Chapter 41
Windsor’s eyes drifted slowly downward, finally catching sight of the mangled parchment gripped in her hand. Her fingers, as bloodless as the paper itself, betrayed a subtle tremor.
When he looked back up, his gaze locked with hers. Her eyes were swimming, the pupils trembling as if on the verge of an emotional collapse.
In truth, the first glimmers of tears had already pooled along her lower lids, sparking in the light. Yet she refused to let them fall. With her chin held high and her jaw set in a firm line, she bore the weight of the moment with a quiet, stubborn dignity.
A sudden realization struck him—this was likely how she had weathered a thousand lonely storms back when society had sneered at her as “that destitute girl.”
She stood there precariously, like a bowstring pulled to its absolute breaking point.
A woman of her years should have been celebrating her graduation from boarding school and enjoying her first season in society. Instead, she had carried the world on her shoulders alone.
She had bled herself dry to settle her father’s ruined accounts and devoted herself to a mother plagued by nervous collapses. She had endured the biting gossip of the ton and swatted away the hounding press like a plague of flies.
Through it all, she had never once voiced her exhaustion. Perhaps she had simply mastered the art of endurance—or perhaps she had been forced into it so long ago that she no longer recognized the toll it took.
Impulsively, Windsor took a step toward her, only to freeze. He tightened his fist until his knuckles whitened.
Self-loathing surged within him. He despised himself for his earlier coldness, for goading her into that defensive speech about “a governess’s duty.”
Unable to bridge the remaining distance, he stood as rigid as a monument and gave a curt, somber nod.
“Where is your mother staying currently?”
“In Southfield.”
“I shall have a carriage readied and check the rail schedules for the next departure. Miss Somerset, go to your quarters and pack at once. I will send word the moment the arrangements are finalized.”
“……Thank you, Lord Preston.”
The words were a mere whisper. Jacqueline lingered for a moment, her eyes searching his face. He waited, expecting her to say more, but she remained silent.
She turned and slipped out of the study. Once she was gone, Windsor tugged at his necktie to loosen the sudden constriction in his throat, then reached for the bell to summon William.
Southfield was a quiet, unremarkable hamlet—the sort of place where a stranger feels the weight of every local eye.
The village lived and breathed by two things: wool and mutton.
In this sleepy corner of the world, where the train only bothered to stop three times a day, the horizon was an endless sea of grazing sheep.
In the past, Jacqueline had often looked at the flock and wondered how the shepherds could possibly tell one woolly face from another.
Today, however, she had no room for such idle curiosities. She had been fortunate enough to catch a ride on a passing wagon, which took her directly toward her aunt’s residence.
Mrs. Brown was a fixture of the community. Though her late husband had lacked a title, he had been a man of means, owning a sprawling sheep ranch.
Even though she had sold the business and retired into a quieter life after his passing, the Brown name still commanded respect in Southfield.
Of course, the “elder sister” living under her roof was just as much a topic of local interest. Everyone in the village—and likely the sheep as well—knew the tragic fall of the former countess. She was the woman ruined by her husband’s debts, now living on the crumbs of her younger sister’s grace.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t come along? It’s a good half-hour trek from the station to the Brown place.”
“I was very lucky indeed. I appreciate the lift.”
Jacqueline kept her impatience tucked away behind a practiced, graceful smile. Her body ached from the jarring rhythm of the wagon, but she refused to let her discomfort show.
The driver, a man with a thick beard, kept stealing glances at her from atop his mountain of hay.
Jacqueline understood the look. Both sisters were widows, and the local gossips had uncharitably dubbed them the “husband-devouring sisters.”
That was merely the rumor she knew of; she suspected there were many darker labels whispered when she wasn’t around.
“Heading to that house… you must be Mrs. Brown’s niece.”
“I am.”
The man fell silent, but his quietude felt heavy with unspoken thoughts. Jacqueline didn’t press him; she simply kept her eyes on the rutted dirt path ahead.
The landscape was a tapestry of vibrant green, the flat plains and rolling hills dotted with sheep that looked like scattered tufts of cotton.
Under any other circumstances, she might have found peace in the pastoral beauty, but her mind was a whirlwind of dread regarding her mother’s health.
The sky was already bruised with the orange hues of dusk. Night claimed this village early, and with every fading ray of light, her heart hammered harder.
The awkward silence stretched on until her lower back felt numb from the jolting. Finally, the wagon creaked to a halt.
“Here we are.”
“Thank you. I shall tell my aunt you helped me.”
Jacqueline hopped down before the wheels had fully stopped and hurried toward the house, her bag swinging at her side.
The familiar brick structure stood before her, its facade draped in climbing roses. She reached the entrance in a few quick strides and hammered on the wood.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Silence greeted her. The house felt unnervingly still. A cold knot formed in Jacqueline’s stomach as her mind conjured the darkest images—her mother draped in white, the air heavy with the scent of funeral lilies.
Please, no… let it not be that.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Is someone there?”
As the sun dipped lower behind her, she knocked again, her voice rising in panic. Just as she prepared to shout, the door swung open.
A young maid looked out with a bored expression that vanished the instant she saw the visitor.
“Who—Oh! Miss Somerset!”
“Hello, Susan. It’s been some time.”
“Never mind that—get inside, quickly! Mrs. Brown! Come fast! Look who’s arrived!”
Susan’s voice echoed through the hallway. Such a loud, informal summons would have been a scandal at the Preston estate, but here, it was the norm.
Jacqueline had spent months here with her mother before venturing to the capital, and the atmosphere was deeply ingrained in her memory.
Stepping over the threshold, she scanned the interior. It was exactly as she remembered.
The small windows of the brick house kept the rooms in a perpetual, cool twilight. While the interior was chillier than the spring air outside, the thick walls provided a necessary defense against the brutal Southfield winters.
“Susan, what is all this shouting about…? Oh, heavens! Jackie?”
Her aunt’s face transformed with joy. She rushed forward with open arms, pulling Jacqueline into a soft, voluminous embrace. Jacqueline let herself sink into the familiar scent of her aunt.
“My goodness, Jackie! It feels like an eternity! How are you? Are you eating well? You aren’t ill, are you?”
“Auntie, I’ve been—”
She stopped mid-sentence, a sense of wrongness prickling at her skin.
It was the look on her aunt’s face—it was far too bright, too untroubled. Jacqueline pulled back slightly, her eyes searching her aunt’s.
“I left immediately after your letter arrived. You wrote that Mother was in a critical state?”
“Oh, about that.”
Mrs. Brown touched her cheek, an apologetic, sheepish smile tugging at her lips. Jacqueline’s gaze sharpened.
“Your mother was simply so insistent. You know how she gets, Jackie—the constant badgering until she gets her way. I finally gave in and sent the letter just to have a moment of peace…”
“So… it was a fabrication?”
Jacqueline’s voice was brittle with disbelief. She thought of the frantic hours she had just endured—the train Windsor had secured, the desperate, non-stop travel.
She thought of the raw, agonizing fear that had been clawing at her heart for her mother’s life.
“Come inside if you wish to talk.”
A frigid voice cut through the air from the shadows of the hall. Both women turned. There stood the Countess of Somerset, her frame skeletal and imposing.
“Mother.”
Jacqueline spoke the word with a heavy heart. Her mother looked even more haggard than before.
Despite the mild spring, she was swathed in a heavy shawl; she had always been frail, and the damp air of Southfield clearly tormented her. The dark hollows beneath her eyes suggested her chronic insomnia had not improved.
“Have you been alright?”
Jacqueline stepped forward, her voice softening. Susan, sensing the shift in atmosphere, quietly took Jacqueline’s luggage and disappeared into the back of the house.
“You tell me. Do I look ‘alright’ to you?”
Jacqueline froze.
The Countess’s eyes were cold, fixed on her daughter with palpable resentment. Her voice was like a shard of ice.
“Sister, please—don’t start in on the girl the second she walks through the door,” Mrs. Brown interjected, seeing Jacqueline flinch. She placed a protective hand on her niece’s arm.
“Come in, Jackie. You must be exhausted. We’ll have some tea and catch up. You can tell us all about your life in the city.”
“While I rot here in this rural purgatory, suffering every single day, you seem to be doing just fine, Jackie. You didn’t even bother to visit until you thought I was on my deathbed. You are my own daughter—how can you be so callous?”
Jacqueline bit back a sigh. Her mother’s vitriol was a familiar tune, but it never lost its sting.
A sharp throb started behind her eyes.
Her mother’s words cut deep, but they were accompanied by a crushing weight of guilt.
Perhaps there was truth in it. Perhaps she had enjoyed her life in London. Simply being away from her mother’s constant hysteria had felt like a reprieve—a chance to breathe.
Maybe I am exactly the heartless creature she claims I am.
With a strained, weary smile, Jacqueline followed them into the parlor. Mrs. Brown continued to champion her niece, scolding her sister.
“If I were her, I wouldn’t want to come back to this house either. Who wants to return to a place where they’re met with nothing but grievances? A kind word might actually invite a visit for once.”
The Countess shot her sister a look of pure venom. Mrs. Brown didn’t flinch, meeting the glare with a defiant raised eyebrow.
“And Jackie works harder than anyone—it’s not as if she’s off at balls. Being a governess in a stranger’s house is grueling work. You wouldn’t know, seeing as you’ve never had to earn a penny in your life.”
“You speak as if she’s the only person in the world who holds a job. Everyone else manages without making such a drama of it. It’s time you both stopped acting as if she’s a martyr.”
Jacqueline stopped in the middle of the room, her lungs suddenly feeling too small. That familiar, suffocating sensation was back—the one that always accompanied her mother’s presence.
She had almost forgotten what it felt like to be this trapped. She found herself longing for the cold, disciplined silence of the Preston household. At least there, the air didn’t feel like lead.
She’s just sick, Jacqueline, she told herself. Don’t let it hurt. Don’t get angry. You just have to endure it.
