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Barclay’s breath caught. His mother was always composed and unyielding—a model of quiet dignity. She had withstood decades of slights, barbs, and outright insults with unflinching grace. To see her now, alone in her room, weeping so openly, shook him to his core.

Without hesitation, he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him to keep the rest of the household from witnessing her vulnerability. He crossed the room with deliberate care, lowering himself into the chair beside her and reaching out to lay a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder.

“Mother?” His voice was tender, threaded with concern. “What is it? What has happened? Is it Tsar?”

Her voice was muffled, barely rising above the soft rustle of the curtains stirred by the morning breeze. “No! It is not anything of import. Please, leave me and do not be distressed by my ridiculous behavior.”

“Mother, I cannot.” Barclay’s voice was firm but gentle, his hand still resting on her trembling shoulder. “Please, tell me what has happened?”

Aurora shook her head, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I do not wish to speak of it, Barclay.”

“Mother, please.” His tone softened, edged with concern. “I cannot bear to see you so distressed.”

For a moment, she remained still, her eyes cast downward, but finally, with a shuddering breath, she held up a letter he had not noticed before, her hand shaking as she offered it to him. “I received a response from the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors.”

Barclay’s heart clenched painfully. Without hesitation, he pulled his mother up from the chair and enveloped her in his arms, his hold gentle but unyielding. Aurora collapsed into his embrace, her slender frame shaking as fresh sobs wracked her body. Her tears soaked through his linen shirt, but he scarcely noticed, his focus entirely on the weight of her grief.

He smoothed his hand over her back in soothing circles, his chin resting atop her head as she wept into his shoulder. It was rare—almost unheard of—for Aurora to display such vulnerability. She had always been a pillar of fortitude, unyielding in the face of whispered insults and exclusion from polite society. To see her now, utterly undone, tore at his very soul.

As her sobs subsided to soft sniffles, Barclay gently pried the crumpled letter from her hand. Holding it behind her back, he unfolded the page, scanning the lines while his jaw tightened, and fury began to burn hot in his chest.

“I was so sure …” she whispered brokenly against his shoulder. “I allowed my hopes to become engaged, thinking that this new connection to the earl would sway the ladies to allow me entry … Oh, Barclay!”

A fresh wave of sobbing overtook her, and he tightened his embrace, his arms strong and steady around her slight frame. His heart broke at the sight of his strong, dignified mother reduced to such despair. But mingled with his sorrow was the creeping rise of fury—righteous and unyielding—at the self-righteous matrons who had inflicted this pain upon her.

He raised the letter again, his eyes scanning the florid script, noting each carefully chosen word designed to wound under the guise of propriety. His fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crumpling slightly as he read:

My Dear Miss Thompson,

In respect to your recent application to join the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors, and in light of your connection to the Earl of Saunton, Lord Richard Balfour, it falls to me to convey the committee’s decision regarding your request. I regret to inform you that the committee has rejected your application.

Corruption is, as we all must acknowledge, the scourge of our age. It is a blight that festers even within the ranks of those who outwardly display the ornamentation of excellent social conduct. I must, with great delicacy, express that there are members of the fairer sex who present a mask of propriety, affectations of virtue, and yet harbor inappropriate passions—passions that tempt our gentlemen into base behaviors and contribute, most grievously, to the moral decline of society.

Notwithstanding your unwedded status, you have shown no inclination to amend your situation, thus leaving unaddressed what some would call inherent moral turpitude. After so many years, you have yet to demonstrate the piety that might counterbalance such impropriety, instead continuing to bear the ornament of lewdness by remaining unwed—a state which some might interpret as evidence that your innate passions have not abated.

The committee has tasked me with notifying you that no further applications shall be considered. This decision was reached with unanimity and is, I must stress, final. There is no avenue by which the committee shall be persuaded to amend its position. We would, however, direct you to consider taking advantage of our charitable endeavors as a recipient, rather than as a member.

I remain,

Ever yours,

Mrs. Iona Campbell

Secretary to the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors

Barclay was not a man given to emotional outbursts, but at that moment, he was sorely tempted to rip the letter in two. Or perhaps tear the drapes from the fittings. Or throw something—anything—through the window to assuage the fury that simmered beneath his skin. His hands clenched at his sides, the letter crumpling slightly in his grasp as he fought to restrain the urge. The unkindness—the sheer cruelty—of the words written by that sanctimonious shrew ignited a fire in his chest that threatened to consume him entirely.

When Aurora had first expressed her desire to reapply to the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors, he had wanted to dissuade her. He had seen the way those spiteful women had treated her before, the judgmental glances, the snide remarks couched in false pleasantries. He feared she would be disappointed yet again. But she had been so confident that her connection to a powerful and wealthy earl would sway the minds of those harpies, so he had not the heart to crush her hopes. Now, seeing her reduced to tears, he could hardly contain his rage.

“These women are worthless, Mother!” he burst out, his voice harsh with indignation. “You must cast them from your mind and speak of them no more!”

Aurora’s sobs had subsided, though she still rested her head against his shoulder, her breathing uneven. “I should have paid you heed when you said not to write,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But I was so sure …” Her voice cracked, and for a moment, he feared she would dissolve into fresh tears.

Carefully, he eased her back into the chair, his movements gentle yet firm. He knelt before her, resting his hand atop hers, which she was twisting together in her lap. Her fingers were icy beneath his touch, and he covered them with both hands as if to lend her some of his own warmth. He struggled to find words of comfort, but guilt coiled within his belly, heavy and unyielding. It was a familiar ache—one he had carried for years. A guilt that, like a narcotic, threatened to drag him into oblivion if he let it consume him.

“This is my fault,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aurora’s tear-streaked face tilted up to meet his gaze, her eyes glistening with confusion. “Why?”