Chapter Thirty-Four
Morning light crept soft and pale across Violet’s coverlet, tugging her gently toward waking.
Tap.
…tap.
The sound drifted into her half-dreaming thoughts—familiar, but distant.
She let her eyes close again, bone-tired after finally drifting off only a few hours before; her mind had refused to quiet after William Ashford’s sudden reappearance in her life.
Silence followed.
Then—
THUD.
THUD—THUD.
Her eyes snapped open.
Hammering.
Close.
She pushed herself upright, her mind still foggy with sleep, straining to listen. The blows came again—steady and deliberate, the sure rhythm of someone working with purpose.
Her mind fumbled through possibilities, sluggish with waking.
Another clang.
Another clack.
And suddenly, memory surfaced—her father had promised to mend the fence when he had a moment. Perhaps he’d found the time at last.
Before she could rise from the bed, a rustle sounded in the next room, followed by the unmistakable thump of small feet hitting the floor.
“Mama?” Lily’s voice, thick with sleep.
Before Violet could answer, another hammer strike rang—loud enough that Lily gasped.
“Who’s that?” her daughter whispered, followed by the familiar scrape of a chair being dragged—Lily’s tell-tale move when she wanted to see out the window.
“Lily—wait—”
Too late.
By the time Violet reached the parlor, her little girl was already perched on the chair, small palms pressed to the glass.
“Mama,” she breathed, “Grandpa’s outside!”
Violet tugged her wrapper close as she hurried forward to steady Lily before she toppled off the chair.
And then she saw him.
A small, strangled sound caught in her throat.
Dear Lord, what was her father doing with him? And what in the world possessed him to let William Ashford within a hundred feet of her home?
She blinked hard, as if willing her vision to be wrong.
But no—there he was.
Beside her father.
Sleeves rolled.
Hammer in hand.
William.
Sunlight skimmed across his fair hair and the smudge of dirt along his jaw. He listened to something her father said, then resumed hammering—carefully, stiffly, like a man unused to such labour but determined to be competent.
He looked nothing like the polished aristocrat who’d once broken her heart in his mother’s rose garden. And yet… he was unmistakably him.
Her stomach dropped—swift, instinctive, infuriating. She wrenched her gaze away and placed a steadying hand on her daughter’s back.
“Down you get now,” she told her gently.
Lily obeyed, sliding off the chair, and Violet pushed it back under the table—an unnecessary gesture, but somehow restoring that small bit of order eased the chaos twisting inside her.
She had barely straightened before a knock sounded at the door.
It would be her mother, right on time for her morning visit.
Violet arranged her face into a polite mask and opened the door.
Her mother stood there, apron dusted with flour, a basket hooked over her arm. She greeted Lily warmly, then followed the child’s excited pointing toward the yard.
“Your grandfather’s started early,” she said, brushing her granddaughter’s hair back with a fond smile.
“And he’s helping!” Lily chimed, practically vibrating.
Her mother’s brows lifted with a knowing calm… too calm.
“Well. That is interesting.”
Her reaction had Violet narrowing her eyes and would have made her speak if Lily hadn’t burst in first.
“Can I go see? Please?” she asked, looking up at her grandmother with eager, wide eyes.
“Of course,” Edith said gently. “Your grandpa will be glad of your company.”
The words were barely out of her grandmother’s mouth before Lily bolted outside. Violet moved to the doorway beside her mother, watching as her little girl raced across the yard—barely reaching the halfway mark to the fence before she squealed, “Grandpa!”
Her father laughed and scooped her up. Lily’s giggles spilled into the morning air as her grandfather tickled her sides and lifted her high… then quieted as her gaze drifted past him, catching on the man standing a few paces away.
Violet watched William still under her daughter’s scrutiny. For a long moment, the two of them simply stared at one another—two pairs of wide eyes, curious and assessing.
“I saw you at Lord Hamilton’s house,” Lily said at last, tilting her head in quiet curiosity. “Are you his friend?”
William looked momentarily at a loss, his mouth opening and closing again without sound.
Noticing his hesitation, her father gave Lily another playful tickle, which set off a fresh burst of laughter.
Eventually she wiggled to be set down, and he obliged; the moment her feet touched the grass, she darted off again.
He watched her go, a faint smile lingering as he straightened, then his gaze lifted to Violet and Edith in the doorway, and he raised a hand in greeting.
William followed the motion.
And his eyes found Violet.
Across the yard.
Across the fence.
Across five years of silence and pain—and feelings she had sworn never to face again.
She gripped the doorframe until her knuckles ached.
She would not—could not—believe his presence meant anything. Not yet. Not when words were so easily spoken and broken.
She hadn’t noticed her mother draw nearer, and the soft murmur at her ear made her flinch.
“Go dress yourself properly, Violet. I’ll put the water on.”
The tone—gentle yet unmistakably instructive—made Violet feel absurdly like a chastised child.
So she clung to irritation instead.
As she walked toward her room, she called irritably over her shoulder, “I don’t want tea.”
“I didn’t ask,” her mother called back.
Violet bit back a reply and went to dress.
When she returned—face washed, hair pinned with brisk, angry fingers, and her morning gown pulled on—her mother was already at the hearth, pouring steaming water into the teapot.
She approached the table—and froze.
Four cups sat neatly arranged.
Her stomach dropped. “Why… four?”
“Mrs. Pembroke and Clara were walking by when I arrived,” she said. “I told them to stop in for tea shortly; I was just about to set the water on.”
“Mama—”
“Violet,” she cut in gently, “this village is small. Everyone hears a hammer against wood before breakfast.”
Violet sank into the chair, fingers curling around the table’s edge.
Her mother’s next words tightened something behind her ribs.
“Besides… they already saw your father and Mr. Ashford working on your fence. I saw them speaking as I came up the path.”
Violet’s heart lurched. “They spoke to him?”
Then the rest of her mother’s words registered.
“Wait—Mr. Ashford?”
Another knock sounded at the door.
Her mother turned to answer it, but spoke quickly over her shoulder.
“We’ll talk about it later. But yes—they spoke briefly. Your father introduced them.”
She pulled the door open, a light spring breeze slipping into the cottage, and Violet heard Clara’s voice from the threshold—
“Alice, Gregory—stay with your father and Mr. Hayes, please.”
A moment later, Mrs. Pembroke and Clara stepped inside.
The children’s answering giggles drifted in from the yard before the door clicked shut.
“Oh, Violet dear,” Mrs. Pembroke said warmly as she rose to greet them. “Quite the commotion this morning!”
Clara added, “Your father began work early—and the young man helping him?”
Her mother answered smoothly—
“Yes. Mr. Ashford,” she said calmly. “A distant cousin of Lady Ashford, paying a call while visiting Lord Hamilton.”
The two women exchanged a glance, then nodded in unison.
Clara’s shoulders eased.
Mrs. Pembroke’s smile held—but her eyes lingered with undisguised curiosity.
Violet sat at the table, jaw tight, as tea was poured and polite, nosy conversation hummed around her.
But her gaze kept drifting to the window.
Where her father, Samuel Pembroke, and William worked on the fence.
Where Lily now played in the grass with Alice and Gregory.
Where Mrs. Pembroke kept glancing between Lily and William with narrowing eyes, as though assembling a puzzle she wasn’t quite ready to name.
A sharp cry rang out from outside, loud enough to slice through the chatter in the cottage.
Violet shot upright, heart lurching, and hurried to the window for a clearer look… only to see William withdraw from the fence, shaking out his hand, the hammer lying in the grass at his feet. Her father and Samuel both turned toward him, but Lily reacted first.
The little girl darted toward him.
Violet was already moving; she crossed the room in a few quick steps and pulled the door open just as Lily skidded to a stop beside William.
“You’re hurt!” Lily cried.
“Lily—” Violet called sharply, stepping onto the grass.
But her daughter had already shifted in front of him, carefully lifting the hand he’d struck between her small palms.
“It’s only a small knock,” William assured her softly. “Nothing worth fussing over.”
“Mama makes my hurts better,” Lily declared solemnly. “You need a cloth.”
Something twisted in Violet’s chest at the sight of her daughter holding William’s hand with such gentle care.
Lily didn’t know who he truly was to her.
She didn’t know what he had broken.
She only saw someone hurting—
and comforted him because that was simply who she was.
And the way William looked at Lily, so full of wonder and grief, was almost too much to bear.
She opened her mouth to call her daughter to her… but the look on Lily’s face stopped her.
This mattered to her child.
And her needs would always come first.
So Violet steadied herself and turned toward the cottage.
“I’ll fetch what we need,” she said quietly.
Inside, she gathered a small bowl of cool water, a folded square of soft linen for washing, a few narrow strips for wrapping, and the tin of salve she used for Lily’s scrapes. She set everything neatly in the shallow wooden tray they kept for such things and carried it outside.
They settled together in the grass—Lily cross-legged, and William sitting opposite her, cradling his hand gingerly in his lap.