Chapter Thirty-Five
The road back to Nathaniel’s estate stretched long and quiet beneath the fading light. William walked it with a single image echoing again and again—
Violet moving toward Lily the moment she ran to his side. The simple, instinctive motion struck him harder than any words could.
She was not rude.
She was not ungracious.
But she was careful in a quiet way that told him exactly how little she trusted him.
And why should she?
He had broken every promise he had ever made her.
Words meant nothing now, not when her first instinct had been to draw Lily closer, to shield her without even thinking.
He deserved that.
He accepted that.
But he would not let it remain true.
He replayed the day in fragments as he walked.
Lily’s small hands gently cradling his much larger, injured one.
Her solemn little face as she tended him with the same careful devotion Violet must have shown her countless times—a tenderness learned by imitation rather than instruction.
And when Violet finally took over, because Lily’s little fingers could only do so much, he’d felt it—
that brief, unguarded softening in her touch…
followed by the swift, deliberate tightening of her armor the instant she sensed it.
And later, Lily had looked up at him, hopeful and earnest, as only a child could be.
“Goodbye, Mr. Ashford. Will you come again another day?”
The name had stung—Mr. Ashford, not Papa.
But the question, her wanting to see him again, soothed the wound almost as quickly as it formed.
And finally, Violet at her door—
“You know I won’t.”
She had held firm—
but not untouched.
She had not said—
Don’t come back.
Leave us alone.
I don’t want you here.
And William knew Violet.
He had known her since childhood—her quick tongue, her temper, her fierce stubbornness.
He knew that when Violet fell silent, it was never indifference.
It was restraint—her last line of defense.
Because speaking would crack something open—
her composure…
or her heart.
Which meant she was not unmoved.
Not entirely.
And that sliver, that breath of space, felt like a hope he did not deserve but would fight for with everything left in him.
He reached the crest of the hill overlooking the village and paused, breath catching in the cool evening air.
Words wouldn’t be enough.
Labour wouldn’t be enough.
Patience wouldn’t be enough.
If Violet was ever to believe him—truly believe him—she needed more than apologies and fence posts.
She needed security.
She needed protection.
She needed proof he was willing to rebuild everything he had shattered.
And Lily—
Lily needed her birthright restored, her future safeguarded, the legitimacy she should have been granted from the moment she drew breath.
But was it possible?
Could he, after all he had done, truly give them that?
He drew a long, steady breath and resumed walking, the decision forming sharper with each step.
There was only one person with the authority to grant them that—
Queen Victoria.
He had served Her Majesty faithfully for four years.
Navigated diplomatic crises in Vienna without complaint.
Completed every assignment with precision.
Been commended twice in dispatches.
Granted more than one private audience—rare marks of trust for a man his age.
He had earned the Queen’s confidence, perhaps even her quiet regard.
But never, never had he asked anything of her.
Tonight, he would.
He would write to her Private Secretary at once.
Request a private audience.
Lay out only what was necessary—enough to convey the gravity of his intentions and why he required the Crown’s authority to carry them out.
He needed what only the sovereign could bestow—
the means to secure his daughter’s future,
to restore the legitimacy she had been unjustly denied,
and, when the time came, the legal right to offer Violet marriage again without delay, constraint, or scandal.
Not to feed his pride or soothe his conscience.
Not to rewrite the past or make himself feel forgiven.
But for the child he had denied…
and the woman he had broken.
For the family he meant to fight for.
He lengthened his stride, urgency propelling him toward Lord Nathaniel’s estate.
The hour was late, but the morning post would go out at first light.
If his letter was written and sealed before dawn, it would be carried to the northern mail coach by midday.
His letter would be among them.
And for the first time since arriving at the village, a faint smile touched his mouth—unbidden, but honest—as he pictured Violet and Lily sitting with him in the grass, their faces so achingly similar.
He would make this right.
Failure was no longer a possibility—it was simply not permitted.