Chapter Seven
It had been four days since William had broken her heart—four days since she’d run to their tree in the storm, losing all sense of time in her grief, returning hours later soaked through, the chill settling deep in her chest. Four days, and not a word from him.
Not a knock at the door. Not even a message sent through another.
Now feverish and weak, Violet sat at the table with a shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, her hands trembling as she tried to peel potatoes for the evening meal.
Her cough rattled in the quiet of the small cottage.
Her parents had left early that morning for their duties at the manor, reluctant to go but yielding when she insisted she could manage.
She was so intent on her work that the sudden knock at the door made her flinch. Wiping her hands on her apron, she rose to answer it, only for the latch to shift beneath someone else’s hand.
The door opened before she could reach it.
Lady Eleanor Ashford stepped inside, flawless in her silks despite the dust of the lane, her expression sharp as cut glass. A warm breeze followed her in, carrying her perfume like a warning. For a moment, Violet could only stare, rooted to the spot.
“My lady,” Violet breathed, dipping her head, her heart thudding in alarm.
“I will come in.” Eleanor brushed past her without waiting for an invitation. She did not sit. She did not remove her gloves. She only looked at Violet, her gaze sweeping over her with a disdain so total it left Violet raw.
“I know,” the countess said at last, her voice like a blade. “I know you are carrying my son’s bastard.”
Violet’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her fingers clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white, as though bracing against a storm.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Did you truly think he would marry you? That an Earl of Ashford would make a wife of a servant’s child? My son may have been foolish, but he is no longer blind. He understands his duty now. He instructed me to ensure this… situation… does not follow him.”
The words struck harder than any slap.
“No,” Violet whispered. “He promised—he swore—”
“Promises are wind,” Eleanor cut in. “Titles are stone. And William has chosen stone.”
“You will leave this place. I have arranged for a carriage. Tomorrow afternoon it will take you to another town, where you will be settled in a cottage—quiet, respectable, far from here. Better that than a scandal dragging your parents’ good name through the mud.”
“My parents—”
“If you do not leave,” Eleanor said smoothly, leaning in just enough that her perfume stung Violet’s senses, “your parents will be dismissed at once. Do you wish to see them turned out of their positions after decades of service? Your father, your mother—thrown into poverty? Because of you?”
Violet’s throat closed.
“William will marry before the Season ends,” Eleanor continued, her voice soft with triumph. “He will bring his bride home, and she will not see the remnants of his shame lingering here. Do you understand? He does not want you. He does not want this child. He only wants you gone.”
It was too much.
For a wild, foolish heartbeat Violet had still clung to hope, that William might come, that he might explain, that there was some cruel misunderstanding. But this, this left no room for hope.
Tears blurred her vision as she whispered, “Please… my lady…”
“There is nothing more to say.” Eleanor’s gloved fingers flexed once, the sound sharp in the small kitchen, before she turned toward the door. “Be ready when the carriage comes. If you are not, you will not like what happens next.”
The door shut behind her with a finality that echoed through Violet’s bones.
The next day dawned grey, her fever lingering, her cough raw. Her parents kissed her goodbye as they left for the manor, smiling in their ordinary way, unaware of the devastation that had swept through their home.
By afternoon, the rattle of wheels came up the lane.
Violet gathered her shawl; her meagre possessions were packed into a single trunk. She climbed into the waiting carriage, her body heavy, her heart heavier still.
Her hand drifted to her throat, seeking the locket, for the comfort she had always clung to, but it was gone. Left in the mud beneath their oak, just like the faith she once had in the man who gave it.
Instead, her palm slid down to her still-flat belly, to where William’s child lay beneath her heart.
“It is just us now,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
The carriage jolted forward. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to look back at the manor. William did not want her. His parents wanted her gone. And she would not make her own parents suffer for her naivety.
As Ashford Manor disappeared from sight, Violet closed her eyes. Her mind betrayed her with one last desperate imagining—that he would come riding after her, breathless, calling her name, begging forgiveness.
But no one came.
Her William had been a lie.
And all she carried with her now was the truth inside her womb,
and the ashes of forever.