake since dawn. The small living room of the Didleys' cottage had been transformed into a makeshift dressing room and seamstress's station; every available surface was crowded with wildflowers, lengths of white muslin, and discarded ribbons.

Eliza sat on a faded wooden stool in the middle of the room with Mrs Didley behind her, arranging her hair.

Mrs Didley had coaxed her long black ringlets into an elegant knot high at the back of her head, weaving the heavier strands together before pinning them in place with silver pins bearing small daisies. Despite her efforts, several dark glossy curls had already escaped, falling in soft ringlets around Eliza's temples and brushing the slender curve of her neck.

In two hours, she would become a wife.

The thought felt absurd.

It was not the wedding nor circumstance she had envisioned, but then again, she did not know what she had expected.

A day after the letter had arrived, she had accepted the proposal. Mr Didley wrote back at once. Since then, only two letters had passed between Winworth and the Didleys' cottage, neither bearing her name. The first had resulted in Mr Didley reading the response aloud three weeks ago:

Dear Charles,

Our household will make the arrangements for the ceremony to take place at St Peter's Chapel on the Winworth estate on the 4th of June.