Chapter Thirty-Six
Violet felt as though she were going mad.
It had been two weeks since William and her father repaired her fence, and she had not gone a single day without seeing him.
Not that he intruded.
Not that he approached her.
Not that he forced conversation.
He simply… appeared.
Helping someone else.
Quietly.
Steadily.
Always just close enough that she could feel the shape of his presence.
And Lily, dear heaven, was delighted.
“Mr. Ashford!” she would chirp, practically glowing, as though she’d stumbled upon a hidden treasure rather than the source of Violet’s greatest turmoil.
Sometimes he offered Lily a sweet. Always after looking to Violet first for silent permission. And Lily would turn those pleading eyes upon her—the same eyes she used when begging to stay up a few minutes longer at night—and truly, what was Violet supposed to do?
Say no to kindness?
Say no to Lily’s joy?
Say no simply because William Ashford was the one offering it?
Impossible.
The day after the fence was mended, she saw him leaving the Pembrokes’ house just as she passed by with Lily on the way to her parents’. Mrs. Pembroke had mentioned his bruised hand to her husband, and he insisted on examining it.
Violet had almost turned around, but Lily had already waved.
Then, two days later, Violet brought broth to Mrs. Smith, who was ill. And he was there.
Repairing her gate.
She nearly dropped the soup.
“What are the chances?” she hissed as Lily darted ahead to admire Mrs. Smith’s spring violets. “This is twice in two days.”
He blinked, still holding the hammer.
“Your father mentioned she needed the help.”
Of course he had.
Of course.
Violet had walked away before she said something sharp enough to regret.
And it continued.
Everywhere she went, it seemed he was helping one of her neighbors with a repair, oftentimes with her father beside him—Mr. Harding’s loose shutter, Mrs. Whitfield’s leaning post, old Mr. Turner’s broken latch.
Exposed.
That was how she felt.
A spectacle.
On display in her own life.
As if his very presence might unravel the lie she lived—
as if anyone might look from him to Lily and simply know.
And beneath it all was the knot of guilt that she lived under a false name, a false story, and every day those lies pressed heavier.
Still, life went on.
On a mild Saturday morning, Violet took Lily up to the Hamilton Estate to collect Mary and Emily for an afternoon in the meadow, a quiet field of grass and wildflowers a little way down the lane from the estate’s grounds.
The girls were waiting in the estate’s garden—beneath a sweeping chestnut whose branches made a natural canopy.
But William was there too.
He sat cross-legged in the grass, a book open in his lap while Mary leaned against his shoulder to read. Emily fired questions at him faster than he could answer, and he listened with patient amusement, the picture of a man entirely at ease with young children.
He looked… natural.
Too natural.
Violet’s stomach twisted.
Lily broke into a run.
“Emily! Mary! Mr. Ashford!”
The girls dissolved into shrieks and laughter.
William rose at once when Violet neared, stepping back farther than necessary, his hands clasped behind him, careful not to intrude.
“Mrs. Grey,” he said gently in greeting.
He never once forgot the name she used now.
Never slipped.
Never assumed.
She inclined her head.
Mary tugged on his sleeve. “Mrs. Grey is taking us to the meadow—won’t you come with us?”
Emily clung to his arm. “You promised to read the next part!”
And Lily looked up at him, bright and trusting. “Please?”
William looked to Violet immediately, seeking permission not from the children, but from her.
Her throat tightened.
“If you wish to join them,” she said carefully, “I won’t stop you.”
It was the closest she could come to granting permission.
His expression softened with a quiet exhale.
“Only if you’re comfortable with it.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t object.
And that was enough.
In the meadow, the girls ran wild—through tall grass, weaving clover crowns, gathering wildflowers.
William followed at a respectful distance.
When they begged him to run, he did—laughing when Mary tackled him, letting Lily braid a crooked strand of grass into his sleeve, and answering Emily’s endless questions with patient amusement.
When the sun dipped low, they escorted Mary and Emily back to the estate.
Violet stood in the foyer, Lily’s hand in hers, just about to leave when Nathaniel stepped out from the drawing room—calm, composed, as if he had been
waiting for precisely that moment.
“Mrs. Grey,” he called gently. “May I speak with you a moment?”
She tensed.
Nathaniel walked toward her. Violet released Lily’s hand, murmured for her to wait by the door, and met him halfway, her heartbeat tightening with every step.
“I want you to know,” he began softly, “that I am stepping back.”
Violet blinked. “Stepping back?”
A sad smile touched his mouth.
“I care for you deeply,” he said. “And I would have been honored to court you properly.”
“But I also know… I should hope for you to mend things with him.”
Her pulse stuttered.
“He is Lily’s father,” Nathaniel said gently. “That alone carries great weight. But more than that…”
He hesitated—searching her face.
“I’ve seen how he looks at you. How he behaves. A man does not work that hard unless he is fighting for something he fears losing.”
Violet’s throat burned.
Nathaniel’s expression softened even further.
“You are a remarkable woman,” he said quietly. “And you deserve a life that honors what you’ve survived. I hope you find it—with whoever your heart chooses.”
He stepped back, giving her space.
“Good evening, Mrs. Grey.”
Violet nodded. Anything more would have splintered her voice.
She gathered Lily’s hand and exited the estate, stepping out into the cool evening before turning down the path that led toward the village—her heart aching, tangled, impossibly heavy, no longer something she could pretend not to feel.