Chapter Thirty-Four #2
Lily dipped the cloth into the bowl with great seriousness, wrung it out with both hands, and pressed it carefully to his injured knuckles.
“There,” she whispered. “It’s cold first. Then it makes it better.”
Violet’s throat tightened.
William’s eyes flicked to hers for just a moment, and something in his expression softened painfully.
She looked away, collecting herself before leaning closer.
“Hold still,” she said briskly, taking his hand when Lily’s small fingers couldn’t quite keep the pressure steady. “This will help.”
At her touch, a tremor ran through him.
She pretended not to notice, keeping her gaze fixed on his hand as she reached with her free hand for the linen strips.
She tied the bandage with quick, efficient movements, ones that were far gentler than the cool firmness of her earlier words, then released his hand at once.
She cleared her throat softly.
“There. That’s better.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She gave a small nod and gathered the salve tin, the cloth, and the bowl, arranging them on the tray with deliberate, needless care. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to keep from turning toward him.
She felt his gaze on her, far too close to the past she refused to relive.
She lifted the tray.
“I should take this in,” she said, though no one had said anything.
And without waiting for him to reply, she stood and walked back toward the cottage, her steps brisk and controlled, leaving him kneeling in the grass behind her.
Inside, the polite murmur of conversation resumed as though nothing at all had shifted.
Violet sat, poured tea, nodded at the proper moments—holding herself together with quiet, stubborn precision while her thoughts churned fiercely beneath the surface.
By late afternoon, Mrs. Pembroke, Clara, and Samuel had taken their leave, children trailing after them with promises to play again soon.
Outside, only her father and William remained; inside—now that it was just Violet and her mother—she finally drew from Edith what she could.
William had spoken to her father in the Hamilton stables.
Her father had told him he owed the village for standing by her when he had not.
And that, while he was here, he would be introduced safely as Lady Ashford’s distant relative visiting Lord Hamilton, an old school friend, and calling on Mrs. Grey at Lady Ashford’s request.
But Violet knew her mother was still holding something back.
Not lying—simply choosing which truths to give.
By dusk, the fence stood straight and sturdy for the first time since January; the day itself, however, had felt endless. Violet longed to crawl back into bed, pull the coverlet over her head, and pretend—just for a moment—that the entire day had been nothing but a bad dream.
She was putting the finishing touches on supper when Lily burst through the door and grabbed her hand.
“Mama, come see! It’s fixed!”
Violet let herself be led forward.
The fence did look well—solid, neat, newly braced.
Her father clapped William on the shoulder.
“Not bad,” he said, a hint of gruff pride. “For your first go at fence-mending.”
She approached slowly.
“The fence looks well. Thank you, Papa,” she said to her father. Then, reluctantly, “…and thank you, Mr. Ashford.”
Lily tugged at her skirt.
“Mama, can Mr. Ashford stay for supper? Grandma and Grandpa are staying—he can too, can’t he?”
Before William could answer, Violet responded smoothly—
“Oh, sweetheart… Mr. Ashford must return to Lord Hamilton’s. He’s promised to dine there this evening.”
Lily wilted. “Oh.”
She turned back to William with a hopeful little look.
“Goodbye, Mr. Ashford. Will you come again another day?”
William’s expression gentled.
He bowed his head to her.
“Goodbye, Miss Lily. And yes… I’m certain I will see you again soon.”
Her parents began shepherding Lily toward the cottage, chattering about washing up before supper.
Violet lingered a step behind them, then slowed, her feet growing heavier as she neared the door.
At the threshold she paused, just long enough to hear the quiet steps behind her.
“Violet,” William said softly.
She closed her eyes.
“If you would permit it… I would be glad to stay.”
She did not turn.
“You know I won’t,” she whispered.
A long silence.
“…Yes,” he said quietly. “I know.”
A breath.
“But I will keep trying, Violet, no matter how long it takes. I meant every word I gave you, and I intend to stay—and to earn the right to stand beside you again.”
Her jaw tightened, a tremor shivering through it. If she opened her mouth, she feared the truth of her heart might slip through the cracks.
So she said nothing.
He didn’t wait for her to.
She listened as his footsteps retreated down the lane, fading into the growing twilight, until even that small sound disappeared.
But his words remained.
He says he’ll stay.
He says he’ll earn it.
He says he’ll try.
And she’d believed him once.
Once had been enough to break her.
With her composure in tatters, Violet stepped into the cottage she shared with her daughter—heart aching, walls rebuilt stone by stone—and closed the door on the sight of the repaired fence outside.
A quiet reminder that some things could be mended.
Even if she wasn’t ready to believe it yet.