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Chapter Text

June 2024

Christine Rutherford had always assumed her mother, Josephine Rutherford, lived by a peculiar mantra: anything unseen simply ceased to exist. It was as if the unspoken had never been. Nowhere was this belief more apparent than in how Josephine dealt with her husband’s early death. Not once in Christine’s seventeen years had her mother uttered a word about Thomas Rutherford—not to her, nor to anyone else.

For as long as Christine could remember, it had been just her, her mother, and her grandmother in the sprawling estate in Virginia. Her grandmother, Charlotte Rutherford, bless her soul, had been the sole keeper of her father’s memory. She had shared stories of Thomas—his charm, his quirks, the way he used to light up a room. Those tales had been the closest Christine had ever come to knowing the man who had died months before she was born.

Christmas in the Virginia mansion had always been Christine’s favorite time of year. The house would hum with warmth and tradition, but it was a strained joy. For Josephine, the season seemed to drape her in an invisible weight she carried in silence. “All her family,” as Christine had often thought of it, was an ever-shrinking circle. First, it was her mother, her grandmother, and her grandfather, but when her grandfather passed three years ago, the holiday gatherings became even quieter. And now, with her grandmother gone, “all her family” was reduced to Christine and her mother—two people bound by blood, yet stranded by silence.

Even though Thomas Rutherford had been absent her entire life, Christine felt his loss more keenly now than ever. Without her grandmother’s stories, it was as though the last traces of him had vanished. She’d harbored a quiet hope that this shared grief might soften her mother’s resolve, that Josephine might finally speak of him. The drive to her grandmother’s now-empty home outside Norfolk seemed like the perfect moment to begin.

Instead, the two of them sat in suffocating silence in the backseat of an Uber, jolting down a winding Virginian road after a grueling nine-hour flight from London. Christine stared at her mother, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Nine hours of silence. Nine hours of stolen glances, desperate for some crack in Josephine’s armor, only to find none.

Finally, Christine’s voice broke the stalemate, hoarse and brittle. “Why do you never speak of him?” She hadn’t meant for the words to tremble, but they did—whether from exhaustion or the weight of holding back tears, she wasn’t sure.

Josephine sighed, her gaze flickering briefly to the Uber driver before settling back on her lap. She didn’t meet Christine’s eyes. “Not now, Christine. We’ll talk when we get there.”

“That’s new,” Christine shot back, her tone laced with bitterness.

Josephine turned sharply, her disapproval etched in every line of her face. “What do you mean by that, Christine?” Her voice carried that distinct edge she used whenever Christine veered into sarcasm—a tone that both chastised and warned.

Christine almost laughed, though there was no humour in it. She could practically hear her childhood best friend Alice’s voice in her head: Your mum has stock responses for everything, doesn’t she? And it was true. Christine had spent her life listening to the same deflections, the same excuses. Her words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“I mean that you always have an excuse not to talk about him. And it’s always the same thing. Don’t worry, I’ve accepted it. Years ago, actually. Granny was the only one who ever wanted to talk about him, and now she’s gone. So here we are. But sure, we’ll talk about him when we get there. Because it’s definitely just the Uber that’s stopping you. Except, wait—it’s not just the Uber. We’ve been alone plenty of times, and you’ve still never said a word about him. Seventeen years, mum. Seventeen.”

Josephine’s jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, Christine thought she saw something crack in her mother’s expression—a sliver of guilt, maybe, or fear. Josephine’s reply, when it came, was almost a whisper. “This time, I promise. I’ll answer your questions.” The words sounded forced, as though they’d been wrestled from somewhere deep within her. “Christine, please. We’ll be there soon.”

Christine stared at her, the anger in her chest battling with the ache of longing. “Of course. What’s some more minutes when I’ve already waited seventeen years?” she muttered, leaning forward to address the driver. “Excuse me, sir, how much longer?”

“Ten,” the man replied gruffly, his voice muffled by the dense beard that framed his face.

“Ten minutes, right?”

The driver let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head as his eyes met hers briefly in the rearview mirror. “Nah. Ten centuries.”

Christine chuckled despite herself, leaning back into her seat. The absurdity of the exchange lightened the air for a moment, but only briefly. Her gaze slid back to her mother, her voice turning sharp again. “I’ve been waiting seventeen years for you to tell me about him. What’s ten more minutes?”

Her tone was ice, her words a weapon she didn’t regret wielding. But it wasn’t her voice that cut deepest—it was her eyes. Her gaze was piercing, a silent scream of everything she had ever wanted to say.

Josephine didn’t reply, but she didn’t look away either. For the first time in Christine’s life, her mother seemed on the verge of breaking the silence.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Robert and Charlotte Rutherford had moved to the mansion in Virginia in 2013, when their only grandchild, Christine, was six years old. Little Chrissy cried and cried when they told her they wouldn’t live across the street from her anymore. Every single day before that, she would walk across the street to her grandparents’ apartment, where she would be met with extravagant high ceilings, panelled walls, and fancy furniture. Similar to her home, and her friends’ homes, but with the instinctive feeling of home. The scent of her grandmother’s perfume, her grandfather’s cigars, and that one scent that exists in all old buildings. The ever-present feeling of welcomeness, love, and home. From the outside, she would hear car horns and the vrooming of vehicles, people passing by on the street, talking and going about their lives. Charlotte Rutherford had an unusual fondness for hearing these things, and she would always have a window open, to the great distress of her husband. 

After the old couple had moved to America, and before the six-year-old Christine had gotten the chance to see it with her own eyes, every description of her grandparents’ new house sounded boring, ugly, and just… wrong. She had envisioned it as a broken house with broken, miscoloured floors, unevenly painted walls in ugly colours, wallpapers with ugly motifs, and in every sense, an ugly house. Because Christine hated change, she had always assumed every single change would be a bad one.

But the house was beautiful. Christine took back all her prejudice when she and her mother flew to Virginia to spend the Christmas of 2013 with her grandparents, and the house felt just as much like home as their previous apartment had felt. It became her favourite place to be, and Christmas became her favourite time of the year. Christine had her own bedroom there, where there were always all the things she needed for her stay. She felt welcome there in every way of the word.

Little Chrissy wanted to be a princess, and her grandparents did everything possible to make her feel like one. Her grandmother would sew dresses for her, dresses in 18th-century fashion. It didn’t take long until Little Chrissy preferred those dresses to her usual clothes. Her mother didn’t like it, she never did, but she never elaborated on why.

Then, her grandfather died, and the first Christmas without him felt so quiet and so wrong. But she always had a home with her grandmother. Christine stopped asking her mother about her father at an early age, quickly learning she wouldn’t get an answer anyway. It took years until she began to understand why, it was too painful for her mother to talk about her lost love. However, her grandmother had always been willing to talk and answer Christine’s questions about her father. But now, she was dead too. 

“It’s so empty,” Christine murmured, walking around the fully furnished living room. The silence in the room perfectly matched that of her mother’s lack of conversation throughout the entire day.

“It feels similar to the first day without your father. I was home, but home was not with me.” Christine’s mother whispered, her voice full of grief and heartbreak. 

Christine could barely recognise her mother. Well, she looked the same as she always did, with her light, warm-toned brown hair and dark brown eyes that Christine had inherited. She didn’t recognise her mother because she had just been the one to bring her father up in a conversation, and that never happened. Christine had been walking slowly, but stopped now, turning to stare at her mother in shock. “Did you just…”

Josephine Rutherford forced a melancholy smile at her shocked daughter, taking a few steps closer. “I did. I am so sorry for refusing to talk about him all your life, but now… now, I will tell you. Whatever you want to know.”

“What happened to him?” The one question not even her grandmother had answered.

Her mother hesitated, of course. “I… it is best I show you something first.”, she said softly before turning and walking over to the hidden door leading to a storage room. “Sit down, sweetie.” She gestured to the sofa in the living room.

Christine had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming when she sat down on the fluffy sofa. Finally, she would get her answers. After seventeen years of no words uttered when she asked her mother about her father, her mother would finally speak. The sounds of boxes being moved, opened, and closed were heard from the storage room. In nearly all the hours spent in that room, she had always been listening to the birdsong from outside, but now, that sound was dulled by her attentive listening to the rustles from the storage room. Her mother walked back into the living room holding a newspaper article in her hand, sitting down beside her daughter on the sofa and handing her the article.

With the rustling sound of paper, Christine took the article and read:

DISAPPEARANCE OF THOMAS RUTHERFORD, CASE DROPPED

Christine read the rest of the article, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion the whole time. She skimmed through it quickly, reading about how her father had mysteriously disappeared in January of 2007. She had been told he was dead. Dead and buried. Christine had assumed his cause of death was something terrible, and that her family thought she wouldn’t be able to bear it. But now, she gained knowledge from the article that her father’s body had never even been found.

“Disappearance?” Christine repeated the words out loud, her voice more aggressive than she had intended. “You said he was dead. Why… why couldn’t you have told me?”

Her mother’s expression turned sympathetic, reaching out to take her daughter’s hand, but Christine pulled away. “It’s more complicated than… than this.”

“Well, disappearances tend to be,”

“Christine, just listen.” The older woman said pleadingly. Her daughter tried to interrupt, but Josephine didn’t let her. “No, listen to me. For once, just listen! I am about to tell you what you have been wondering all your life, and-”

“No, let’s instead talk about the fact that you refused to say just one word about him for seventeen years!” Christine interrupted, successfully this time. “I understand you grieve over him and of course, it would be painful to speak about, but I never even got to know him! If you weren’t so selfish, you would have told me about him yourself. But you didn’t, and you know who did? Granny. But she’s dead now, too! The only person left who I could feel a connection to my father through is dead!” She tried to be strong, to be more stern in her accusation, but the tears couldn’t be stopped.

“Christine, if you are going to use that tone, it’s best we wait until tomorrow-”

Christine went silent, staring at her mother in disbelief and frustration. “I am tired of waiting!” She finally said, feeling the burn of salty tears running down the sensitive skin of her face. But even though she wanted to demand answers, she knew it wouldn’t work. So she just stood up and left the room with determined and furious stomps. 

“Christine, please just…” Her mother’s words trailed off into silence as she watched her daughter walk away. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Christine moved through the house in a blur, her footsteps quick but hesitant, her gaze firmly fixed on the floor. She couldn’t bear to look up, to let her eyes linger on the spaces that once held so much joy. The living room where her grandmother had sat knitting by the fire. The sunlit kitchen that always smelled of fresh cookies when she visited as a child. All those memories, once a source of warmth, now twisted like a knife in her chest. Because now, there would be no new memories here.

The trip to her grandparents’ house wasn’t for reminiscing—it was for sorting. The purpose was as cold and pragmatic as the task itself: decide what to keep, what to sell, and what to throw away. The house, with all its history and charm, had been willed to Christine. But being underage, the property was entrusted to her mother, Josephine. And Josephine Rutherford had made her stance clear.

“We’re selling it, Christine,” her mother had said with a clipped finality. “We live across the Atlantic. Keeping this house is impractical, not to mention expensive. It’s better to let it go.”

But Christine couldn’t let it go. Not this house. Not the place where every nook and cranny whispered of her childhood. She clung to its memory like a lifeline, her sentimentality bordering on defiance. She had spent the entire day arguing with her mother over seemingly trivial things—boxes of old drawings, faded stuffed animals, broken toys. Each object held a memory, and she couldn’t bring herself to discard them.

At the familiar sound of the only creaking door in the house, Christine looked into her bedroom. She was so goddamn tired, she did not even have the energy to react. She barely had enough energy to remove the bed cover and put fresh sheets onto the bed, which she did sloppily. Even in her exhaustion, she walked into the en suite bathroom for a quick shower. Her grandmother always kept toiletries in that room for Christine’s visits, because she knew that her granddaughter always forgot to pack something. 

The shower was meant to be quick, just enough to wash away the grime of the day, but the warm water proved irresistible. It cascaded over her shoulders, soothing her muscles and lulling her into a trance. By the time she stepped out, her fingers were pruned, and she felt heavier than ever, like the weight of the day had seeped into her very bones.

She slipped into her nightgown, the soft cotton one that had always been folded neatly on her bed during her stays. For some reason, she had never taken it back to London. It belonged here, in this house, like a piece of her childhood frozen in time.

She stepped over to the window, her fingers brushing against the cool glass as she reached for the blinds. The room was bathed in soft moonlight, the pale glow spilling across the floor and her bare feet. Christine’s gaze drifted outward, scanning the familiar landscape—the dark silhouettes of trees swaying gently in the night breeze, their leaves a shimmering sea of green.

But then, her eyes caught something that didn’t belong.

Amidst the natural hues of the night, a vivid streak of red stood out. Her breath hitched as she focused on it, her pulse quickening. There, just beyond the tree line, was a figure—a man. Though the details were hard to make out, she could see enough: a red coat that seemed to glimmer faintly in the moonlight, and atop his head, a tricorn hat that gave him a spectral air.

Christine’s stomach churned. The man wasn’t moving. He was just standing there, his face turned up toward her window.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and she stumbled back instinctively, her heart slamming against her ribs. When she dared to look again, he was gone.

The empty space where he had stood felt even more ominous. Panic surged as she fumbled with the window latch, throwing it open. The night air was cool against her flushed face. “Hello?” she called, her voice shaky and barely louder than a whisper. “Is someone there?”

Silence. The trees swayed, the leaves rustling softly, but there was no sign of the man. No shadow, no footfall—nothing to suggest he had ever been there at all.

Her trembling hands gripped the window frame as she searched the darkness one last time. Then, with a shiver, she pulled the blinds shut, cutting off the view entirely. She layered the sheer pink curtains over them, as though that thin veil of fabric could offer some sense of protection.

Christine crawled into bed, her legs unsteady and her mind racing. She stared at the ceiling, the shadows dancing like specters in the moonlight spilling from the edges of the curtains. She thought of all the nights she’d spent in this bed, how safe it had once felt. And now, that safety seemed like a distant memory.

She curled beneath the blankets, the tears slipping silently down her cheeks. For the first time in her life, she cried herself to sleep in this room.

And as her exhausted mind drifted toward unconsciousness, one question refused to let her go: Who was the man in red? Had he even been real?

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The next morning, Christine awoke to the faint gray light of dawn spilling through the edges of her curtains. She groaned, grabbing her phone from the nightstand to check the time: 5:42 AM. Too early. She tossed the device back down with a sigh and collapsed onto the mattress, covering her face with her hands.

“Fuck…” she muttered to the empty room.

For a few minutes, she lay there, her mind drifting between dreams and reality, clinging to the hope that she might drift back to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Frustration bubbled up, and with a resigned sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and turned on the light.

As the soft yellow glow filled the room, Christine glanced around. The walls, the furniture, the faint scent of lavender—everything felt suffused with memories. Each piece of the room seemed alive with echoes of her past, a chorus of laughter, stories, and moments she had shared here.

She didn’t want to feel this way. She didn’t want to let the flood of emotions overwhelm her, but for once, Christine made a choice: she wouldn’t push them away. She wouldn’t shove the memories into a box like her mother had always done. Instead, she let them in.

Her eyes landed on the vintage wooden closet across from her bed. Its ornate carvings seemed to invite her closer. She padded over and pulled open the doors, revealing shelves neatly stacked with relics of her childhood. At the top were the so-called “princess dresses” her grandmother had lovingly made for her. Christine’s fingers skimmed the fabric, soft and familiar, like an old friend.

Her gaze fell to a small brown package tucked on the bottom shelf. It was wrapped in plain paper, tied with string, and adorned with a small note. Curious, she crouched down and plucked it from the shelf. The handwriting on the note was unmistakable: For grown-up Little Chrissy.

A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips. “Granny…” she whispered.

She gently shook the package, hearing the faint rustle of fabric inside. Her heart quickened with a mix of anticipation and nostalgia as she carried it back to the bed. Carefully, she untied the string and peeled back the paper, revealing a lidded box beneath. She paused for a moment, savoring the thought of her grandmother preparing this gift, and then lifted the lid.

Christine’s breath caught.

Inside was a dress—a replica of the very first “princess” gown her grandmother had made for her. The delicate fabric shimmered faintly in the morning light, its design reminiscent of the late 18th century. The box also contained a pair of pristine white shoes and sparkling diamond jewellery to complete the ensemble, the same set of jewellery her grandmother wore in the photo.

Tears stung her eyes as she noticed a photograph affixed to the underside of the lid. It was a picture of her younger self, beaming as she wore the original version of the dress, her grandmother standing beside her, arms wrapped around her shoulders. Christine traced the edges of the photo with her fingertips, a warmth spreading through her chest.

Setting the box aside, she began laying out the clothing on the bed, piece by piece. Layers upon layers of silk, linen, and lace. Her mind buzzed with the history lessons her grandmother had imparted—of how each garment had its place, its purpose.

She picked up the first layer, a simple linen shift, and slipped it over her head. Its light fabric hugged her body gently, and she smiled, remembering how her grandmother used to explain every step while helping her dress up as a child. Next came the thigh-high stockings, which she rolled up her legs with care before securing them with garters. The shoes were last, their spotless white leather soft against her feet.

Christine’s gaze fell to the corset. No, stays, her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind. They called them stays back then. Corsets came later.

Her smile deepened as memories of her grandmother’s mutterings about period dramas surfaced. “That’s not what they wore!” she’d grumble, throwing her hands up. “Her dress is all wrong!” Christine had learned so much from those passionate corrections, including the truth about stays—they weren’t harmful or meant for tightlacing. They were practical, supportive, and beautifully crafted.

But understanding the stays and putting them on were two entirely different things. Christine groaned, holding the structured garment in her hands. “How the hell am I supposed to do this?” she muttered.

After a few minutes of trial and error—and a rapidly dwindling supply of patience—she resorted to YouTube. The tutorial was helpful, but the process was still an ordeal. There were stomps of frustration, whispered curses, and deep, steadying breaths before she finally succeeded. The stays hugged her torso snugly but comfortably, lifting her posture and accentuating her shape.

The remaining layers came together quickly. She tied on a bum pad around her waist to give the skirts their iconic silhouette, followed by pockets tied beneath two layers of crisp white cotton underpetticoats. Then came a silk top petticoat in a soft baby blue, its sheen catching the morning light. Finally, she donned the gown itself, carefully pinning it closed at the front, completing the ensemble.

When she was finished, Christine walked over to the tall mirror by the closet. For a moment, she simply stared.

The reflection looking back at her was ethereal. The gown hugged her figure perfectly, the delicate folds of the fabric cascading to the floor. The shoes peeked out from beneath the hem, and the jewelry sparkled faintly against her collarbones.

Christine smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in what felt like forever. She smoothed her hands over the silk, warmth blooming in her chest. Wearing the dress made her feel closer to her grandmother, as if Charlotte Rutherford’s love and care were wrapped around her like a second skin.

“Thank you, Granny,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice thick with emotion. For the first time in days, the weight of her grief lifted, replaced by something gentler: the quiet comfort of memory.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The kitchen was bathed in the pale morning light filtering through sheer curtains as Christine walked in, the hem of her baby blue 18th-century gown whispering across the tiled floor. Her mother, Josephine, was seated at the breakfast table, her teacup poised mid-sip. The older woman’s eyes widened as she took in her daughter’s elaborate outfit—the gown’s intricate stitching, the stays subtly altering her posture, the faint clink of the jewelry that adorned her neck.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Josephine asked, her voice laced with incredulity.

“Granny made a replica of the first dress she sewed for me,” Christine answered with a smile, pulling out a chair in her usual spot at the breakfast table and sitting herself down, though the bum pad didn’t allow for her to comfortably lean against the backrest.

Josephine’s lips thinned. “You know I do not like-”

“What? You don’t like what?” Christine cut her off, irritation sparking in her voice. She grabbed the spoon from her bowl of yogurt and jammed it into the creamy white surface with unnecessary force, her eyes never leaving her mother’s. “You don’t like it when I try to connect with the people I’ve lost?”

Her mother flinched, the sharpness of Christine’s words stinging. Christine watched her, her chest tight with frustration. Her mother had never understood how to deal with grief. Not for her father. Not for her grandmother. And certainly not for Christine’s own emotional turmoil. It had always been easier for her mother to hide, to bury it all under a mask of composure.

“Christine, please-” Her mother began in an attempt to explain, sighing and looking down at her teacup.

“No!” Christine snapped, standing abruptly and knocking the chair behind her. “You always do this! Always. You shut everything out. You shut me out!” Her chest rose and fell with the force of her emotions. “I’ve had so much loss in my life, and you’ve never allowed me to mourn it, to connect to those I’ve lost. And now, I’m trying to understand, to feel something, and you can’t even respect that!”

Her mother’s face hardened as she stood too, the tension in the room rising like a storm. “You don’t understand,” she said, her voice tight with suppressed frustration. “I miss him—your father—more than you can imagine. But there were things you weren’t supposed to know until you were old enough to understand.”

Christine recoiled at the words. Things she wasn’t supposed to know? Her anger boiled over. “Understand?” she shouted, the words feeling like they were being torn from her. “And you think it was easy for me to grow up knowing my father was dead but not even knowing how or why? That you kept me in the dark about everything?” Her hands balled into fists at her sides, her body trembling with the force of her rage. “And now I find out he disappeared… and you’ve been lying to me for all these years. Why? Why did you wait seventeen years to tell me this?”

Her words were like a whip, each one lashing at her mother’s composure. The silence between them grew heavy, filled with all the unspoken grief and years of untold truths. Christine’s chest heaved with emotion, her throat tight. She threw her hands up in frustration, her voice raw. “Maybe I should just give up on getting answers. You clearly aren’t going to give them to me.”

Without another word, Christine stormed out of the kitchen, her steps heavy and purposeful. The clatter of the kitchen chair being pushed back seemed to echo in her ears. She grabbed the keys to her grandmother’s old car from the entryway table, the metal feeling cold in her palm as she pressed the keys into her pocket. The front door slammed behind her, sending a final, loud message of defiance.

Her mother followed, running barefoot down the hall, her voice a frantic cry. “Christine! Come back inside! Where are you going?”

It was when Christine pressed the unlock button on the car keys that her mother quickly put her shoes on and ran after her daughter, yelling in distress, “No! Christine, not the car! You don’t even have your licence yet!” 

Christine’s foot pressed harder on the gas, the engine growling as she sped faster. The truth didn’t matter right now. Nothing mattered except her need to escape, to run from the suffocating weight of her mother’s silence, and from the unanswered questions that gnawed at her. She didn’t know where she was going—she just needed to drive.

She followed the winding road, letting the cool breeze whip through the open window. The world outside blurred into a wash of color, her mind a swirling storm of thoughts and emotions. And then, just as the rage and confusion began to settle, a strange buzzing noise filled the air.

Christine frowned, glancing around. It seemed to be coming from somewhere nearby, and it grew louder the longer she drove.

She slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road, her heart pounding in her chest. She got out, the grass damp underfoot as she made her way up a nearby hill. The buzzing noise was almost unbearable now, echoing in her head, but she couldn’t ignore it. She had to find out what it was.

The hill was steep, the soft heels of her shoes sinking into the wet ground, but she didn’t care. She climbed with determination, the buzzing growing louder with every step. At the top of the hill, she paused.

What she saw took her breath away.

In the distance, a circle of ancient standing stones rose from the earth, their dark surfaces weathered by time. The air around them hummed with an unnatural energy, and the buzzing noise reverberated through her entire body, filling her with an overwhelming sense of urgency. It felt as though the stones were calling to her.

Christine’s feet seemed to move on their own, pulling her closer to the circle of stones. Before she even realised it, she found herself standing in the very center. The buzzing noise, now deafening, thrummed through her entire body, vibrating her bones and teeth. She wanted to escape, to turn back, to return to the safety of her grandmother’s car and drive away, away from the unsettling pull of this place and her overwhelming emotions. But her legs wouldn’t obey her command to leave. She stood frozen, her gaze drawn toward the tallest stone at the edge of the circle.

As she approached, the buzzing sound grew sharper, bending and warping, like it was warping reality itself. The noise became frantic, dissonant, as though it was alive. Her pulse quickened, panic swelling inside her chest. The sense of unease crept under her skin, and for the first time since entering the circle, a deep, primal fear gripped her heart.

Suddenly, her vision wavered. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, the world tilting dangerously to one side. She felt as if her body was spinning, weightless and out of control. Her stomach churned, and her breath quickened. In an attempt to steady herself, her hand shot out, desperate to grab hold of something solid. Her palm slapped against the cold, jagged surface of the tallest stone.

The instant her fingers made contact, it was as if the ground shifted beneath her. The stone was icy, alien, and the moment her hand rested against it, the world spun violently. She tried to steady herself, but it was no use. The ground beneath her feet gave way, and she was falling.

She could feel the air rushing past her, the ground slipping further and further away. The feeling of being swallowed whole by the earth consumed her. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to stop the endless descent, but nothing slowed her fall. A sharp pain seared through her body as she slammed against the ground, but the pain was fleeting, disappearing into the darkness that swallowed her whole.

And then, everything went black.

Chapter Text

When Christine woke up, her head was pounding, her back ached fiercely, and she could hardly recall what had happened. Slowly opening her eyes, she was blinded by the bright sunlight beaming down at her limp body. She groaned, squinting her eyes and roaming the ground beneath her with her hands. 

“Help…” She groaned, her voice a mere whimper. The girl sat up slowly and took in her surroundings. She saw the stones encircling her, the tall rocky structures looming over her. Christine had always been tall compared to the other girls, standing at 5’7”. But now, she felt so small, and so fragile. 

She had fallen. Christine remembered that much, at least. The fall felt unusually long, though, like a free fall ride at an amusement park. But this had been both involuntary and, most importantly, not an amusement park ride.

On wobbly legs, Christine gathered her skirts and stood up. Looking down, she saw that the shoes that had originally been white, had been smudged brown by mud and had streaks of green grass stains. The same went for her blue dress. Christine made a disgusted face at the sight, and she felt her heart break slightly. She had ruined the dress her grandmother made for her right before her death, as well as that she would stain the leather seats of her grandmother’s old car when driving back home.

Christine limped away from the stone circle with slow steps. She walked over the hill she had crossed earlier, feeling like it had been  an eternity since she had passed it last time. But she could not have been out for all that long, right? 

Standing on top of the hill again, she expected to see the car, but she didn’t. She had parked it right there, right by the side of the road by the foot of the hill, but now it was gone. Panic rushed through her, and she gathered all her energy and rushed down the hill. She was certain she had locked it, she must have. But the car had vanished, there was no doubt in Christine’s mind about that. 

Rushing down the hill, she felt lightheaded once again. With a trip over her own foot, she fell forward with a frightened shriek. She felt herself roll down the hill, desperately trying to clutch at the grass to cease the tumbling. She only stilled once she reached the end of the hill, groaning in pain.

Now, she felt truly sick. Christine had just rolled down a steep hill, and she would usually get nauseous just by making a single full spin on her feet. So this was bad, really bad. Everything around her was spinning, and she did not dare to stand up for fear of losing consciousness once more. 

Christine was so frightened, she felt like she had been turned inside out. Not only that, but her grandmother’s car was gone, so she couldn’t drive back to safety herself. Intending to dial 911, she reached into her pocket for her phone. The police would no doubt ask questions about the lost car, and she would not have any other choice than to admit to driving it without a license. The possibility of that proved to be insignificant, as she couldn’t find her phone in either of her pockets. 

That made her even more frightened. No phone, no car, no idea where she was. But at least she knew what she was. And that was fucked. She was completely, utterly fucked.

It was almost a surprise to her that tears started flowing out of her eyes, as she had not expected there to be any to spare. But she cried, cried like a child as she laid flat on the mossy ground. It took several minutes until she was even willing to get up, but she knew she would have to do so eventually. 

Christine carefully turned around and raised herself up on her knees, gathering her skirts up and standing. She began to walk, her limp even more prominent than it had been before her fall down the hill. 

Her eyes flickered across her surroundings as she slowly stumbled down the narrow gravel road. She felt disoriented, lost, and without any sense of direction. Everything seemed different. The road had previously been asphalt, but wasn’t anymore. The trees were far more dense and in greater quantity. Was she dreaming? 

Christine held her hand out in front of her, counted her fingers, and searched for any abnormality. Besides the dirt on the back of her hands, and a few broken nails, they looked the exact same as usual. She stopped in her tracks, tilting her head up to look at the sky. That too, was completely normal. Christine whimpered out of desperation, her fingers manically pinching herself hard enough for her to wince. She dropped to her knees, the impact of her knees hitting the uneven gravel sending a sharp pain through her body. 

Christine clasped her hands and looked up into the clear blue sky, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Please, God, wake me from this nightmare.” She pleaded desperately, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. 

She hoped that when she opened them again, she would be back in her bed at her grandparents’ old house. Christine could almost delude herself into feeling the soft sensation of the bedsheets, and for a moment, she really thought it was true. But when she opened her eyes again, she had not moved an inch. She was still kneeling  on the narrow gravel road, surrounded by trees.

A single tear ran down her cheek, and her arms fell to her sides. She felt hopeless, completely hopeless. Barely seeing where she was going through her tears, Cristine walked further down the road. Even the air felt different, far more fresh than it felt on any other day.

With a dry throat, spinning head, and sore, weak legs, Christine had to turn to a tree to balance herself. She pressed her back against the bark and slid down until she hit the ground, leaning her head back against the rough texture of the tree. It did not take long until her eyelids fell closed by themselves, and the girl fell into a deep slumber.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Christine felt the soft material of a blanket on top of her, and the comforting sensation of a cushiony pillow beneath her head. She knew that God had answered her prayers, and she was back in the comfort of her bed. With a small smile on her lips, Christine reached up to her face and rubbed her eyes. Fluttering her eyes open, they went wide as pies when she saw that she was in a bed, but not in her bed. 

Christine sat up quickly, horror striking her when she saw that her dress was gone, and she was clad only in her shift in a room she didn’t recognise. Her eyes darted around the room. From what she could gather, it looked as though she was in a cabin. The walls were of a natural wood panelling, the hardwood floor planks matched that of the walls, and there was a stitched rug by the bedside. 

Just then, a girl dressed in a simple, blue, long dress and a bonnet covering her hair walked into the room. She held a tray in her hands, and her lips formed a sympathetic half smile upon seeing Christine. “Thee has awoken, I am glad to see it,” she said kindly, taking some further steps into the room and placed the tray on a narrow table pushed against the wall near the door. 

“Where am I? Where are my clothes?” Christine asked in a trembling voice, clutching the blanket and raising it to cover her body up to her neck. 

The girl smiled kindly, “Thee is safe in my home. Thy dress was in such a state I felt I had to wash it for thee. I hope thee does not mind, does thee?” 

“No, I… thank you.” Christine mumbled, moving her hands to her lap, staring blankly at them. Her mind was racing with what was happening, and what had happened. Who was that girl? She looked to be a similar age to Christine, and spoke in such an incredibly unusual manner. “Who… who are you?”

“Rachel Hunter. I live here with my older brother, Denzell. Our neighbour, Ethan Thornhill, found thee in the woods, and he took thee to us.” Noticing the confusion on her guest’s face, Rachel spoke again to clarify. “My brother is a physician. He wants to examine thee now that thee is awake, I’m sure.”

“I see… but there’s no need. I feel just fine.” 

Lie. She felt disoriented, just like she had felt in the woods. Her body ached, and she was thirsty beyond measure. 

As if reading her mind, Rachel spoke again. “Thee must be hungry, and thirsty. Here, I brought thee sustenance.” She smiled and stepped over to the tray she had brought, picking up a cup and a bowl and giving it to Christine. 

Christine accepted the food and drink handed to her, placing the bowl of broth on her thighs and held the cup in her right hand. “Thank you…” She forced the moderately polite reply, her throat burning as she spoke. She took a sip out of the cup she had been given, and was hit with surprise at the revelation that it was not water, but cider. It tasted delicious, strange as it may have been that she had not been given water to drink, given her dehydration.

“Is thee certain thee does not wish for my brother to examine thee? He is tending to our other patient right now, but he said he wishes to examine thee.” 

Christine had held her tongue on commenting on Rachel’s way of speaking, not wanting to be obnoxious. However, after sipping a spoonful of the broth, she could not contain her curiosity. “If I may ask, and I don’t want to seem rude, but why do you speak like… that?” She asked carefully, attempting to sound as respectful as she could. 

Rachel did not seem bothered by the question. Instead, she held her smile and answered Christine’s question. “It’s because I’m a Quaker, it’s how we speak.”

Christine nodded slowly, the confusion previously etched on her face dissipating. She refrained from asking about her hostess’ dress as well. She thought it resembled something an Amish person might wear, and Christine just assumed Quakers wore similar clothing. 

But Christine herself had been dressed in an equally unusual outfit, looking as though it was from the Georgian era. She decided to try and clarify why she had been dressed like that before. After taking another sip of the cider, she spoke, “If you were wondering why I was dressed the way I was, it’s just because… uh…” 

Rachel simply chuckled, both amused and in admiration of her guest’s humility. “There’s no need for an explanation. We Quakers may refrain from material luxury, but I would not judge thee for not doing the same. What is thy name?”

Christine was somewhat confused hearing Rachel’s response. Clearly, Rachel hadn’t perceived Christine’s words as she had intended. She couldn’t be bothered to think more of it, though. Perhaps this girl was so sheltered from the real world that she thought that everyone wore modest dresses such as those. 

Christine was snapped out of her internal monologue about clothes when Rachel asked for her name. “Christine Rutherford.” She answered plainly. 

She glanced down at her shift, so different from her modern clothes. Maybe if she played along, she could figure out what was happening. "Thank you, Rachel. Your kindness is most appreciated," Christine said, trying to mimic the old-fashioned formality in which her hostess was speaking.

"I'm pleased to make thy acquaintance, Miss Rutherford," Rachel replied with a warm smile. "Thou must have quite the tale to tell. How came thee to be found in the woods in such a state?"

Christine hesitated, unsure of how much she wanted to reveal. "I... I'm not entirely certain. My memory is foggy. I believe I was out walking and took a tumble." Partially true, minus at least half of the story, but that seemed safest for now.

"Well, thee is fortunate thee was found by our Mr Thornhill. The wilderness can be a dangerous place for a lone woman." Rachel's brow furrowed with concern. "Thy father or husband must be worried sick. We shall send word to them posthaste once thee is well enough to provide an address."

Christine made a hollow chuckle, devoid of any real humour or mirth. She stared down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, watching her fingers intertwine and separate, as if the simple motion could distract her from the unsettling reality of her situation.

"No, I'm afraid I have neither. It's just my mother and I.” She continued, her voice barely above a whisper. The weight of her solitude pressed down upon her shoulders, heavier than ever in this strange, unfamiliar place.

Rachel's eyes widened slightly at Christine's admission, a flicker of sympathy passing over her features. She reached out and gently placed a comforting hand on Christine's arm.

"I am sorry to hear that, Miss Rutherford. It is a heavy burden to bear, being without family." Rachel's voice was soft, filled with genuine empathy. "But thee needn't worry. Thee is not alone here. Thee has friends in me and my brother. We shall take good care of thee until thee is well enough to return home to thy mother."

The door creaked open, revealing a man with dark brown hair tied into a low ponytail and a round black hat. Christine couldn't help but stare at the man as he entered the room. His attire was just as peculiar as Rachel's, with a waistcoat and shirt that seemed to belong in a historical drama rather than the present day. “I see our other patient has awoken.” He said, stepping into the room. “Denzell Hunter, Miss...?” 

"Rutherford. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hunter," Christine managed, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had stepped into a time warp, or a living history museum come to life. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Christine told the so-called doctor the story of her accident, leaving out any mention of the circle of stones. The bewildered Christine was then examined by Doctor Hunter, and was deemed to be without serious injury. His instruments were not at all what a doctor would usually use, and just the fact that he had all his supplies in his home was quite unsettling. It implied that he wasn’t a professionally employed doctor at a hospital. He didn’t seem unprofessional, though, despite his unusual way of examination.

Christine stayed in bed for some time, and when Rachel came in with her clothes that had been washed and dried, and her now polished shoes, Christine got dressed in the blue dress and white shoes again. She kept her hair loose, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face twisted into a confused expression when she noticed that one of the diamonds on her necklace was missing. She searched the bed for it, but it was nowhere to be found.

Christine just assumed that the diamond had fallen off either when she had fainted by the stones or when she rolled down that hill. There was nothing to be done about it though, so she let it go.

She then left the guest room and went outside to the front porch. There, she pulled out a wooden chair by a table and sat in silence, looking out at the landscape surrounding the Hunter’s cabin. Christine was mindlessly flapping the pages of a newspaper magazine she’d picked up from a small bookshelf in the main room inside. Her gaze dropped to the magazine, and she was met with a shocking revelation upon seeing the date.

June 8th, 1777

The date on the front page sent a chill down Christine's spine. 1777? This couldn't be possible. Her mind reeled as she tried to reconcile this revelation with everything else that had happened. The strange clothing, the unfamiliar speech, the lack of modern technology - it all fell into place with a sickening clarity.

Her mind reeled, trying to process the implications. If this was real, if she had truly been transported back in time... But no, that was impossible. Time travel wasn't real. It was the stuff of science fiction novels and crazy conspiracy theories.

And yet, the evidence was right there in front of her. The strange clothes, the old-fashioned speech, the lack of modern technology... It all pointed to one conclusion. Somehow, some way, Christine had been sent back to the 18th century.

She felt a rising panic, her breath coming faster as her heart raced. How was she going to get home? Would she ever see her mother again? And what about her life in the future - her studies, her friends, her whole existence? Was it all gone now? Lost to the past?

Christine's vision blurred as tears threatened to spill over. She blinked them back furiously, refusing to let them fall. She had to stay strong, had to find a way out of this. There had to be an explanation, a solution.

She looked back down at the newspaper, her eyes desperately scanning the page for any clue, any hint of how this could have happened. But there was nothing, just the stark reality of the date staring back at her.

With trembling fingers, Christine set the newspaper down on the weathered wooden table, as if handling it too roughly might shatter the delicate reality she found herself in. She glanced out at the rolling hills and dense forest surrounding the Hunters' cabin, suddenly seeing them with new eyes. The lack of power lines, the quaint rusticity of the structures - it all made sense now, in a terrifying way.

What snapped her out of it all was when she heard a refined, male, British accented voice speak to her. “Good day, Miss… Rutherford, was it not?” 

Christine startled at the sound, her head snapping up from the newspaper in surprise. She had been so lost in her panicked thoughts that she hadn't even noticed someone approaching.

Her gaze landed on a handsome young man standing before her, his posture impeccable, in a waistcoat, shirt, and breeches. His chestnut brown hair was tied in a low ponytail, and his piercing blue eyes regarded her with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you," he said smoothly, a charming smile playing at his lips. "Your name is Rutherford, am I right?” He asked, making sure he had heard correctly from the doctor. He inclined his head in a gentlemanly bow, his movements graceful and practiced. 

Despite her earlier distress, Christine couldn't help but notice how attractive he was, with his chiseled features and air of easy confidence. “Oh… yes. Yes, that uh… that is my name.” Christine said, suddenly nervous. She stood up from her chair, placing one hand on the backrest, her thumb brushing against the smooth wooden surface. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance." He said, reaching his hand out. Christine was confused for a moment, but she placed her hand in his, and he bent down to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles, sending a rush of butterflies through Christine’s stomach, and a blush to her cheeks.

“William Ransom, at your service.” William's eyes sparkled with mischief as he regarded Christine, clearly enjoying how flustered she had gotten. "Pray tell, Miss Rutherford, how did you end up here? I must say, it's not every day one meets a damsel in distress quite so literally."

Christine’s blush was only enhanced as she noticed this handsome gentleman’s mischievous grin. She glanced down at her feet timidly as she spoke to him. “Please, it’s Christine.” Perking her head back up and looking him in the eye, she put on a sweetly abashed smile. “Besides, I cannot say I am in any current distress.” Her voice was almost flirtatious, and her eyes looked up into his with a playful gleam.

William smirked, raising an eyebrow at Christine’s boldness. She seemed to have quite unconventional manners, requesting to be addressed by her first name by a man she had met only minutes ago. Not only that, but the fact that she wore her hair down. William’s gaze raked over her appearance, her blue, silk dress, diamond necklace, and matching earrings only partially visible through her loose hair. Her attire was clearly not meant for practicality, but rather for fashion. All of these details painted a picture of a woman of means, someone accustomed to a life of comfort. So he was quite surprised to hear her very forward request of being addressed by her first name.

“I cannot, Miss Rutherford. It would not be proper.” William chuckled, flashing her a grin. He did not judge her, he was only surprised. His gaze lingered on Christine's face, taking in her delicate features. Those big brown eyes, framed by long lashes, held a spark of intelligence and spirit that intrigued him. Her plump, rosy lips curved into a playful smile, hinting at a mischievous nature beneath her demure exterior.

Christine’s playful demeanour fell, and she felt slightly embarrassed. She glanced back at the newspaper and the date on it, 1777. She had better act like someone of her status would in this era, lest she be mistaken for a harlot, she thought. 

“Of course. No, I know… I was just… speaking without thinking.” Now, that was true. There was something about that man that made her heart race like a girl experiencing her first crush. She looked up at him through her lashes, a shy smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It was a practiced expression, one she had seen her mother use countless times to charm and disarm. Christine hoped it would serve her well here, in this unfamiliar time and place.

William’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he saw the flustered look on her face, and the way her expression shifted from the resemblance of a blushing maiden to that of something more coy and enticing. 

They stood like that for several moments, their eye contact never ceasing as they simply observed one another. William was the one who broke it, looking away over to the stream and trees surrounding the area. A beautiful landscape, perfect for escorting a pretty lady on a walk. 

He glanced back at Christine, a smile playing at his lips. “Will you walk with me, Miss Rutherford?” William suggested, offering his arm in a gentlemanly gesture.

Christine took his arm, allowing him to escort her down the steps of the front porch and out onto the small path leading away from the cabin. The two of them walked together, both of them looking around, gazing at the beautiful landscape out in the countryside.

The concept of having travelled back in time was difficult for Christine to grasp, but this was not the time to ponder the details of how and why it had happened. Instead, she allowed herself to simply appreciate the natural state of the area. It was so pure, and so peacefully quiet. No sounds of vehicles, just raw, true nature. The only sounds were those of the song from the birds flying overhead, water rushing down the nearby stream, and their footsteps against the grass, and it brought Christine a sense of peace in the turmoil of the circumstances. 

William cleared his throat, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. "So, Miss Rutherford, if you don't mind me asking, how did you come to be found in the woods? You're clearly not from around here,” he pointed out, referencing her also very British accent. William's tone was conversational, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. He had heard bits and pieces from the Hunters about her mysterious appearance, but he wanted to hear her story directly from her lips.

Christine breathed in deeply, relishing the crisp, clean air. The scent of pine and earth filled her lungs, a stark contrast to the city smog she was used to. Here, in this untouched wilderness, she felt a sense of tranquility wash over her. She turned her head to look at William as they walked together, a small smile present on her lips. “So you have heard about that? It appears the story of my dramatic arrival proceeds me.”

William smiled back, “Indeed,” he replied with a chuckle. “I was told of it just when you arrived. Even when unconscious you were able to make quite the spectacle. God knows what you are capable of doing now that you are back up on your feet.” 

He was teasing her, which he would usually never do to a lady he’d just met, for the sake of propriety, but Christine really seemed to enjoy it. She proved that every time she teased him right back. 

“Oh, you’ll see,” Christine laughed before leaning in closer and whispering conspiratorially to him, their distance too close to be considered modest for the time. “But I’m sure you’re sturdy enough to be able to handle me.” 

His gaze dipped briefly to her lips, mere inches from his own, before meeting her eyes once more. "Careful, Miss Rutherford," he purred softly, his voice dropping an octave, "such talk might lead a gentleman to believe you're inviting trouble."

Despite his teasing words, there was a hint of genuine warning in his tone. Flirting was one thing, but they were still in public view, and William was a man who prided himself on his honour and propriety.

Christine felt her cheeks heat up at William’s gentle reprimand. Like always, she became paranoid over how her words could be misinterpreted. She really did not want him to think ill of her, for no other reason but that it made her feel ashamed. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest anything-“

William had to stifle a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. He waved his hand dismissively, “Hush now, no need to get apologetic. I know you did not mean anything improper.” He smiled reassuringly, placing his free hand over hers. “I was merely teasing you. And you are far too much fun to tease.”

Christine’s expression lightened, and she sighed in relief. “Such a cruel man you are.” She said, smirking.

“Oh I assure you, I am not. I was only poking fun at you, but I am sure you are sturdy enough to be able to handle me.” William retorted, glancing over to her by his side. 

That made Christine laugh joyfully, and William found himself captivated by the melodious sound. It was a carefree, sweet noise that seemed to light up her entire face, making her look even more radiant. Once Christine stopped laughing, she spoke again, a mischievous grin spreading over her lips. “I see you aren’t witty enough to come up with a retort of your own. But don’t worry, I rarely meet people who can keep up with me.”

William couldn’t help but chuckle at her bold comment, shaking his head in amusement. “Oh, you are a confident little thing, aren’t you? I may not have come up with an original retort just then, but it does not mean that I am incapable. No, in time you will find yourself outwitted by me, mark my words.”

Christine chuckled alongside him, both of them enjoying the harmless banter that was, perhaps, not entirely appropriate. Not only was William a gentleman, far different from the type of man she was used to in the 21st century, but he was attractive, funny, and charming. A pleasant distraction from her grief and the unnerving knowledge that she had been hurtled back in time.

William cleared his throat, pulling Christine out of her daydreaming about…well, him… "Jokes aside," he began, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Will you tell me how you came to be found in the woods? You're clearly not from around here."

He glanced at her, his blue eyes searching her face for any hint of discomfort or unease. Despite the lighthearted banter they had been engaging in, William was still a gentleman, and he would not press her for information if she seemed unwilling to share.

Christine hesitated, biting her lower lip as she considered how much of her story to reveal. She was obviously going to leave out the whole time travel part, partially because she herself did not quite understand it. “Forgive me in advance if my recollection of what happened isn’t very precise, I do believe I might have hit my head.” She began, attempting to retell the tale, her eyes drifting over at the flowing stream they walked beside. “But you are right in that I am not from here, I came from England with my mother to… to get some family affairs in order after my grandmother’s death.”

She paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “And then my mother and I had an argument, and I was so angry I just… ran away. Moral of the story, I fell. Tumbled down a hill, I did. Then I had to make my way back, but I wasn’t feeling well, and I must have fallen unconscious. Next thing I know, I woke up here.”

William listened intently as Christine recounted her story, his eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of her argument with her mother. He could understand the desire to escape after a heated disagreement, but to run off into the wilderness alone? It seemed rather reckless, especially for a lady.

"I see," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I am sorry for your loss, I offer you my condolences. Did you happen to mention where exactly you were headed when you left your mother? Surely you had a destination in mind."

He glanced at her, trying to read her expression. There was something about her story that didn't quite sit right with him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Perhaps it was simply the oddity of her sudden appearance in the middle of the woods, or the way she seemed to dance around certain details. 

“No. I… just had to leave, so I did. I had no idea where I was going, really.” She admitted, her eyes cast down at the grass beneath her shoes. 

William frowned slightly, clearly concerned about her wellbeing and the reckless abandon with which she had fled into the wilderness by herself. It was a recipe for disaster, to be sure. “Miss Rutherford, if I may be so bold, that was an incredibly foolish thing to do.” He scolded, his voice tinged with concern. “Running off all by your lonesome, do you have any idea of what could have happened?”

Seeing the frown on Christine’s face at his insensitive words, William took a deep breath, and resumed in a more gentle tone. “Forgive me, I am only worried for you.” He tilted his head seeing the pained expression on the girl’s face, growing more worried by the second. “Did anything happen? Did someone hurt you? I overheard the conversation between Mr. Hunter and Mr. Thornhill, he said he found you unconscious on the side of the road, your hair a mess and your dress filthy. I must ask you, did anyone hurt you?”

Christine’s heart took an extra beat at William’s genuine concern. She had never met a stranger that was so considerate in ensuring her safety. A grateful smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, “No, I am fine. Truly, I am. But thank you so much for your concern, I wouldn’t expect that of a stranger.” 

William seemed to be bewildered by that statement, as though his concern was the most obvious reaction someone would have. “But of course. It is my duty as a gentleman and an officer to ensure the safety and wellbeing of any lady I encounter, especially if she currently has none other to do so for her.”

Christine’s modern womanly pride flared up at his words. She stopped in her tracks and let go of his arm, turning to face him with a prideful expression. “While I appreciate your sense of duty and honour, I do not need someone to protect me. I’m not some… fragile porcelain doll or naive little girl! I am a strong woman, and I can look out for myself.”

William couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips, shaking his head in amusement. When he looked back directly at her face, he saw that the determination was still there. He sighed in exasperation, growing frustrated by her naivety. “Miss Rutherford, your confidence can be admirable at times, but when it clouds your judgement, it is only foolish.” He paused, “You are a woman, unaccompanied in a land you are not familiar with. What do you think would’ve happened to you if you were found by a man less honourable than Mr Thornhill, hm?”

Christine sighed, finding truth in his point. “You’re right, I can be foolish. Thank you for looking out for me,” she smiled softly, “And for making me realise my foolishness.”

He smiled at her, relieved that she was not offended by his words. “I do not wish to shame you for it. I, myself can be foolish at times when I let my pride get the best of me. It seems we have that in common.” 

“Indeed, we do.”

Chapter Text

June 1777

Christine sat cross-legged on the floor of the small guest bedroom she had been occupying for the past two nights. In front of her lay a sheet of paper, and in her hand, a quill borrowed from the Hunters. She was trying to piece together everything that had happened, her thoughts tangled and chaotic: the stones, the supposed time travel, William…

He has nothing to do with this.

Yet William kept intruding on her thoughts, a fact that infuriated her. Christine Rutherford had far bigger problems to worry about than an inconvenient attraction to a man she had only just met. She knew roughly when she was and had a vague sense of where. But the specifics eluded her. Rachel, who had been a kind and helpful companion since Christine’s unexpected arrival, had explained their location: Dismal Town, near the Great Dismal Swamp.

Christine’s knowledge of American geography was limited. She could name all the states and pinpoint many major cities, but this remote area was beyond her comprehension. She didn’t even know how far she was from the mysterious circle of stones—or if she could find her way back to them. They had to be the key to returning to her own time. But there were no guarantees. The stones might send her further into the past, and if that happened… what then?

And did she even want to return? Her 21st-century life had been far from fulfilling. Few friends, no close family except for her mother—who had lied to her for years. Dreams? She’d had so few. The modern world had felt like a place of relentless chaos, a life lived in constant uncertainty and fear.

Maybe this was fate. Maybe she was meant to be here, to make something better of her life in this era. Or maybe she didn’t have a choice at all.

If she was going to take this chance, she needed a solid plan. She had no money—at least, none that was useful here—aside from what she might earn by selling her jewelry and dress. She could buy a simpler gown and use the remaining money to fund her next steps. The jewelry, she suspected, would fetch a good price. With enough funds, she could book passage to England and seek out her ancestors. Perhaps she could convince them they were kin and find shelter with them.

Her grandmother had once told her stories of relatives who, at this very point in time, lived at an estate called Hartley Hall in Lincolnshire. It belonged to a duke. With luck, a healthy dose of charm, and a carefully crafted story, she might be able to persuade them of their connection. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was her best hope—and for now, hope was enough.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

For the past two days, Christine had spent a lot of time sitting on the front porch with William, chatting on and on about their lives, their interests, amusing anecdotes, and childhood stories, along with a fair amount of innocent flirting. She had also helped Denzell with some simple medical tasks, which she proved she was far more skilled at than the sewing Rachel had tried to teach her, not to mention more interested.

“That’s a lovely tune.” An approaching voice said behind her, and upon immediately recognising it as William’s, a small smile appeared on Christine’s face.

Christine chuckled lightly, realising she’d been mindlessly humming the theme song to Game of Thrones. She was sitting in the exact same chair she’d been just two days earlier, when she first made the shocking revelation that she’d fallen through time. She looked up at William, not sure how to explain the melody that had been…no…would be written over two-hundred years in the future. “It’s nothing, just…forget it.”, she mumbled, looking down at a drawing of the surrounding landscape that she’d been working on. 

William pulled out the chair beside her and sat down, putting his arms on the armrests. He leaned to his side, glancing over to the drawing in Christine’s hand. He turned his gaze to the girl’s face, smiling as he noticed the blush heating up her cheeks at the eye contact between them. “You are very talented.” He whispered.

Christine chuckled and looked back at her drawing. She made careful strokes with the charcoal stick, trying her best to capture the magnificent landscape before her. “Thank you, Mr. Ransom.” 

William had not told Christine of his identity and, or title, it was too risky to reveal. It was not that he did not trust her, he did, for the most part, but he had no reason to tell her. He was not sure of her allegiance in the ongoing war, so he refrained from revealing any details. Therefore, he did not correct her mistake, he did not tell her that she should be addressing him as ‘Lord Ellesmere.’ 

“You are very welcome, Miss Rutherford.” He said in a neutral tone. William let out a deep exhale, leaning back into the chair as he watched Christine focus on her drawing. It was all so tantalising to him, the way she bit her lower lip in concentration, her eyebrows somewhat tensed. The sun was shining on them, and to William, Christine resembled an angel with the way the light reflected on her hair, glowing around her head like a golden halo. He lifted his hand an inch or two, wanting to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear, but then thought better of the action.

Christine felt the warmth of his gaze upon her, and it made her skin tingle with awareness. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, a coy smile playing at her lips. "What are you looking at, Mr. Ransom?" she teased, her voice low and playful.

William's eyes met hers, a spark of desire igniting within their blue depths. "Can't a gentleman simply admire a beautiful view?" he murmured, his gaze roaming appreciatively over her face and figure.

Christine's smile widened, her heart fluttering at the sincerity of his words. She ducked her head shyly, hiding the blush that was surely staining her cheeks. "Flatterer," she accused, but there was no bite to her tone.

“Maybe,” he purred, a smirk pulling at the side of his mouth. “But I meant it.”

Christine rolled her eyes, along with an amused chuckle. She placed her drawing down on the worn wooden table, tapping the edge of the paper with her fingernails. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr Ransom.” 

William raised an eyebrow in a teasing manner. He leaned back in his chair and shifted his hips upward in a way that made Christine’s eyes look lower down than what was appropriate, but her eyes quickly returned to his face once more. William had noticed the flicker in her gaze, and a proud smirk etched its way onto his lips. “Surely you can be more generous than that.” He teased, letting his own eyes wander without shame.

“My eyes are up here.” She quipped, seeing how his eyes roamed her figure lasciviously. She blushed.

“And mine are up here.” He retorted back, making a small side-nod of his head when she glared at him. Christine huffed, shaking her head and returning her focus to her drawing. “Well? Will you be more generous?” He asked again. 

Christine sighed, putting down the charcoal stick again and turning to face him completely. “Fine,” she caved, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips despite the annoyed look in her eyes. “You look… very handsome.” She admitted with some reluctance, but she spoke the truth nonetheless. 

William wanted to smirk, but refrained from doing so, knowing it would only make Christine more irked than she already was. Even if he did not show it, the compliment from her meant a great deal to him. Far more than it would if he had heard it from someone else.

“Thank you.” He said simply, smiling warmly instead of smirking. He watched her as she resumed her drawing, admiring the concentration etched on her features. “Have you decided where you will go from here?” 

Christine was relieved to hear a more pleasant question come from William, for once. In truth, though, she did enjoy their banter, but she would never admit it. “I have a plan to take a ship to England, and then I will stay with some distant relatives in Lincolnshire.” She told him, not turning her gaze to look at him.

Hearing that Christine wanted to sail home to England, he felt a stronger sense of trust in her. Her story about going all the way to America to settle her grandmother’s affairs had not been the most solid one, he thought, in matters of knowing her allegiance. But now that she shared her plan to sail home, he trusted her more. She had to be a good and loyal subject of his majesty, the King. Still, he wondered why she would choose to abandon her mother here, across the ocean, without at least letting the woman know of her intentions to go back to England. So, he asked her.

Christine hesitated for a moment, not quite sure how to answer. She did feel mildly guilty for not having thought much about her mother in the short time since she’d arrived in this time, but she was still very angry with her for keeping the true story of her father’s disappearance a secret for so long. As she’d resolved before, she had nothing in her old life worth fighting to get back to. She was in another time now, another place. She’d been given the chance to start over, and she was going to take it. Her mother would move on without her, it was not like they’d ever been particularly close anyway.

“My mother will be fine,” she told William. “I think…we just need space for now. I’ll write to her when I get home to let her know I’m safe, I promise.”

William wanted to ask more questions, but he refrained from doing so, knowing it was none of his business. For now, there was a much more important issue at hand. For while Christine had spoken of going home to England, she had not mentioned how exactly she was going to do that.

 “You are not planning on travelling alone, are you?” He asked with a note of concern in his voice, his eyes narrowed in disapproval. It simply was not safe.

Christine laughed, “Well, unless you have a better alternative, yes.” 

William hesitated for a moment, looking out the porch as he pondered the possibilities. “I will not be able to come with you on your journey, Miss Rutherford. However, I can help in ensuring your safety in other ways,” he told her sincerely, glancing to his side to give her a smile. 

Perhaps he could escort her to his estate near Lynchburg, and entrust her into his father’s care. In doing this, his delay in his mission would only be increased, which he might get in trouble for, but what other choice did he have? He refused to simply let her go and have her to rely on the mercy of strangers on a ship, with no one to protect her. No, he had to make sure she would be in safe hands, even if it meant temporarily putting aside his duty. 

“I have an idea.”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

After William had suggested his idea of bringing her to his estate, telling her about his father and assuring her that she would be safe under his, as well as his father’s care, Christine had agreed to it. He informed her of the fact that he would have to leave her to do his duty in the army, but that if she was ever in need of guidance or simply someone to talk to, she need only write to him.

“Didn’t you say you draw as well?” Christine asked him after a long, serious, though not stiff conversation. Even when they discussed more serious matters such as that, their conversations were just as easy going as it was when talking about more casual things. 

“I do.” He confirmed, nodding. He looked at her, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Are you interested in seeing some of my work?” He asked with a chuckle.

The smile that spread over Christine’s lips was one of genuine excitement, interest, and joy. “Of course! But what is that slyness in your smile for?” She asked, raising an eyebrow in mock accusation.

“Well,” William chuckled, looking down at his feet so as to not show her how his cheeks heated up. “You will undoubtedly see.” 

“Of course I will see, I’m not blind.” 

William laughed, shaking his head in pure amusement. “No, I suppose not. Though sometimes I wonder, given how you often fail to notice the effect you have on me.” He didn’t stay to see the flustered look on Christine’s face. Instead, he went inside the cabin to fetch his sketchbook. He returned a few moments later, clutching a leather-bound book under his arm.

“Here,” he said, offering it to Christine. Christine took the book from him, her fingers brushing against his for a fleeting moment. She opened it reverently, as if handling a precious artifact. As she flipped through the pages, her eyes widened in a mixture of admiration and shock.

“I should have known you were too delicate to see these,” William teased, stepping behind her and placing both hands on her shoulders. “Poor girl, you are completely scandalised, aren’t you?”

The drawings were of women, but they weren’t the kind of portraits any gentleman or lady would hang in their parlor. They were of women in countless states of undress, and some where they were as bare as the day they were born. Christine was scandalised, but she couldn’t deny William’s talent either. 

Christine’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson at the sight of the erotic drawings, and she slammed the book shut with a gasp. “I’m not scandalised, I just…” she stammered, her words trailing off as she felt Williams' strong hands on her shoulders. His proximity and the warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help but want more of it. 

William leaned in closer, his breath tickling against her ear as he spoke in a low, husky whisper. “Just what, Miss Rutherford? Speak your mind.”

“I am merely in awe of your skill.” Christine said, trying to sound as composed as she possibly could. Which wasn’t much. 

William chuckled, a low, deep sound that resonated through his chest and against her back. "I do not believe that for a second, Miss Rutherford, but I am glad you appreciate my work." He smiled, squeezing her shoulders gently before removing his hands. 

“There is one question I have,” Christine chuckled lightly, and she turned her head around to face William, a playful glint in her eyes. “Where on earth do you find these women who are willing to… take their clothes off?”

William laughed heartily, shaking his head. "Ah, Miss Rutherford, you are full of surprises. I assure you, it is not as scandalous as it may seem. These models are professional, and it is all done in good taste." He winked at her playfully.

Christine rolled her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "Of course, Mr. Ransom. Forgive me for my naivety." She handed the sketchbook back to him, her fingers brushing against his once more. “Are all of them professional models, or do you scout some yourself?” She asked in a quieter voice as the touch of their fingers lingered.

He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure which Christine had undoubtedly torn down with a simple look of her eyes. “Most are professionals, yes. But from time to time, I have been known to… persuade a willing participant or two.” He smiled mischievously, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

He paused, studying her face closely. “Why do you ask? Surely, a lady such as yourself wouldn’t want to model for me, or would you?” He teased, his voice low and suggestive. 

Christine’s eyes widened at his suggestion, both scandalised shock and mild intrigue flashing in her eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, she simply stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest, her breasts heaving under the pressure of her stays.

“Why, Miss Rutherford, I believe I have rendered you speechless.” William laughed, the mischief in his eyes never fading. Seeing the conflict between propriety and desire so clearly displayed on Christine was a sight that both amused and aroused him, but he knew better than to push those thoughts any further.

“Let me see your hands, dear,” William ordered gently, taking a step to stand by her side instead of behind her, holding out both his hands. Christine hesitated for a moment, her wide eyes boring into his. She lifted her hands and placed them in his. 

He looked at her hands, tracing his eyes along each finger, all the way from her knuckles to the whites of her fingernails. They felt cold and soft in his, an image of elegance and grace, with long, slender fingers and even, neatly trimmed nails. He imagined how they would look when sketched onto paper with charcoal, the curves and lines of each knuckle, the delicate veins visible just beneath the surface of her tender skin. 

“Your hands are very beautiful, Miss Rutherford,” he murmured, his voice low and appreciative. “I would love to capture them on paper sometime, if you would allow it.”

Christine’s heart raced as William examined her hands, his warm touch sending electric shivers up her arms. His words, spoken in such a low and intimate tone, made her cheeks flush and her breath catch in her throat. His hands, so strong and large compared to hers, the rough calluses and the veins standing out on the back of his hands so pleasing to the eyes, and even more so to the touch. Despite the visible strength in every inch of his hands, and the obvious fact that he could crush every bone in her hands within seconds if he wanted to, his touch was beyond gentle. His thumb graced across her knuckles so softly, and so carefully, as if her hands were made of the most fragile porcelain.

“Yes,” she breathed, her words no more than a whisper. “I would like that.”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Christine couldn’t keep her eyes off William. The golden rays of the afternoon sun cast an ethereal glow over the scene, beams of sunlight shining onto both their faces, accentuating every feature and every small detail. Christine watched his concentrated expression, mesmerised. His beautiful blue eyes carefully studied her hands that he had positioned in a graceful, natural pose, with one hand laid in the palm of the other on the table. The warm, bright sunlight illuminated every delicate curve and line as his charcoal moved across the paper with practiced ease, capturing the graceful arch of her fingers, and the subtle strength in her wrists.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, meeting her gaze. “You are doing wonderfully.”

Christine felt a thrill at his praise, a warmth blooming in her chest. She held perfectly still, though not stiff, but rather relaxed. She savoured the intimacy of the moment, the connection between them as he immortalised her hands on paper. It was a peaceful moment. Quiet, save for the soft scratch of charcoal, their gentle breathing, and the soothing sounds of nature. 

He returned his focus to the drawing, though he glanced up at her face from time to time to admire the beauty that had been ingrained into his mind’s eye. With careful strokes, he did his best to capture the vision of her hands, an innocent, yet intimate action. The soft rustle of leaves blowing in the wind, along with the harmonious birdsong echoing softly in the background, set a calming soundtrack to this moment of unspoken words, thoughts not acted upon, and a growing trust and a sense of rightfulness in this place, at this time. 

Those moments when William’s eyes flickered to drink in the sight of Christine’s face, when he felt he could stare at her for hours, just memorising every single one of her features, he felt an attraction stronger than anything he’d ever experienced before. Her hair shone like spun gold around her face, and he had never seen anyone, nor anything, look so radiant. 

William had to force his gaze away from her face and back to the drawing of her hands, which were just as tantalising as the rest of her. “You have beautiful hands, Christine,” he whispered in a tone he had never used with her before - vulnerable, and full of affection. “So… graceful, and elegant.”

“Do you often draw people’s hands?” Christine said in a quiet whisper. The vulnerability and affection in William’s voice made her feel even more safe with him, as though they were both laying out their souls for the other to take care of. 

A small smile tugged at his lips, silently acknowledging to himself how sacred he considered this moment with her. “No, never.” 

Her breath caught in her throat at his admission. He had chosen to draw her hands, and she was the first. What was so special about her that made him want to draw her hands out of all things? He could have made a portrait, a simple, usual portrait, but he chose something different, something unique, innocent yet intimate, and it made her feel so very special.

“You called me Christine,” she teased, knowing full well how highly he viewed propriety and decorum, something she found both silly and adorable about him. “Didn’t you, William?” His name rolled off her tongue in a way that sent a shiver down his spine, his gaze darting to study her face.

He chuckled, a sound so soft and intimate that Christine swore her heart skipped a beat. “I suppose I did.” He admitted, a warm grin playing over his lips, and with the same warmth also gleaming in his eyes that made Christine’s pulse quicken and her stomach flutter. “But you were just as impertinent, were you not?” He raised an eyebrow with his words.

“Guilty as charged,” she conceded with a coy smile, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “But it was not as though you seemed to mind very much.” 

William drew the last stroke of the charcoal and carefully put it down on the table. “No, I didn’t. Not at all.” He said before standing up with the drawing in his hand, taking a step closer and showing it to her. 

Christine smiled warmly at the sight, letting out a little joyful laugh. “Oh William, thank you so much! It’s wonderful.” And it really was, the way every stroke of charcoal captured the image of her hands, and all of the detail put into it, was captivating. Not only in his skill as an artist, but how he had seen her in a way she could never have imagined a simple drawing of her hands could ever let him.

“It was my pleasure.” William smiled, his heart swelling seeing her appreciation. ”Here, this is for you.” He moved his hand to the edge of the paper to carefully tear it from the binder, but feeling the soft touch of Christine’s hand upon his, he paused.

“No, don’t,” she said softly, turning her head to meet his gaze. “I want you to have it. To remember me by.” 

William smiled, and closed his sketchbook with the drawing still in it. “I would not be likely to forget you, but yes, I will keep it with me.” 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

At dinner that night, Christine still couldn’t keep her eyes off William, or her thoughts away from their moment earlier that day. It was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her, she thought. She was really beginning to catch feelings for this man…

Rachel’s sweet voice interrupted her thinking. “Has thee decided where thee is going to go next, Christine?” 

Christine snapped out of her thoughts, looking bewildered for a second before clearing her throat and speaking. “Yes, uh…”

“I will escort her to my home, and she will be under the protection of my father.” William answered for her, glancing over to smile at Christine.

She smiled back at him, feeling a now very familiar flutter in her stomach. “That’s right.” She nodded, turning to Rachel again. 

“That sounds like a sound plan.” Denzell said approvingly. "It does indeed," Rachel agreed, smiling warmly at both William and Christine. "I am glad to hear thee has everything arranged, Christine, and I am certain thee will be in good hands with William’s family."

"Yes, indeed," Denzell concurred, raising his glass of wine in a small toast. "To new beginnings and old friends."

"To new beginnings and old friends," William and Rachel echoed, clinking their glasses together.

As the dinner conversation flowed, Christine found herself stealing glances at William across the table, her heart fluttering each time their eyes met. The drawing of her hands lay hidden in his sketchbook, a secret reminder of their intimate moment earlier that day.

When she went to bed that night, her mind wandered to the future, to the unknown path that lay ahead of her, but amidst the uncertainty, one thing remained constant - the growing feelings she harboured for William.

Chapter Text

June 1777

It had been three days since Christine arrived in this other time, and it had been mostly pleasant, which mainly had to do with the company of William, who was just as eager to spend time with her as she was with him. The first day, the boredom had been unbearable. She had no phone, no tv, no music, none of the easily accessible ways to entertain herself that she was used to. But with William’s company, those things did not feel so terrible to be without.

She had found daily amusement in ways she had not appreciated as much in the past — technically the future — it was all very confusing. Other things that she no longer had access to were more difficult to live without, flushing toilets, sinks, and showers, obviously. But also just microwaves, which she only now realised how wonderful they are - were? Will be? 

Christine and William had said goodbye to the Hunter siblings in the morning, and they were now horseback riding together on a narrow forest path, heading west towards William’s estate. The tension was thick between them, their proximity far closer than it ever had been before. They sat closely together on the saddle, William holding one hand on the reins and the other around Christine’s waist, holding her back close to his chest. 

They were completely quiet, which was odd, because usually they could not shut up in each other's presence. Christine watched the landscape they passed by, trying to distract herself from how dearly she wanted to be in a car right now. She imagined how William would look in front of a steering wheel, internally grieving over the fact that she would never be anyone’s passenger princess, particularly William’s.

William sensed the melancholy in her, despite the attempts she made to hide it. He squeezed her waist gently, hoping to provide some comfort. “What troubles you, Christine?”

She sighed, leaning back against his chest. “It’s nothing. I was just… thinking about home, and how I miss it.” She confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“You will be with your family soon enough. My father will ensure your safe passage to England.” William reassured her, his soft and soothing against her ear. “And until then, you have me.”

As they rode on in comfortable silence, William found himself stealing glances at Christine, admiring the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a warm glow on her face. The curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the graceful arch of her neck - every feature seemed to beckon him, begging to be touched, kissed, and worshipped. 

He swallowed hard, trying to push down the desire that surged within him. It was improper, he knew, to entertain such thoughts about a lady.

But the subtle bounce of Christine's shapely rear against his lap with each rocking motion of the horse was proving too much for William to ignore. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to will away the growing tightness in his breeches.

But Christine, she looked so… delectable. Her golden tresses spilled down her back in loose waves, catching the light like strands of silk. The breeze teased wisps of hair across her face, which she absently brushed away. 

William's gaze trailed lower, drinking in the sight of her curves hugged by her dress. The fabric stretched taut across her chest, hinting at the full breasts beneath. Her waist nipped in, accentuating the swell of her hips and the lush roundness of her bottom.

He shook his head, trying to banish the impure thoughts. But it was no use. The ache in his loins only grew, his manhood straining against the confines of his breeches.

How much longer until they reached his estate? He prayed it would be soon, before he utterly lost control and did something unforgivable. Like sweep Christine into his arms, lay her down in the grass, and make passionate love to her until they both cried out in ecstasy...

But the rational part of his brain knew he couldn't do that. It was improper, ungentlemanly. Christine deserved better than a rutting animal. She deserved far better than having her reputation ruined because of one man’s selfish desires.

So he gritted his teeth and tried to think of the least arousing things possible. Moldy bread. Putrid cheese. Dead puppies. Anything to make his erection go down.

But alas, nothing worked.

Christine certainly felt it, and it made her nervous. She hated being nervous, and her mind was making up sassy comments to tease him with, but she didn’t dare utter a word. Another part of her wanted to grind against him, feel his hardness in greater detail, but she certainly did not dare to do that either. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Hours went by, and the tension slowly lightened, but there was still an air of awkwardness between them. As the midday sun climbed higher in the sky, the rumblings of their stomachs served as a reminder that it was time for a meal. William reined in his horse, bringing them to a stop in a small clearing surrounded by towering oak trees.

"We should rest here," he suggested, hopping down from the saddle with ease. He turned to offer Christine a hand, helping her dismount with a gentlemanly flourish. From the saddlebags, William retrieved a wicker basket filled with provisions - paper-wrapped sandwiches, apples, and a flask of cool water.

As they settled in to enjoy their picnic lunch on a fallen log, William couldn't help but steal glances at Christine. The dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves cast a warm glow on her face, highlighting the delicate features he had grown so fond of.

He found himself captivated by the way she ate, the graceful movements of her hands as she tore off bits of bread and brought them to her lips. The sight of her pink tongue darting out to catch a stray crumb made his throat go dry. As they ate, William watched Christine surreptitiously, admiring the way her lips closed around each morsel, the delicate motion of her throat as she swallowed. He imagined those lips wrapped around something else entirely. 

William shifted uncomfortably, trying to will away the stirrings of desire that threatened to consume him once more. It was improper to entertain such thoughts about a lady, especially one in his charge. But the way Christine's dress hugged her curves, the tantalising glimpses of creamy skin at her décolletage... It was enough to drive any man mad with lust.

William could not let himself lose control, and being in Christine’s presence for too long made that notably arduous. William stood abruptly, needing to put some distance between himself and the tempting vision of Christine. "I just have to uh..." He trailed off, his mind momentarily blank as it raced to come up with an excuse. "I need to, um, relieve myself," he finally managed to stammer out, his face flushing with embarrassment. "If you'll excuse me for a moment." Without waiting for a response, William quickly walked off into the woods, seeking the privacy of the dense foliage. 

William disappeared into the trees, leaving Christine alone with her thoughts. She couldn't help but wonder what had come over him. He had seemed so flustered, so uncomfortable. It was unlike him.

Was it something she had said? Done? Or was it... her?

The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Could William possibly be attracted to her? The idea was thrilling, yet terrifying. She knew she shouldn't encourage such thoughts. It was improper, scandalous even. But deep down, she couldn't deny the fluttering in her heart whenever he looked at her with those intense blue eyes.

Christine shook her head, trying to clear her mind. This was madness. She was a modern woman, not some swooning maiden from a historical romance novel. She needed to keep her wits about her, not get lost in fanciful notions of love and desire.

But even as she chastised herself, Christine couldn't help but imagine what it would be like if William were to kiss her. To feel those strong arms around her, his lips pressing against hers with passion...

A branch snapped behind her, startling Christine out of her daydream. Before she could turn around, a hand grabbed her by the upper arm and harshly pulled her up to her feet. She knew this was not William. The grip was too rough, the scent of cheap ale and unwashed skin filling her nostrils. Christine froze, her heart hammering in her chest as the cold steel of a knife pressed against her vulnerable throat. She could feel the hot, fetid breath of her attacker on the back of her neck, the rough fabric of his clothes against her skin.

"Don't scream," the man growled, his voice low and menacing. "And don't try anything stupid, or I'll slit your pretty little throat."

Christine's mind raced, her body trembling with fear. Where was William? Why wasn't he here to protect her? She swallowed hard, the knife digging into her flesh as she nodded shakily. "My friend will be back any minute." She murmured, her voice trembling.

The man laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Well, sweetheart, I've got a friend with me too, and he's got a pistol."

“Yeah, I’ve got a pistol.” Another voice said, coming from her left. Christine could see the second man now, a grizzled, unshaven fellow with a nasty scar running down his cheek. He pointed his pistol at Christine, his hand shaking slightly.

“Don’t point it at me, you fucking numbskull!” The man holding the knife snapped at his companion. With his free hand, he grabbed a fistful of Christine's hair, yanking her head back painfully. The one with the pistol looked every bit a numbskull, with his clueless expression and mouth hanging open to no end. “I wasn’t pointing it at you! I was pointing it at her!”

“But you’ve got a shit aim.” The other snarled at the pistol-wielder, scoffing with distain. "When the harlot's friend comes back, you point the pistol at him, got it?" The numbskull nodded dumbly, his gaze never leaving Christine. She could see the hunger in his eyes, the way his tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips. She shuddered, knowing that if the knife-wielder didn't kill her, this brute might violate her in other ways.

"Right. I'll shoot the bloke." The numbskull said, his voice slow and thick. He took a step closer to Christine, the pistol wavering in his hand. "And after, we can 'ave some fun with the girl, eh?"

The knife-wielder snorted, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Aye, I like the way you think, Ned." 

Ned grinned, revealing a row of crooked, yellowed teeth. "I'm Ned and he's Harry." He introduced them to Christine, as if they were at a bloody tea party. 

"We're not here to introduce ourselves to the whore." Harry snapped, his patience wearing thin. 

Ned's grin faltered. "Right, right, o’course not." He said, quickly backpedaling. Christine's fear was vaguely replaced by anger, she gritted her teeth, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I am not a whore." She seethed.

Harry laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Ain't you now? Dressed like that, prancing around in the woods with your male friend?" He sneered, his breath hot and fetid against her ear. "You're just asking for trouble, aren't you?"

Ned shook his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. "But she said she ain't a whore, Harry." He said, as if Harry had just said the sky was green.

"Shut up, Ned." Harry growled, his grip on Christine's hair tightening painfully. "You're not exactly a genius, are you?"

Just then, William burst through the bushes, his eyes widening in horror as he took in the scene before him. "Get your hands off of her!" He roared, his voice ringing out through the forest.

Harry's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of William. "Well, well, well. Look who it is." He sneered, his grip on Christine's hair loosening slightly. "The lad has come to save his precious little whore."

Ned’s eyes lit up and he turned around with the pistol pointed at William, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Prepare to die!” He yelled confidently. Before William even had a chance to react, Ned pulled the trigger. Christine screamed and shut her eyes as a loud gunshot rang out. However, when she opened them again, William was still standing there, unharmed. The numbskull had missed.  

Ned stared at the pistol in his hands, looking confused. He brought it close to his face, looking into the barrel. “Where are the bullets?” With a slip of his fingers, the trigger was pulled, firing a bullet straight into his eye. His lifeless body fell to the ground, and the three others stood in shock for a moment.

“Useless numbskull!” Harry yelled, tightening his grip on Christine’s hair and yanking her head back. 

William seized the opportunity to lunge forward, swiftly picking up the pistol from the ground beside the numbskull’s limp hand. He took aim at Harry, his finger hovering over the trigger. "I wouldn't move if I were you," William warned, his voice low and dangerous as he aimed the pistol at Harry's chest. "Release the lady, now."

“No, you shouldn’t move, boy.” Harry's eyes glinted with malice as he pulled Christine closer, the knife pressing harder against her throat. "I swear to God, I will slit the whore's pretty throat if you don't drop the gun right now." Harry's eyes glinted with malice as Christine cried out, the knife bit into her skin, drawing a thin line of blood. 

"I'm no whore." She whimpered, her voice trembling with fear and pain.

"Ain’t ya?" Harry scoffed, shaking his head amusedly. "But you've spread your legs for this one, haven't you?" He gestured to William with his chin, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. 

William's jaw clenched, his hand trembling slightly as he held the pistol steady. "She's a lady, you bastard." He growled through gritted teeth. "And I won't let you harm her any further."

“Well, I will if you don’t drop the pistol!” Harry shouted. “Do as I say right now or I swear to god–” he pressed the knife even harder against Christine, drawing a little bit of blood. William’s eyes widened in fear and he hurriedly threw up his hands. “Alright!” he exclaimed, dropping the weapon on the ground.

“Kick it over!” 

William kicked the pistol away, sending it skidding across the forest ground. Harry’s eyes followed the weapon, his grip on Christine loosening slightly. Seizing the opportunity, Christine elbowed Harry hard in the ribs, breaking free from his grasp. She lunged forward, falling onto the ground. She suddenly realised the pistol was in her arm’s reach, so she grabbed it and threw it back towards William. 

William caught the pistol, wasting no time before aiming at Harry and pulling the trigger. The pistol fired with a deafening crack, and Harry crumpled to the ground, a red stain blossoming across his chest. William’s eyes returned to Christine, rushing towards her and dropping to his knees beside her. 

“Christine!” He exclaimed, his voice filled with relief and concern as he cupped her face in his hands, wiping away her tears. “Are you unharmed?”

“Yes, I’m fine…” She assured him, her voice shaky and hoarse from crying. 

William could sense her fright, so he pulled her close against him and held her tight. “Shh…It’s alright,” he murmured softly, rubbing slow circles on her back. Christine melted into his embrace, feeling a little better almost instantly. They stayed like that for quite some time, Christine wrapped in his strong arms. 

After a few moments, Christine pulled away. Tilting her head up, she gazed up at him with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks, through the tears of terror, her eyes shone with gratitude. “You saved me,” she whispered quietly, a small smile pulling at her mouth's corners. 

William smiled back at her, his eyes softening as he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “Of course I saved you,” he murmured, his voice low and tender. “But it was my fault. I left you alone, and I put you in danger.” He sighed, clenching his jaw as he looked off into the distance with regretful eyes. 

“Please, don’t blame yourself, William,” she pleaded, reaching to cup his cheek, moving his head to face her. “You saved me. Thank you.”

William felt as though he was going to faint, feeling her soft hand on his cheek, with the way his heart pounded so fast. His gaze instinctively dropped to her lips, they were so close, so inviting. He could feel her breath on his skin, could smell the sweet scent of her hair. It would be so easy to lean in and capture her lips with his own, to taste her, to claim her…

Christine was entranced by the intensity in William’s eyes, the way his gaze dropped to her lips and leaned in ever so slightly. Her heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she felt the magnetic pull between them, drawing her closer and closer. William's hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her silky hair. Christine's eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting slightly in anticipation. It was as though time stood still, and everything outside their bubble didn’t exist. It was only them, and the… corpses.

Remembering that slight inconvenience, Christine was snapped out of the spell. Not only that, but she had no idea how to kiss. It was something her old friends would tease her about, as she was the only one in her circle of friends that had never been kissed. And what was worse than being unkissed? Having been kissed next to two fresh corpses. She pulled away, clearing her throat.

“So… do we just throw the bodies into the lake?”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

After having filled the dead bandits’ pockets with stones and tossing them into the lake, William and Christine continued on their journey. William was taken aback when Christine had suggested they smash the faces of the bodies to disfigure them to avoid recognition, and only half-jokingly asked if she had done that before. 

The tension was thick between them after their almost kiss, not to mention the weight of what they had just done. William couldn't stop replaying the scene in his head - the cold steel of the pistol in his hand, the look of fear in Christine's eyes, the crimson blood that had seeped into the earth. 

Worst was that he had almost lost Christine, a thought that was even too terrible to imagine. Even though he’d only known her for three days, he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her. Her courage and wit as well as her beauty were superior to that of any other woman William had met before. He could spend hours just gazing at her, memorising every feature.

He was pulled out of his reverie by Christine asking him where they would be spending the night. William glanced over at Christine, his brow furrowing slightly. "I suppose we could find an inn in the next town," he mused, his gaze drifting back to the path ahead. 

And indeed, when they rode into the next town, they found a respectable inn to stay at. It was a cozy, well-kept establishment with a jolly innkeeper greeting them warmly as they entered. “Welcome, welcome!” He boomed, far more energetic than someone in a 21st century hotel business would be, Christine thought. "What can I do for ye today, good folks? Traveling through?"

William nodded, stepping forward to address the innkeeper. "Yes, my companion and I require lodging for the night." He explained, gesturing towards Christine. "Two rooms, please."

The innkeeper hesitated, looking uncertain. "Ah, I'm afraid I only have one room left available, sir." The innkeeper said apologetically, scratching his head. "A group of merchants came through earlier and booked the last of the rooms."

William and Christine shared a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. William sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He knew it was improper for a lady and a gentleman to share a room, but what choice did they have? They couldn't very well camp out in the woods again after what had happened earlier. “Very well, a room for the lady, then.” 

“But… where will you sleep, William?” Christine asked him with a tinge of concern. 

William hesitated for a moment, considering his options. He could sleep in the stables with the horses, or perhaps find another inn in town. But the thought of being separated from Christine after what had happened filled him with unease.

"I... I suppose I shall take the floor." He finally said, his face flushing slightly at the thought of sharing a room with Christine. "It's not proper for us to share a bed, but I cannot in good conscience leave you alone after what transpired earlier." As they made their way up the creaky wooden stairs to their room, William couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him. He had failed to protect Christine once, and he refused to do so again. Even if it meant sleeping on the cold, hard floor, he would not leave her side.

The room was quaint and cozy, with a large four-poster bed draped in heavy velvet curtains. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room. Christine turned to William, her expression softening as she saw the exhaustion in his eyes. "Thank you, William," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm, her eyes shining with appreciation. "For everything you've done for me today. I’m not sure I will ever be able to repay you…” 

William looked down at her, feeling his composure fall to pieces at her touch, sending a shiver down his spine. “You really do not need to thank me, Christine-”

“But I do.” She interrupted, her voice gentle yet firm. “And you don’t need to sleep on the floor, there’s plenty of space for us both on the bed.”

His eyes widened, his mouth falling open in surprise at her suggestion. Then, he shook his head vehemently, “No, absolutely not.” William said firmly, taking a step back. “I couldn’t possibly…” his words trailed off.

“You saved my life, I think I owe you something for that.” Christine chuckled. 

William's heart clenched at the implication of her words. The thought that she would debase herself, offer her body as payment for his heroism... it filled him with a sense of shame and revulsion. "Christine, no!" William exclaimed, his voice rising with emotion. "You don't owe me anything, do you hear me?" He stepped closer to her, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly. "I did what any honorable man would do. I could never accept such a... a proposition from you."

Christine blinked, momentarily confused by his outburst. She tilted her head, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “Proposition? William, what… what exactly is it you think I’m offering you?”

William felt his face flush with embarrassment and indignation. "You mean to tell me you weren't suggesting... that is, you didn't intend for me to think..." He trailed off, realising how ridiculous he must sound. Of course she hadn't been proposing anything of the sort. She had simply been grateful, and he had jumped to the most inappropriate conclusion.

He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I apologise, Christine. That was an absurd assumption on my part." He admitted, his voice low. "I misread the situation entirely."

Christine's face flushed a deep crimson, her eyes widening in mortification. "Oh my goodness, William, I... I wasn't... I would never..." she stammered, unable to meet his gaze. She felt like the ground might swallow her up at any moment. How could she have been so clumsy, so careless with her words?

She bit her lip, trying to think of something, anything to say to salvage the situation. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I'm so terribly sorry, I should have been clearer..."

William shook his head, cautiously taking a step closer. He placed two fingers on lips to silence her, looking at her with gentle eyes. “No, Christine, don’t apologise. I should apologise to you, I should have known better than to assume…” He moved his fingers away from her lips, moving them to tilt her chin up. “Please, don’t be embarrassed. It’s quite alright.” 

Christine’s heart raced at his touch, her skin tingling where his thumb caressed her. She swallowed hard, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. “Thank you, William,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “For not… holding my foolishness against me.”

William's hand fell away from her chin, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. "Think nothing of it, Christine," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "We all say foolish things sometimes."

Christine nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Indeed, we do." She agreed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Though I daresay yours was rather more foolish than mine."

William chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Perhaps you’re right.” He conceded, shaking his head ruefully. “I seem to have a talent for putting my foot in my mouth whenever you’re near.” He fell silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to the bed. The memory of his earlier assumption flashed through his mind, and he felt a wave of heat rush to his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the tension that had settled over the room. 

“Well, I suppose we should get some rest,” he said, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears. “It has been a long day, a difficult day… you must be exhausted.”

“I am…” she agreed, nodding. 

William cleared his throat, hoping to lessen the awkwardness. It didn’t work. After a few moments of tense eye contact, where they both tried to understand the other’s equally unreadable expression, William moved to the door, locking it. “I will take the floor, as I said,” he murmured, his voice low and gruff. “You can have the bed.”

Christine hesitated for a moment, how could she make him sleep on the cold, hard wooden floors after he had saved her life and taken her under his protection? No, that was too selfish. The thought of sharing a bed with him was both nervewracking and exhilarating, and her heart raced as she took several seconds to find the courage to speak. “William, I meant what I said,” she said, louder than she intended. Seeing his bewildered reaction, she put her hands up and explained herself. “I couldn’t possibly condemn you to sleep on the floor after all you’ve done for me. We can just… sleep on either side of the bed.” 

“You are far too kind.” He smiled, in awe of her consideration. He chuckled, continuing in a more playful tone. “Seriously, you are too kind for your own good. It will be the ruination of your reputation.” Christine laughed, the melodious sound made William’s heart lighten. It was a balm to his soul after the horrors they had witnessed the same day. 

"Well, I suppose we should go to bed, then. And I don't plan on sleeping in this dress, so turn around, will you?" 

William blinked, startled by the abrupt change of subject. "Ah, yes, of course." He turned his back to Christine, facing the wall. He could hear the rustle of fabric behind him as she undressed, each sound sending a shiver down his spine. He tried to focus on anything else - the pattern of the wallpaper, the creak of the floorboards, the crackle of the fire. But it was no use. All he could think about was the woman behind him, slowly baring herself.

Finally, he heard the bed creak as Christine climbed beneath the covers. "I’m done, you can turn around now," she called softly.

William turned to face her, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of her. Christine lay propped up against the pillows, the sheets pulled up to her chin. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a golden halo, her eyes luminous in the candlelight. She looked like an angel, an ethereal creature, and William's breath caught in his throat.

It took a while until he broke his stare, and he was asked around the bed to the other side and stripped down to his shirt and breeches, climbing into bed. Christine was laying on her side, facing him. They made eye contact, and she blushed. 

He sighed out of exhaustion. “It has been a long day, has it not?” 

“What? You don’t normally get robbed by bandits and have to kill them?” Christine chuckled, meaning it as a lighthearted joke, but William seemed troubled by the reminder. 

His eyes darkened, recalling the events of earlier. That had been the first time he’d ever killed someone, and though he had no regrets about protecting Christine, it hung heavy on his conscience. “No, I generally do not. I’ve never taken someone’s life before.” Now that it was starting to sink in, William was unsure how to feel about what he’d done.

"You saved my life, William. What you did... it was necessary. Those men would have hurt me, perhaps worse." Christine said softly, reaching out to place her hand over his. "You're a hero, William. My hero. Don't ever forget that."

He smiled at her gratefully. “Thank you for saying that, Christine. Your words mean more to me than you know.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before lifting it to his lips, giving her knuckles a chaste kiss. 

A hoard of butterflies fluttered in Christine’s stomach, and she felt giddy from the gesture. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The room was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of the inn below. Christine’s eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion of the day catching up with her. She yawned, her eyelids fluttering.

“You should sleep, Christine,” he whispered softly, letting go of her hand. “Rest, I will watch over you.”

She nodded, her eyes already drifting closed. Within moments, her breathing evened out, and she slipped into a peaceful slumber.

William watched her sleep, his heart swelling with affection. He reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. She looked so serene, so innocent. He vowed then and there that he would never let anyone hurt her again. He would protect her with his very life if he had to.

As he lay there, watching over her, William's own eyes began to droop. The events of the day had taken their toll, and exhaustion crept over him like a heavy blanket. With a final glance at Christine's sleeping form, he allowed himself to drift off, his dreams filled with visions of a future where he could keep her safe always.

Chapter Text

June 1777

That night, Christine had the best sleep she’d had in a long time. In the morning, the sun cast soft rays of light through the window, waking her. As she stirred, she became aware of a gentle weight on her stomach. Looking down, she saw that it was a hand. William’s hand. She felt her cheeks heat up immensely, and wasn’t sure what to do. 

But she didn’t have to dwell on that for long, because then, William stirred, his hand tightening reflexively on Christine's waist as he slipped into wakefulness. That made her even more flustered, and she felt a warm, fuzzy feeling in her stomach. But then she came to her senses and realised that he had taken the liberty of touching her while she slept! She pushed his hand away harshly, causing William to fully wake up. 

“How dare you, you fucking pig!” Christine exclaimed, sitting up and holding up the blanket around her.  

William’s eyes flew open, and he withdrew his hand as if he’d been burned. He could barely believe it himself, horrified by what he had done. He blinked, taken aback by her foul language. “Christine, I… I apologise sincerely, but I assure you, I did not mean to…”

Christine stared at William, her eyes wide with shock and anger. She couldn't believe what he'd done, couldn't believe that he'd taken advantage of her while she was asleep. "Don't give me that bullshit!" She snapped, her voice trembling with rage. "You knew exactly what you were doing, you… you pervert!"

William recoiled as if he'd been slapped, his eyes filling with hurt and confusion. "Christine, please, you have to believe me. I would never..." He trailed off, realising how weak his words sounded. What could he say to convince her that he hadn't meant to take advantage of her? 

He shook his head, trying to clear the inappropriate thoughts from his mind. "I apologise, truly. It won't happen again," he said quietly, his voice strained. "I will leave you to dress and go wait downstairs." He moved to rise from the bed, but Christine stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"No," she said softly, her anger gone as quickly as it had come. "I'm sorry, William. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I just... I was surprised, is all." She sighed, running a hand through her tousled hair. "I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt me. I trust you."

William smiled, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. And while he was relieved to know she wasn’t angry with him anymore, her language had truly surprised him. “Thank you, Christine. I appreciate it more than you know. But… you don’t have to apologise for being startled. I understand, truly.” He said sincerely, his eyes boring into hers with a look of true remorse and plea for forgiveness. Christine’s heart took an extra beat at that, the way he was so… genuinely concerned for her feelings. 

William saw in her eyes that he was forgiven, and then smirked as he spoke again, in a teasing tone. “Though, I must say, your choice of language did take me quite aback.”

Christine laughed, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't swear like that. It's just... when I get upset, the words tend to come out before I can stop them."

William chuckled, nodding in understanding. "Ah, I see. Well, perhaps we should work on finding more appropriate ways to express your anger," he teased lightly, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Christine looked away, her cheeks burning with a blush that had nothing to do with anger. She couldn't believe she was admitting this, not even to herself. But it was true. When she had woken up to find William's hand on her waist, a part of her had thrilled at the contact. His touch sent shivers down her spine, igniting something deep within her that she had never felt before. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. 

It had not even been William who she’d been angry with, even as she yelled and reprimanded him. No, she was angry with herself. Furious, because she had enjoyed it. For a moment then, when she had just woken up, his gentle touch had been comforting to her, and she would have gladly woken up to his touch every morning for the rest of her life. Those thoughts, those feelings, she couldn’t control them. And that made her angry, and she had taken it out on William.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

They continued on their journey, riding through the picturesque countryside. The sun shone brightly overhead, casting a golden glow over the rolling hills and lush green fields. Birds sang their melodies from the treetops, and the gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of wildflowers.

As they rode, William and Christine found themselves lost in thought, each reflecting on the events of the past few days. The attack by the bandits, William's heroic defense of Christine, their growing closeness... It was all so much to process.

Christine couldn't stop thinking about the feeling of William's hand on her waist that morning. It had been a fleeting touch, but it had ignited something within her, a spark of desire that she had never experienced before. She found herself stealing glances at him as they rode, admiring the strong lines of his profile. 

William, for his part, was equally distracted. He couldn't get the image of Christine's sleep-tousled hair out of his mind, the way her eyes had sparkled in the morning light. He knew he shouldn't be thinking such things about her, but he couldn't help himself. There was something about her that drew him in, made him want to protect her and cherish her in equal measure.

As the day wore on, they continued to ride, the miles stretching out before them. They didn't speak much, content to enjoy each other's company in silence. The sun began to dip lower in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of orange and pink.

“We will be there soon,” William said suddenly, breaking the otherwise comfortable silence between them. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he thought of what to say. “There is… something I should tell you, Christine.”

Christine furrowed her eyebrows slightly, turning her head to look at him with inquisitive eyes. “Yes?” She said simply, tilting her head slightly to the side.

“Well, I… I may have left out a few details about my identity during our time together.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself for her reaction. Christine didn’t say anything, she only stared out at the road and listened skeptically. 

William let out a soft sigh, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "I... I am not just a gentleman from a wealthy family, as I led you to believe. In truth, I am the Earl of Ellesmere.”

Christine blinked, taken aback by the revelation. An earl? She had been traveling with an earl this entire time? She couldn't help but feel a little foolish for not realising it sooner. Of course he was noble - his bearing, his education, his wealth... it all made sense now.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" She asked, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. She didn't want to sound accusatory, but she couldn't help feeling a little betrayed. 

William hesitated, unsure how to explain it. He himself did not exactly know why he hadn’t told her. It wasn’t for any specific reason, he just hadn’t thought about it, he had been distracted enough by Christine, her appearance, her odd but hilarious humour, and everything she did, and every conversation they had to not think about that. He let out a long sigh, struggling to find the right words. "Honestly, Christine, I'm not sure why I didn't tell you sooner," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "It's not as if I planned to deceive you. It just... didn't come up.”

“I see,” Christine mumbled, nodding slowly. She understood why he might have kept it from her, assuming he had not wanted her to treat him any differently. So she accepted his explanation, and they continued riding in silence.

Christine usually found silence peaceful, but in this moment, it was a curse, as it meant spending time with her racing thoughts. Although she felt excited about starting her new life in this time, she was also incredibly disappointed that William would not be able to come with her to England. She hoped he would write to her, but didn’t want to presume that he felt anything more than a gentlemanly responsibility for her safety towards her. After all, what would exchanging letters entail? A courtship between them? Christine’s heart fluttered at the thought, but the logical side of her brain tried to push it away. She had more important things to worry about at the moment.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

When they reached Mount Josiah, Christine found herself in awe of the extravagance of the estate. The architecture was in classic Georgian style, with red brick exterior, black shutters, and white stone ionic columns standing tall on the front porch. The style reminded her of her grandparents’ old house, which was both comforting and overwhelming at the same time. The sprawling lawns were immaculately manicured, with carefully trimmed hedges and vibrant flower beds. The driveway was lined with ancient oak trees, their branches reaching out like welcoming arms.

Upon entering the building, they were greeted by the butler, whom William told to find his father and request his presence in the drawing room. The butler had hurried off, and William led Christine to the drawing room.

Stepping through the wide double doorway, Christine let her eyes wander around the room, from the white and gold tall walls, to the parquet wooden floors, the blue velvet patterned sofas with matching armchairs and curtains. It was clearly a room meant to be shown off to guests. 

While William stood up with an impeccable posture, awaiting his father, Christine sat down on one of the sofas. Besides the ticking of the clock, the room was mostly quiet. Though William had assured Christine that his father would accept her with open arms, she was very nervous. 

Just after the clock struck five in the afternoon, the door opened, and in walked a distinguished-looking man in his late forties. His hair was a dark brown with a few greying hairs, and his eyes held a sharp intelligence that spoke of a keen mind. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, and he carried himself with an air of authority.

William stepped forward, a warm smile on his face as he greeted his father. "Father, thank you for coming. I have someone I would like you to meet."

The older man's eyes flicked to Christine, and his eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. He hadn't expected his son to bring a guest home, especially not a young woman. But he quickly recovered, offering Christine a polite nod.

Christine pushed herself up off the sofa, taking nervous steps to the older gentleman. She did a small, polite curtsy, glancing down at the floor. “Christine Rutherford, my lord.” She said quietly. 

The older man stepped forward, taking Christine's hand in his own. "Miss Rutherford, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Lord John Grey, William’s father." He said, his voice warm and friendly.

Although his tone carried a veneer of politeness, Christine couldn’t ignore the sharp confusion etched into Lord John’s furrowed brow. His piercing gaze shifted to William, as though attempting to extract some secret from his son’s mind.

“May I inquire,” he began, his voice deceptively calm, “just what the nature of your relationship with Miss Rutherford is, William?” His words hung in the air like an ominous thundercloud. Then his expression twisted in sudden panic. “Good heavens, tell me you haven’t gone and gotten this girl with child!”

Christine blushed. However, before she or William had a chance to answer, Lord John grabbed him by the shoulders and began berating him. “You absolute buffoon! Is this what you’ve been doing while shirking your duties with the army? Gallivanting about, ruining innocent girls and bedding whores! Have you no shame, no dignity? I—”

“Father!” William’s sharp tone sliced through the tirade like a sword. He wrenched himself free from the older man’s grip, his expression a storm of indignation. “I have not ruined her. Nor is she pregnant, and she is certainly not a whore! She is a lady in need of assistance, and I am merely extending the help any gentleman would offer.”

Christine winced at the word “whore,” her chest tightening as if she’d been struck. Though she knew the accusation wasn’t truly aimed at her, the sting of it lingered. Her cheeks burned, but this time with equal parts humiliation and simmering anger.  

Lord John froze mid-reprimand, his eyes widening as realisation—and a fair amount of embarrassment—dawned. He released his son and took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck as though trying to ease the tension he’d so expertly created.

“Well,” he stammered, his voice losing some of its earlier authority, “I—uh—seem to have misunderstood the situation. My sincerest apologies, Miss Rutherford. I certainly didn’t mean to imply… I merely thought…”

“Well, you thought wrong,” said William. His eyes were narrowed, and jaw clenched. He was more upset about the assumption than Christine herself, though she wasn’t very happy about it either.

Christine watched Lord John shift uncomfortably, his earlier bluster now replaced with the sheepish demeanor of a man trying to backpedal through a minefield.

After an awkward pause that felt longer than it was, Lord John cleared his throat, the sound loud and pointed in the uneasy silence. “So, Miss Rutherford,” he began, his tone far too jovial to be genuine, “how exactly did you meet my son? And, if I may ask, what sort of assistance was required?”

Christine straightened her spine, leveling him with a steely glare. “For the record,” she said icily, “we did not meet at a brothel.”

William’s face drained of colour as he coughed into his hand. “Christine,” he hissed under his breath, shooting her a glare of his own, as though willing her to temper her words.

Lord John’s jaw dropped slightly, and for the briefest moment, he appeared utterly speechless. Then, to Christine’s surprise, a corner of his mouth twitched. “I—er—yes, I suppose that clears that up.”

“We actually met at a doctor’s home. We were both injured, see—,” William began, his tone steady but guarded.

“Injured?” Lord John inquired. “Whatever happened?”

With that, William began to explain his side of the story. The horse running off, his near amputation, travelling with Christine, the subsequent attack by bandits… he told his father everything, leaving out only the details of their growing intimacy. 

Lord John listened intently, his face a portrait of concern as William recounted their ordeal. Lines deepened on his brow with every detail, but beneath the worry, there was a flicker of something else—pride. By the time William finished, Lord John straightened, his expression softening as he regarded his son.

“You’ve done well, William,” he said, his voice steady and deliberate. A small, approving smile touched his lips as he nodded. “You’ve shown bravery and honour. It seems you’ve become the gentleman I always hoped you’d be.”

“And Miss Rutherford,” Lord John continued, turning to Christine with a kind, if still slightly formal, expression. “I will, of course, ensure you are reunited with your family. You have my word.”

Christine’s heart swelled with gratitude, and she found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Before she could respond, William stepped in, his voice warm as he turned to her with a reassuring smile.

“You see, Christine,” he said, “Father has many connections in England. If anyone can help you, it’s him.”

Her chest tightened with relief, and for the first time in what felt like days, the weight of uncertainty began to lift. She returned William’s smile, then turned to Lord John. “Thank you, my lord. Truly.”

Lord John inclined his head graciously but was already scrutinising them both with a critical yet concerned eye. “You must be utterly exhausted—not to mention in need of a proper meal,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Dinner should be served shortly. Miss Rutherford, you can tell me more about your family then, and we’ll begin discussing the arrangements for your voyage.”

Christine nodded, a tentative but genuine smile forming on her lips. For the first time since her journey began, she felt the stirrings of hope. William’s father might have been abrupt and suspicious at first, but now, in his own way, he was offering her the promise of safety—and the first step toward finding her family.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Within moments, a guest chamber was readied for Christine, complete with a maid assigned to attend her. The room was a vision of understated elegance, dressed in a soothing palette of ivory and muted pine green. The walls boasted brocade wallpaper, framed by white wainscoting adorned with delicate golden filigree. At the room’s center stood a magnificent four-poster bed draped in sumptuous ivory brocade velvet, its canopy lending an air of regal comfort. At the foot of the bed rested a tufted ottoman in matching fabric, completing the serene tableau.

On the plush floral Aubusson rug that stretched across the room, a copper bathtub had been positioned and filled with steaming water. Christine eyed it with curiosity and mild unease. The notion of bathing in the middle of a bedroom struck her as odd, though after two grueling days of travel, her desire for cleanliness outweighed her surprise.

Her maid, Trudy, appeared at her side, no more than sixteen years old by Christine’s estimation, with cherubic features and a light, sing-song voice. As Trudy began helping her out of her travel-worn garments, Christine couldn’t help but feel a stab of awkwardness. The ritual of undressing before a stranger—especially one with such wide, curious eyes—was uncomfortable at best.

Layer by layer, Trudy removed her clothes with swift efficiency, depositing them into a basket for laundering. Christine stood rigid, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders knotted with tension. Finally, with great reluctance, she dipped a foot into the tub. She gasped and yanked it back immediately, her expression pinched.

“This water is scalding! I can’t bathe in that,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended.

Trudy’s mouth curled into a practiced, overly sweet smile. “Oh, we can wait for it to cool down then,” she offered, her tone more perfunctory than sympathetic.

Christine nodded, expecting the girl to retrieve her shift while they waited. But Trudy simply stood there, still smiling that same false smile, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.

“Uh, could you give me my shift to wear while we wait?” Christine asked pointedly, her patience wearing thin.

Trudy’s smile widened ever so slightly, as if she found amusement in her mistress’s discomfort. Instead of fetching the shift, she leaned over and dipped her finger into the water. “It feels fine now,” she announced cheerily.

Christine frowned, skepticism etched across her face. “Right…” she murmured, clearly unconvinced. Her impatience getting the better of her, she tried again, tentatively dipping her foot into the water. It was still far too hot. Yanking her foot back, she groaned in frustration. “It’s still scalding hot!”

Trudy exhaled softly, the sound suspiciously close to a laugh. Christine’s eyes narrowed at her, but before she could retort, the maid straightened with an air of urgency. “There’s no time to wait, mistress. You don’t want to be late for dinner, do you?”

Before Christine could protest further, Trudy urged her into the tub. Gritting her teeth, Christine reluctantly eased her body into the water, the heat biting at her skin. She released a low hiss, her discomfort plain.

As Trudy began to wash her hair, she spoke in a tone of feigned politeness, her fingers brisk but not entirely gentle. “Lord Ellesmere must think very highly of you, mistress, given all he’s done for you. You must be ever so grateful.”

“I am grateful,” Christine replied curtly, unwilling to humour the girl’s obvious attempts at drawing her out.

Trudy hummed, her smile curling into something almost conspiratorial. “Must be nice,” she mused, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Having a handsome lord fawning over you.” She punctuated her comment with an abrupt tug at Christine’s hair. “Oh, forgive me, mistress. That was an accident.”

Christine sighed, deciding to believe the tug had been unintentional—for now. “It’s fine,” she said flatly, though her patience was wearing thinner by the second.

Trudy nodded, her smile fading slightly as she worked. The room fell into silence, broken only by the gentle sloshing of water.

After a moment, Trudy’s voice floated up again, as light and insincere as before. “I suppose his lordship will return to the army soon, as he must. Duty calls, after all.”

Christine’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I am aware,” she replied evenly, though the words felt hollow. The thought of William leaving had been neatly tucked away in the back of her mind, far from her romanticised daydreams. Now, hearing it spoken aloud, it struck her like a dull ache in her chest.

When the bath was finally done, Christine stepped out with a sigh of relief. Trudy dried her off with a large, fluffy towel, her hands quick and efficient. She then dressed Christine in a delicate white gown adorned with a dainty pink floral pattern, complete with matching pink bows at the neckline and cuffs. Trudy pinned up Christine’s hair in an elegant style, adding a few pearl hairpins to complement the pearl earrings that had been laid out for her.

As Trudy tied the final bow, she remarked casually, “The dress belonged to Lady Isobel, Lord Ellesmere’s late mother.”

Christine ran her fingers over the soft fabric, her heart stirring at the thought. It was a beautiful gown, to be sure, but the weight of its history made it feel even more significant. She glanced at herself in the mirror, her reflection both familiar and foreign, and wondered—just for a moment—what Lady Isobel might have thought of her.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

William stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his sharp gaze sweeping the foyer as he waited for Christine to appear. He was dressed impeccably in a deep blue coat with matching breeches, his crisp white shirt and intricately patterned waistcoat lending him an air of polished elegance. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his freshly shaven face accentuated the sharp lines of his jaw. He looked every inch the refined aristocrat, exuding a confidence that was only slightly betrayed by the restless way he adjusted his cuffs.

The minutes seemed to drag, his eagerness to see Christine making him impatient. He told himself she was likely just getting settled or needed assistance from the maid, but when another moment passed without a sign of her, he nearly motioned for a servant to check on her. Just as he opened his mouth, the faint rustle of skirts from above drew his attention. 

His head snapped up, and whatever words he had been planning to say vanished entirely. Christine was descending the staircase, her every step a vision of grace. The soft lighting caught in her hair, styled elegantly to frame her delicate features. The gown—a flowing creation of white adorned with pink floral patterns and delicate bows—clung in all the right places, accentuating her figure without appearing ostentatious.

William’s breath hitched. She wasn’t merely beautiful; she was radiant, like something out of a dream.

Christine’s eyes met his, and he felt as though the entire house faded into nothingness. She moved with such poise, her hand gliding lightly along the railing, and when she reached the last step, she paused directly in front of him. 

William was speechless. Christine was so beautiful, so…perfect. She glanced at him shyly, an adorable blush covering her face. “Good evening,” she said, knocking him out of his trance.

William stood frozen, his usually sharp tongue utterly failing him. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Closing it, he tried again. And again. Each time, his silence stretched into something increasingly awkward.

Christine tilted her head, a delicate eyebrow arching as she studied him with a mixture of confusion and amusement. “William?” she prompted, her lips curving in a knowing smile.

“B-beautiful,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. As soon as the word escaped his lips, he silently cursed himself. ’Of all the eloquent things you could have said, that’s it?’

Christine’s eyes sparkled with mirth, and a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, it is a beautiful evening, the sky looked very clear from my window,” she replied, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Although I hadn’t expected you to be so moved by the weather.”

William had never been one to get flustered, at least not in the last couple of years. Sure, when he was a young teenager seeing a pretty girl, he had blushed and been unsure what to say. But that was years ago, and he had thought he’d grown out of it, become more mature and confident with the years and his experiences with women. But now, standing before Christine in all her radiant beauty, he felt like that awkward, tongue-tied boy again.

But was he going to let her know the extent of her power over him? Absolutely not. 

His jaw tightened as he caught the playful jab, his embarrassment quickly morphing into determination. Straightening his posture, he stepped closer, his confidence rallying. “Indeed,” he said, his tone smooth and deliberate. “But the sky pales in comparison to the vision before me. You, my lady, are stunning.”

The previous upper hand Christine had felt she had had now been snatched away by William’s flirtatious attitude, and her pride burned nearly as hot as her cheeks. It was an evil cycle of sorts, as she had first blushed because she was flustered, then felt embarrassed for blushing, and consequently blushed even harder. And on it went, as she stood there shifting nervously in front of him with almost painfully hot cheeks.

William, feeling a sense of victory, couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at the corners of his mouth. He had succeeded in putting her in her place, and he would make sure she stayed there. Because he would not be that awkward, tongue-tied boy he had been just moments ago. Not in front of her, nor anyone else. And most definitely not because of her.

When he felt he had tortured her enough, he held his arm out in a gentlemanly gesture, a stark contrast to the mischievous glint in his eyes. “Shall we, my lady?” He suggested, glancing over to the hallway leading to the dining room.

The sudden switch in William’s demeanour had Christine’s head spinning. She wasn’t sure whether to accept his offer and experience a Jane Austen heroine moment, or if she should just slap him and run away from him, and her own feelings. The thought was certainly tempting after he had made her feel so nervous. Ultimately, Christine decided to accept William’s offer, placing her hand lightly on his arm. She was determined not to let him get under her skin, to maintain her composure.

Together, they walked to the dining room where Lord John waited for them. The faded, but not unnoticeable tint of red on both their faces was quickly observed by Lord John, who raised an eyebrow and gave a knowing look. 

The three of them sat down at the dining table, with Lord John at the head and William and Christine on either side of him. Servants brought out a feast, with roasted meats, vegetables, and delicious bread. As they ate, Lord John engaged Christine in conversation, asking her about her family and her plans on finding them. “So, Miss Rutherford, where do you hail from?” He asked, sounding genuinely interested in knowing.

Christine stuffed a piece of meat into her mouth to give herself time to come up with an answer. What could she say? She was born and raised in London, but admitting that would only cause trouble, seeing as she had no idea what London in the 18th century was like, and she did not want to be questioned about who her parents were, or if she knew so-and-so. “I’m from… everywhere, really.” She answered, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I wasn’t raised in just one place, my mother and I moved around a lot.”

Lord John nodded, accepting her answer. “Ah, I see. I was wondering, because I couldn’t quite place your accent, but that explains it.” 

Christine smiled, pleased to have lied so well. She had no intention of deceiving anybody, but she couldn’t exactly be blatantly honest either. Just when Christine thought she was safe from questions she couldn’t answer, Lord John spoke again. “Your mother, where is she now?” He asked, and Christine froze, staring down at her plate. 

William’s curiosity and mild suspicion of Christine’s desire to sail to England without informing her mother was still in the back of his head, but he wouldn’t press her for answers she wasn’t ready to give. And noticing Christine’s reaction to being confronted about it, he decided to speak for her. “She doesn’t want to talk about her mother,” he told his father. Christine looked up from her plate, meeting William’s gaze from across the table, giving him a small, grateful smile. 

“Of course, you don’t need to tell me, my dear,” Lord John said warmly. “But would you tell me where your other relatives live?”

“Lincolnshire,” Christine replied, bringing her glass up to her mouth and taking a sip of the champagne.

Lord John hummed, looking off over to the windows, deep in thought. “Lincolnshire… and you said your name is Rutherford?” He asked calmly, though despite his tone, Christine got worried again. Had she remembered it wrong? Was it really Lincolnshire her ancestors were from? 

“You don’t happen to have ties to the Duke of Barlings, do you?” Lord John asked her, tearing his gaze away from the windows to look at her again. 

“Uh… yes, I do actually. I have never met him, but I hope to do so,” Christine said with a subtle air of confidence, but she tried to rein it in so she wouldn’t sound as though she was bragging. “Do you know him?”

Lord John shook his head. “Not personally, no. I have met him at social gatherings once or twice, but I don’t know him well at all.” 

“Well, I plan on going to Hartley Hall, his estate. I’m sure he will let me stay there, we are family after all.” Christine said with confidence, taking another sip of champagne.

Lord John nodded, looking thoughtful. “Ah yes, Hartley Hall. I have heard of it, though I have never been there myself.”

William, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, finally spoke up. “Neither have I, but I have heard much about it. It is a grand estate, and the Duke is known for his hospitality.”

He glanced at Christine, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “And you say you are related to the Duke? How so?”

“On my father’s side, though I’m not sure… Well, I don’t have the family tree memorised.” Christine pointed out humourously. William laughed, shaking his head in amusement. 

Lord John chuckled. "Indeed, it would be quite the feat to have such knowledge."

The conversation moved on to lighter topics as they finished their meal. Lord John regaled them with stories of his youthful adventures, and Christine found herself laughing along with the men, feeling more at ease in their company.

Once dinner concluded, the house was steeped in quiet, the day’s activity giving way to the stillness of night. Christine ascended to her bedchamber, her steps slow and heavy with fatigue. The opulence of Mount Josiah no longer dazzled her as it had upon her arrival; now, it simply felt like an ornate cage, one that couldn’t contain her swirling thoughts.

Trudy was already waiting for her, the young maid’s usual politeness tinged with an impatience Christine suspected she wasn’t meant to notice. Wordlessly, Trudy helped her out of her gown, the cool air of the room prickling Christine’s skin as each layer was peeled away. The maid handed her a white silk nightgown, its fabric smooth and cool against her hands, then disappeared with a clipped curtsy, leaving Christine alone with the oppressive silence of her thoughts.

She let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible over the crackling of the fireplace. So much had happened in such a short span of time. Her mind raced, darting between memories of the past days and the uncertainties of the future.

William had informed her earlier that he would leave Mount Josiah the following day to rejoin the army. The news, though expected, had struck her harder than she cared to admit. She would miss him—that much, at least, was undeniable. The time they had spent together on the road felt like a lifetime compressed into mere days. Sharing stories, laughter, and fleeting, unspoken moments of connection had drawn them closer than she had anticipated, or perhaps even intended.

He had spoken of duty, of fighting for king and country, of defeating the rebels. His voice had carried conviction, but Christine’s heart had been heavy with the burden of knowing what he did not. History was already written. The cause he was so eager to defend was doomed to fail, no matter how valiantly he fought. 

Her thoughts wandered to the future, an uncertain expanse she couldn’t quite bring into focus. Would she ever see William again? If he stayed until the war’s end, it could be six long years before his return. Six years apart was a chasm too wide to bridge, especially when there were no guarantees he would even want to. He might leave and forget her entirely, their fleeting companionship dissolving into a distant memory.

Christine slipped into the four-poster bed, its soft, luxurious bedding doing little to soothe her frayed nerves. She pulled the covers up to her chin, staring at the intricately carved canopy above her. Closing her eyes, she willed her thoughts to quiet, her mind to find stillness. But no matter how she turned, sleep danced just out of reach, elusive and mocking.

The hours seemed to stretch endlessly, her mind cycling through memories of laughter, fears of separation, and the sharp pang of uncertainty. At long last, exhaustion overtook her, dragging her into a restless slumber. Even in sleep, her mind refused to grant her peace. Her dreams were fragmented and fleeting, a hazy mixture of the past and the unknown future, with William’s face lingering in the shadows of her mind.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In the morning, Christine was jerked awake by a sudden flood of blinding light as Trudy threw open the curtains with an almost triumphant flourish. Christine groaned, throwing her hands up to shield her eyes, the remnants of sleep still clinging to her like a fog.

“Good morning, my lady,” Trudy’s voice rang out, far too chipper for the hour, her tone grating in its high-pitched, sing-song quality. Christine winced at the sound, groggily squinting at the girl.

It didn’t take a seasoned observer to notice the clear animosity simmering beneath Trudy’s sweet facade. The maid’s behavior was unmistakable, it was so painfully obvious that Christine almost felt sorry for her. It was no secret that Trudy had a crush on William, and Christine could sense the undercurrent of jealousy that had been steadily growing since she arrived. It was almost amusing—if only it didn’t make her life that much more uncomfortable.

Christine stifled a sigh, not yet ready to engage with the perky little creature before her. It was clear that Trudy had her own little power struggle going on in her mind, and Christine was stuck in the middle of it. On one hand, it was amusing to watch, like a child throwing a tantrum over a toy. On the other, it made everything just a bit more…awkward.

She pushed herself upright in bed, rubbing her eyes and wincing at the brightness that now flooded the room. “Morning,” she muttered, keeping her tone as neutral as possible.

Trudy didn’t seem to mind, though. Her smile widened, and she stepped forward, clearly pleased to be the one to “take charge” of Christine’s day. The fact that she had the privilege of doing so in front of the woman she so clearly envied only seemed to make it all the sweeter. It was both irritating and slightly humorous to witness the girl’s passive-aggressive performance.

Christine couldn’t help but wonder if it was possible for Trudy to be any more obvious about it. But instead of responding, she simply lay back against the pillows for a moment longer, enjoying the last bit of peace before the day truly began.

Christine descended the grand staircase with a quiet sigh, the soft rustle of her dress against the polished wood echoing in the otherwise still house. She had been expecting William to be there, his presence always so steady, but as she entered the dining room, she found the place set for one—Lord John alone, seated at the head of the table with a newspaper in front of him.

A pang of disappointment struck her, but she quickly masked it with a polite smile, the absence of William settling over her like a weight. She had expected his departure, of course—he had told her the night before that he would leave early. But hearing it, facing it, was something else entirely.

“Good morning, Miss Rutherford,” Lord John greeted her warmly, looking up from his paper as she entered. “I trust you slept well?”

Christine nodded, pulling her chair back from the table and settling into it. “Yes, thank you. Though, I must admit, I was expecting William.”

Lord John’s eyes flickered with something unreadable for a moment, and he gave a slight smile. “Ah, yes, I’m afraid my son has already left for the army this morning. Duty calls, as it always does.”

Christine’s lips pressed into a tight smile, though her heart sank a little. She had hoped there would be a few more moments with him—just a few more.

“I trust you won’t be too lonely while you’re here,” Lord John continued, his voice warm and reassuring. “As for our journey to England, we can arrange that very soon. With the favorable weather, I’m confident we’ll find a respectable passage within the week. We should be well on our way before long.”

Christine nodded, trying to focus on his words, but her thoughts kept drifting to William. She had already begun to wonder how long it would be before she saw him again. The thought of an indefinite separation unsettled her, though she knew better than to voice such feelings to Lord John.

“I’m sure that will be quite convenient,” she replied, her voice steady despite the unease inside. “I will be most grateful for your assistance, Lord John.”

He smiled, his expression fatherly. “I would never leave a lady in need, especially not one who has found herself in such unfortunate circumstances. Rest assured, Miss Rutherford, everything will be arranged for your comfort.”

Christine gave him a polite smile, but inwardly, her mind was racing. The prospect of sailing to England was a relief, but it was also daunting. So much was uncertain—her family, her future, and now, the absence of William. Still, she pushed these thoughts aside, for the moment focusing on Lord John’s calm assurances.

“I’m sure you are right,” she said. “I only hope the voyage will be as smooth as possible.”

Lord John gave a small chuckle, his eyes twinkling with a glint of humour. “I would not worry about that, Miss Rutherford. With the weather as it is, I’m confident the journey will be without incident. Now, please, eat. I suggest we leave for the nearest port today. We must make haste, for the weather will not hold forever, and we must secure a passage before the seas turn rough.”

Christine nodded again, but as she looked at the empty seat where William should have been, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing from this conversation, from this entire day. Still, she tried to focus, for now, on what was before her—the journey ahead, the promise of England, and the uncertainty of when she would truly feel at home again.

Chapter Text

Helwater Estate, Cumberland

July 22, 1777

My Dearest William, 

I hope this letter finds you well, though I imagine the trials of army life may leave little room for such comforts. I worry about the toll the stress of it might take on you, even as I hope the strength I know you possess carries you through. I have missed your company, especially during the voyage. Your father said we were in luck, that it was a considerably quick voyage without complications. And it was, we kept a good wind and arrived in a little less than six weeks. But as you well know from our travelling together, I am not the most patient woman there is. There was not much to do on the ship, and I was incredibly bored. 

As for my life now, I am sure you will be pleased to know I decided to stay with your father, and not go to Hartley Hall and stay with relatives I have never met, as I had originally planned. While aboard the ship, I expressed to your father that I have started getting nervous at the prospect of that, and he offered to let me stay with him at Helwater, and I accepted. 

I am settling in comfortably at Helwater, your father has been ever so kind and welcoming, I can see where you get it from. I miss you, William, I wish you could be here with me. While it’s not lonely here, I could use a few friends of my own age. But there is hope for that, as your father is hosting a dinner party here in two weeks, so I will meet new people, which I look forward to greatly. 

My thoughts often drift to you, and the time we’ve spent together. I imagine you would be too busy to think about me, which I understand. Your father asked me once if I wanted to play chess with him, but I don’t even know the rules or how the game works. He told me you are a skilled player, and I decided that I want you to teach me when we see each other again, if you would be willing. When we first parted, I wasn’t sure if I would ever see you again, but now that I remain in your father’s care, I imagine we will meet again, when you return to England. 

I hope you return before too long, as I despise the thought of you being in danger. I miss you, and I pray for your safety. Please forgive me for troubling you with so many thoughts of my own. I can only hope that you find some peace and comfort in the midst of your duties, as I try to do here. As always, I remain most eager to hear from you, and I will hold onto the hope that our next meeting will come soon.

Until then, know that you are in my heart every moment of every day. Take care of yourself, William, and may fortune be with you.

Yours, with all my affection,

Christine

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Christine folded the letter carefully, sealing it with a flourish. Her fingers lingered over the wax seal as she thought of William. She missed him more than she cared to admit, and the distance between them felt all the more stark with each passing day. The quiet of Helwater allowed her mind to wander, but it also gave her the space to reflect on the choice she had made to stay here. It was a decision that had come with its own doubts and uncertainties, yet, in some ways, it had also given her a sense of peace.

Although she had lived in England for the entirety of her life, she’d never travelled to the Lake District before. However, now that she was here, granted, some years before famous poets such as Lord Byron and William Wordsworth graced the terrain, she could easily see how the surroundings would provide an amazing creative outlet for artistic souls. It was perfectly picturesque, with steep brown cliffs, green grassy hills, and of course, large, glassy lakes.  

Christine crossed the room to the window, looking out at the view. Glancing upwards, she saw a puffy white cloud, floating high above a host of golden daffodils. The beautiful flowers were swaying softly in the gentle breeze, a calming sight to very tired eyes. Admiring her surroundings was how she’d been distracting herself from thoughts of William. Christine had never minded being alone before, but now, despite the gorgeous landscape, she missed William sorely.

She returned to the desk, putting the envelope aside and pulling one of the drawers open, from which she withdrew a piece of sheet music. Christine had played the piano since she was no older than four years, and she had countless amounts of pieces memorised. While aboard the ship, she had nothing but spare time on her hands, so she had written down some of the modern pieces she had memorised, so that she wouldn’t risk forgetting them with time.

It had been to Lord John’s delight when Christine played the piano, he said she was incredibly skilled, and a talented composer. Since she couldn’t really tell anyone who had written the music she played, as they had not been born yet, let alone written the music, Christine had said the music was her own composition. It was often movie or TV series soundtracks she would play, mainly Game of Thrones. 

Christine placed the sheet music on the desk, smoothing its edges as a small smile tugged at her lips. The piano in the drawing room had become her sanctuary in the absence of William. Music was a comfort, a way to channel the emotions she dared not give voice to. Lord John often listened as she played, his appreciation genuine, though he could never know the true origins of the pieces she claimed as her own.

Rising from the chair, she decided the afternoon was perfect for practicing. The house was quiet, with the staff attending to their daily tasks, and Lord John off on estate matters. Helwater, for all its grandeur, still carried the peaceful solitude of the countryside, and the drawing room—bathed in golden light—was her favorite retreat.

Christine sat at the piano, her fingers hovering over the ivory keys. For a moment, she hesitated, thinking of the countless evenings in her past life spent at a keyboard much like this one, though in a world vastly different. Her thoughts wandered to William again. What would he think if he could hear her play? Perhaps he would stand behind her as she played, with his hands placed gently on her shoulders… It was getting truly frustrating how even something she had enjoyed years before she met him could make her think of him. 

She exhaled softly, shaking her head as though to clear it. “Focus, Christine,” she muttered under her breath, chastising herself for allowing her thoughts to spiral. Her fingers pressed lightly on the keys, coaxing out the first notes of Light of The Seven. 

Her fingers moved across the keys with a precision that surprised even her, weaving the delicate, melancholy melody into the stillness of the room. Each rising chord filled the room, swelling with emotion that Christine couldn’t find the words to express. Her mind wandered as she played, though her hands knew the notes well enough to guide themselves. In her mind’s eye, she imagined herself playing for William, the music carrying across whatever great distance separated them. She pictured him sitting quietly, his usual composed expression giving way to a softness he only showed in certain moments. 

The last note hung in the air, trembling faintly before fading into the quiet. Christine let her hands fall to her lap, her breathing steadying as the final echoes settled. She sat there for a long moment, gazing out of the drawing room window at the expanse of rolling hills that stretched beyond the estate.

In the stillness, she realised the music had done its job. The tightness in her chest had loosened, and though she still missed William, she felt calmer—centered. She couldn’t change where he was or the dangers he faced, but she could hold him close in her thoughts, and in her music.

And that, she supposed, was something.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

August 2024

The steady hum of traffic filled the air, an unending chorus of engines and tires against the asphalt. Josephine sat rigid in the driver’s seat, her posture tense and her gaze fixed on the road ahead, though her mind was anywhere but there. The sun was setting, casting an amber glow over the cityscape, but she barely registered the beauty of it. Everything around her had faded into the background—a dull, muted haze against the sharp clarity of the ache in her chest.

The radio played in the background, though on a low volume barely heard through the car horns and engines brumming outside of the car. Though Josephine had no wish of listening to the joyful summer music, it was better than the oppressive silence otherwise constantly with her. 

The music faded, replaced by the voice of a news reporter which drew in Josephine’s attention as she reached to turn up the volume. 

“It has now been two months since Christine Rutherford was reported missing in southeastern Virginia. The seventeen year old girl had with her mother flown from London to Norfolk after the death of her grandmother to pack up the belongings from the house. The girl’s mother tells us that she had gotten into an argument with her daughter, and that Christine had taken her grandmother’s old car and driven away without a license, and no word of where-“

The voice cut off when Josephine reached over to switch the radio channel, not able to hear the story she knew so well all over again. Ever since her daughter disappeared, it had made national headlines in both the United States and the United Kingdom. What was the worst was that money-hungry celebrities had made YouTube videos theorising about what had happened, capitalising on the disappearance of the young girl. 

Josephine had switched channels in hope of hearing something that didn’t mention her daughter, whatever else it may be. But as the next station crackled to life, her heart sank.

“We have Sarah on the line, calling in from Norfolk,” the smooth, clear voice of the radio host announced. “Sarah, you’re on air. What song would you like to request?”

A woman’s voice, hesitant and shaky, filled the car. “Yeah, hi, I uhm… I wanted to request a song in honour of Christine Rutherford. I have kept up with the case ever since I heard she was missing two months ago. I wanted to say how much she and her family are in all of our thoughts and prayers. I can’t even begin to imagine what her mother is going through right now.”

Josephine’s grip on the steering wheel tightened to the point of her knuckles turning white. Her chest felt like it was caving in, and the air in the car suddenly seemed too heavy.

The radio host’s voice came back, now speaking softer and more sympathetic, a contrast to the previously joyful tone he had used. “That’s a very lovely sentiment, Sarah. What song would you like to dedicate to her?”

“‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’” Sarah said, her voice catching. “It’s always made me think of hope, and I just… I just hope she’s safe, wherever she is.”

A single tear ran down Josephine’s cheek, followed by another, until her vision blurred. She turned off the radio completely, biting her lip to keep her emotions in check. Christine had loved that song as a child, she thought bitterly, remembering the times her daughter had, as a little girl, dressed up as Dorothy Gale and sang that song from the top of her lungs, along with every other song from The Wizard of Oz. It had been her favourite movie, and bossy as she had been, Christine had made all her friends watch it with her, resulting in some of them crying in fear of the Wicked Witch of the West. 

Driving into the police station parking lot, she searched for an available spot, as most were in use. She found one available, though the spot beside it was parked by a car up close to the edge. Groaning, she carefully drove into the spot and turned off the car once neatly parked. She took the car keys, reached to her side and unlocked the driver’s seat door and opened it carefully, cautious of the car beside. 

Through the half-opened door, Josephine walked sideways out into the parking lot, shutting the door behind her. She fumbled with the car keys in her hand, cursing to herself before pressing ‘lock’ and walking off towards the police station entryway. 

Josephine straightened her shoulders as she approached the station’s glass doors, bracing herself for the inevitable mix of frustration and helplessness that seemed to follow every visit. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hum, ushering her into the stark, fluorescent-lit lobby.

She stepped inside, the faint smell of disinfectant mingling with the muted sounds of conversation and ringing phones. Officers moved through the space with determined purpose, their crisp uniforms a sharp contrast to Josephine’s rumpled cardigan and tired eyes.

At the front desk, a young officer glanced up from his computer. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Josephine nodded, her throat tightening slightly as she spoke. “I’m here to see Detective Callahan. I have an appointment.”

The officer offered a polite but perfunctory smile. “One moment, please.” He picked up the phone, speaking in hushed tones before gesturing toward the waiting area. “He’ll be right out. You can have a seat if you’d like.”

Josephine thanked him but remained standing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The waiting area, with its stiff plastic chairs and outdated magazines, felt too confining, too static. She paced instead, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor as she tried to steady her nerves.

It wasn’t long before a familiar figure appeared at the doorway leading to the back offices. Detective Callahan, a middle-aged man with sharp features and a perpetually weary expression, approached her with a clipboard in hand. His tie was slightly askew, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that bore the weight of too many cases like hers.

“Mrs. Rutherford,” he greeted her with a nod, his tone professional but not unkind. “Thanks for coming in. Let’s head to my office.”

Josephine followed him down the corridor, her heart pounding with a mix of hope and dread. Every meeting held the possibility of news—though whether it would be good or bad, she never knew.

They entered a small, cluttered office, where Callahan motioned for her to sit in a chair across from his desk. She sank into the seat, gripping the strap of her handbag tightly as he closed the door behind them.

“Any updates?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to remain composed.

Callahan sighed, sitting down and setting the clipboard on the desk. “We have a witness, and camera footage.”

Josephine’s eyes lit up with something she had not felt in what felt like an eternity; hope. The corners of her mouth twitched upward into the faintest hint of a smile, though it was dulled by the part of her that wouldn’t let her hopes get too high. 

The keyboard on Callahan’s desk clicked as he searched his computer and pulled up the footage. He turned the computer screen to the side, allowing it into Josephine’s view. “This was sent in yesterday by a man in the area, the footage is from his son’s drone that had crashed, but it still had been recording, and you see here,” he explained, pressing ‘play’ and pointing at the screen. “There!” He paused the clip, tapping his pointer finger against the screen. “The camera quality isn’t great, but you see, there she is, stepping out of the car.” 

Josephine watched with wide eyes that examined the clip closely. It was her daughter, surely. Her face couldn’t be recognised, the clip was too low quality. But the distinctive long, blue dress couldn’t be mistaken, and neither could the car. 

“Now, the thing is, we know the car was stolen, but this footage was filmed five miles away from where the car was found,” Detective Callahan leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he continued, “which means Christine abandoned it not long after this was taken. The area of the footage is remote, and very wooded, apart from a clearing with a circle of standing stones, where her phone was found just this morning.”

“Standing stones,” she repeated quietly, almost to herself. A chill ran down her spine, her thoughts suddenly racing. Could it really be? She forced herself to look back at Detective Callahan, her expression carefully neutral, though her mind was anything but calm.

“What kind of stones?” she asked, her voice steady, though her throat felt like it was closing.

Callahan raised an eyebrow at the specificity of her question but didn’t comment on it. “They’re tall, arranged in a circle. No one seems to know much about them—they’re just an old feature of the area. Local legend says they’re from some ancient tribe, though the historians around here can’t agree on anything concrete. Do they mean something to you?”

Josephine shook her head quickly, the motion almost too quick. “No, no… I’ve just—read about things like that before. They’re usually in old stories.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile, though inside she felt anything but calm. ‘This can’t be happening. Those stones. Could they actually…?’

Callahan studied her for a moment, but then nodded and continued. “Well, we’ve sent a team out to search the area, but there’s no sign of Christine. It’s just her phone, lying right in the center of the stones. No footprints, no other clues. It’s as if she just… vanished.” He gestured helplessly. “We’ll keep searching, but it’s a dense area, and frankly, I’m not sure how far we’ll get without more evidence.”

“I see,” Josephine murmured, though her voice carried more weight than the simple phrase might suggest. Her gaze dropped to the worn wooden surface of the desk, her mind spinning with possibilities she dared not fully acknowledge in front of the detective. She sighed heavily and asked, “Was there anything else?” 

Callahan glanced at the computer screen, then the clipboard, scanning his mind for any last statements before Josephine left. “No, that’s all, ma’am. We will keep you updated.” 

Josephine nodded curtly, maintaining a firm eye contact. “Thank you, detective. Have a good day, sir.” With that, she grabbed her handbag and walked out of the room without a second glance. The door clicked shut behind her, and Josephine let out a slow, measured breath as she made her way down the sterile hallway. Each step felt like a conscious effort, her heels tapping rhythmically against the tile as she pushed through the building’s heavy atmosphere. The hum of conversation and ringing phones faded as she stepped back out into the open air.

She stood by her car, a shaky hand reached into her handbag searching for the car keys. When she finally withdrew them, she pressed unlock, slid into the car, placed her handbag on the passenger seat and rested her hands on the steering wheel. She sat there in silence for a long moment, her eyes unfocused, her mind churning with thoughts she couldn’t yet afford to untangle.

Finally, she turned the key in the ignition, the car roaring to life. With a last glance at the police station, she pulled out of the parking lot, the weight of unspoken memories following her into the growing dusk.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

August 1777

“Why, Miss Rutherford, you look beautiful!” the lady’s maid, Kitty, exclaimed as she ushered Christine towards the ornate standing mirror in the corner of the room. 

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Christine’s eyes widened in surprise. She looked… very different. Dressed in a gown of steel blue silk, Christine could hardly believe the transformation. The bodice was meticulously tailored, with delicate gold embroidery tracing the neckline and front seams, emphasizing the opulence of the design. The sleeves were fitted to her elbows, flaring out into soft lace ruffles that brushed her wrists with every slight movement. 

Her hair had been swept up into an elegant updo, with soft curls framing her face, and the rest gathered atop of her head. Kitty was notably talented in styling hair, putting together the most fashionable hairstyle as though it was the simplest thing in the world. That certainly came in handy when Christine had expressed she did not want her hair powdered, as she did not want her natural hair colour to be dulled beneath the powder, as it would have been, using powder. 

“Thank you, Kitty.” She said joyously, the corner of her mouth twitched, and she made no attempt to rein in the grin that quickly grew and reached her eyes, making them gleam in the excitement of what was to come. Christine had been waiting for this evening for what had felt like ages. Because tonight, she would finally attend her first formal dinner at Helwater, a chance to immerse herself into the world she had dreamt about since she was a little girl. A world of elegance, flowing ball gowns, fluttering fans, and the kind of grand social gatherings she had only read about in novels. 

Christine’s pulse quickened at the thought of the evening ahead. She had spent countless hours imagining what it would be like, the quiet hum of conversation, the clinking of fine china, the soft music of a string quartet in the background. And now, here she was, standing in front of the mirror, fully immersed in that world.

Kitty fussed with a stray curl that had fallen from Christine’s updo, her hands moving quickly but with precision. “You’re all set now, Miss Rutherford,” she said, stepping back and admiring her work. “I’m sure you’ll turn heads this evening.”

“Perhaps I will,” Christine mused, chuckling to herself. “I just hope the guests will be fun to talk to, and that they’ll like me.” 

“I’m very certain they will, Miss,” Kitty assured her mistress, a genuine, kind smile on her face. “Just be your usual, witty self and they will adore you. And who knows, you may even beguile a gentleman or two.” She teased. 

Christine laughed softly, her cheeks flushing slightly at the playful suggestion. “Oh, I doubt that. But if I do happen to capture a gentleman’s attention, it will be purely accidental, rather than designed.” She said with a lighthearted smile, her eyes twinkling. 

Kitty grinned, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, Miss Rutherford, you are far too modest. A lady like you, with your beauty and wit, not to mention charm, will be the talk of the evening, I’m sure of it.”

Christine rolled her eyes and laughed softly. “Well, I suppose I will find out in only a few moments.” She looked over at the clock placed on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. Kitty’s eyes moved in the same direction, and she gasped seeing the time. 

“Goodness, you’re going to be late!” Kitty exclaimed, her eyes wide with sudden stress. “Here we’ve been chatting for ages, and now I’m sure all the guests have already arrived. Make sure not to trip when walking down the stairs, they will all be watching you.” And on she kept rambling as she ushered Christine towards the door.

Christine’s heels clicked against the parquet wooden floors of the upstairs hallway as she made her way to the grand staircase leading to the foyer. She hoped Kitty would be wrong, and that the guests wouldn’t be observing her every step down the staircase. 

Little good did hope do, for when she took the first step of her descent down the marble staircase, every eye was locked on her. The guests were all gathered there, along with Lord John. 

Christine’s heart skipped a beat at the sudden attention, and for a fleeting moment, she considered turning back. But then she caught a glimpse of Lord John standing at the bottom of the staircase, his gaze locked on her with a look that was both appreciative and warm. His presence seemed to calm her nerves just a little, though the flutter in her chest remained.

She straightened her back, lifting her chin slightly, and continued her descent with deliberate grace. Her heels clicked sharply on the marble steps, each echoing in the silence of the room. The soft murmur of the guests’ conversations fell to a hush as she approached the bottom. She made sure to look each one of them in the eyes, and put on a graceful, soft smile as a way to politely acknowledge them. 

“May I introduce Miss Christine Rutherford,” Lord John’s voice rang out, warm and commanding, drawing the attention of the entire room. A murmur of approval rippled through the guests, and Christine couldn’t help but feel a little breathless under the weight of their gaze. She swallowed her nerves, keeping her posture elegant, her smile steady as she took the final step down into the gathering.

The circle of guests parted slightly, allowing her space, and she felt a flutter of curiosity sweep through her. The women regarded her with polite smiles, some with undisguised interest, while the men seemed to watch with an intensity that made her feel as if she were a delicate, prized object on display. Still, she held her head high, aware of every eye in the room, but choosing not to be intimidated by them.

“It is a great pleasure to meet all of you, I have been looking forward to this evening for a long while now.” 

A few murmurs of polite agreement met Christine’s words, and she noticed a slight relaxation in the atmosphere. The formality of the introduction gave way to curiosity and anticipation, as the guests assessed her not just as a newcomer, but as a potential player in their social world.

Lord John, ever the gracious host, stepped forward and offered his arm to Christine. She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand lightly on his sleeve. His warmth and steady presence gave her a small measure of comfort amid the sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Shall we?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm, a subtle cue for the guests to move towards the dining room.

The crowd responded almost in unison, breaking into smaller groups and drifting towards the wide double doors that led to the grand dining hall. Christine walked beside Lord John, acutely aware of every detail around her: the glittering chandeliers casting a warm glow over the polished wood floors, the soft rustle of silk gowns, the low hum of murmured conversation.

As they entered the grand dining hall, Christine felt as though she had stepped into a scene from one of the novels she had cherished. The room was illuminated by an elaborate crystal chandelier, its countless facets scattering light like tiny stars. The long dining table, covered with pristine white linens and adorned with elaborate floral arrangements, stretched nearly the length of the room. Fine porcelain, gleaming silverware, and crystal goblets sparkled in the candlelight.

Lord John guided her to her place at the table, near the head, an arrangement that subtly indicated her importance as the evening’s newest guest. Chairs were pulled out for them by attentive footmen, and Christine sank gracefully into her seat, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she adjusted to her surroundings.

She glanced to her left and right, taking in her dining companions. To her right sat a woman that looked to be around the same age as Christine, with a kind face and a lively glint in her eye. She wore a gown of deep emerald green, her auburn hair styled into an elegant updo with stray curls framing her face, and one larger lock resting on her shoulder. Christine could tell immediately that this woman had an energy about her, one that seemed both inviting and mischievous.

To her left, an older gentleman was engaged in conversation with a man across the table, his voice low but animated. Christine caught snippets of their discussion, something about politics and the ongoing conflict with the colonies. It was a subject she had studied in passing but felt unprepared to discuss at length. Nevertheless, she assumed her input on such a subject would not be kindly received, being a woman. 

The woman beside her turned slightly, offering Christine a warm smile. “Miss Rutherford, is it?” she asked, her tone friendly and curious.

Christine returned the smile, relieved to find someone who seemed approachable. “Yes, that’s right. And you are?”

“Margaret Chesterfield,” she answered softly. “My father is Lord Chesterfield, over there,” Margaret pointed discreetly to a man sitting across the table near Lord John, who he was engaging in conversation with. Lord Chesterfield was in his mid fifties, wearing an embroidered turquoise ensemble and a powdered wig on his head. 

Christine nodded, turning to Margaret again. “Do you know all these people?” She asked, her curiosity piqued by the ease with which Margaret seemed to navigate the crowd.

“I do, I have known most of these people my whole life,” Margaret responded, chuckling softly as she looked over the table and the people seated around it. Christine did as well, subconsciously trying to read each person by their body language, facial expression and the manner of which they regarded those they spoke to. Most of them seemed kind and lively, others more serious and pompous. 

Margaret leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “See the lady in the crimson gown over there, seated beside Lord Ashcombe?” Christine nodded subtly, following her gaze. “That’s Lady Martindale. She’s known for her razor-sharp wit—and for scandalising half the county with her penchant for… well, let’s call it unconventional company.”

Christine suppressed a laugh, her cheeks colouring faintly. “She seems perfectly dignified.”

“Oh, she is, when she wants to be,” Margaret replied with a wink. “But give her an hour and a few glasses of wine, and you’ll hear the most outrageous tales.”

“I would love to hear it,” Christine said in a mischievous manner, trying to suppress the laughter that was continuously escaping her lips in small chuckles. “So there is much gossip about her then?” She asked, partly out of curiosity, but also as a way to integrate into society. 

“No, there is not,” Margaret corrected, to Christine’s surprise. She leaned in a bit closer, her voice lowering to a whisper, her tone light but sly. “There is nothing to gossip about since she shares all her secrets by her own accord.”

Christine glanced over at Lady Martindale again, wondering what secrets she could possibly be harbouring. She recognised it was a flaw she had, but at the end of the day, Christine loved gossip. As if sensing her curiosity, Margaret looked quickly to make sure no one was paying attention to them before whispering “Well I heard she was having an affair with Lord Westbrook.”

“And who is that?”

“An incredibly influential viscount. Married, might I add.” Margaret whispered. Christine took notice of the battle that was so clearly displayed on Margaret’s face, fought between her sympathy for the wife and intrigue over the scandal  — the way her face expressed a trained disapproval, yet her eyes hinted at the excitement she felt, but tried to conceal. 

Christine raised her eyebrows. “And does his wife know?” 

“Most likely,” Margaret conceded, her shoulders slumping — only for a second — before she resumed her impeccable posture. “You see, it would be impossible for her not to know, but she hasn’t acknowledged it publicly.”

Christine leaned in closer, her interest piqued despite herself. “How very… intriguing,” she murmured, her mind racing with the implications of such a scandal. The thought of a powerful lord caught in such a web, with his wife turning a blind eye, was something she had read about in novels but never imagined witnessing firsthand.

Eventually, their gossiping ceased as they were both swept into conversation with the other guests. They all seemed very curious about Christine, and she did her best to entertain them. It seemed to have worked, as by the end of the evening, Christine found herself both exhausted and exhilarated. The conversation had flowed easily after her initial nerves settled. She had charmed the guests with her wit and stories, and her laughter had become a part of the evening’s atmosphere. Margaret had, as promised, been a delightful conversational partner, offering her both information and lighthearted gossip in equal measure.

She had — as planned — managed to blend in. But not only that, she had mastered the delicate balance of attracting attention and standing out, while simultaneously giving the appearance of being just like the rest of them. 

At first, she had felt out of place, a mere spectator viewing the game that every one of the guests were playing; that of society. But Christine had quickly picked up on how it worked. To her surprise, it wasn’t very different from the society she had been raised in, except with the obvious quite major differences in customs that came with the centuries between. But to an extent, the characteristics of the players had remained unchanged. And the moment she realised that, she was able to play her part. And as she always had, she played it well. 

As the evening drew to a close, the lively hum of conversation gradually faded, and the grand dining hall began to empty, its once-full table now quiet and nearly deserted. The guests had grown weary, their laughter and stories replaced by the soft shuffle of feet as they moved toward the doors, eager to retreat to their rooms for the night. 

The pride and sense of accomplishment that had rushed Christine with her smooth and subtle social victory at the dinner party still lingered in the way she held her head high, even as she made her way through the corridors or Helwater to her bedchamber when no one was watching. 

Her steps slowed as she neared her bedchamber. The door, slightly ajar, beckoned her to rest. Christine paused for a moment, her hand hovering over the door handle. She thought of Margaret and their whispered conversation—how easily it had flowed, the way Margaret had shared the gossip with such relish. There had been no hesitation, no judgment. 

It had been entertaining, to be sure, Christine thought as she walked into her bedchamber and closed the door behind her. She couldn’t help but wonder just how much of Margaret’s tales were true, and how much was a carefully constructed façade. That was something Christine herself had done for as far as she could remember. Even so, Christine was no liar. 

It was acting. Carefully using her natural charm and social skills to her advantage, reading into people’s words and minds, and responding with carefully constructed sentences. 

Manipulation, plain and clear. 

But it wasn’t intentional, nor was it part of any malicious scheme she had. Perhaps, she thought, it was because of her mother’s lack of emotional display and honesty that Christine had taken to not trusting the act a person took on in public, because she had witnessed the inauthenticity of her mother’s public persona, and how different it was to her true self, ever since childhood.

And that was all she had known—ever since childhood—that people are not who they pretend to be. 

Christine had grown accustomed to her calculated approach to life, a shield she had donned so long ago that it felt as much a part of her as her own skin. It had started innocently enough, a means of navigating the unpredictable dynamics of her childhood. But over time, she became more and more paranoid. 

People fear their own reflection. When they see themselves in someone else, they rarely acknowledge it. Because they see their own worst sides in someone else, and with their pride not in the way, they can freely disguise their fear with hatred and dismay.

Christine didn’t hate Margaret, but she did see herself in the girl. So of course, she did not trust her.

Part of the reason why she had let her wall down with William was because they had been so far from society and its expectations. There was no game to be played with him, no masks to wear, no roles to assume. It had been simpler, more authentic. 

There he was again, in her mind. It was haunting the way he—even an ocean away—managed to weasel his way into her thoughts, hence also distracting her, blinding her from whatever task was at hand. 

Even one so plain as going about her daily life. 

Chapter Text

August 1777

William stared at the letter in his hands, not quite believing it was real. A goofy grin spread across his face as he read and reread Christine’s words. She’d written to him! However, even more pleasing to him was the fact that she’d been thinking about him often, or so she said.

The effect that this notion had on him must’ve shown clear as day on his face, for one of William’s fellow soldiers started laughing upon entering the room. “Why, Ellesmere!”, he began. “Either we’ve just won this bloody war and you’re the first to hear of it, or you’ve finally found yourself a wife, and she’s written to accept your proposal.”

William straightened at this, his cheeks burning at the implication. “It is nothing of the sort!”, he replied much too hastily. “It is a letter from…a friend, is all.”

The soldier, whose name was Henry, cocked an eyebrow, clearly skeptical of William’s flustered response. “And who, pray tell, is this friend of yours? Surely it must be a lady,” he hypothesised. “For I have lived many years amongst our brothers in the army and have seen that same look upon many a face. By now I am reasonably confident in my ability to tell when a man’s heart is monopolised by a maiden, and yours, sir, most certainly is.”

William did not know what to say. He had too much pride to admit it aloud, but…were Henry’s words not the truth? Had he not spent the last two months longing to hear Christine’s sweet voice, or catch a glimpse of her warm brown eyes? He had spent every waking minute thinking of her, wondering how she fared and if she was wondering the same about him. Every night he dreamt of her, how it felt to lay beside her like he had that one night after they’d been attacked by bandits. It had taken everything in him not to wrap her in his arms and hold her close, keeping her warm and safe. God, he’d give anything to be able to do that one day…

“God, man, you’ve really got it bad!” Henry chuckled as he spoke, shaking his head. This prompted William to stop staring into space, imagining a woman who wasn’t there, and redirect his gaze to his comrade, whom he glared at coldly. “I’ll have you know that I am most certainly not possessed by a lady, and even if I were, it would be none of your business!”

Henry narrowed his grey eyes and smiled wryly. “Whatever you say, Ellesmere. Whatever you say…”

Before William had a chance to further deny his friend’s claims, another soldier burst into their tent angrily.

“What the devil do you two think you’re doing?! General Burgoyne is going to have all our heads if you buffoons don’t get out here for drill practice NOW!”

William jumped up immediately, having completely forgotten about his army duties. Before joining Henry and the other soldier in exiting the tent, however, he quickly tucked Christine’s letter into his coat pocket closest to his heart, patting it for good measure. As he finally took his leave and braced himself for the day’s hard work, William’s thoughts drifted once again to the gorgeous woman that he couldn’t stop thinking about, and the sentiment she’d clearly expressed to him which made him smile every time he remembered it: “I am thinking of you.”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Later that evening, after an exhausting day of drills, fort repairs, and…more drills, William returned to his quarters, eager to get some much needed rest. Before sleeping, however, there was a certain matter he’d been itching to address since the morning: his reply to Christine’s letter.

For the past few hours, William had not been able to keep his mind from her at all, which proved to be somewhat of a hindrance when attempting to perform his soldierly duties. During file firing, he’d been so distracted he’d missed a majority of his shots, during lunch he was much more aloof and reclusive than usual, and during line formation he’d seen a brunette woman out of the corner of his eye, probably the wife of a fellow soldier, and, being immediately reminded of the certain lady who had completely consumed his waking days, stopped in his tracks, causing the others to break rank. To put it mildly, the commanding officer had not been very pleased.

Now, William sat down at his desk and reached into his coat pocket, carefully retrieving what was now his most prized possession and setting it down in front of him. After reading it over again once, twice, and then thrice, he reached over to grab a blank piece of parchment and a feather quill. Smiling to himself, he dipped the pen in its ink well before dating and addressing the letter with his most pristine handwriting. Only then did William realise he was at a loss as to what he should say.

After hastily scribbling a few lines about how the army had been treating him, he crumpled up the paper and threw it in the bin beside his desk, completely dissatisfied. 

In no world would a woman want to read about the mundane repetitiveness that is a soldier’s life, he thought. Instead, William endeavored to be more direct about his feelings for the amusingly saucy woman he was quickly falling for. 

After toiling for many minutes, writing and rewriting the letter, switching out words and phrases in hopes of coming up with something nearing perfection, William stared at the finished product. His hands, which were now covered in blotchy ink stains, ached terribly, and he flexed them in an attempt to quell the pain. Then, he took a few minutes to read through his work.

British army camp, Stillwater

August 29, 1777

My dear Christine,

If there are any words to describe how elated I was upon receiving your letter, I must admit, I am at a loss for them. Army life is quite dismal, and while I won’t bore you with the details, I will say that your words have put me in the highest spirits I’ve been in since you departed for England months ago. I am gladdened to hear you had a comfortable journey across the Atlantic, and even more so to learn of your staying with my father at Helwater, where I know you will be safe and well cared for. It has been some time now since I last walked the grounds of my beloved estate, and so, if it is not too much to ask, I implore you to do it for me, and write to me about the changes that may have befallen the landscape since my departure. I’m sure you will find as much peace there as I do. 

While these pieces of information have done much to warm my heart, there is one other thing you revealed to me that has trumped all else, and that, my dear girl, is the fact that you think of me. Every day since we last met, I have wondered about your welfare, prayed for your continued well being, and wished for us to be closer in proximity, so I may gaze upon your beautiful face and know that you are alright. In short, sweet Christine, it pains me to be separated from you, to not know how you fare, and to not be able to reach you but through letters such as this that take so long to reach their destination. I miss everything about you, most especially your wit and ability to make me laugh. In fact, the late hour has either made me a fool or just brutally honest to say so, or perhaps those two are one in the same, but I must say it nonetheless. You have enchanted me entirely, and I fear it is too late to stop myself from falling for you.

I know I am being much too forward, so much so that it may be considered rash and ungentlemanly, but I am afraid I cannot help it. I have been sitting here for hours attempting a reply, and could not feel myself content with any letter that did not fully reveal the extent of my affections towards you. Christine, I know we have only known each other for a short time, but now, having to bear the pain of your absence every day, I know I cannot continue on like this. While I must remain in the colonies and serve my king and country, I will be returning to England the second I get the chance, and I must make it known to you that it is my greatest hope to find you waiting to welcome me home. For the sake of my honour, and yours, I will not go ahead and request of you anything more than that. However, I would be much more than obliged if you were open to getting to know me more, and letting me know you better in return. 

It is getting late now, and I need to get a sufficient amount of sleep each night so as not to appear incompetent to my fellow soldiers and commanding officers. I so wish I could write more to you, my lovely enchantress, but alas, I do really need to sleep. Please consider my words very carefully, and know that I’ve meant each and every one of them with all my heart. I hope to hear from you again soon, but understand if my temerity has deterred you. Still, know that I pray for your continued well being, and that I remain, as ever

Your friend and admirer,

William Ransom, 9th Earl of Ellesmere

P.S. I am flattered by your request that I instruct you in the game of chess, and accept your offer with the greatest enthusiasm.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

William stared at the letter, his heart thundering in his chest. The words stared back at him, bold and bare, like a confession he wasn’t sure he was ready to make.

‘What if she thinks me too forward?‘ he wondered, the weight of propriety pressing down on him. He had crossed an invisible line, pouring his heart out onto the page, confessing feelings that even he wasn’t entirely sure she shared. Yes, she’d written to him—but had her words truly meant what he’d hoped? Or was she merely being kind, indulging him as a friend and nothing more?

She had admitted to thinking about him often, but of course she would, she was worried about him. Christine was a compassionate soul—to no surprise would she worry about a friend that was fighting in a war, but no more than that.

He read her letter one more time, scrutinising each word with a new-found scepticism. Without wishful thinking, he could see that she had not poured out her heart to him, not like he had done in his unsent reply to her. 

Upon realising that, William recognised his foolishness. A fool, a love-sick fool was what he was. He cared so very deeply for her, so how could he in good conscience send her such an ungentlemanly letter? 

He saw that her letter lacked substantial  evidence for any romantic interest in him, and during their time spent together, he had been reckless, flirting with the girl whose troubles were already many. Even so, countless times had he made her blush, but he had been selfish. Cruel even. 

And though everything he had said and done to her had been out of the purest affection and care, he now saw that his actions might have added to her burdens, not relieved them. To confuse her mind with his attentions, to send her into daydreams about the prospect of his love as she waited for his return from the war, a return that was not with all certainty guaranteed, would not be an act of love, but one of selfishness. 

William’s stomach churned with guilt. He had wanted to offer her comfort, to make her smile, but instead he had placed expectations on her, unknowingly tied her to a future that she may not even truly want. 

He knew, deep down, that Christine was far too wise for such a hasty romance. She was full of heart, yes, but also full of strength and clarity—a woman who would not settle for anything less than true love, given and returned. And though he loved her deeply, and fiercely, he knew she was still young, still inexperienced in matters of the heart. So was he, he had never felt so deeply for anyone before.

Christine, sweet and lovely Christine would be overwhelmed, he feared. William’s heart ached with the weight of his own thoughts. He could already imagine Christine, her soft eyes filled with warmth and kindness, perhaps reading his letter with a tender smile, swept away by the romantic notion of love itself—the idea of him, the idea of them. 

But that was all it would be; an idea. An idea of love, not the love itself. 

It would ruin her, he feared. His words would be a blindfold over her eyes, and a cage around her heart. And when the time came when she found the man meant for her, William would have unintentionally ruined her life by chaining her to his vision of the future he wanted for them—for her. 

He wanted her, but he would not go so far as to trick her into wanting him as well. He could not do that to her. He couldn’t risk trapping her in a dream she had never chosen. 

William loved her too much to be that selfish. And even as he knew his greatest pain in life would be letting her go, he would bear that burden for her. If he sent the letter, if he confessed his feelings, he would be forcing her into a decision before she was ready to make it. 

What if it swallowed her whole, leaving her trapped in the fantasy of love, without considering if she loved him in return? What if, after the war, when they met again, she would not recognise him as the man her mind had conjured up during their time apart, but as a stranger?

Christine will have wasted so much time dreaming about a romanticised version of him that she would have missed so many opportunities and promises of true happiness. And all William wanted for her was happiness, even if he could not be the one to give it.

With a heavy heart, he folded the letter carefully, sealed it, and placed it in his satchel, where it would remain. Perhaps it would never see the light of day. And maybe, just maybe, that was for the best.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Christine spent the rest of August into early September getting all the more familiar with her surroundings. Strange as it was to adjust to a completely new time and place, something about Helwater felt like home. However, because it was not yet the social season, she did not have many chances to get further acquainted with others, and had to more or less entertain herself. She did so by reading books from the enormous library found in the estate, walking the beautiful grounds, and writing in a journal which Lord John had glady bought for her.

September 4, 1777 

I can’t believe it has been nearly three months since my life changed irrevocably. While sometimes I do miss my mother (who I am still angry with, nonetheless), I regret nothing. I am well and truly content now. Well… there is only one thing—person—that would render me perfectly happy in this moment, and that is William. Oh, to think he may have received my letter by now! I certainly hope he did! I miss him terribly, and will anxiously be awaiting a reply. 

That is…if he sends one. I mustn’t be silly, of course he’ll send one. Even if he doesn’t harbour the exact affections that I do for him, he is too much of a gentleman not to send a letter back. If he doesn’t…then perhaps he isn’t who I thought he was. I really must stop dwelling on this hypothetical situation, as I do feel, in my heart, that I am unlikely to end up in it. 

Anyway, now that I have written, as I often do, about the certain British soldier who is constantly on my mind, I shall endeavor to write a short account of what I did today. This morning, I ate a lovely breakfast with Lord John, who I am becoming extremely close with. When I first met him, my initial thought was that he was quiet judging and stern—as he made some false assumptions about my character. However, in the few months I’ve spent with him I’ve discovered just the opposite! He is funny, fair-minded, and exceedingly caring. I am of the opinion that no one could’ve made a better father for my dear William or raised him quite as well.

After breakfast, I spent some time practicing piano. Unfortunately, Lord John had other duties to attend to, and could not stay to listen to me play. He, as well as anyone else who’s heard me, is both in awe of and baffled by the melodies which I have committed to memory. He believes I composed them myself, and wonders why I am hesitant to share the sheet music with the world, as he believes I should. This is for obvious reasons to myself, but I dare not confide that certain secret within these pages for sake of caution. 

Either way, it is always entertaining to let him hear one of my songs, so different from any other music he’s ever heard, and witness his reaction. I can only imagine what he’d say if I were to sing the lyrics, too.

Once I was finished with practicing, I went to the library to read some more. I’ve recently started the History of a Young Lady by a man named Samuel Richardson. It is more entertaining than I supposed it would be, but also tragic in a beautiful way that only the best of authors can convey. It does much to remind me that all humans face personal struggles no matter where, or when, they are from. 

Life is never all sunshine and rainbows for anyone, and perhaps it was idealistic of me to think that running away would lead me to such a fate, full of endless bliss, contentment, and serenity. Still, as I mentioned earlier, even when searching the deepest crevices of my heart, I cannot find any room for regret, nor any place for petulance, though I would very much love to lay abed all day, sulking for want of William’s company. 

Alas, as much as I have attempted with the utmost forbearance to keep my mind from wandering down that road, I find myself here yet again, like a befuddled traveller walking in circles due to the misfortune of having lost her map. I really must stop dwelling on his absence, for it only serves as a source of depression from which it is hard to come back.

I know I must sound pathetic, not being able to think of anyone or anything but William, who’s so very far away it pains me! I’m quite certain he’d never fall into such a degree of agitation over someone, much less me, though in my wildest dreams I do imagine him doing just so. Oh, why is it so hard to stop writing about him and this heartache that plagues me so?! I shall cease this foolishness immediately, lest I sound like a desperate fool.

To return to the very interesting, and much more appropriate, subject of my daily life, which I most certainly do find intriguing and pleasant, I must impart the details of the wonderful stroll I took this evening upon the lakeside! It was one of those days that is not dismal in temperature nor weather, no rain fell and no wild winds blew loud enough to create a disturbance, yet the sky was grey, which cast a gloomy atmosphere upon the place. 

Perhaps it is a strange quality of mine to have, but I do very much find this type of climate to be comforting. Peaceful, at least. If, barring making William’s acquaintance, there is one thing I am most thankful for about being in this peculiar situation, it is reconnecting to nature. 

As a child I loved to travel with my grandparents to the English countryside. I remember very fondly my young self frollicking in fields and gallivanting through the forest, my curiosity piqued by the innumerable plants and creatures. As I grew older, though, after my grandparents had moved across the sea, I spent more and more time indoors, which now I very much regret. There is something so intimate about being by oneself, alone with their own thoughts, with naught but the beauty of the world to ease their worries. It’s so…humbling. 

As I relayed earlier, today’s forecast proved to be quite ideal for taking a walk about the lakeshore, so that I did. During this excursion, I contemplated what my life might become now that I find myself here. I have already made a great friend in Margaret, who I have written to recently and hope to see again very soon, for she doesn’t live all that far. However, I cannot possibly expect to remain here under Lord John’s care forever, can I? Too many questions would be raised at some point about my origins and family, many of which I would not be able to answer. I need to find a way to assimilate into my new life while avoiding the ghosts of my past that those around me are destined to dredge up. 

While writing this, a thought has just occurred to me which I can’t believe I’m actually thinking. There is only one way I can think of that will allow me to unburden Lord John (I know he would gladly care for me for a long while out of his strong sense of duty and honour, yet I do believe it would be unfair to ask him to do so) and avoid gossip about my past, at least the kind that would get me in much trouble. While the prospect is daunting, maybe even a little extreme, it would certainly work. And this prospect is…marriage. 

I know I am quite young to be married, only seventeen, but many other ladies my age or just a little older have already attached themselves to a gentleman. I do not know if I should seriously consider this proposition posed by myself, but it would be an excellent solution to my immediate troubles. Of course, it allows Lord John to be free of having to act as my guardian, as then I would be my husband’s to protect. Also, once married, I would solidify my place here in English society, and no amount of gossip could endanger it. 

As I mentioned before, I cannot believe I even thought of it, as it sounds somewhat insane. Yet, there is a certain someone who perhaps is the reason for my having come up with this idea, a gentleman who my mind will not stop drifting back to no matter how hard I try to banish him. William, of course. I do not think I would mind it very much if I married William, quite the opposite, in fact. Oh, I’m being silly, I know! I’ve only known him for less than three months, of which I’ve spent just a few days in his company! Still, I know we had, or still have, a special connection. I could feel it in my heart. I believe he could sense it too, but there is, of course, a possibility that I may have misjudged. However could I know!?

This question of William’s true feelings towards me is incredibly tormenting. I believe, however, that once I hear from him again I will know whether his affections towards me are quite the same as mine towards him. If they are, I will gladly remain here until he returns and we can figure things out for ourselves. If he doesn’t…well, I do not wish to even imagine that scenario. I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when–if–I get to it, and take it from there. 

I’ve been writing in here for quite some time now, and it’s getting late. It is time now to ready myself for supper, for which I will be joining Lord John. 

Until next time,

Christine Rutherford

Chapter Text

September 1777

“As delighted as I am to have you here, Christine, it is such a bother that that halfwit Lord George Calvert has to be here tomorrow as well.” Margaret sighed, her lip twitching in aversion at the mere mention of the man. They walked slowly, side by side, through the neatly manicured garden of Margaret’s family estate, hedgerows trimmed into neat geometric shapes, and tall, towering trees with yellowish tinted leaves.

“George Calvert? Is that the viscount?” Christine asked, tilting her head inquisitively. For the past two days, both she and Lord John had been guests at the Chesterfield estate, and she had spent both days largely with Margaret. The estate itself was splendid, spacious, and able to house many guests. Christine knew she and Lord John would not be the only ones visiting, and that some members of the Calvert family would arrive some days after they had. She knew naught about them, only that they were a noble family residing some hours away.

“No, George is the viscount’s son.” Margaret answered. “Dreadful gentleman, he is. Why, I can hardly imagine why my father insists on having him stay. He is a dreadful bore at best and completely insufferable at worst.”

Christine chuckled lightly, feeling a sudden warmth in her chest at the sight of Margaret’s animated expression. It was a rare thing to see her friend so thoroughly perturbed, and it made Christine feel almost at home to witness this unguarded side of her. “Well, he sounds quite wonderful.” She replied sarcastically. 

Margaret scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “He really isn’t. And if you find him so interesting, perhaps you should try to charm him.” She suggested, smirking as she saw the amused yet hesitant reaction on Christine’s face. Margaret’s smirk turned into a grin as she spoke again, “It is not at all a terrible idea. Seriously, you could make him more tolerable and less… George Calvert.” 

Christine laughed and shook her head, amused by Margaret’s sudden suggestion. “Why would I want to charm him after the way you just spoke of him?”

“Forgive me, I exaggerated.” Margaret sighed. “He is actually quite respectable, and is of a good character, or so my father insists on telling me.” Margaret remarked, shaking her head with a wry smile on her face. “The only issue is, his personality could use some polishing. Even so, he is quite handsome.” 

“I suppose that’s one redeeming quality,” Christine teased with a raised eyebrow, her lips curving into a playful smile. 

Margaret laughed softly, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “Quite right, if only he could keep his mouth shut and be only for looking at, he would be much more tolerable.” They both giggled at the implication, then turned silent for a few moments as they kept on strolling through the lush gardens. 

After a few beats, Margaret glanced sideways at Christine before turning her gaze to the ground. “You mustn’t tell this to anyone, but I used to be quite taken with him some years ago.” She confessed, her voice dropping slightly as if sharing a secret.

Christine blinked in surprise, her eyebrows lifting. “Lord George? Really?” she asked, half in disbelief, the other plain amusement, being the reason as to the upwards tug of the corners of her mouth. “I never would have guessed.”

Margaret’s cheeks flushed slightly at Christine’s teasing tone, but she quickly recovered, a nostalgic, wry smile tugging at her lips. “I was about fourteen or so, and I thought I was in love. Obviously I wasn’t actually.” She chuckled nostalgically, shaking her head to herself. “Something more relevant, I will be a debutante next season,” she informed her friend joyously, with an infectious smile and a look in her eyes that made it seem as though she may burst if she did not speak more of it. 

As if tied to a puppet string, Christine’s lips autonomously curved into a smile that shared the same enthusiasm as the one Margaret bore. “Will you really?” She asked, eyes widened. 

“Yes!” Margaret exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “I have been dreaming about it for years, and now, only in a few months, it will finally happen.”

Christine’s eyes sparkled at her friend’s excitement. “That sounds wonderful. And I can tell you, you’re not alone in dreaming about that.” She admitted truthfully. Christine had in fact—for as long as she could recall—been fascinated with the idea of social seasons, balls, and perhaps most of all, to be courted by a gentleman who yearned for her. A fantastical dream of virtuous affection, conjured by the soul of an idealistic romantic. 

“You’re doing that thing again,” said Margaret, snapping Christine out of the daydream she had hardly noticed being consumed by. 

Christine turned her head to face Margaret again, suddenly appearing lost. She cleared her throat, “Oh… I’m sorry, I was just thinking about something,” Christine mumbled, fidgeting with her nails. 

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, Margaret raised an eyebrow and gave Christine a knowing look. “Or do you mean someone?”

Christine was startled by the—albeit truthful—insinuation. Never could she have imagined that the infatuation that had been consuming her mind could be identified by another, without her saying so much as a word about her feelings. Despite being an open book when it came to past experiences, Christine tended to be very reserved about the present. But having no motive of hiding the truth from her friend, she sighed, and spoke hesitantly “Yes, someone-“ she began, but was interrupted by Margaret. 

“I knew it!” She blurted out, grabbing hold of Christine’s arm, as if using her as an anchor to keep from floating into the blue sky out of excitement. “Who is it? Is it someone I know?” 

Christine blushed, looking away, only for a moment before meeting Margaret’s gaze and matching her smile. “I believe you do know him,” she replied. She looked around them, making sure no one was in earshot. “It’s W- Lord Ellesmere.” 

“Do you love him?”

Yes, her heart answered. It was the only word in her vocabulary that could capture the intensity of what she truly felt, and had been feeling, for longer than she had dared to admit. Somewhere along the way, her happiness, her dreams for the future, and even the fragile sense of stability she clung to had become irrevocably entwined with one man. One singular man. His feelings, his choices, and, most terrifyingly, his power to shatter or complete her world.

She knew she was in love. She knew it by the way thoughts of William haunted and followed her to no end. No attempt at a distraction had been even remotely successful in banishing him from her thoughts, not even for a moment. He had become as essential to her as the air she breathed, every heartbeat seeming to pulse his name, every exhale a silent, aching wish for his presence. 

Be that as it may, Christine was not the feeling type. Any decision she made, no matter its significance, was born out of logic and strategy. It was her grasp for a sense of control over her own mind, one she had always depended upon. Such a sense of control was far more easily obtained over other people, and so, that as well was a power she would exert, particularly when her mind was in a state of turmoil. 

Some days, she loathed him. Not for anything he had consciously done, but for the power he held over her without even trying. Other days, she felt as though she was floating in the sky, blissful and in love. 

As Christine’s thoughts spiraled, Margaret gently nudged her arm. “Christine?” she pressed, her voice quieter now, almost reverent in its curiosity. “Do you love him?”

“Love is a very strong word,” Christine’s voice faltered as she spoke, her usual confidence replaced with a hesitance that Margaret had rarely seen in her. She drew a deep breath, her gaze falling to the neatly trimmed grass beneath their feet. “I hardly know the man. He could be a terrible person for all I know.” She declared softly, her tone more thoughtful than evasive. 

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Lord Ellesmere is not a terrible person. He was raised by Lord John, that should be enough substantial evidence of his character. I have met him a multitude of times, and we have spoken. Merely pleasantries, but I digress, he is a gentleman.” She stated in an affirmative yet gentle voice that carried both her usual friendly nature, and a hint of frustration. 

“That he is,” Christine mumbled through a defeated sigh. A part of her wished he was bad. That way, she would have a more solid reason for pushing her feelings aside. But damn him, he had been nothing short of perfect during their days spent together. 

Four days. Only four days had it taken for him to pierce her heart, and then leave it branded with his name engraved into the organ that kept her blood pumping. And ever since, her heart had bled. And on it would keep bleeding, until she felt his soothing touch upon her skin once more, healing her heart and soul. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

A stark contrast to her life before, was that now, Christine truly enjoyed being outdoors. Previously, she had found it uncomfortable and tedious to be beyond the comforts of her bedroom, where she had always preferred to be. In no way was her room at Helwater less comfortable than what she was used to growing up, and neither was her temporary guest bedroom at the Chesterfield estate. But rather, she did not feel bound to it. 

The days felt longer, but not in any way that was dreary or slow, but instead easier. She had more time on her hands than ever with the lack of modern entertainments that would previously engross her days, and therefore, Christine’s creativity and ability to find enjoyment in simpler pastimes had flourished. 

No longer feeling fear and guilt at the prospect of missing an opportunity to do something worthwhile, Christine could lay outside on a grass field, enjoying the sun’s warmth, and the gentle, chill breeze against her face, and simply be. It was a foreign sense of peace for her—to not feel the creeping anxiety that she could be doing something more valuable with her time than something so very disposable as relaxation. 

Every day was special—though not very different from another, or adventurous—but special nonetheless. Christine was content with enjoying the simplicity of a routine, where she did not need to think so much into how she would handle situations that did not exist within her perception of comfort and security . 

Over the past few months, Christine had not noticed the change, but she was much happier. At night, she slept soundly, and could easily get out of bed in the mornings, a luxury she had never had before. Eating felt less like a chore and more like a small joy she could savour, and her days were filled with a sense of ease she had rarely experienced. 

Christine had settled under the shade of a large oak tree during the afternoon for a calm reading session, a day after her confession to Margaret in the garden, her book rested loosely in her hands as the words blurred together. The warmth of the sun, the rustling leaves, and the gentle hum of nature had lulled her into a peaceful drowsiness. She had intended to read for only a few more pages, but before she knew it, the book had slipped from her hands and she had drifted into a light, contented sleep.

Disturbed from her slumber by the sudden sound of raindrops pouring from the sky and crashing down against the earth with force, Christine snapped her eyes open and was immediately jolted into alert awakeness. The sky was no longer the magnificent clear blue the noon had been blessed with, but was now darkened by a thick layer of grey clouds. The large oak did little to protect Christine from the relentless downpour, and her dress was nearly fully soaked. Her hair, which had been styled fashionably in the morning, was now weighing on top of her head and clinging to the sides of her face. 

She quickly got up on her feet and searched her surroundings with quick movements of her eyes. There was no shelter in closer proximity to her than the estate, which to get to, she would have to cross an open field in the pouring rain. But looking down at her dripping wet gown, Christine sighed and made up her mind, and began a hurried sprint toward her destination. 

The grass was slippery, and Christine thought quite a few times she would fall, but she did not. Once she had reached the manor, rainwater had seeped through her clothing, and had run down under the neckline of her gown, making it run down her back. She was out of breath, gasping for air as she opened the large, windowed door that opened into the salon. She did not wait one moment before stepping into the much warmer space that engulfed her like a hug, and shut the door behind her. 

Against the fine marble flooring, water dripped from Christine’s attire, forming a steadily growing pool at her feet. She was not entirely sure of what to do, she could not just prance into an adjoining room, as that would surely ruin its hardwood flooring.  

Her eyes darted about, taking in the elegant surroundings—the tall, elegant curtains pulled tight against the weather, the soft, gilded furniture that seemed to glow in the candlelight, and the intricate carpets that lay untouched, too pristine to be disturbed by such a state of disarray. She could not simply stand there, wet and dripping, her heart racing, unsure of how to proceed.

“Miss Rutherford?” A voice, warm and slightly amused, broke through her thoughts, and Christine turned sharply, startled.

Standing in front of her was a man she’d never seen before. He had dark blonde hair and brown eyes, and was wearing a dark blue coat with traditional knee breeches. Christine assumed he must be a servant, as she didn’t know how else he would know her by name.

She was shaking now from the frigid wetness of her clothing which was chilling her to the bone, and was glad there was someone to assist her. “Can you fetch me a blanket, sir? I’m afraid I’m not sure where they are.”

The man stared back at her, clearly confused. “And you believe I know where to find them?”

Christine blinked, wondering if he was merely teasing her. If so, that would be quite strange behavior for a servant. “Well, you do work here…” she began.

The man in front of her looked startled at this. “Work here? No! Of course I don’t work here!”

Christine tilted her head in confusion, momentarily at a loss for words. “Then what… who…” She mumbled, doing a once over to figure out who this stranger might be.

The man straightened his posture, appearing stiff as a statue. He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, glaring at Christine as though she had just deeply insulted his honour. “I am The Honourable George Albert Phillip Reginald Calvert, son and heir of Lord Frederick Edward George Alexander, the fifth Viscount Calvert. Therefore, I am accustomed to being treated with the respect I am due. I suggest you do the same, madam.” 

Christine’s eyes widened, and she had to suppress the urge to laugh at the haughty declaration of importance he had poorly disguised as an introduction. He was exactly as Margaret had described. “I’m afraid I have never heard of you,” she said, assuming he would catch onto her sarcasm. 

Lord George looked as though he might burst out of anger, and the offence her words had inflicted. Christine saw his hands clench into tight fists, and the predatory look in his eyes. For a moment, she was afraid he would lash out at her. She quickly backpedaled, accepting that this was not a fight worth picking. “I apologise, that was very rude. I have heard of you… my Lord.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke, and she tried to warm up her arms with her trembling hands.

Upon her apology, Lord George’s eyes softened, and his body relaxed considerably, as if he had been thawed out of a block of ice. “I accept your apology,” he said shortly, with an odd sincerity that was no doubt rooted in pride. Nevertheless, he approached her and removed his coat, placing it over her shoulders—a generous act she had not foreseen. She thanked him, and he smiled warmly at her. “No need to thank me, Miss. In fact, I believe I owe you an apology for not aiding you sooner, as I should have.”

“You almost led me to believe I would freeze to death!” Christine teased in mock accusation, letting out a small laugh, as did he. Lord George’s laughter was deep and unexpected, softening the edges of his otherwise stiff demeanour. “That was hardly my intention, Miss Rutherford,” he replied, his voice carrying the faintest hint of humour. “Come, let’s get you warmed up, before you indeed suffer an early demise due to my… neglect.”

Christine smiled warmly as Lord George guided her toward the fireplace, his coat still draped around her shoulders. She had not expected this turn of events. The man who had been spoken of with such disdain by Margaret now appeared in an entirely different light. He was far more than the dreadful bore Margaret had painted him as. There was a certain gentleness beneath his haughty exterior that she had not anticipated, and she found herself wondering if Margaret had perhaps been too quick to judge.

“How did you know my name?” she asked, settling into a chair near the fire. The warmth of the flames began to chase away the chill that had seeped into her bones, but her curiosity about this unexpected encounter was not so easily quieted. “Or rather, how did you know it was me?” She added.

The now much more tolerable Lord George kept smiling warmly at her as he remained standing, at a respectful, but not far distance. “I was aware you would be a guest here, and…” he paused, taking a deep breath. He broke away from their eye contact and looked into the glowing fire that burned steadily in the fireplace with a reluctant expression that Christine assumed was him contemplating whether or not he should finish the sentence. He turned his gaze back to her, a teasing look in his eyes. “And, as for how I was able to recognise you, well, let’s just say that your beauty is always mentioned whenever your name is. It was hardly a challenge to put the praised name to the beautiful face.”

Christine chuckled dryly at the cheesy compliment. This man was truly something out of the ordinary, and she wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Such generous flattery, what have I done to deserve it?” Her words, though spoken with concealed mockery, carried a falsely sweet tone that formed an odd combination with the proud look in her eyes.

Lord George’s smile deepened, and he took a small step forward, folding his arms with an air of mock seriousness. “Not flattery, Miss, it was a truthful statement.” 

“Oh, I assure you, I did not presume you to be a liar, my Lord.” She snickered, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Though I cannot help but wonder if you tell that to every lady that interests you.”

He seemed unsettled by the assumption, even a hint of offence could be recognised in his expression as he was faced with the possibility this lady might not take his every word with the utmost sincerity. His smile faded, and his eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinised her. “It cannot be at all enjoyable to live with such cynicism.” He told her quietly, with a tone that carried a pitiful edge to it. 

Christine took on a look of confusion, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes a small amount. Just as she opened her mouth to begin an attempt at a response—a response that would have been disoriented and nonsensical—the tall, ornate double doors opened up at a fast speed, interrupting her scattered thoughts and startled the both of them. The doorway, now wide open, revealed a flushed Margaret that quickly entered and shut the doors.

Margaret quickly crossed the room, her eyes darting between her dear friend and Lord George. “Christine! Where on earth have you been all afternoon?!” She demanded, yanking Christine to her feet as soon as she was in arm’s reach. She gazed over Christine’s disheveled appearance, whose dress and hair was still wet, but thankfully no longer dripping. “Oh God…” she whispered. She set her jaw and whirled around to face Lord George with an accusatory glare. “What did you do to her?! Did you try to… to… drown her or something?” She blurted, her voice rising in exasperation, her voice carrying an absurd genuineness in the assumption.

Lord George blinked in shock at Margaret’s outburst, momentarily rendered speechless by the outrageous accusation. Then, his expression turned to outright offence. “I beg your pardon?” He demanded through gritted teeth. 

Christine, who had been initially amused by Margaret’s far off claim, cleared her throat in an attempt to dispel the loaded tension. The effect was immediate, both Margaret and Lord George’s heads turning to Christine, both their faces wiped of any agitation. “He did not try to drown me, Margaret.” She sighed, shaking her head incredulously. “I went outside to read, a while ago. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it was pouring rain, and I had to run back inside. Lord George here was kind enough to offer me his coat and company as I warmed up.”

Margaret raised an eyebrow, relieved, but surprised her foe had acted so gentlemanly, especially to a friend of hers. She turned to Lord George, who looked back at her with a neutral, composed expression. “How very noble of you,” she muttered, her reluctance to speak of him in favourite light evident, and without any attempt of concealment. 

Lord George inclined his head slightly at Margaret’s grudging acknowledgment, his lips twitching as though suppressing a smirk. “I do what any gentleman would, Miss Chesterfield,” he said with an air of humility, though the glint in his eye suggested he was quietly enjoying her discomfort.

Margaret scoffed and whipped her head back over to Christine’s direction, sighing as she once more took in her disheveled state. “You must go to your chambers and get changed, or you will catch a cold,” she stated, her voice flat, but not entirely without amusement. Glancing back over at Lord George, she added; “or worse.”

Christine nodded agreeably, more than eager to get out of the clothes that slicked coldly to her skin, causing a sensation that was far beyond mere discomfort. She allowed herself to be led away by Margaret, glancing over her shoulder as they crossed the room, giving Lord George a smile and mouthed a ‘thank you.’ 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Due to the discomfort her brief—albeit significant in its impact—excursion in the rain had inflicted, Christine was determined to free herself from her soaked clothing as soon as she reached her room. Her dress weighed her down, limiting her movements and resulted in Christine being out of breath by the time she got there. However, the task of removing the cause of her obscene discomfort proved more difficult than she had anticipated. The fabric of her gown clung to her skin as she tried to pull it off her arms, and her petticoats were as if glued together when attempting to separate them. Any further venture to complete her task by herself, she realised, would only lead to a mental breakdown. That is, if her discomfort did not already do that by itself.

Christine had repeatedly rung the bell to summon her lady’s maid, Kitty, who had in the blink of an eye rushed to her mistress’s aid. With Christine being near tears by the time help arrived, Kitty had been considerably quick, but struggling in her aid. 

“Kitty, I can’t take it anymore. Just… cut it off me if you must! I can’t—”  Christine cried desperately as Kitty did her best to unlace her stays. The silk laces were wet and stubborn, and a menace to loosen from the stitched eyelets, which were in an equal state. Kitty hesitated, but saw that Christine’s distress was mounting, her breath coming in short, laboured gasps. “I suppose the laces can be replaced,” she muttered, withdrawing a pair of scissors from her pocket and began to cut up the spiral-lacing. 

Once freed from every soaked garment, Christine wrapped herself in a blanket and sat in an armchair by the crackling fireplace. Not having another pair of stays brought with her, she decided against attending dinner with the others that evening. Instead, she would have her meal sent up to her room. 

It was a decision made in reluctance, but chosen out of practicality. The thought of wearing layers of petticoats and an extravagant evening gown, bereft of the proper underpinnings to support it was unthinkable. Not only would it look strange and ill-fitting, but it could also be dangerous. The gowns would be pinned closed at the front, and in usual circumstances, the risk of being pierced by a needle was minimal, thanks to the stays. Devoid of said protective shield of a garment, the risk was far greater. 

The decision that Christine had made in reluctance, was one Kitty had seen as obvious. “Well, of course you can’t attend dinner. You must stay abed, lest you catch a cold!” She had chided, shaking her head at what she had seen as reckless of Christine to even consider choosing an alternative to. 

When Margaret was informed of Christine’s decision to remain in her room, she immediately declared that she, too, would not attend the dinner. Her resolve was swift, her loyalty to her friend unwavering. “If Christine cannot attend, then I shan’t either,” she announced firmly, her eyes flashing with a mixture of concern and stubbornness. The other members of the household, already sitting down to their evening meal, looked up in surprise, but Margaret’s decision was final. 

She went to Christine’s room, where she was greeted by the sight of her friend, wrapped in layers of blankets and sitting propped up against the headboard. On the nightstand, a bowl of crayfish soup and a cup of steaming tea were placed on a tray, both untouched. 

Christine’s hair was loose against the propped up pillow, still damp, with some strands clinging together in dark chunks, and her complexion was paler than her usual warm, fair skin tone. However, she seemed to find some of her spark when she saw Margaret step through the doorway. 

“Oh, you poor dear,” Margaret said with a comforting gentleness in her voice. With hurried steps, she rushed to Christine’s side and sat on the edge of the bed. 

Christine rolled her eyes at the almost motherly concern etched into her friend’s expression, it being so far from her usual teasing and quick-witted self. Despite her amusement, she welcomed the warmth and care Margaret brought with her, exaggerated as it may be. “I’m not on my deathbed, Margaret,” she told her, a fond smile making its way onto her face.

Margaret raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a smirk, but failing. The nurturing composure she displayed faltered when she let out a huffed breath that sounded awfully similar to a chuckle. “Not yet, perhaps,” she said dryly, adjusting the blankets around Christine. 

“Is that a threat?” Christine teased, smirking as she saw the amusingly displeased way Margaret glared at her. “Don’t mock me, Christine Rutherford.” Margaret  muttered with a sigh. Reaching over to the tray on the nightstand, she picked up the bowl of soup with both of her hands and placed it on Christine’s lap. She dipped the spoon into the soft orange shade of the crayfish soup, stirring gently before bringing it up to Christine’s mouth. 

Raising an eyebrow, Christine asked sarcastically “Are you going to feed me like a sick child?” 

“No,” Margaret answered, but made no move to put the spoon back into the bowl. “But I will feed you. Whether or not you’re going to act like a child is up to you.” She added with a teasing smile, her tone light despite the care she was showing. “Now, open up, unless you’d prefer to starve while you pout.”

Christine couldn’t help the soft laugh that bubbled up at Margaret’s persistence. She rolled her eyes, though didn’t resist when the spoon was brought closer to her lips. “Fine,” she sighed, opening her mouth to allow Margaret to feed her the first spoonful, as well as the satisfaction of victory. 

Margaret smiled, pleased to have earned Christine’s compliance, at least for a moment. “Now, you must tell me what happened earlier.” She said softly, her eyes narrowed with concern and gentle reprimand. 

Christine swallowed the soup, its warmth comforting against the chill that had settled deep into her bones. “I told you, the sky was clear when I went out to read, and I fell asleep by the large oak tree. When I woke up, it was pouring rain-” 

“Yes, you did tell me,” Margaret interrupted impatiently. She tilted her head, her eyes remaining locked on Christine with an observing gaze. “What I meant was, what occurred with Lord George?”

“What about him?” Christine asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

Margaret leaned in slightly, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Well, it is only that I told you all about him, and yet you were eagerly conversing with him when I entered the salon,” she stated plainly with a tinge of disapproval, as though she was accusing Christine of a crime. 

Christine chuckled incredulously, shaking her head, amused by Margaret’s odd interrogating approach. “Eagerly? It was small talk.” 

“Lord George Calvert does not do small talk,” 

Christine made no attempt to reign in the smirk that curled her lips upward. “And you know him very well, don’t you?” She implied sarcastically. 

Margaret’s lips quirked up into a smirk, matching the one of Christine’s. “He’s not exactly a character of much depth,” she remarked with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Christine giggled at Margaret’s sharp assessment, the amusement bubbling up despite herself. “Can’t say I disagree.” 

Margaret raised an eyebrow. “No? Tell me, what ridiculous things did he say to you?” She asked with a great deal of playful curiosity. 

Christine laughed softly. Thinking back on her conversation with Lord George, she didn’t find his character lacking in depth at all. An unusual man, yes, but not quite as uninteresting as Margaret had proclaimed. “I actually mistook him for a servant when I first laid eyes on him,” she recalled, and with doing so, the amusement she had been required to stifle earlier made a sudden reappearance in her mind, making her laugh. 

A bark of laughter erupted from Margaret. She covered her mouth, as if to suppress it, which had no effect. Her eyes gleamed with delight, tears of mirth threatening to spill over. “You—oh, Christine—you thought Lord George was a servant?” she managed to get out between peals of laughter. She clutched her stomach as her composure crumbled completely, her usually refined demeanor giving way to genuine hilarity. “He must have been furious!” She exclaimed joyfully. 

“Yes, he was!” Christine joined in on the laughter, coughing breathlessly as she did so. “He… he recited not only his own full name, but his father’s as well!” She exclaimed incredulously through fits of laughter. “He said I should treat him with the respect he is due, and then I told him I have never heard of him.”

Margaret’s laughter was silenced into shaky breaths as she bent in half, clutching herself. “I am hardly surprised!” She lifted her head, pointing a finger at Christine. “I told you I know what he’s like.” Christine shook her head mindlessly, and eventually both her laughters faded into a comfortable silence. 

“I shouldn’t tire you so in your delicate condition.” Margaret said regretfully, worry etching its way back to her face.

Christine rolled her eyes dramatically, but offered a weak smile of gratitude for Margaret’s care. “You worry too much.”

“And you never worry enough,” Margaret countered softly, yet with a firm determination to her tone. Though there was hardly any need, Margaret reached out and adjusted Christine’s blankets once more. “And seeing as you insist on taking naps out in rainstorms and mocking haughty lords, it is necessary that someone should keep an eye on you.” She added softly, smiling fondly. 

“As if you didn’t just encourage it,” Christine quipped back.

Margaret’s lips curved into a knowing smile, not the slightest hint of regret showing. “That I did.” She admitted softly, quietly. Lowering her head and shaking it, she chuckled and spoke; “And now you’ve distracted me from my point,” she lifted her head and met Christine’s gaze, now with a serious edge to her expression. “Which was to ensure you get your much needed rest.”

Christine sighed, glancing over to the window overlooking the garden. The sky had turned dark, and it was still raining rapidly. The sound of the raindrops landing was heard through the walls and glass panes. That, their quiet soft breaths, and the crackling of the last embers in the fireplace being the only sounds heard, and the calm surroundings had indeed made her weary. Christine returned her gaze to Margaret, admitting defeat. “Fine, I shall rest.” 

Margaret’s smile softened, and she took the half-empty bowl of soup from Christine’s lap and put it back on the tray. She stood up and straightened, but instead of walking away, she lingered for a moment, looking down at Christine with a softness in her gaze that was seldom so visible. “Rest well,” Margaret murmured, her voice gentle as if she were afraid of disturbing the fragile peace between them. 

Christine nodded and gave a tired yet sincere smile. “I will. Thank you.” She whispered.

Remained standing by Christine’s side, Margaret hesitated a moment longer, her eyes surveying Christine’s face in search of any further need. Finding none, save exhaustion, she turned, leaving the room with gentle steps as Christine snuggled in comfortably under her mountain of blankets. 

Lulled by the noise of rain drumming against the window, and the crackles of the dying fire, Christinee’s eyelids grew heavy. The warmth of the blankets, the calm of the room, and the soft rhythm of the storm outside coaxed her into a deep, peaceful sleep. 

Chapter Text

September 1777

When Christine woke, she felt strange, like her consciousness was no longer in her body. She felt very detached, as if she was no longer herself, and was in fact just a lonesome spirit, floating above her body, gazing down at herself laying in bed. 

She blinked, trying to shake the peculiar sensation of aloofness. Then, everything started spinning, and her head hurt terribly. She knew she must have some sort of illness, but was too tired to get up and find someone to help her, in fact, she couldn’t move. She shut her eyes tightly, hoping to relieve some of the pain, but ended up drifting into oblivion…

“Christine?” She heard a distant voice echo around in her head. A familiar one, but she couldn’t quite place it…

“Christine!” It cried louder this time. It was a feminine voice, and it sounded very frantic. Curious, she decided to open her eyes, and who she saw was certainly shocking. 

“Mother?” She could see the familiar figure of her mum, standing beside her bed, but gazing at the wall. Only, she looked different. Her skin was very pale and the usually sharp features of her face were blurred, but it was obviously Josephine nonetheless. “How are you here?” Christine asked, mumbling a little.

Her mother went on staring into the distance, and Christine realised she appeared to be crying. “Oh, where are you, Christine?” she called desperately. 

“I’m right here!” Christine attempted to shout back, however, no words were heard from her lips, as if she was trying to speak underwater. In all her anger directed at her mother the past months, she had buried any sense of longing for her presence. But now, all she wanted was to speak to her. She attempted to do so, yet, the figure did not turn. She only continued staring.

Before Christine could try shouting again, she heard a faint melody in the distance—a familiar melody. She heard the light voice of a child singing, and it was eerily familiar, but not easily interpreted, as both the melody and voice was distorted and incoherent

It became clearer, and finally, she recognised it; ‘Somewhere over the rainbow…’ 

The child singing was herself, she also realised. 

Christine felt the memory pull her in, like a thread tugged too tightly until it snapped, plunging her into another time, another place. The transition was abrupt, and suddenly, she was immersed into what felt like a memory, but she knew couldn’t be. 

She saw her younger self, no older than five or six, sitting with her back turned in the bright sunlight in the midst of a lush garden. She was singing to herself while twirling a flower by its stem between her fingers, watching with wide eyes and a smile as it spun. 

Christine took a step forward, approaching her younger self, but then another figure—a man—walked right through her. The man sneaked up on her younger self from behind, going unnoticed until he cried “rahhh” and picked the child up into his arms. Little Chrissy shrieked from the sudden surprise, her small body jerking in startled terror before erupting into peals of laughter. Her laughter caused the man to laugh as well as he swung her around in circles. 

The man eventually stopped and put the giggling child down on her feet, and now, he was facing Christine. The recognition was immediate, there was no mistaking his identity—it was her father. Her eyes went wide at the sight, she had only seen him in photographs, and had never imagined she would ever get to see even a glimpse of what he would have been like as a father. 

What struck her as even more surprising was the clothes he wore, they were nothing like the modern garments she had always imagined him in. Instead, he was dressed in finely tailored 18th-century attire—light blue matching breeches and coat, and a white waistcoat adorned with silver embroidery along its buttons. 

“Where have you been, Chrissy?” he asked the child, crouching down and speaking in a tone that was both playful and disapproving. Christine watched as her younger self—Little Chrissy—giggled, her eyes sparkling with that of a child’s pure joy as she looked up at her father, but not answering his question. “We have been looking everywhere for you,” he said with a sigh, though there was no anger in his tone. “You can’t just run away every time you’re upset. Do you know how worried your mother’s been?”

Christine felt a sharp sting in her chest at the mention of her mother. For months now, she had tried to resent her for the lies she’d told, the facade she’d put up, and her refusal to let her own daughter truly know her. But hearing her father speak of her mother with such tenderness and warmth made the guilt she had suppressed catch up with her. She had abandoned her mother, not intentionally, but she had not made any attempt to get back to her. She wanted to tell her father that she hadn’t meant for things to turn out how they had, but as she was about to, her younger self seemed to speak for her.

“I didn’t mean to make her worried, Papa,” Little Chrissy mumbled, looking down shamefully at her feet. Her voice was no longer playful, but had turned quiet and regretful, and her smile had been replaced by a pout. “I was just upset, so I went outside. But then… it was so fun to play, and I didn’t want to return.” 

Her father gently tilted her chin up and smiled softly at her. “I know, sweetheart. Tell me then, what have you been up to?” 

Little Chrissy’s eyes lit up once again, her pout dissolving as she looked up at her father with regained delight. “I found a cat!” She exclaimed joyfully, and with her words, her smile reappeared. “He had the most beautiful blue eyes, and we played for a bit but then…” she paused, her joyful expression fading once more. “Then he ran away, without even saying goodbye.” 

Christine’s heart tightened as the words left her younger self’s mouth. Something about those words felt so familiar, and they struck a chord within her. Even as she had no memory of what her younger self was telling, it felt so hauntingly familiar. 

“Do you think the cat will return to me, Papa?” Her younger self asked, vulnerable and hopeful. With big doe eyes, she searched his face for reassurance. Her father smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His face bore an expression of deep understanding, as well as knowing. “I think he will, sweetheart. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but when you least expect him.”

Little Chrissy seemed comforted by his answer, her lips curving into a soft smile as she clutched the flower she’d been twirling in her small hand. “Really, Papa? You promise?”

Her father chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm, wrapping around the moment like a comforting blanket. “I can’t make promises for a cat, Chrissy,” he said, his tone playful yet wise. “But I can promise you this—what’s meant to be yours will always find its way back to you. Always. Now, let’s go back inside to your mother, hm?”

Christine watched as the little girl’s expression grew reluctant at the thought. She took a step forward as her younger self took a step back. “No, I want to stay here. I want to wait for my cat.” She said with determination, stomping her foot on the grass. 

“Your mother is worried sick,” her father told her firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “If you don’t go to her, she will come to you.” His voice was softer, and he gave her a kind smile. 

Little Chrissy hesitated, her small face scrunching with uncertainty, the weight of her father’s words settling heavily on her shoulders. “But if Mama comes to me,” she whispered. “Won’t she be mad I ran away?” 

Her father crouched down again, his face soft and kind tender as he met her at eye level. Christine took a step closer, desperate to hear his response to the question she herself had been wondering. But as his lips moved, the sound that came out was inaudible and muffled, bearing no resemblance to anything remotely coherent. 

She tried to get closer, her small steps turning into a hurried sprint. However, the distance only seemed to increase, and the world around her faded into dark shadows, eliminating her peripheral vision until all she saw was a dark tunnel, the grass beneath her feet, and her view of her father and younger self becoming less perceptible in the dark, growing distance. Christine’s heart raced as she reached out a trembling hand, desperately trying to bridge the gap between them. But for every passing moment, she felt herself slipping further away, her connection to the scene before her weakening. 

Every step she took felt heavier than the last, and the ground beneath her feet less solid, like running over a layer of thin ice that broke for each panicked step, threatening to pull her down into the deep, dark abyss if she stopped even for a moment. Eventually, she could no longer fight it, and the ground that held her evaporated, sending her falling helplessly, without anything to grasp onto in the darkness that absorbed her. The cold, dark void seemed to close in on her, wrapping itself tightly around her like a murderous snake. 

Then, abruptly, and without warning, she jolted awake. With frantic eyes, she searched her dark surroundings. She was back in her bed again, wrapped tightly in thick blankets that made her feel as confined as she had in the nightmare. She wrestled and squirmed until the blankets loosened around her, and she was no longer trapped. 

Christine jumped out of bed, a wave of nausea and dizziness hitting her like a brick thrown by an enemy. Her head was pounding, and she was sweating from her whole body, despite feeling abnormally cold. She stumbled on weak legs towards the door, grabbing onto the knob and twisting it, her effort weak and dawdling. 

Her instinct was to find Margaret, to seek comfort and help from her, knowing she would give it. The dream—nightmare, truth be told—had shaken her considerably, and she was sure to not get any peaceful sleep that night. The feeling of illness did not lessen as she carefully walked down the dark hallway. The only source of light was the few wall-mounted candles, giving her a small—but much appreciated sense of direction, even if it only gave her confidence she would find Margaret’s room, not objective certainty. 

The floorboards creaked under her unsteady steps as she made her way down the corridor, her head spinning with each movement. Her mind was still plaguing her with a disoriented feeling, and she pushed it aside as she found the door she thought she was searching for. She reached out and quietly turned the doorknob, carefully opening the door and stepping into the room, quiet as a mouse. 

Her eyes roamed through the room, and as she took in her surroundings, she was hit with the realisation that she was, in fact, not in Margaret’s room. Upon that revelation, Christine froze instantly. She quickly stepped backwards towards the door, and in her haste, bumped into it. 

Her head hit the wooden surface with a thud, and she gasped from the startle. Though not visible in the darkness, she heard a rustle of sheets coming from the other side of the room. Panic rose within her, and she made sure to waste no time before spinning around and scrambling for the door, her hand fumbling desperately for the knob. Christine wrenched the door open, hearing quick footsteps approaching her from behind as she practically threw herself out into the corridor. 

A hand grabbed tightly onto her wrist, she gasped, her body jerking in surprise. While the grip of the hand holding her wrist was firm, it was not aggressive or forceful. In a moment’s notice, the hand pulled her to spin around to face the figure, whom she recognised immediately—Lord George Calvert. 

His countenance quickly assumed an expression of abject shock, his mouth falling open and his brow furrowing in bafflement. “Now what in the devil are you doing here?” He asked, still not dropping her wrist.

It did not elude her how his eyes raked over her body—her body, which she realised, was only clothed by a thin, white nightgown. Christine felt herself flush in embarrassment. Between this, and her initial mistaking Lord George for a servant upon their first meeting, she could hardly imagine what he must think of her. To him, she must appear to be a ditzy, ill bred girl who didn’t know the first thing about the accepted mannerisms of high society. 

Opening her mouth to respond to his question, Christine realised that in her own surprise, she had momentarily forgotten her reason for being there in the first place. However, Lord George must’ve noticed how indisposed she appeared, for he quickly reached up to feel her forehead with the back of his hand.

“My God, I think you have a fever!”, he said uneasily. Christine wondered for a moment why he seemed to be so worried about that. Although she certainly needed help, she supposed a mere fever wouldn’t kill her. Then, she remembered what time she was in. Here, it wasn’t all that uncommon for people to actually die from an illness that, in the modern world, would be considered naught but a mere hindrance to the infected person. Luckily, Christine knew she was protected against the worst of this time’s diseases, but what she certainly wasn’t protected against was the medical incompetence of 18th century doctors.

Christine was distracted from this disturbing realisation when Lord George quickly staggered back, a look of pure terror on his face. “Cease! Begone!” He exclaimed dramatically, signalling with a wave of his hand for her to go away. Christine did not move an inch, her expression turning into that of a glare, deeply offended by his treating of her as if she was a disease. Lord George realised his mistake and composed himself, yet, he took another step back. “Forgive me, Miss Christine, that was terribly rude of me,” he admitted, and Christine could only agree with him on that front. 

“Yes, I believe it was,” she scrambled out hoarsely, her throat burning lightly as she spoke. With no interest to hear any more words coming from that man, Christine turned and began walking in the direction of which she’d come from, back to her room. She heard the door to Lord George’s room shut behind her, and she turned her head around upon hearing the sound, and saw it closed. Christine found it very callous of him to shut her out like that, and his behaviour to be far from the gentleman he claimed to be. 

The interaction had angered her, but she had no intention to prance back and yell at him, tempting as the thought may be. She was far too tired, both physically, as well as tired of him to do so. Now, her only wish was to get back into bed and hopefully be able to sleep her ailment away once morning came. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Over the course of the recent weeks, William had been struggling. His mind constantly returned to Christine, and the letter he had decided not to send. He carried no regret about his decision, for he knew it would have been ungentlemanly for him to let her read those paragraphs he’d composed with such little eloquence. He held firmly to his conviction that he shall not bother her any further, for he had already compromised her innocence enough. 

The first time he had done so was when he’d shown her his inappropriate drawings. Looking back, he could recall the scandalised look on her sweet face. It had amused him then, but now, he only felt ashamed. What brought him even more shame was the incidents during their travel—the desire he had been plagued with as they had rode on shared horseback, and the physical evidence of it which Christine had no doubt noticed. He had inadvertently put her in danger, and the poor girl had nearly been killed and violated by those damned bandits she had later been forced to watch die before her very eyes. 

And as if that hadn’t been enough, he had shared a bed with her. In the back of his head, the proclivity that he should do right by the girl and marry her whispered to him, bringing on a multitude of emotions. 

Of course, he felt joy at the thought, for he was of the opinion that having Christine as his wife would make him the happiest man alive. Not a day would be dull with her by his side, with her boldness and confidence, her sharp intelligence, beautiful smile, and her soul as golden as her hair when sun rays reflected off it. 

There was, of course, his lust, as well. During his weakest moments, William thought of her, and not in the way a gentleman should think about a maiden, but in ways that would surely cause her to swoon in shock if she ever heard of it. He hated himself for it, despised the way his mind would conjure up indecent images of her in various compromising acts. These were the cravings of a selfish, undisciplined man who had already taken too much from her.

Therefore, the heaviest of all weighed his guilt. Not only for the way he occasionally thought of her at night, but for the way his actions, or lack thereof, had already disrupted her life. William desperately wanted her to be his, but he was firmly convinced he didn’t deserve her, not after how he had put her in harm’s way, sullied her innocence, and had the audacity to yearn for her still. As he had resolved, the best cause of action was to let her go, especially since he had very little hope of her ever returning his affections. 

As William was sure to be driven to insanity if left idle with his thoughts for too long, it was a fortunate thing that the strenuous labour of army life kept him occupied. A week had passed since he fought his first battle, and he was a changed man. His initial naivety was now shattered to pieces, as he had witnessed firsthand the horrid violence that was the reality of war. William had been so convinced it would be glorious and honourable, and while he held fast to his sense of pride he held for serving his country, he could no longer deny the grim truth. 

Perhaps, he thought, if Christine were with him, she could bring him solace, comfort him like she had that night at the inn. But William knew that was not her burden to bear, nor was she present to do so. Inescapably, his mind wandered back to the thought every hour of every day. He saw the devoted wives of his fellow soldiers, and admired the courage those women must possess to follow their husbands off into the dangers of war. But his dear Christine was not his wife. She was, in truth, not even his to begin with. 

However, William could not help the thought that it would only be right that the woman he would die for, had killed for—and would again if necessary—should belong to him. Acknowledging that thought, he could scarcely believe his own impudence. 

Besides the courageously loyal soldiers’ wives, residing in camp were also the women who made their living off the need for distraction that many soldiers often felt. William himself had been approached more than once by these women, who were incredibly skilled in exploiting the vulnerabilities of men who were unaware how long their lives might last. William had not taken them up on their offers, however, for his heart could not allow it. 

He didn’t feel the desire for a night of fleeting pleasure with any camp whore, not as so many others did, and not as William himself once might have. Now, he found the notion hollow and meaningless. He was entirely indifferent to their advances, with no urge to use a woman for temporary solace. In fact, the thought of doing so repelled him. 

Sitting alone on a weathered log near the campfire, William stared into the crackling flames, watching them dance and curl in the night air. His comrades had long since retreated to their tents after having a drink, sharing stories, and telling jokes around the fire. The camaraderie had been a welcome one, William thought, a pleasant diversion from his duties, as well as his occupied mind. 

But now, in the stillness of the night, stars in the sky abundant and bright, his thoughts wandered back to the woman he found as serene as the heavens above. 

In his reverie, he hadn’t noticed the gravel crunch underneath the soles of boots as a figure approached him. It was only when a voice spoke, low and sensual, that he noticed the soft presence behind him. “Sitting here all by your lonesome? I think you need some company.” The voice purred, smooth like velvet, with an innocent facade as transparent as glass, attempting to teasingly conceal the attentions invited. 

William did not turn to look, for he did not need to see properly to assess who the woman was—one of the camp followers, a whore, judging by her tone and words spoken. “You’re wasting your time,” he stated quietly, his voice firm yet calm, as if addressing the night itself rather than the woman behind him. 

The woman let out a short laugh, amused and undeterred by his cold response. “I highly doubt that,” she replied, gravel crunching as she took a step closer. William finally turned his head, taking in her appearance. She looked young, no older than Christine, but bearing no resemblance. This woman’s hair was light blonde, curly, and loose down her back, the colour of her eyes were difficult to distinguish in the dark, but appeared to be either blue or green. The outfit she wore betrayed her occupation, wearing skirts revealing her ankles, and a low cut bodice laced in the front, dyed in the boldest colours limited money could afford. 

“I can see it in your eyes,” she continued, her voice softening into a sympathetic tone, but hardly genuine. “You’re tired. Burdened.” She tilted her head, looking into his eyes as though peering into his soul. “I can help you forget, even if just for a night.”

William let out a long, exasperated breath, his gaze returning to the fire. He was no fool, he knew her play at sympathy was nothing more than a practised act, designed to draw in men who would fall for such feigned compassion. But it did not anger him, for he knew it wasn't done with malicious intent—it was survival. 

“I have no need to forget, nor for your services,” he muttered, his voice low and firm, bearing the intent to sound polite in his rejection. However, he could not help the bitterness that had crept up on him and inadvertently caused his words to come out sharper than what was his intention. 

While she didn’t back away, the woman appeared momentarily caught off guard by his unexpected response. She sighed shortly, followed by silence, waiting for him to change his mind. Realising he would not, she resigned to his rejection. “Suit yourself,” she muttered under her breath, the flirtation gone from her voice now, replaced by an honest tiredness. “I’m sure there are many others who would gladly take my offer.” With that, she turned and walked away, the soft sound of gravel underfoot gradually fading away.

William didn’t look up as she left, instead, his eyes remained fixed on the flickering flames. Although not invoking any anger, the woman’s interruption of his thoughts had annoyed him. He hadn’t any interest in accepting her offer, it was not what he wanted. Well, he did want it, but not with her. As the woman had pointed out, he was indeed burdened. However, her assumption that his burden was one a woman of her occupation could relieve, was incorrect. 

Alas, a man’s deepest wish went unnoticed, his grief over its unfulfilled nature mistaken for the next man’s sorrow.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

September 2024

Ever since her daughter’s disappearance, Josephine had not left Virginia, or her in-laws’ old house. It being the last place she had seen Christine, and located not far from where the investigation had taken place, she had not allowed herself to leave. Guilt had plagued her terribly, for despite their difficult dynamic, Josephine loved her daughter more than life itself. While Christine believed the lies told by her mother were out of cruelty and selfish secrecy, it had been the heaviest burden Josephine had ever borne. Still, she had made a promise to do so, and the hidden truth was never meant to be kept from Christine forever. 

Two weeks had passed since the police department had put the case aside, as they had made no progress since July. While she had been advised to seek out a private investigator, Josephine had not. She knew no investigator would be able to trace her daughter, for she knew in her heart; Christine had travelled through time. However, Josephine had not hopelessly resigned to the notion of never seeing her daughter again. Because she would find her, no matter what it took. With the determination of a mother bear searching the forest for her cubs, Josephine had scoured through old archives, spent countless hours reading through historical documents, committed to finding any mention of her daughter. 

The faint leads she had indeed found were not of the utmost guarantee speaking of her daughter. Josephine had found several documented women in history similar in age to her Christine, described to have her likeness, appearing in historical records without explanation, all of them having little to no information known about their early lives. 

However, she was aware of Christine’s unflinching ability to come up with a false story in a single moment, and tell it with a conviction that wouldn’t elicit suspicion. It would be to little surprise if she had done so once again, and with that, integrated perfectly into another time, making her almost impossible to trace. The fear was certainly there, that Josephine would perhaps not find her daughter. Even so, she would dedicate her life to the task if need be. 

Josephine sat at the desk in her father-in-law’s old dimly lit study, surrounded by copies of stacked historical records, maps, her own handwritten notebooks, and behind her on the wall, a large pin board covered with leads and red thread. To her right, in front of a draped window, stood a mannequin dressed in an 18th century riding habit—authentic, and one she had worn before, but had recently altered to fit her. She had been preparing herself for months, meticulously arranging what she needed for what was to come.  

The repetitive soft click of Josephine absentmindedly tapping her index finger against a black leather notebook was the singular audible noise in the room. And yet, to her, the room was anything but quiet. Her mind was racing with equally loud thoughts—some of doubt, others of confidence or determination. The notebook in front of her, unlike the other ones, had not been written in haste. Instead, it contained carefully organised notes of the most important information found in the countless documents and records that could lead to her daughter. It was the only notebook she would bring with her, for it had all the instructions she would require, including leads, dates, and possible locations.

Josephine knew she no longer had any reason to procrastinate any further, but had done so in the naive hope of finding more substantial leads. But in the back of her head, she knew she could no longer afford to wait for clues. The time had come to act. 

With a quiet sigh, Josephine stilled her finger’s continuous tapping on the notebook, and leaned back into the old chair. After a few moments of rubbing her temples, she stood up, her body aching from sitting down for a long period of time. She reached for a plastic watertight seal and put the notebook inside, closing it to protect from any eventual rain. 

Her heart pounded as she packed the pockets of her dress full of the things she would bring through the stones—her notebook, a compass, a map, wrapped sandwiches to eat, water for drinking, hand sanitiser, and other necessary supplies that could fit into her pockets without weighing them down to the point of discomfort. 

Josephine was aware that once she had disappeared as mysteriously as her daughter had, the police would no doubt search through the house, and in doing so, find her research. As a means to avoid that outcome, and the suspicion it would entail—even though she wouldn’t be there to deal with it—she locked all the remaining papers and documents into a safe in the hidden basement, which the only way to get to was through a secret passage concealed by the bookshelves in Robert Rutherford’s study. 

Intense nostalgia hit her in waves as she got dressed in the riding habit, and even after so many years, her muscle memory served her well in putting on every layer of clothing with an ease that made it seem like no time had passed. 

Josephine stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the entryway, staring at her reflection, noticing how it had changed since last she wore the dress. Despite the attempts she had made to reduce aging and keep her skin young, she had a few wrinkles on her forehead, as well as faint crow’s feet. She may not look the same as last time she wore the dress, but the purpose was the same—to save Christine. 

Her determination was unyielding, leaving her no time to look back as she stepped out of the house through the tall front door. She barely remembered anything from that point onwards, her feet seemed to walk by themselves, taking steady, measured steps to the car parked in the driveway. Josephine’s body worked autonomously, unlocking the car and starting the engine with practised ease. Her hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles pale against the leather as she pulled out of the driveway. 

The car’s headlights sliced through the darkness, illuminating the road ahead, which seemed endless, the curve of the dark landscape stretching far into the night. Josephine’s mind, sharp as ever despite the weariness that clung to her, remained focused on the destination. The drive felt surreal, as if she was moving through a dream where time had blurred, and she was both herself and someone else entirely—someone who had no choice but to act now, without hesitation or second thought.

Her sense of time was a haze, every second felt like several hours because of the absurd amount of thoughts going through her head at once. And yet, she would have driven past her destination if it wasn’t for the loud buzzing noise that exited out the sound of her own thoughts, except one; ’How did I get here so fast?’

Josephine parked the car off the side of the road, by a hill. She locked the car without glancing back as she walked over the steep terrain, the sound of the buzzing getter louder for each step closer that she took. If she had been in a trance during her drive, there were no words to describe this, even though she had felt the feeling before, like her body and the stones were strong magnets, impossible to keep apart, no matter one’s personal conflictions. 

Of course, she had no personal conflictions, not this time around. She submitted herself completely to the pull of the stones—their calls which she answered by not turning her gaze away even once as she approached them steadily, almost floating down the hill. 

Her entranced steps came to a halt once she suddenly stood in the middle of the stone circle, seeing them tower over her, ancient and imposing. Their presence was both ominous and familiar, humming with an energy she could feel deep in her bones. Josephine took a slow, deliberate breath, the cool night air filling her lungs, her warm exhale visible in the cold night air. 

“Christine?” she whispered quietly, as if her daughter would be able to hear her call for her. She tilted her head back, her gaze trailing along the rough, weathered surfaces that seemed to reach endlessly into the foggy, darkened sky. Each stone hummed with a unique, eerie frequency, the vibrations mingling together to form a symphony of energy that resonated through her entire body. Her breaths deep and measured, she took the step closer to the tallest stone, her hands reached out before her. The magnetic pull between her body and the stones had a force far greater than herself—a force she yielded to.

She took one last step, her fingertips merely brushing against the rough surface of the stone. “Christine!” she cried, before the vibration in the air reached a crescendo, and with a flash of blinding light, the world around her disappeared.

”Mother?”

Chapter Text

October 1777

The fever Christine had denied the possibility of contracting, had, in fact, hit her harder than she’d anticipated, leaving her bedridden with a diet limited to mostly various kinds of soup for four whole days. Despite her symptoms—including headaches, fatigue, and fever—she had quite enjoyed being pampered. Margaret would stay by her side through every day, giving Christine the much needed company she craved during her time confined to her room. 

Although it should have come to no surprise to her after the way Lord George had shooed her away that night when Christine had accidentally walked into his bedroom, she was in fact quite surprised the morning after, when Lord John informed her that Calvert had had left Chesterfield Manor that same morning, because of his fear of illness. Christine had not mentioned to him her nightly interaction with George—mostly because of the fact that it had been just that; nightly—but she reflected on it, and while she could sympathise with him, she also believed he hadn’t any excuse for treating her in such a way. 

A month had gone by, and Christine’s body had healed, all symptoms of her fever long since subsided. And yet, the ailment that took its place was far greater, for it was now her heart that was aching. Three months had passed since she sent her letter to be delivered across the Atlantic ocean  and reach her dear William, and she had not received a response from him. While in general circumstances that space of time wouldn’t have been considered a delay, the weather had been reported to be continuously ideal for sea travel. Therefore, to not have received a response was certainly an oddity, and hardly a coincidence. 

Christine wasn’t going to let it crush her, however, because there was a possibility that something along the delivery had gone amiss, the correspondence lost, through no fault of her own. It took several days for her to muster up the courage to ask Lord John about it, for the fear of what his answer might be, he who seemed to know everything. 

The question was on her mind constantly, particularly one day at dinner when Christine was noticeably absentminded. At the head of the table, Lord John—much unlike Christine—sipped and enjoyed his turtle soup, while she neglected her own. Christine’s eyes were drawn to the view from the tall windows overlooking the garden, observing how summer had dragged into autumn. The warm days of the previous season were now gone, transitioned into chilly days of mid October, with the formerly green leaves of the northern English treetops now replaced by soft shades of orange and red. 

“What thoughts occupy your mind, my dear?” he asked, snapping Christine out of her bubble of inner musings with his ever so understanding tone. She met his gaze, and immediately made an attempt to hide her troubled state of mind, but to no success. “It is clear something is bothering you, Christine. There is no shame in it, and you can confide in me,” Christine looked away, unlike Lord John, who kept his eyes on her, patiently waiting for her to speak up. 

She hesitated, and the soup she had previously ignored had now suddenly become very interesting. “It is only…” she began, her words trailing off into a self-oppressive silence. What could she possibly tell him without eliciting suspicion? While Lord John had been selfless in his hospitality toward her, Christine wondered if he would think as kindly of her if he learned she was in love with his son. While there was no need to state that explicitly, he may suspect it if she informed him of the distress the lack of response from William had caused her. 

“I was only wondering,” she mumbled, still looking down into the soup, now cool from being left untouched. After a short moment, Christine lifted her head and met his awaiting gaze, and spoke again, “You’ve written to William, have you not? And… received a response?” She asked nervously, her eyes flickering back and forth between Lord John and the wall behind him.

Lord John looked confused for a moment, not quite getting her meaning. “Yes, I sent a letter the same time as you did, and received correspondence just last week,” he told her, his tone gentle and measured. “Why do you ask?”

Hearing those words, she learned that what she had naively presumed to be naught but a delay in maritime delivery had in truth only been an excuse made up in her mind to shield herself from the heartbreaking reality—William had chosen not to write back. The realisation now crashed upon her with the force of a great wave, with a riptide that followed, with a pull that dragged her heart down into deep, dark waters. 

“Christine?” said Lord John, one hand outstretched and placed upon her arm, giving her a gentle shake as to snap her back to reality. And snap back to reality she did, tears welling up in her eyes as she did so. Christine quickly—almost as if by instinct—blinked the tears away, her hand coming up to pat her lashes dry, as if it would hide from Lord John how the revelation had affected her.  

She felt ridiculous. What excuse did she have to feel so strongly about not receiving a handwritten letter from a man she had only known for all but four days? And now, despite her previously adamant intent on not revealing to Lord John her feelings for his son, Christine was near tears, right before him. 

Clearing her throat and straightening her back, she tried to compose herself to not appear bothered. Despite her attempts of doing so, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Forgive me, I…” she said quietly, her voice a low murmur that broke under the weight of the situation. “Well, he doesn’t seem to have written back to me.” Christine finished, gazing back down into her soup, seeing a ripple effect form in the bowl, realising it had come from her eye. 

“I see,” Lord John responded. Christine found his tone quite neutral, and difficult to read, as it was void of any clear indication of his true reaction. “That is… not how I had intended to raise him,” he paused and let out a sigh with a hint of disappointment, though it wasn’t directed at Christine. “I must admit, I am quite surprised by it, he did seem fond of you.” 

Christine nodded, still not meeting his gaze. She chuckled, a silent ridicule of herself for the idealistic expectation she’d had. “I was hoping to hear from him…” she mumbled.

Lord John raised an eyebrow, not in a way that spoke of any judgement of disapproval, more so curiosity. “What did you write in your letter, Miss Christine?” He asked carefully. Despite the gentle tone his words were spoken in, they sent Christine’s mind into a racing spiral of paranoia, in which she tried to make sense of why William had chosen to not respond. Had she offended him, or been too forward? She recalled mentioning how often she thought of him, and perhaps because of that, his opinion of her had lowered to seeing her as naught but a silly little girl with a crush. 

Christine’s breath shuddered, even as she kept trying to appear stoic in the face of the revelation. “I… told him about the voyage, and my life here at Helwater,” she told him quietly, her voice weak and bereft of any success in hiding her hurt. “I wrote that I often think about him, and that I hope he is faring well. That’s about it, not much else.” 

In her peripheral vision, she saw Lord John nod understandingly, his lips sealed as he listened intently. “It seems to me you expressed yourself with honesty and care.” He tried to reason with her, lift the burden that weighed upon her shoulders. “My son should have composed a letter in return, and it is through no fault of yours that he did not.” 

Although Lord John did his best to reassure her, Christine couldn’t deny the way her heart shattered, no matter how hard she tried to suppress the feeling. With a shuddering breath, she stood from her chair. “I beg your pardon, but I believe I have lost my appetite,” she mumbled before rushing out of the dining room. 

Christine held tightly to her skirts as she ran through the corridors, and up the grand marble staircase in a frantic rush towards her bedroom. She swooshed past a startled maid on her way, but didn’t look back. In her sprint, she nearly ran into her bedroom door once she reached it, and fumbled with trembling hands on the doorknob and burst into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. 

Unable to tame her emotions, she fell to the floor, her knees aching terribly from the impact, but the pain went unnoticed. Christine buried her face in her hands, tears flowing freely now, unrestrained and raw. The ache in her chest was unbearable, as though her heart had splintered into a thousand tiny pieces, each one cutting deeper than the last. 

She felt foolish, angry at herself for becoming so reliant on that man, and the love she had hoped to one day receive from him. Christine had truly believed that during the few days spent with William, they had formed a bond that would be the beginning of a great love story. She had foolishly allowed herself to be consumed by dreams of a future with him, and in his absence, yearning for the day she would see his handsome face again, to gaze into those blue eyes of his, and feel his warm touch upon her skin. 

It was a reoccurring thing in her life—wanting something so badly that she deluded herself it would come true, for any other alternative was too terrible to even imagine. But it only made the crash of reality so much more painful in its intensity. In her mind, Christine had a future with William that awaited them. But now, that dream had been shattered with the revelation that William hadn’t cared enough to write even one word to her. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The view from Christine’s bedroom window at Helwater fully lived up to the idealistic romanticisation many had of autumn, but few experienced. She often sat on the windowsill, quietly gazing out at the landscape, watching the birds fly south, and marvelling at how simple they must have it, their only concern being to get from one place to another. 

While they would surely need to fight for their lives on occasion during the journey, at the very least, survival was a natural instinct, unlike the often falsely assumed simplicity of living. Christine envied those who had a simple purpose, and knew it, be it human or animal. 

For several days after her dinner conversation with Lord John, she stayed locked in her room, refusing any interaction with the outside world, isolating herself from everyone and everything. While Kitty would bring her regular meals, Christine barely ate, using the empty feeling in her stomach as a distraction from the one in her heart. 

She was interrupted from her melancholy thoughts with a knock on her door that was firm, yet not forceful, cutting through the stillness of the room. Christine, curled up on the window seat, barely reacted. She had grown accustomed to the knocks—Kitty’s gentle reminder that another meal had been delivered. But this one was different.

“Miss Christine,” came Lord John’s voice, calm yet resolute. “May I enter?”

Christine sighed, pressing the back of her head against the window jamb. She knew she shouldn’t ignore Lord John, not after all he’s done for her. And yet, she wanted nothing more than to be alone and quietly pity herself. “Enter,” she called, noticing how hoarse her voice had become. 

The door creaked open, and Lord John stepped through. Christine kept her gaze locked on the view from out of the window, but could feel his eyes assessing her with a great deal of concern. The door shut, and Lord John took a few steps closer, sighing. “I see your isolation has done you no good.” 

Christine stayed in her seat on the windowsill, wearing only a nightgown and a dressing gown on top. The nightgown—which she had worn for three days straight—was of pleated white cotton, a seam below the breasts, and lace trim adorning the sleeves and neckline. The dressing gown was of sand coloured silk, adorned with embroidery of vines and leaves a shade lighter than the fabric. She glanced to her left to get a view of Lord John standing in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back in his usual dignified manner. His expression was gentle, but there was an unmistakable firmness in his voice as he spoke again.

“Miss Christine, I cannot allow this to continue,” he began steadily, his voice ever so calm yet carrying a tinge of frustration. “You have locked yourself in here for three whole days, and while I do sympathise with you, and understand your pain, this is unacceptable,” he paused, letting out a sigh as he considered his next words. “I may not know the full extent of your emotions, but I do know that isolating yourself will not serve you.”

Christine turned her head away and bit her lip, staring out through the window. She had to force herself not to react too strongly to his words, as criticism had never been something she accepted with much grace. She could feel the sting of his reprimand, gentle as it may have been, and given with the best of intentions. And yet, because of it, a faint flush of embarrassment and guilt bloomed on her pale cheeks. Lord John had always treated her with the utmost kindness and patience, but the weight of her emotions, and the vulnerability they had subsequently brought made it difficult for her to accept his words without resistance.

“How could you understand? You don’t know what’s made me feel this way,” she whispered, acting oblivious to the fact that her heartache was clear as day to anyone. 

Lord John’s gaze softened, abandoning his earlier attempt of reprimanding her, and instead taking a cautious step closer as a way to offer her comfort through his warm presence. “I am no fool, Miss Christine. I can see that you were hoping to receive a letter from William, and I can see that your heart is aching because he did not send one.”

Christine’s eyes widened as they darted back to Lord John, her cheeks heating up from embarrassment, and she turned her head away again. While she of course hadn’t assumed Lord John would be so oblivious to think the cause of her self-isolation had nothing to do with her sudden realisation of William’s neglect, she felt utterly exposed, as though her innermost thoughts had been laid bare before him, and now she had nowhere to hide. She had not intended for him to know how she felt about his son, at least not for a long while. Now, knowing he had connected the dots, she felt terribly awkward about it, and did not find the words to respond to him. 

Lord John could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands twisted nervously in her lap, betraying the emotions she was trying so hard to keep hidden. His expression softened further, not pressing her to speak, but giving her a moment of silence, as to not overwhelm her. 

“I am not here to force you to speak of what you are feeling, nor will I lecture you,” he said carefully, his words spoken with an understanding tone that lightened Christine’s anxiety ever so slightly. “But I would ask two things of you: do not retreat further into this solitude thinking it will heal you, for it will not,” he continued, observing Christine’s reaction, and how she seemed to relax, though her head was still turned to the window. 

“And the second request?” Christine asked quietly, finally turning her head to face him and meet his gaze. 

Pleased to see that Christine was no longer avoiding eye contact, and instead finally amenable to polite conversation, Lord John offered her a small smile, warm and genuine. “The second request,” he began, his voice careful and gentle, but also reasonably firm, as to address the importance of his following words. “is that you greet my late wife’s mother, Lady Louisa, who has returned from Bath just this morning. Helwater has been her home for many decades, and I am certain you understand the importance of you greeting her. And if you would be amenable, have tea with her.”

Christine nodded, understanding the significance of the request. She would of course comply, as even through her heartache, Christine would not lower herself to the same level of disrespect William had subjected her to. She cleared her throat before speaking again, now determined to stay true to her graceful manners. “Of course, I will have tea with Lady Louisa, and attend dinner.” 

Lord John let out a breath of relief. “I am very pleased to hear it, my dear. Very well, I will leave you to dress and prepare, then,” he said with a nod, his tone gentle but with a hint of finality, as if his request had been made and accepted. He lingered for a moment longer, ensuring Christine had a moment to gather herself, before turning toward the door and leaving her alone in the room once more.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

During the times in Christine’s life when she had been troubled with uncertainty and hopelessness, what pulled her out of her self-imposed exile was more often than not her strong sense of pride, and the elegance she had been raised to carry herself with. Every time, she had a choice, to either conduct herself with civility and grace, or surrender to the weight of heartbreak and continue her self-destructive solitude. To sulk and silently pity herself was the easiest, most tempting choice, but she knew that in doing so, she would let William win. And now, in her pride, she wanted nothing more than to be better than him. Therefore, she had made the hard decision to continue with her life. 

In the drawing room, Christine now sat with Lady Louisa for tea. The grey-haired woman looked at Christine, who had gone quiet only a few moments into their interaction, staring off into space. Christine’s eyes had unfocused and her vision was blurred, and all she saw was blue. The walls around them were of a dark blue brocade wallpaper, with white and gold wainscoting and the bottom. The pattern was frequent in the room, the curtains over the three large windows opposite from the door being of the same fabric, drawn back to let the bright sunlight flow freely into the room.

“Miss Christine?” Lady Louisa said, both concerned and displeased. Christine was startled by the sudden noise, so much so that she jumped in her seat, the tea in her cup spilling onto her lap. Lady Louisa sighed and shook her head, while Christine gasped and put aside the teacup. A servant saw the incident and quickly rushed forward with a napkin to assist. Christine, flustered and embarrassed, dabbed at the tea staining her skirts while muttering a soft apology.

“My deepest apologies, my lady,” she said quickly, her cheeks flushing with mortification. 

Lady Louisa only sighed again, her eyes narrowing into a look that could only mean disapproval. Her expression then shifted, her eyes softening, and she raised a hand to silence Christine, not so much in a dismissive manner, but rather with mild annoyance and concern. “There is no need to apologise, Miss Christine. Accidents do happen,” she said curtly, her voice slightly tense, as if restraining herself from voicing a harsher remark. “But I must say, you seem rather… distracted. Preoccupied, even.” 

Christine’s cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of pink, her hands still fumbling with the napkin. “I do apologise, my lady.” Christine repeated softly, forcing herself to meet Lady Louisa’s gaze, taking a steadying breath before continuing. “It was not my intention to appear inattentive or… distant. I simply have a lot on my mind, and I don’t feel quite like myself.” She kept her voice measured, hoping it would convey her sincerity without revealing the deeper turmoil inside of her. 

There was a harsh truth to her words, because she truly did not feel like herself. Christine had always prided herself on her poise and composure, qualities that had been instilled in her from a young age. And yet, now she felt as though her sense of self was slipping further and further away, and all that would be left was a deep emptiness within her, with no joy to fill it in. 

Lady Louisa sensed the fragility in Christine’s words and the subtle shift in her demeanour. While her tone had remained pointed, there was a quiet sympathy behind her sharpness that softened with each passing moment. “I understand that there is something troubling you.” She acknowledged, her voice now more soft and sympathetic, yet her eyes still betrayed the expectation she had for the younger woman before her to behave more graciously. 

“But Miss Christine, it does not do to let such things deprive you of decorum,” Lady Louisa paused, pursing her lips, her eyes flickering away before turning back to Christine, appearing almost joyful. “Especially not when there is a gentleman who has taken notice of you. Such attention is not to be squandered over fleeting sorrows.” Lady Louisa’s gaze held a knowing gleam, as if she had just delivered an important piece of advice, though it was laced with a hint of expectation. 

’Whatever does she mean?’, Christine thought, her eyes wide and bewildered. She felt as though she had missed a chapter of her own life, and now was struggling to catch up with an unfolding narrative she couldn’t quite follow. “I… I’m not sure I know what you mean, my lady. What gentleman are you referring to?” she hesitantly, almost afraid of the answer. 

With a look on her face that was a mixture of excitement and a quiet warning of secrecy that was soon to be revealed, Lady Louisa smiled knowingly, her eyes glinting with an almost mischievous light. “I was not supposed to tell you this, but Lord John received a letter yesterday from Lord George Calvert, who requests to meet with you,” she revealed, bubbling with excitement. 

Silence filled the room as Christine took in the words she had just heard. Her thoughts ran wild and incoherent, each one contradicting the other. On one hand, she had no particular wish to speak to that man, not after his treatment of her during their encounter in the corridor, and how he’d shooed her away like an animal. While she had seen a warmer side of him, and could forgive him for his lapse in conduct, there was nothing about him that interested her, other than the opportunity his company might present. An opportunity to regain control of her life—her love life, specifically. 

“Does he now?” Christine asked, a light smirk appearing on her lips—which were still swollen from the sting of her tears. 

Lady Louisa raised a brow, intrigued by the sudden change in Christine’s expression. “Indeed, he does,” she confirmed, her tone laced with curiosity at the light smirk playing on Christine’s lips. “And of course, Lord John has accepted his request and invited him here to Helwater immediately!”

The smirk that had been on Christine’s lips faltered, for it was quite unsettling to her that the decision had already been made, behind her back no less. “I see,” she mumbled, her eyes falling down to mindlessly stare at the napkin on her lap covering the tea stain on her dress. She understood she mustn’t fuss, as she had already determined that she did want to meet Lord George, albeit for reasons other than genuine interest in his person, and yet, she naturally felt vexed. “Well, how… convenient,” she remarked, her voice laced with a slight edge, though she tried to prevent the sarcasm from taking too obvious a presence in her tone. 

With her years of experience, the subtle change in Christine’s demeanour did not elude Lady Louisa. Her sharp eyes caught onto the underlying unease on Christine’s face, and she tilted her head watching the younger woman with a mixture of amusement and expectation. “I understand this may seem sudden, but I do believe that it could be an opportunity you would do well to consider, Miss Christine.” Lady Louisa’s voice was smooth, almost coaxing, as if she were trying to soften the potential discomfort that Christine may have felt. “Lord George is a very gallant gentleman, I hear he is very distinguished and intelligent. You should count yourself lucky you have a future viscount vying for your attention.”

Christine could now plainly see the opportunity before her, and the light she saw it in was now more pleasant and inviting. Having a future viscount vying for her attention was, by all means, a most fortunate thing. The security and social status that would come with such an alliance were undeniable, and it was a chance for her to regain control of her life and future, especially in the wake of the disappointment that William had caused.

And so, she made up her mind. Christine decided she would accept the opportunity before her. She would meet with Lord George, play the part of the attentive, graceful lady, and assess him carefully, keeping her emotions in check. Whether something long lasting would form, she was not certain. But Christine would test the waters, even as she was oblivious to its depths. 

Chapter Text

October 1777

“Miss Christine, before we speak of anything else, I must offer you my sincerest apologies,” Lord George said, his tone warm and measured, devoid of anything but genuine remorse.

They were seated in the drawing room, the golden morning light filtering in through the tall windows, casting soft shadows across the ornate furnishings. Lord John sat nearby as a chaperone, pretending to be engrossed in his book but undoubtedly listening to every word.

Christine shrugged, offering a polite smile as she smoothed out a nonexistent crease in her skirts. “There is no need, my lord. Truly.” She had no wish to speak of the now rather insignificant incident in the corridor, especially not with Lord John present. She would rather him be unaware of it, assuming the trouble it may stir if it became known that she had—even if by accident—met Lord George in the late hours, even as she was certain he would never condemn her. 

To Christine’s relief, Lord George did not mention that particular detail, and instead inclined his head, his expression earnest. “Even so, I do apologise. It was… cowardly of me to leave Chesterfield Manor without wishing you good health.”

There was a vulnerability in his tone, or so Christine assessed. She tilted her head, studying him. There was no trace of arrogance or flippancy to be found in his tone—only sincerity, and that carefully concealed vulnerability she had not expected to see in him. It surprised her, for in their previous encounters, he had appeared rather stoic, stiff even. 

“That is… kind of you. Courageous, I dare say. Not everyone can admit their faults,” she replied slowly, her gaze softening as she took in his demeanour. Christine couldn’t help but notice how his eyes, dark and steady, met hers with an openness she hadn’t expected. There was nothing insincere or calculated about his words. He wasn’t pleading for forgiveness, but simply offering an apology—an act that, in itself, carried an unfamiliar grace. 

Lord George’s eyes lit up, and a small, almost reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I can only hope my actions will prove worthy of your forgiveness, Miss Christine. I know words alone are insufficient to amend my previous conduct.” His voice, though still calm and composed, held an unmistakable sincerity. 

Christine’s heart fluttered unexpectedly, and for a moment, she found herself caught in the weight of his words. I know words alone are insufficient to amend my previous conduct. She hadn’t been in much need of an apology from him, however, after all that had transpired in the past month, and how vulnerable it had left her, any apology would have touched her heart, and make her forgive any future transgressions he might subject her to. 

She cleared her throat softly, trying to steady herself, and gave a small, gracious nod. “On the contrary, my Lord, your words are more than sufficient,” Christine replied at last, speaking rather quietly. It was different from her usual lively tone—which she had not used in many days. But although different, she did not speak with a melancholic air, nor with the weight of heartbreak dragging at her words. Instead, her words carried a sincerity of their own, a sense of relief, and hopefulness. 

Lord George regarded her for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze before he nodded. “Then I am honoured by your forgiveness.” He exhaled, as though relieved, and let a more genuine smile take shape on his lips. 

It appeared as though he wished to speak further, but at the sound of a knock on the door, Lord George pushed the matter aside. Lord John, who had done a poor job of pretending to be engrossed in his book, glanced up and cleared his throat. “Enter,” he called. 

The tall, ornate double doors opened to reveal a footman, who stepped inside and bowed politely. “My Lord, a letter has arrived for you.”

With a wave of his hand, Lord John gestured for the letter to be brought to him. He thanked the footman, then made a polite, dismissing nod of his head, to which the footman responded with a bow before departing. Christine watched the interaction, and when she turned her head to face Lord George again, she saw that he was already looking at her. She felt her cheeks go hot, and looked down at her hands placed on her lap. 

This cannot be happening again, she thought, recalling the last time someone had looked at her that way, and how it had ended—with her heart being crushed to pieces.

But even as her paranoid instincts whispered in the back of her head, she couldn’t ignore the quiet reassurance in Lord George’s gaze. It was nothing similar to the way William would look at her—or rather, it did not evoke the same reaction within her. With William, there had always been feelings she could not understand—how quickly she had trusted him, the uncontrollable pull between them, and how angry she had been at herself for feeling such things—things that blinded her senses. 

Now, as Lord George’s gaze lingered on her, she felt something different. It wasn’t an intense yearning that made her mind whirl, or an instinctive trust that made her doubt her sanity—it was a sense of stability in her measured, controlled affection towards him. Christine did feel trust towards Lord George, but it was not out of the same ludicrous proclivity that had motivated her former trust in William. Instead, it was a trust rooted in clarity, in reason, and knowledge of his esteem. 

While she did take notice of the adoration in Lord George’s eyes as he gazed upon her, she felt no threatening urge to abandon propriety and throw herself at him. In fact, she was more than content to keep the distance between them—as she knew she must. 

Therefore, he was not a threat to her self-control, and, more importantly, not a threat to the careful peace she had worked so hard to find within herself. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The five days of which Lord George had spent at Helwater had been filled with pleasant exchanges, a series of thoughtful gestures, and quiet moments that spoke of a growing understanding between him and Christine. Every morning, she was greeted by a bouquet of beautiful flowers, which had varied in hue and type: delicate roses, bright violets, and even rare orchids, all chosen with meticulous care. Each bouquet carried a note, short and sweet, always signed with his initials, always expressing his admiration. 

While they of course couldn’t spend their entire days in each others’ company—both due to propriety, as well as having other duties—George always managed to find time to spend with Christine. Each evening, he would escort her to dinner, and when seated at the table, keep his eyes steadily on her—even though she rarely returned the gesture. 

Those five days went to a close, and the days following were a gentle routine, each one folding into the next like the soft petals of the flowers he continued to send. Even as they were separated, twice a week, Christine would receive another bouquet, each one accompanied by an affectionate yet polite letter—half of which went unanswered. 

The flowers were lovely, no doubt. But as lovely as they were, the gesture did not quite touch Christine. A part of her wondered if the sentiments behind them were as carefully crafted as the bouquets themselves. But she remembered the look in his eyes, how kind and adoring his gaze was when he looked at her, thinking she didn’t notice. She had noticed, and recalling those many moments, Christine dismissed her worry, telling herself it was merely paranoia. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

A soldier’s duty was to fight for his country, to defend it with all he had, and if need be, give his life fighting for it. He must bear the courage to face battle, the strength to stand after suffering, the discipline to obey orders from his superiors, and the resolve to never falter, no matter the cost.

And indeed, William had done those things. He had completed every single one of his duties, and done so with a brilliance that became the envy of many a soldier. And with his exceeding courage on the battlefield, he had received the honour of a promotion. Being given the news that he would from there on be known as Captain Lord Ellesmere right after the second battle of Saratoga—when his mood was low after the battle had been lost and the admired General Fraser had met his demise—William could hardly be overjoyed in that moment. Of course, he was proud of himself, and very pleased about the promotion, yet the melancholic air couldn’t let him feel particularly joyous. 

It took ten days for the terms of surrender to be agreed upon, and were finalised with General Burgoyne and General Riedesel signing the capitulation. William, along with the rest of Burgoyne and Riedesel’s regiments, would no longer be allowed to fight in the war, and would instead sail back to Europe. 

As he reflected over the past few months, alone in his tent, William came to the realisation that other than Saratoga, he had continuously fought one other battle, and to no end—not one against his nation’s enemies, but one against himself. 

For months, he had stubbornly dwelled on the idea that he hadn’t any chance with Christine—that he was unworthy, and could never be deserving of her. Having borne witness to her confidence, William knew that, of course, a woman so aware of her own worth would not mirror the affections of a man unworthy of her. 

However, since receiving her letter—which he had cherished, and kept with him every hour of every day—he had fought in battle, been an inch from losing his life, and with that, come to a realisation how precious a gift life truly is. William was no longer allowed to fight, therefore, the dangers of war could not touch him. But the danger of losing himself in the process of denying what he, in his heart, believed was right and true was still present. 

The decision was right before him, placed on his desk—a document to be signed. The moment he put his signature on that page, he would be selling his commission in the army, and be free from its obligations. By doing so, he would lay aside his other duties, and direct his focus to returning home—not only to England, but to the woman he loved. 

William held the quill in his hand, the tip steadily hovering over the signature line as he remembered how awful he had been to Christine—and to himself. At first, he had truly believed he was doing Christine a favour, and that he was being honourable in not responding to her letter. But now, it was his deepest regret. 

The epiphany had come to him not at all long ago—during the second battle of Saratoga. He had been shot at, the bullet missing naught but an inch away from what would have been an instant death. Of course, it had been a shock to him. Because of it, his heart had suddenly beat so strongly against his chest he would have feared for his ribs, if it wasn’t for the strike of realisation that left no room for other thoughts. 

While he tried to catch his breath, his eyelids had shut, almost as if by an external force, and in that moment of vulnerability, William saw her. Christine. Those gorgeous dark brown eyes of hers had gazed into his, but they bore no trace of that fierceness he had fallen in love with. She could just as well have torn his heart from his chest, for seeing the misery in her eyes had already broken it. Despite her melancholic appearance, she was just as beautiful as she’d been the last sacred moment she stood before him. 

As she appeared so angelic with her soft, warm features, and her the sunlight reflecting down onto her hair, making it shine like a golden halo around her head, William thought, for a moment, that the bullet had not missed, and that he was in fact dead—for there was no other way to explain the angel before him. But once the mere second that had been perceived by William as an eternity passed, the thundering sound of gunshots firing and men’s screams continued, William lost sight of Christine, and was jolted back to awareness of his surroundings. 

Once the last of the live men returned from the battlefield, and pained screams could no longer be heard, William allowed himself to think back on the vision of Christine that, in that moment, had blinded him to all else. He was unsure if it was merely a figment of his imagination, one his mind had conjured in the moment of near death, or if it could have a deeper meaning—a meaning he was still reluctant to assume. 

But as days went by, and his mind continuously returned to the subject, he began to understand that it was indeed a sign. The vision of Christine standing before him in the midst of the battle was engraved deeply into his mind, intruding upon his imagination every time he closed his eyes. She had looked so sorrowful, so hopeless—the sight had been crippling, even though his deep desire to see her once more had neared fulfilment. 

What he had previously dismissed and suppressed, believing it to be foolish hope, he could now recognise as being part of something far mightier than his own mind. William had been but a stroke from his demise, and had the bullet not missed, he would have died with his wish unfulfilled. But he hadn’t. Instead, he was as alive as he has always been. However, William was a changed man, he no longer bore the cowardice and foolishness to fight his own heart—not after its continued beating had been placed in such jeopardy. 

The quill remained poised in his grip, its sharp tip barely touching the parchment, as though hesitating—much like he had for far too long. The flickering candle on his desk cast restless shadows across the canvas of his thoughts, mirroring the war that still raged within him.

But there was no war for him to fight. Not on the battlefield, not in his heart.

The thought settled over him like a quiet dawn after a long and sleepless night—which, indeed, he’d had many of. William had spent months locked in a battle of his own making, defying reason, and perhaps fate itself, but he would not continue doing so. Finally rid of any doubt, William inhaled sharply and pressed the quill to the parchment. With precise, deliberate strokes, his signature took form on the page, marking his freedom to have his only duty be to the woman he loved. 

As he lifted the quill, he exhaled, feeling an unfamiliar sensation settle over him. Not regret, nor fear, but something almost foreign after so many months of war—relief.

It was settled. 

William Ransom was no longer bound to the army. Instead, he was free to pursue the one thing that had eluded him for so long—love, and the chance to make amends for the mistakes he had made with Christine. If she would forgive him, that is. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

November 1777

The moonlight reflected onto Christine’s face where she sat curled up on the windowsill, gazing quietly out at the dark landscape, her eyes tracing the distant outlines of the trees, their shadows long and almost ghostly under the pale light. To protect her heart, and perhaps even her sanity, Christine had suppressed any thought of William for near three weeks, but in her restlessness, his face kept returning to her mind, unbidden, like a shadow she could not escape. 

It was truly infuriating to Christine. She had made relentless efforts to forget him, as well trying to numb the pain which came rushing back at the mere mention of his name. William. However, it was not only in her dwelling on the past that she found herself in opposition with her heart. For Lord George’s attentions had been consistent, and affectionate in every gesture. He put in the effort to charm her, and at every turn, he proved himself a worthy gentleman. A good man, and one who wouldn’t abandon her—not like William had. 

But even as those words she told herself circled in her mind, they felt hollow, empty. Lord George’s attention, though kind and considerate, did not stir in her the same fire, the same urgency of emotion that William once had. George was steady, stable, and gentle. He was everything one could ask for in a suitor—but he was not William.

Christine clenched her hands into the smooth fabric of her robe, taking measured breaths as to try to stave off the surge of frustration that was growing within her. Not once in her life had her heart been this unwilling to listen to reason, and it was maddening. All her life, she had prided herself on being a woman of logic, one not steered by emotions or impulse, and yet here she was—allowing the memories of William to pull her back in like a tide, relentless and unyielding. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, attempting to quiet her racing thoughts. You’ve moved on, she told herself firmly. You have Lord George’s attention now. He’s kind. He’s thoughtful. He’s steady. And yet, despite all her reassurances, she could not shake the feeling that something vital was missing.

Earlier that day, Lord George and his father—the Viscount Calvert—had arrived at Helwater as honoured guests for dinner. Christine had not met Lord Calvert before, but he was immediately warm and gracious towards her. During the meal, he spoke kindly to her, mentioning all the wonderful things he had heard, and as she glanced across the table, Christine couldn’t help but notice the flush that appeared on Lord George’s face as he overheard the conversation. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he had been the one to share those praises, given his known fondness for the lady in question. 

Other than the occasional degrading comment, Lord George had not done anything to wrong her.  In his courtship of her, he had not faltered in appearing as a gentleman worth fawning over—the affectionate letters, the flowers, the proper, yet subtly romantic attention so generously given—he was the model of a perfect gentleman, when he wanted to appear so. 

Christine glanced over at her desk, her eyes landing on the pile of letters stacked neatly atop of it. The letters, which were all from Lord George, she had refused to put away, as she had made a habit of rereading at least one every evening. However, it was not for the sake of any warmth that filled her when reading them, for there was no such warmth. Christine’s cheeks did not flush, nor did her heart flutter when reading his letters, even as that would have been a reasonable reaction, given the eloquence of the sentences written by the hand of Lord George Calvert.  

But reread the letters, she did. Despite the emotion which his words failed to stir within her, Christine was not blind to the affection and care he wrote to her with. To reread the letters was a reminder to herself of who she could have, and what he could offer her. 

Christine let her eyelids fall closed, and she let out a deep sigh, her breath fogging the glass pane. She opened her eyes again, seeing the clouded pattern on the window slowly fade away. Her head fell back against the window jamb, and she once more glanced at the stack of letters on her desk. As she carefully hopped down from the windowsill, her bare feet met the ground with a soft thud before she languidly shuffled across the floor, over to her desk. 

She picked up the most recent letter, received the same day—given personally by Lord George, who had sneaked it into her dress pocket without notice. Christine was unsure why, but whatever may be the reason, she had ignored the letter, not bothering to read it until now. She broke the seal, unfolding the letter with no great hurry, holding it beside the flickering light of the lit candelabra on the desk. 

My dearest, Christine 

I can imagine the confusion you must feel, wondering why you have found this letter in your pocket, and why I chose to present it to you in such a manner. Please do not mistake it for an act of frivolity, for I assure you, nothing could be further from my intentions. It is with concern that I compose this letter, and a wish to address a matter which weighs upon my conscience. 

My respect for you remains high, and I believe you are a clever, sweet young lady, and you must believe me when I tell you I have no doubts of your character, nor your sense of propriety. However, I recall an encounter some weeks ago, when, if I am not mistaken, you were wandering the corridors at night, and found yourself in my bedchamber. 

This, I swear to you, I will never utter to another person, for I am aware of the destruction such gossip would bring upon your reputation. However, as a gentleman who values your esteem, I cannot in good conscience leave such a matter unspoken, especially when I fear it may cast a shadow upon our interactions. The last thing I would want is for anyone to perceive you as loose, for I have borne witness to the grace in your conduct which would prove such an accusation wrong. 

You may correct me if I am mistaken in my observation, but I have assumed the shy amount of letters you have written to me is because of a certain hesitancy on your part, perhaps borne from a worry that I may perceive you as lacking in proper decorum. I assure you, I hold you in the highest esteem. Therefore, you must not let this risk of destruction tear at you.

While others, if gaining knowledge of this, may draw conclusions of your morals that could irreparably damage your reputation, I would never make such a conclusion. I, as well you, know the truth: you were merely delirious from your fever, and wandered around in an indecent state, unaware of your actions, and thus could not be held accountable for such a lapse in decorum.

I write this, not to cause you distress, but to offer a guiding hand—an assurance that I, at least, will stand by you, as I would hate to see your good name be tarnished, especially over something with such a simple explanation, yet bearing the potential to cause destruction. 

Yours sincerely,

Lord George Calvert

Christine stood frozen as her eyes skimmed over the page, her face showing a fear that only grew for each word she read. Her hands trembled slightly as she lowered the letter onto the desk, and her breath was just as unsteady—coming in measured, uneven exhales. The candlelight flickered against the delicate parchment, illuminating the precise, elegant strokes of George’s handwriting. 

While Christine could not imply that his words were written with any overt unkindness, nor any accusation, or explicit threat, and yet, the weight of their meaning settled heavily upon her, like a hand at her throat, pressing just firmly enough to remind her of the power he held over her. 

Lord George had been clear in conveying his promise to never let the information be known, but the mere fact that he had put it to paper, that he had so carefully constructed his words to both reassure and warn her, was enough to make Christine feel trapped. 

Christine swallowed hard, her throat dry. The logical part of her reasoned that Lord George had done nothing more than express concern and care for her reputation. Of course, after how generously he had treated her, his words were not meant to frighten her—they were only a reminder of the dangers a woman in her position faced. A guiding hand, he had called it. 

Why, then, did it feel as though he had wrapped that guiding hand firmly around her throat, holding it just tightly enough to remind her that he would not let go?

Christine let out a shuddering breath, taking a step back from the desk, as if putting a distance between herself and the letter might somehow lessen its significance. She stood there for a moment, contemplating what her life may come to, imagining the worst possible outcomes. Anger rose within her, and her hand whipped out to grasp the letter, crumpling it in her fist. 

She could hardly fathom how he had the audacity to suggest such a thing. He had spoken of her reputation as though it were his to protect, and all in his power, as though her own voice, her own will, meant little. The fury Christine had felt towards William was now utterly overshadowed by the increasing rage directed at George. 

Christine’s fingers tightened around the crumpled letter, considering whether to throw it into a fire or not. Burning it, and thereby erasing every trace of his threatening words from the face of the earth was a tempting prospect, indeed. She could almost feel the warmth of the flames, the letter curling and turning to ash in the fire, as if burning it would somehow burn away the feeling of being manipulated. But the fireplace in her bedroom, with its faint, dying embers, would not suffice.

The crumpled letter fell to the floor as Christine let go of her grip around it. The desire to burn it was still strong, however, the idea of heading downstairs to the library seemed to settle in her mind like a plan already set into motion. Not one more thought went through her head before she turned on her heel and walked out of her bedroom, candlestick holder in hand, heading for the grand staircase that led down to the lower levels of Helwater. 

As Christine passed through the dark corridors, she heard nothing but the soft shuffle of her slippers against the parquet floor, letting her breathe steadily with the knowledge that the risk of being caught was low. Her hand brushed lightly against the railing as she descended, her mind whirling, though she kept her destination as her focus. 

The door to the library was closed, and before stepping in, she opened it slightly to make sure no one was there. The room was dark, not a lit candle in sight, a clear indication that she would be alone. Christine pushed the door open further, the faint scent of leather-bound books and polished wood welcoming her inside. She had only the light from her candle to make out her surroundings, but moving around the room, she lit a few more candles, and blew out her own. 

She did not require very much light—she knew where the liquor was kept. Making her way across the room, Christine pulled open a cabinet, the soft creak of the wood filling the silence. The shelves were lined with fine bottles, each one waiting to be opened, each one promising to numb the thoughts swirling in her mind. 

A bottle of brandy caught her eye—it was not entirely full, so she assumed it would go unnoticed if a glass worth of the liquor disappeared. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for it. She was by no means an experienced drinker, but neither was she unaware of her tolerance. 

With a sharp twist, she uncorked the bottle, then poured up a generous measure, the amber liquid gleaming in the dim light. However, she did not merely gaze at the glass for very long, and instead brought it to her lips and drank it down in one go. The warmth of it spread quickly through her, and for a moment, she felt a sense of relief, the tension in her chest easing ever so slightly.

She sighed, and poured herself another glass, swallowing it just as quickly as she’d done with the first. Two glasses turned into three, and then four, and she kept on drinking until she could no longer count the amount of glasses drunk. Christine’s mind was a clouded haze, and her body was limp as she leaned into an armchair like a heavy sack of potatoes, drinking directly from a new bottle. 

The burn of the liquor had dulled into something more warm, almost soothing. Her limbs felt distant, and she found herself giggling at the odd sensation. Christine’s mind was equally numb, thoughts slipping through her grasp before she could fully catch hold of them. 

Christine barely registered the sound of the library door creaking open. She was too far gone in her haze to react with any urgency, though some small part of her knew she should have been more cautious. Footsteps, slow and measured, made their way towards her, and then—

“Christine.”

It took her a moment, but she recognised the voice. Smooth, steady, tinged with something resembling amusement. Lord George. 

Her head lolled sideways to face him where he stood in the centre of the room. “Oh,” she murmured, her voice sluggish. “It’s you.”

Lord George chuckled, hands clasped behind his back as he made his way closer. His gaze swept over the scene before him—Christine slouching in her armchair, her hair slightly mussed, her face flushed, and a distant look in her eyes. “I must say, I was not expecting to see you indulging in such pleasures alone,” he remarked, nodding towards the half-empty bottle in her hand. 

Christine huffed a quiet laugh, tilting the bottle in her hand. “Not alone anymore, it seems.”

There was a worry to be seen in his eyes as he crouched down before her, his face level with hers now, looking into her eyes, keen and searching. “No,” he agreed softly, placing a hand right above her knee. “Not anymore.”

Christine’s eyes flickered down to his hand as he slid it higher up her thigh, she tensed slightly, but hadn’t the energy to push him away. For a moment, he simply observed her, as though taking in every detail—her parted lips, her hazy, unguarded eyes, and how her hand barely held onto the bottle. “You’re upset,” he stated, not as a question, but as a fact. “Is it because of my letter?”

A short, breathy laugh escaped Christine’s lips. “Brilliant deduction, my lord,” she slurred, tilting her head back against the chair. “Perhaps I should find some parchment and commend you for your skills of observation.” She brought the bottle back up to her lips, but it was snatched from her loose grip by Lord George, whose eyes turned serious. 

“You’ve had enough,” he said firmly, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for argument. Christine blinked slowly, and a frown appeared on her face. She opened her mouth to snap back at him, but he placed a finger over her mouth, silencing her. Although he didn’t lose his seriousness, his eyes softened ever so slightly, and he spoke with worry, “If my letter distressed you so, I cannot tell you how sorry I am, it was not my intention to frighten you. I care about you very much.”

Christine’s breath hitched at his touch, and the discomfort the alcohol had dulled sharpened for a moment, yet she lacked the clarity of mind to do anything about it. “Care, is it?” She muttered, her tone, which could nearly be perceived as arrogant, betrayed her blatant disinterest. 

Hearing her tone, a flicker of hurt flashed across Lord George’s eyes, and in other circumstances, he might have retaliated, but now, his gentle regard for her did not falter. “Yes, Christine, I care. I care more than you could ever imagine.” After his words settled, silence stretched out between them, and in its duration, he searched her eyes, while she blankly stared back at him. “You need someone to look after you. I can do that. I want to do that.” He finally said. 

The blank expression on Christine’s face turned puzzled, and she raised an eyebrow, not quite believing him. “You want to look after me?” She scoffed. “Why would I agree to that after the way you threatened me, hm?” 

A second passed before Lord George even reacted, as though he had manually translated her words in his mind before fully hearing them. Once her words registered, his face fell, a look of regret appearing in his eyes. “I swear to you, it was not my intention to make any threats. Only… I wished to express the concern I have for you,” he explained, almost pleading for her understanding. He took a deep, shuddering breath before speaking again. “I want you to be happy, Christine. That is my deepest desire.” 

The judgment in Christine’s expression faded, and for a moment, her cold facade wavered. She recognised the gentle sincerity in his voice, it had become so familiar. She blinked slowly, her gaze lowering to her hands on her lap. Lord George’s eyes followed hers, and he took both her hands into his, and glanced back up to her eyes, searching for any hint of discomfort. “You may not need me, and trust me, I admire that. But as much as I admire your independence, I, myself, possess none when it comes to you. I need you. Christine, I…” his words trailed off into silence as he carefully considered his next words. “I love you.” He admitted at last, his eyes locked onto hers, earnest and vulnerable. 

Christine’s breath caught in her throat at the confession, her mind struggling to process the weight of his words through the fog of liquor that still clouded her thoughts. The confession was not the first of its kind she had received, though his tone, so sincere and vulnerable, was something entirely new, and it shook her. 

“I love you, do you hear me?” He repeated, now searching her eyes with an increased desperation, almost manically scanning for an answer she had not yet audibly uttered. “You deserve a husband who will love you all your life, Christine. And I would, if you would let me.” 

She sat frozen, his words echoing through her head as she tried to make sense of them. The weight of his words were heavy, stealing her breath away. “Marriage?” was the only word she could whisper, quiet and unsure, requiring a confirmation that her ears hadn’t deceived her. 

One hand let go of hers, returning to its previous placement on her thigh. Lord George’s touch was warm, and by no means unpleasant in its physical sensation. However, Christine did not feel the same warmth in her chest that his words seemed to demand. 

“Yes, Christine, marriage,” Lord George affirmed, desperation still lingering in his tone, but it was more gentle now. “I can give you the life you want, whatever it may be, as long as you let me be the one to see your beautiful smile every day.” At the thought, a wishful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and it did not take long before he was grinning from ear to ear. “I want to make you happy, Christine. I want you to feel at home with me, and I will do everything in my power to make that happen. You deserve the bliss I offer you, Christine. Marry me.”

The room seemed to spin around her, and every word he said pushed her further into the haze of her mind that she tried to escape. But his warm hand on her thigh acted as an anchor, the discomfort pulling her attention back to the present. Christine met his gaze, and in his eyes, she saw only devotion. He promised her happiness, how could she deny herself that? Or perhaps she could not question the certainty he conveyed. 

“I will be happy?” Christine whispered, her voice fragile with the weight of her own doubt. She longed to feel that same peace she once had before her heart had been shattered. And George… hadn’t he been the one to pull her from that darkness?

“Beyond compare,” he assured her, tightening his grip on her thigh. Lord George looked into her eyes with a certainty that seemed to radiate from him, as though his love alone could erase all doubts and heal all wounds. “Do you believe me?” 

Christine’s gaze flickered for a moment, searching the depths of Lord George’s eyes, as if trying to uncover some hidden truth or lie. But there was none—she couldn’t find any trace of dishonesty in his eyes, nothing that painted him as a liar—nothing that Christine could spot, at least. She recalled how generous he had been towards her the past weeks, how he had always shown endless patience, and such care in every gesture. It seemed impossible that he could ever have any ill intent towards her. His love, as he so earnestly claimed, was real, and she could not be so cruel as to belittle his feelings. 

As she sighed, her breath shuddered. “I… I do believe you.” Christine whispered those words, as if she was speaking them to herself as much as him, her voice fragile, trembling in the space between them. “And I do want to be happy…”

Lord George’s expression softened, relief flooding through his features. He leaned in closer, his hand tightening its hold of hers, as his other slid higher up her thigh, sending shivers down her spine. “Then say yes. Say you will marry me,” he encouraged, coaxing the words from her tongue. 

Christine’s breath caught in her throat, and she could feel her heart beating erratically in her chest. His words, his touch, it was all so overwhelming. Part of her—the logical part—wanted to pull away, to step back from this, but the other part, the part that craved stability, that longed for peace after everything she’d been through, urged her forward.

“I will marry you,” she whispered, the words tumbling from her lips before she could even grasp their meaning. It was as though speaking them aloud would seal his promise of her happiness, even though reason claimed otherwise. 

Chapter Text

November 1777

Christine woke up the next morning with a headache that seemed intent on splitting her skull in two. A dull, relentless pounding echoed behind her eyes, and the taste of the brandy consumed the previous night lingered on her dry tongue, its sour, unpleasant taste a nauseating yet vague reminder of what had transpired. She blinked her eyes open, only to immediately shut them tight as the sting of the blinding lights of daybreak stabbed at her vision. A groan slipped past her lips as she turned her face into the pillow, seeking refuge from the piercing morning light. 

Slowly, the events of the night before crept back into her mind, fragmented and hazy at first, but soon forming a clearer picture that made her stomach churn at the memory—George’s letter, and the threats it contained, carefully veiled behind a guise of concern. The library, the drinks, and… him. 

Christine’s breath caught in her throat as the memory flooded her senses, sharp and clear, prompting the sensation of his hand on her thigh to stir in her mind, feeling as though it had never left, that he had never let go of his firm grip on her. She rubbed her eyes before slowly half-opening them, squinting as her eyes searched the room. Her room, she noted, a sigh of relief escaping her lips at that one small mercy. However, no matter how thoroughly she searched her memory, she could not recall ever returning from the library. And yet, she now by some unremembered event found herself tucked into bed, hair braided and swept over one shoulder. 

With a body that felt as heavy as lead, and limbs languid like wet clay, Christine wearily brought her legs over the side of the bed and pulled herself to sit, bending in half with her face covered by her hands. Her head continued to throb mercilessly, coaxing a whimper from her lips. She glanced up from her palms, spotting a folded piece of parchment on her bedside table that had her furrowing her brows at the sight. Written on the side facing up, read her name in ink, in a handwriting that had become unmistakable at that point. Christine reached for it, unfolding it before her and sighing exasperatedly as her eyes began to trace the words. 

Christine, 

I trust you recall our conversation in the library, and the promise you made to me, it has truly made me the happiest man alive. If your memory does not serve you, allow me to remind you, my love. I asked for your hand in marriage, to which you accepted gracefully. To put into words how pleased I am by this would be a task beyond my competence, so I will simply say that I love you, and will do everything in my power to never give you cause to regret this decision. I wish to speak to you before we announce to everyone our news. I request you meet me in the library after you have dressed and had breakfast, I imagine you have questions. 

Your devoted betrothed, Lord George Calvert

Christine couldn’t help but grit her teeth as she in her mind heard his voice speaking the words—calm, and with a confidence she had previously admired, but now only saw as condescending and oppressive. She didn’t want this, God knew she didn’t. But it seemed she had said yes to it, though she had barely any recollection of said question ever being proposed, let alone accepting it. And now, she was left with regret, and uncertainty of whether she could ever take back those words she could hardly recall speaking. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Mind troubled by regret, and a stomach churning with nausea, the breakfast that passed Christine’s lips could only be described as meagre, not enough to feed even a small child, let alone a young woman. However, she had to speak to Lord George, to at least make an attempt of reversing the damage before he uttered even a hint of their supposed betrothal to a single soul. She dressed by herself, a task she had not attempted in months, having had the privilege of assistance from her lady’s maid. Though the struggle of being unused to dressing without assistance made the job more difficult, Christine finally managed to secure every layer of clothing onto her body, donning a simple, soft pink day dress of quality silk, adorned with a dainty floral pattern. 

Christine was unsure whether Lord George would already be waiting for her, but she wanted to speak with him as soon as possible, even if it meant having to wait for his arrival. The hour was still early as she made her way to the library, and she was relieved to find that Helwater’s household and guests were still asleep, or at least in their respective quarters having an early breakfast.  

The corridors and rooms Christine went through on her way to the library were already lit, indicating that the servants were already up and about. This, she got confirmed as she opened the door to one of the drawing rooms, stopping in her tracks as she saw three young maids crouched down by the marble fireplace, lighting a fire and chatting to one another. Upon the sight of Christine standing in the doorway, they immediately rose to their feet and curtsied respectfully. 

Christine waved her hand dismissively, and the maids returned their focus to their task of lighting the fire as Christine strode across the room. She could hear their hushed whispers resume as she passed through the doorway on the opposite side of the one she’d entered through, the sound of their voices disappearing once she shut the door behind her and moved down the hallway towards the library. 

Once she reached the entrance, she was mildly out of breath after her brisk walk through the house, and her hand trembled ever so slightly as she reached out and twisted the doorknob. Opening the door, she saw Lord George already in the room, seated comfortably, almost arrogantly, in an armchair with a book in hand, one he paid little attention to, merely flipping through the pages with blatant disinterest. 

Noting that he either ignored her, or had simply not noticed her enter the room, Christine cleared her throat, announcing her presence, successfully catching his attention. He looked up from his book, his lips curling into a smile that hinted at a deep satisfaction in seeing her. Yet, rather than feeling reassured, Christine was unsettled—his unmistakable joy felt less like a welcome and more like the snap of a carefully laid trap. 

The glint in his eyes sent a chill through her, for he must have been blind to not have taken notice of the distress that was so evident in her eyes, but he was not blind, and yet, he seemed utterly unfazed. Christine did her best to ignore the anxiety rising within her, and focused instead on confronting him. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, which turned out to be a rich source of amusement for Lord George, who chuckled unapologetically. 

“Stop laughing, this isn’t… this isn’t funny,” Christine snapped, the words intended as a firm command, but came out of her mouth in a weak tone that suggested she was rather pleading with him to stop. “Tell me exactly what happened last night.” She took a step further into the room, arms crossed in front of her, with a furious glare in her eyes, but there was also fear. 

Lord George did stop laughing. The condescending sound faded away, and he looked at her with a courteous expression as though the gentleman he claimed to be had returned, and the wicked man was gone. “Do you not remember then, my love?”

Christine tensed, flinching ever so slightly at those words. “Do not call me that. And no, I don’t remember, not in detail.” Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, fearing the things she could not remember. Worst was the look on his face, the faint smirk that belied the otherwise polite expression, and how his eyes confirmed his pleasure in watching her squirm. 

“I found you alone in here, drinking heavily,” he explained, as if speaking to a child, gesturing with his hands around the room. “I comforted you, and confessed my love for you.” He said the words plainly, without shame or hesitation, as if it was the most ordinary conversation of his life. 

A scoff was all that Christine could muster, a sound of utter disbelief and contempt. She shook her head, his words worthless to her ears. “You don’t love me.”

Although he had not appeared to be in a state of delight previously, her words struck him like a whip, wiping away every hint of kindness from his face, his patience gone in a moment’s notice. “I do love you,” those were words of affection that he spoke, but his tone was anything but, “and I asked you to marry me—you said yes.”

Christine narrowed her eyes, refusing to cower, even as her mind screamed at her to run out of the room and hide as she saw the look in Lord George’s eyes—dangerous, and with clear ill intent. “I do not recall ever doing so,” she told him, gritting her teeth and fighting the urge to knee him in the groin, watching him slowly approach. “You can’t propose to a drunk person, damn it!” she exclaimed, her frustration spilling over. 

A flash of anger appeared in Lord George’s eyes, and he took two long strides towards her, stopping right in front of her, their bodies mere inches apart. “And you, young lady, will not curse at your future husband.” It wasn’t a request, it was a command, spoken in a low, dangerous tone that made his intent unmistakable—he would have obedience, whether she liked it or not. However, she would not give him what he wanted, and he saw it written plainly in her eyes. 

His hand whipped out and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up to meet his gaze. “Do you understand?” he demanded, his other hand grabbing onto her shoulder. 

Christine’s fear was palpable, however, a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. She let it take form, and within a moment, her fearful expression had dissipated, replaced by a proud glare that had his head spinning. “Oh, I understand alright,” she responded calmly, her voice as cool as the look in her eyes. “I will not curse at my future husband. But you are not my future husband—we will never marry.”

For a moment, everything pointed towards Lord George’s anger boiling over, but he kept his composure, responding to her calm coldness with a chilling smile, one that did not reach his eyes. “Won’t we?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her jaw in a mockery of affection. He chuckled, seeing her shake her head in response. “Then I suppose I shall have to tell all of England of our multiple nightly encounters.” 

The pride in Christine’s eyes faded, along with her smirk. Her heart was pounding—she knew what he meant. It was not the truth he threatened to spread, but lies. Vicious lies that would have her name forever tarnished, and any chance of a good life would be blown to dust. She wouldn’t have it. “I’ll tell Lord John you threatened me. He will believe me.”

“Oh, my dear girl,” Lord George laughed, his hand on her shoulder sliding to the back of her neck, resting there possessively. “I have no doubt he will believe you, but the rest of England won’t. You’ll be a whore in their eyes. But you are not a whore, are you, Christine?” he mocked. 

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, nor could she find any words to respond with. A bright, pink shade of humiliation coloured her cheeks, causing him to chuckle again, a sound she hated more and more for every time he made it. “I know you aren’t, I never thought you were. But when everyone is whispering of your loose morals, I will still know the truth—you’re a maiden.” A satisfied smile appeared on his lips, and he grabbed her braid, yanking her head back. 

Christine bit back a sob, for she would sooner be voluntarily buried alive than let him see her cry. So, she shut her eyes as Lord George trailed a finger down her throat, causing her to shiver out of pure terror, standing frozen and unable to move. “And after you’re ruined, you will be damn grateful of my love for you,” he told her, laughing callously, not bothering to hide his true nature any longer. “You will come crawling back to me, Christine. And since I am not a cruel man, I will love you as I have since the moment I laid eyes on you, and make you my wife.”

Lord George leaned in close, his warm breath ghosting over her face. “So here’s what’s going to happen, little girl,” he whispered heartlessly. “We will announce our happy news,” he continued, his voice low and menacing. “And when we’re wed, you will be my obedient little wife, and we will live in a world where you owe everything to me. I will provide for you, and you will owe me more than you could ever repay.”

His words shook her. She was at his mercy, she realised, the thought dawning on her like a storm breaking over a quiet sea, sudden and destructive. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered weakly, her voice as defeated as a surrender. “What could you possibly want from me?”

Lord George narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think for a moment I intend on hurting you—that is the last thing I want.” He was hurting her, however, his hand held an iron grip around her braid, forcing her head back, eliciting a weak whimper from her lips. “It is you I want, Christine. I do this out of love,” he declared confidently, speaking with a presumed righteousness that could have made Christine laugh if it wasn’t for the danger of the situation. But now, she only saw it as manic, and savagely so. 

She wasn’t meeting his intense gaze, she kept her eyes shut tight, forcing herself to endure. His finger had trailed down her throat and collarbones, stilling right above the swell of her breasts, looming there, threatening to continue his exploration of her unwilling body. “Are you listening to me?” he demanded, calmly, but as Christine stayed silent, his hand came up and forcefully grabbed her chin again. Then, she finally opened her eyes, and saw the bone chilling look in his eyes as he continued, “You will listen to me. And I will have you, and I will have your obedience. Understood?” 

What could she do in that moment except give him what he wanted? The fear of what he might do to her if she did not comply made her weak—just as he wanted her. Christine caved, forcing herself to nod, despite her every instinct telling her not to. 

“Good girl,” Lord George praised, his words conflicting with the degradation his tone suggested. Pleased with her cooperation, he released his grip on her, letting his arms fall to his sides and taking a much appreciated step back. The relief Christine felt over his ceased touch dulled considerably as she noticed how his eyes roamed over her body, and the satisfied smirk that formed on his lips. It made her skin crawl, and she wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, but she knew she couldn’t do so yet. 

His eyes returned to meet hers, and the sinister expression that had mere seconds ago been evident on his face was gone. “I am very pleased to have your agreement, my love. You have made me very happy, indeed,” he said with a smile that proved his uncanny ability to mask his true intentions behind a facade of charm and dignity. “I suggest you go change into something more modest,” he told her, pointing to her chest. Christine glanced down, and realised that in her haste, she had forgotten to put on a fichu. “I won’t have my betrothed flaunting herself like a harlot,” he added cruelly. 

Christine immediately left the room, running back to her room, and the moment she slammed the door shut, she burst into tears. It was as though the shattered remains of her heart were cutting at every inch of her skin, torturously reminding her of how her heart could never be healed. 

This wasn’t just heartbreak, for there was nothing left to break. But the agonising knowledge that her fate was sealed tore at her, making every breath a chore, knowing that from there on, every breath she took would only prolong her life tied to Lord George Calvert. 

She pressed her back against the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps as sobs wracked her body, tears streaming down her face, stinging at her sensitive skin. Christine’s hands clenched into tight fists, digging her nails into her palms as if the pain might anchor her to her sense of self, which she felt drifting away, along with her autonomy stolen by Lord George. 

“Get yourself together,” she whispered to herself, her trembling hands coming up to her face, wiping the tears away. She would not dare elicit any suspicion, she had to play her part as the happy bride-to-be, for fear of what George might do to her otherwise. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Lord George, uncaring of Christine’s unwillingness to go through with the arrangement, was overjoyed. Ever since he first saw her—when she was a soaked and disheveled mess from the rain—his mind had been consumed by her, and his heart ensnared by his own determination to make that girl his own. And now, that dream would come true. 

They were destined to be man and wife, that, he was certain of, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. It was God’s plan, he believed. George wasn’t oblivious to her reluctance of going through with it, and while he was certainly tempted to take drastic measures to ensure her submission, he deemed himself above any ungentlemanly methods. 

She was a nuisance, that one—always misbehaving, always acting out of line. It was only his dignity that kept him from losing his temper with her. But he had to be patient, give her time to come to her senses. George knew he could not expect a woman to comprehend God’s plan as quickly as he had, especially not Christine, given her penchant for disobedience and recklessness. 

He had been worried about having to use force to make her understand, and he would have, if needed. It relieved him when he saw submission in her eyes—submission that hadn’t required all of the coercion George was ready to inflict. And, oh, how sweet her submission was. It filled him with a sense of contentment he had never experienced before. But there was still one more obstacle in his quest to marry Christine, and that was permission from Lord John. George assumed it would be an easy task—after all, he had made every attempt of earning Lord John’s approval, which he had excelled in, even though his dislike for the man was viperous beneath his polite facade. 

Optimistic as his presumption may have been, Lord George found that standing in Lord John’s grand study at Helwater, and facing the older man’s intense gaze was more distressing than he had anticipated. Once the request for Christine’s hand in marriage had been uttered, George noticed how Lord John narrowed his eyes, and the acquaintanceship between them seemed to shift in an instant. 

Lord John set down his glass of brandy with a quiet clink against the polished oak desk. “You wish to marry Christine,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “May I ask why?” 

George fought the urge to stiffen at the question—he had not expected any reluctance from Lord John on this matter. In fact, George assumed he would be overjoyed that a gentleman so respectable as himself would take it upon him to marry that girl. Of course, Christine was as beautiful as a rose, but she had many thorns. And therefore, George prided himself greatly on being able to look past those thorns—her recklessness, her fiery temper, and that egregiously sharp tongue that he looked forward to silencing. But such thoughts were best left unsaid. 

“I love her,” he answered plainly. 

Lord John regarded him in silence for a moment, not looking to consider his answer, but merely as if weighing the very nature of George’s words. The silence stretched out, and as expected, George grew nervous—visibly so. Lord John chuckled lightly, and thereby easing the tension in the room. “I have borne witness to the nature of your interactions with Christine, and I will not deny that you have been an excellent suitor to her,” he said calmly, before continuing in a firmer tone, “And while she may not be my daughter, I am the one responsible for her, and who she will marry, and it is a responsibility I do not take lightly.” 

George nodded solemnly, despite the offence he felt at the hint of judgement in Lord John’s tone. While he was far from losing his temper completely, he had to fight the urge to clench his jaw. Instead, he swallowed hard, his throat dry as he met Lord John’s firm gaze, the weight of the older man’s words settling heavily upon him. He could not afford to lose his composure now, not when he was so close to getting what he wanted—what was already his. 

“Tell me,” Lord John continued, leaning back into his chair and observing the younger man’s expression carefully. “What was it about Miss Christine that made you fall in love?” 

A short, annoyed sigh escaped Lord George’s lips before he was able to prevent it. He was growing increasingly frustrated, for it was near unbelievable to him how difficult Lord John was making this, and his pride stung at the question. Was it not enough that he had pursued Christine with determination, and loved her despite her sharp tongue and disobedient nature? He had been a perfect gentleman—even the times he‘d deemed her undeserving of such treatment. But he quickly masked his irritation, aware that any display of it would only make things more difficult. 

“If I were to give you my full answer, I fear it would take longer than you are willing to listen, my Lord,” George began, his voice measured yet tinged with a subtle hint of impatience, visible in his tensed shoulders, “but I will try to be brief. It is not just her beauty, though I would be a fool to deny it. It is because she is unlike any other. I see her for who she is—her best qualities, and her worst, and I love them equally…” he paused, his turning his gaze away from Lord John. The words—few, but earnest—had poured out of him like a river finally breaking through a dam, unstoppable and raw, leaving him momentarily breathless and unsure what to say next. “Because it is part of who she is,” he finished, his eyes vulnerable as they met Lord John’s gaze once more. 

He carefully observed Lord John’s reaction, searching for approval, yet his expression remained dreadfully neutral, and impossible to read. Finally, after a long, torturous silence, Lord John cleared his throat, and the fainting hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “A commendable answer, my boy,” he praised, letting his smile grow. Lord George felt a surge of frustration upon hearing the word ‘boy’, for he found it utterly reprehensible, an insult to his masculinity. However, he reminded himself that he was in no position to challenge Lord John at this moment, when he was finally receiving his approval. 

To his relief, Lord John had not noticed the lapse in his composure. Instead, he rose from his chair and strode around the desk, meeting George at eye level. “You have my blessing,” he declared, his smile warm and approving. George let out a relieved sigh, and a smile spread across his face. While he did feel joy, it was not as strong as his smile conveyed. He cared little about permission, however, he was relieved to have received it, for it would certainly make things easier, but no different—he would make Christine his own, no matter the obstacles before him. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Having spent countless hours seated by her vanity, practising the perfect smile in front of the mirror until she could barely recognise her own reflection, Christine felt confident that her facade would be convincing. However, having to fight the urge to burst into tears at the dinner table, she had no stomach for food. She felt Lord George’s eyes observing her every breath, and although she never met his gaze, she knew he was silently demanding her to put up a good front. 

She looked around her, seeing the familiar faces of the dinner party guests—her friends and acquaintances, all appearing to be joyfully enjoying their food with smiles on their faces, making idle conversation with their seatmates. Many of them Christine hadn’t seen in a long time, however, she did not particularly enjoy any kind of company at that moment. Even Margaret Chesterfield, her best friend, did not receive her full attention. The extravagant chandeliers above the long dining table cast a warm, golden glow over the room, their crystals shimmering with each flicker of candlelight. Silverware clinked lightly against the fine china, the hum of polite conversion a steady sound within the room, yet Christine was uncharacteristically silent. 

Across the table, a few seats away, she could hear Lord George engaging in a lively conversion with some of the other gentlemen. Once in a while, she caught on to snippets of the conversation, when her name was mentioned, and the next few words that followed. It was nothing of interest, and yet, she kept listening until the sound of that horrendous man’s voice became too much to bear, and she had to redirect her attention to her food, so as to not break face. However, while she succeeded in filtering out the words, Christine could still make out the muffled sounds of his voice, and the tone he spoke with—free from sorrow, cruelly indifferent to his own betrothed’s suffering, and laced with an anticipation that was unmistakable. 

The timing of the dinner party was no coincidence, and neither was Lord George’s early arrival the day before. It was all part of his wicked plan—first deceiving Christine into marrying him, and then, of course, announcing their betrothal that evening, before all the guests, putting her in an inescapable position. She could not deny his cleverness, he was, much like her, aware that the eye of society was a cage far tougher than a real one—for if he had indeed locked her away, she would have a greater cause for resentment, and he had made it abundantly clear that he did not want that. 

What broke Christine out of her thought-spiral of doom was the startling sensation of a gentle tap on her shoulder. She whirled her head to her left, and faced Margaret’s eyes, full of concern. “Christine, are you well? You look a bit… distant,” she whispered, her voice hushed so as to not draw attention. 

Christine forced a weak smile, realising then that she would not be able to fool her friend. But she could not tell the truth, as that would surely lure the last of her tears from her eyes, right there, in front of everyone. “I’m tired, that is all. And my head aches slightly, no cause for alarm,” she murmured, unable to meet Margaret’s gaze. From a purely technical standpoint, Christine had not lied. With all right, she was indeed tired, exhausted from her own mind’s echoing thoughts of catastrophe. Her head still troubled her terribly, pounding with an unrelenting force that made her queasy. Yet, there was so much left unsaid, the words spoken merely telling the symptoms of her predicament. 

Conveniently enough, Margaret was not one to force answers in a vulnerable setting, and, seeing Christine’s hesitance, she decided not to pry further. “I’m sorry to hear it,” she simply replied, giving her friend a small smile. Her voice was sympathetic, as were her eyes, though they carried something else as well. Christine recognised that look—Margaret was not convinced, she could see right through Christine’s facade and white lies, as always. She was grateful to have a friend so observant, who could sense when something was off, without immediately demanding an explanation, and yet always being willing to listen. 

The sharp, clear chime of a silver spoon tapping against a fine crystal glass cut through the murmurs of conversation. The delicate, yet striking sound caught the attention of everyone around the long table, heads turning with peaked curiosity as their voices died down. Christine’s breath caught in her throat when she saw Lord Calvert rising from his seat, his wine glass raised in his hand, locking his kind eyes with hers for a moment before clearing his throat. 

Christine instinctively looked to the high end of the table, where Lord John sat, smiling warmly at her. As the viscount’s voice cut through the silence, her eyes darted back to him, then to George, who stared her down with dark eyes from a distance, a cocky smile plastered on his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, I beg your indulgence for a moment of your attention, I have a rather important announcement to make,” the viscount began. He was a gentleman of high esteem, famed for his good nature and humour. He was one of the few who had always been kind and welcoming to Christine, much unlike his scoundrel for a son. “It is with the greatest joy that I announce the betrothal of my son, Lord George, to the lovely Miss Christine Rutherford. I give you my blessing, and may you live a long, happy life together.” 

The words felt like knives to her ears, and yet, everyone else smiled as though a miracle had been performed, and perhaps it was a miracle—Lord George getting a wife. Christine huffed amusedly at the thought, watching as everyone except herself and her betrothed rose from their seats and applauded. She had to force a smile, appear happy—a task that had become increasingly difficult. Margaret gazed down at Christine, her eyes not gleaming with celebration like the others’, but instead full of worry, and gentle reproach. 

The rest of the dinner slowly passed by in a blur, Christine, having to put on a seemingly endless show of being a delighted bride, gave thanks for every congratulation on her betrothal with a feigned smile. When she, along with the rest of the women departed to the drawing room for tea and polite conversation, they all seemed awfully curious to hear about her courtship with Lord George. She responded to their inquiries with exaggerated praise of his character, telling them what a perfect gentleman he is, and bragging about all the flowers she’d received. 

Christine could only first breathe once she was back in the sanctuary of her bedchamber, laying mindlessly on the floor, still in her evening gown, exhausted and hopeless. She silenced every thought, for she needed a moment of respite, of silence. Christine wanted to stay that way forever, keep the peace she had grasped—perhaps out of desperation—and never face the distressing whispers in the back of her head, whispers that warned her of her future, of her cursed fate. 

However, those moments of peace were snatched from her with the sound of a knock on her door. She ignored it, and shut her eyes tight. But the person on the other side did not yield, knocking again, and so, unwillingly, she got back up on her feet and shuffled across the floor and opened the door, her every movement languid. 

In the doorway, she saw Margaret standing there, the worried look she’d had at dinner still on her face. “May I come in?” she asked softly, and Christine nodded in response, pushing the door open further to allow her friend to enter. She had warned her about Lord George, perhaps not very explicitly, but Christine had come to learn that Margaret’s intuition was often right about people. 

Margaret, still wearing her lavish gown from earlier, stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind her. Christine assumed she was about to receive a classic lecture from her, and she waited, and waited, but the silence only stretched out. 

“Well, go on,” Christine finally said, her lips curling into a rueful smile. “Tell me how stupid I am for… agreeing to marry Lord George,” she muttered with a shrug, her smile fading. 

Margaret tilted her head, a sympathetic look in her eyes that made Christine doubt she had come to lecture her. “No,” she told her quietly, shaking her head. “No, I will not tell you that. You don’t appear very… pleased about the situation. You don’t want to marry him, do you?” 

The words hit Christine hard, accurate as they were. She couldn’t stop the tears from filling her eyes, nor did she even try to do so. “I… I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she whimpered, the first tear spilling from her eye, followed by another, both trailing down her cheeks. “Oh, Christine,” Margaret hummed, pulling her into a comforting hug. 

Tears flowed freely from Christine’s eyes, her sobs unrestrained and raw. They lowered down to the floor, Christine laying her head on Margaret’s lap, and she soon felt the soothing sensation of Margaret stroking her hair. “Shh, it’s alright,” she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. Christine shook her head, her body shaking with sobs. “No, it’s not. It will never be…” 

Margaret stiffened, her hand momentarily faltering as her worry peaked. “Christine, you’re scaring me. What did he do?” she asked carefully, continuing stroking her hair. “Did he hurt you?” 

Christine shook her head again, faintly thawing at Margaret’s frozen, worried form, letting her relax ever so slightly. “He didn’t hurt me, not yet at least,” she began steadily. Although she knew it was unreasonable, she felt as though George was listening to her every word,  watching her, and the feeling left her feeling monitored and unsafe. “He threatened me,” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. “He said that if I don’t agree to marry him, he will spread lies about me, ruining me. And that I would then have to marry him, to save my reputation.” 

“What?” Margaret breathed, her mouth falling open in shock. “But why would he be so insistent on marrying you? He doesn’t strike me as a man of any domestic interest.”

A self-deprecating chuckle escaped Christine’s lips. “He says he loves me,” she explained, scoffing to herself. She was no fool, she knew it was not love George felt for her. And neither did she think so low of him as to assume he thought she believed his claim of love. “He’s not fooling me, so I honestly just think he’s fooling himself,” she added. 

Margaret nodded slowly, understanding now. “Christine, I don’t know what to say. But… I am so sorry, you truly don’t deserve this,” she murmured softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she realised Christine was no longer crying. 

Christine sighed, a memory tugging at her heart, coaxing her to speak of it. “You know, I really believed he would be better than William,” she mused, her voice a monotoned murmur, as if she was speaking only to herself. “He was so kind, so genuine in the beginning. Then he switched completely… and I now see that he is the devil compared to William.” 

“There are others,” Margaret said softly, but then quickly realised how her words could be misinterpreted. She gasped, her hand darting to cover her mouth as her cheeks flushed pink. “Goodness, I’m so sorry, I should not have said that. I wasn’t suggesting you…” 

Christine couldn’t help but laugh, it was truly rare to hear Margaret even come close to suggesting something improper, and it lightened her heart for a moment. “Don’t worry, I know you didn’t mean anything scandalous,” she reassured her, and hearing Margaret sign in relief, she chuckled lightly. It never ceased to amuse her how prim and proper people of the eighteenth century insisted on behaving, even during a private conversation. Christine couldn’t deny that she would likely feel pleasure in tearing George’s heart from his chest, however, she would rather do so in a literal sense than betraying her morals, and breaking marriage vows just for the sake of justice. 

After a long, peaceful silence, where the only noise had been their calm breaths, the fire crackling in the fireplace, and the light breeze outside the windows, Margaret spoke again, her voice slightly cautious, almost hesitant, “I know you are angry with Lord Ellesmere, and I respect that, but are you certain he truly intended to abandon you?”

“Yes,” Christine answered immediately, scarcely letting Margaret take a single breath before answering. “But it’s of no concern, because I really shouldn’t dwell over that now, I’m to be married,” she said, the words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “…to someone else,” she added, her voice reluctant, as if she wished for it not to be true. As if she still loved him. 

Margaret took note of Christine’s tone, and her heart ached for her friend. “Er, yes, you are…” she acknowledged, careful not to stir up any more hurt, even as she continued, “I won’t speak of him again, I know it’s painful for you.” Christine had to resist the urge to argue back, to insist that William held no power over her, but she bit her tongue, knowing that Margaret had suggested no such thing. “And I also don’t want to give you false hope,” Margaret added. 

Christine was silent for several moments, Margaret’s words replaying in her head. False hope, she had said, and while it was kind of her to consider, Christine was in waters too deep to fall victim to such shallow bait. “Nothing could give me hope,” she murmured, her voice grim, “neither true nor false.”

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Days dragged by, turning into a dreadful week of wedding arrangements, feigned smiles, and Christine having her voice silenced every time she uttered an opinion George did not agree with. To a beginning, she had tried to stay true to her instincts, to keep her confidence and spirit, but the more times she saw George’s dark eyes flash with a cold, threatening warning, she retrieved further into her shell, and let him lead. Every cell in her body urged to talk back to him, to let her voice be heard, but she dared not. If he could make her feel this small as only her betrothed, she shuddered to think what he would do to her as her husband. 

She soon found that she would not even have a voice in her own wedding, for George seemed to have it all figured out, and the few times she had even suggested a different approach, he had laughed in her face. 

George, having been careful to treat Christine most kindly whenever Lord John was near, had earned his respect. Therefore, Lord John had entrusted him to spend private time with Christine, trusting his good character and concern for the lady’s virtue. Christine was angry at Lord John for being so blind to George’s cruel nature, but could not curse him too much, for she herself had been just as blind, until George had deliberately chosen to show his true colours. 

Those moments she spent alone with George, her heart was racing. His mood would switch in an instant, going from being loving and sweet one moment, to grabbing her roughly and throwing insults the next. She never shed a tear when he did so, for she refused to show weakness, even as she was forced to submit to him. 

However, George was in an unusually good mood one day, his touch on her hand almost tender as he spoke blissfully about their wedding, where they sat together in the drawing room. And while Christine was relieved he was in good spirits, she hardly shared his bliss. 

“I have been pondering what I want you to wear to the wedding,” Lord George said softly, looking into her eyes, his expression almost sweet. “It must be something that honours my late mother, and I believe I have the perfect idea.”

Christine reigned in a chuckle, but a petty smile did appear on her lips. He always wanted her to smile, but luckily for her, he never assumed her smiles meant anything but compliance. “Don’t you always?” she mocked, amusing herself by playing with his vainglorious pride. 

As she’d predicted, a pleased smile spread across Lord George’s face, and his posture straightened, foolishly unaware of her mockery. “You are far too kind, my love,” he chuckled, his hand tightening around hers. “As I was going to say, I want you to wear yellow,” he told her, his voice as warm as a summer’s day, sweetening the demand he placed. “As to honour my mother,” he clarified. 

Christine raised an eyebrow. “Yellow?” she repeated, nodding slowly, fighting the urge to make a face at the thought of a yellow wedding dress. Instead, she sweetened her smile further, as to please him. “I assume your mother had a smile as bright as the sun?” 

Surprisingly, Lord George shook his head. “I’m afraid I have no memory of that, she passed away when I was only two years of age,” he murmured, his voice losing its previous blithe. He sighed softly, his gaze falling to the floor. 

Noticing his changed expression, Christine knew she had to consider her next words carefully, as even just one misstep could cause him to react unpredictably. “Then… how would I be honouring your mother by wearing yellow?” Christine asked, tilting her head to search his eyes for a sign of how his temper might shift. The tension in the air thickened as she studied him, seeing his jaw clench slightly. 

“She died of jaundice,” he answered mournfully, still not meeting Christine’s gaze. Christine’s eyes widened in shock, momentarily taken aback by the revelation. Her breath hitched in her throat as she struggled to suppress the laughter bubbling inside her, threatening to spill out. The struggle was no doubt evident on her face, and realising that, she quickly turned her head away, pressing her lips together tightly, the absurdity of the situation hitting her with full force. 

Lord George sensed Christine’s shift in composure, how she turned her head away, and how her hand tensed in his grasp. It warmed his heart to see that the story of his late mother touched his bride so deeply. “I’ve always found it quite poetic, really,” he mused, his voice distant. “A circle of life of sorts. What took her away will now be worn in celebration of new beginnings.”

Christine fought valiantly against the laughter building up in her throat, demanding release, but she knew that to let it slip would bring disaster. Therefore, she bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough that she almost tasted blood. He was serious. Entirely, unfathomably serious. 

“And you’re sure,” she began, her voice strained, “that a wedding dress representing an illness won’t bring the spirits down? A wedding is supposed to be a happy occasion, and pardon me, but you don’t appear very… happy now, just thinking about it.”

She saw his jaw clench. George turned his head, meeting her eyes again, now with a cold, dark glare that wiped the amusement off her face. “No, I am not happy,” he growled through clenched teeth, his voice taut with restrained fury. George scoffed, his grip on her hand tightening for a fleeting moment before he abruptly let go, as if burned by her touch. “A wedding is meant to bring happiness, yes—but so, too, is a wife meant to bring her husband joy, madam. And you are terrible at that.” 

Her face turned blank, and Lord George scoffed, leaning back into the sofa and watched her turn her gaze to the floor, staring down blankly as her hands fidgeted nervously on her lap. “Look what you’ve done, Christine. You’ve made me sad, and angry,” he hissed. Christine felt him poke at her arm, and she turned her head to face him again. “Don’t fret, sweetheart, I know a way you can make it up to me,” he mumbled, a smirk playing on his lips. “Give me a kiss.”

Christine frowned, shaking her head vehemently. “No,” she responded firmly, increasing the distance between them on the sofa. Lord George sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, Christine. Now, be a good girl and give me a kiss,” he demanded, his eyes boring into hers. She shook her head again, a sense of dread spreading through her. 

At her continued defiance, George moved closer, one hand coming to wrap around her wrist tightly. “I do hope you realise we will be doing a lot more than just kissing once we’re wed,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a low, rough hiss. His gaze flickered down to her breasts, and his cruel smirk returned. Before Christine could object, his hands grabbed her by the waist, pulling her closer, and suddenly his lips were pressing kisses all over her throat. 

She gasped in shock, and she tried to fight him off, but he was far stronger than her. Just as Christine struggled against Lord George’s rough grasp, her heart hammering in her chest, the tall double doors to the drawing room burst open. George’s arms stayed wrapped around her, but his grasp loosened considerably, and he whirled his head to face the figure who had just entered. 

Christine did as well—look towards the doorway. And who she saw standing there nearly made her heart stop. “William…” she whispered, her eyes wide, and her jaw slack. There he was, after so many months apart—William, her William, so handsome in his redcoat. His tall frame was stiff with tension, his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers in a way that stole the air from her lungs, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only him and the memory of their shared past. 

But that moment didn’t last long, for he turned his gaze to Lord George, and there was a fury in his eyes that made the air in the room seem to crackle. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he had just sprinted through the entire estate. 

“If you value your life, you best get your filthy hands off her. Now.”

Chapter Text

November 1777

William burst through the door into the drawing room, and the sight he was met with was enough to ignite a fury that shot through his veins like lightning. When he had envisioned seeing Christine again, he had pictured her eyes lighting up at the sight of him, a soft smile curving on her lips as she rushed into his arms. Instead, he found her trapped in the tight grasp of another man, and his lips pressed to her throat. For a fleeting moment, jealousy clawed at him—raw, gut-wrenching jealousy that another man dared to touch her. But then he saw her eyes—the fear in them—and that jealousy swiftly transformed into a fierce protectiveness, and a blinding rage directed at the man who dared assault her.

At the sound of the door slamming shut, the scoundrel ceased his vile attack on Christine, his mouth leaving her skin as he whirled his head around. William couldn’t identify him, only the startled look of humiliation which appeared on his face upon seeing William standing a distance away, fire burning in his eyes. But as William turned his gaze to Christine, his eyes softened. Perhaps it was the reunion bliss, or that he now knew how much he truly loved her, but either way, she looked even more beautiful than he remembered. 

“William…” he heard her whisper, so softly that he was unsure whether or not he had imagined it. She was surprised to see him—shocked even—William assessed, noting her wide eyes and slack jaw. 

He then turned his gaze back to the scoundrel holding her, his eyes hardening into a cold glare, and the knuckles of his clenched fists turned white. “If you value your life, you best get your filthy hands off her. Now.” He voiced the command with a deadly calm, his voice low and resolute. 

The scoundrel then let go of Christine, his arms around her immediately ceasing their touch. He had a look of hurt pride in his eyes, and he grit his teeth, his jaw clenching furiously before he shoved Christine away from him, as if needing to reassert his authority. “How dare you,” the scoundrel fumed, turning to face William, “I am Lord George Calvert, and I will not be spoken to as such. And I will not be given orders on how I shall treat my own betrothed.”

William’s anger rose seeing Christine be shoved and mistreated so callously. But he managed a scoff, caring not for the red-faced brute’s name nor title. However, his face was wiped of all arrogance at the word “betrothed.” Woe, if not downright heartbreak, flashed across his eyes. “Betrothed, you say?” he repeated incredulously. His gaze flickered to Christine, who sat rigidly beside the man she was supposedly meant to marry, barely contained fury burning in her eyes. 

His heart ached for her, even as his mind reeled with confusion and anger over the sudden revelation. Still, he could not be angry with her, especially not when she appeared so unhappy. But angry, he was. And so, he turned to Lord George—the one who had roused his fury. “You will leave this room, and you will do so now.” His voice was firm and commanding once more, and his eyes had a look in them that suggested hell would be unleashed if Lord George did not comply. 

Lord George huffed an incredulous breath, shaking his head, and the wounded pride in his expression deepened. He stood from the sofa and took a step forward. “And who the bloody hell are you to give me orders? I should call you out for a duel for such disrespect,” he replied coldly. William only raised an eyebrow, smirking to himself. 

However, Christine did not react as unfazed to the suggestion of a duel. She muttered a curseword to herself before standing up, hesitantly placing a hand on George’s arm, and spun him around to face her firm gaze. “Are you out of your damn mind?” she scoffed, meeting his dangerous glare fearlessly. “There will not be any fucking duel, and that’s final.”

Both the men were stunned at her crude words, staring speechlessly at her for several moments. William felt a surge of respect for her, and his smirk widened. Yet, her attempt at shutting George up—while effective—did no good, for he responded to her command with an almost animalistic growl, and grabbed her by the upper arms. “Be silent, woman!” he shouted. Christine shrieked as he ferociously shoved her away, sending her stumbling to the floor. 

Not even a second passed before William’s fist collided with George’s jaw with a sickening yet satisfying crack, the force of the punch sending the brute staggering backwards. He couldn’t help the faint, satisfied smirk that appeared on his lips as George groaned in pain and clutched his face, his eyes wide with shock. William advanced on him, his stance aggressive and dominating. “Leave, now,” he growled, "or I swear, I will beat you black and blue.”

George opened his mouth to retort, but William’s menacing stance and the fury in his eyes made him think twice. He glanced over at Christine, who was back on her feet, arms crossed in front of her as she shot daggers at him. “Leave!” she shouted. George’s gaze darted back to William, fear and resentment warring in his eyes, and he obeyed. 

William watched as he slunk out of the room, his tail between his legs. Once the door closed behind him with a firm click, William turned his attention back to Christine. Careful not to scare her, he slowly approached, searching her face for any sign of fear or hesitation. Finding none, he gently took her hand once he stood right before her, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing manner. “You’re safe now,” he whispered softly, “I know there is much I owe you explanations for, and I will explain, if you would listen.”

His touch was tender, as if handling a fragile, valuable piece of art that was her hand, and his eyes looked into hers the same way they had all those months ago—before he had ruined it all. Christine’s breath hitched as the memories all flooded her mind, hurt and anger rising within her, making her clench her jaw. She had dreamed of this moment so many times, of seeing William once more, and feeling his touch on her skin, but that had been before he forfeited all rights to a role in her life—before he broke her heart. 

She jerked her hand away from his grasp and took a step back, tearing her gaze off him. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice cracking. 

“You.” 

Christine inhaled sharply, her gaze flickering between him and the floor, as if she couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening. The rawness of his declaration, the sheer weight of it, felt like a hammer to her chest. But it was the memories of his betrayal that gnawed at her—how he had broken her, and left her alone in the world when she had needed him most. It stung painfully at her heart, and before she could stop herself, she whipped her hand out and struck him. 

The sudden—rather firm—slap to his cheek sent William’s head flinging to the side. Had it been anyone else who’d done the deed, he would have lost his temper. However, he knew he deserved her anger, and any way she may express it was a consequence of his own actions. He stood there, feeling the sting of the slap linger not just on his cheek but deep in his chest, where the guilt and regret weighed heavier than ever.

“Don’t,” she told him firmly. Despite her dismissive words and actions, Christine still felt an unsettlingly strong desire to be close to William, despite the torment he had previously inflicted. But she could not be so foolish as to let him discard her once and then throw herself into his arms at first chance. She was too proud, and too stubborn to do that. “Do not interfere in my life. I can figure it out myself,” she informed him, practically scolding him, given how she jabbed a finger at him. 

William’s expression hardened then, his eyes narrowing as he slowly raised a hand to touch the spot where her slap had landed. He took a step towards her, his posture stiff. “Oh, can you?” he replied. While he could agree that his blunt admission of wanting her had been thoughtless, and while any attempt of an interference in her life would be unwarranted, he would not stand by and watch her fight an abusive man all by herself. “No, you bloody can’t,” he told her firmly, his voice low and intense. Christine opened her mouth to snap back at him, but he interrupted her, “You can tell me it’s not my business all you like, I don’t care. But I will not let you bear this burden alone, and nor will my father. And I will certainly not let you marry a man who abuses you, I have a responsibility to prevent that, Christine.”

She inhaled sharply, then looked away, avoiding his gaze. A part of her felt deeply touched by his concern, it was familiar, as was the way he searched her face with those beautiful blue eyes of his. It made Christine want to tell him everything, and let him hold her close as he swore to protect her. But he had sworn to do so before, and indeed, he had protected her, but he had also left her without a goodbye, and with no word for nearly six months. Perhaps that was his game, she thought—play the hero when it suited him, and only when it suited him. 

The doubt and mistrust she felt must have been visible on her face, for William, with the utmost gentleness, cupped her cheek and turned her head to face him, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “Christine,” he whispered softly, tracing his index finger over her jawline in a featherlight touch. “I may not know the details, but I understand you are in a very difficult situation. But you are not alone, do you hear me? You have people who want to protect and defend you—I am one of them.” 

“William…” she murmured, her expression turning into a pained frown. “It’s not so easy, I really can’t tell anyone,” she said weakly, stuck between the urge to trust William once more, and her fear of George. “And I don’t want you to protect me. You did before, and while I am grateful for that, you also discarded me the second you were done playing hero.” Christine’s voice rose as she spoke, all the pent-up anger and heartbreak she had felt bubbled over, making her voice tremble with emotion. 

William’s heart clenched hearing her words. He knew he had treated her awfully, but seeing in her eyes the pain he had truly inflicted felt like a knife stabbed through his chest. He removed his hand from her face, understanding perfectly well that his touch was not welcomed. “I was a fool. But I never meant to discard you, you must know that,” he told her, his eyes matching the pure sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t think I deserved you after everything I put you through, after all the danger. I promised to protect you, but I failed you.”

The frown on Christine’s face deepened, but more so out of sorrow, rather than anger. “Failed me?” she repeated, her voice no longer harsh, but instead carrying a quiet, wounded disbelief. “No, you didn’t. Well, you did when you didn’t respond to my letter, but before that…” Her words trailed off as she shook her head, her face adopting a confused expression as she recalled memories of their time together, and trying to remember how he might have failed her. 

“I did fail you, and it is my deepest regret,” he said remorsefully. “I did not treat you the way a lady should be treated, I was far too forward. And because of me, you were almost murdered…” William shuddered at the memory, recalling the terror he had seen in Christine’s eyes as that damned bandit held a knife to her throat. 

Christine’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t put a single thought to it for so long, but now, she remembered it clearly. She remembered how scared she had been, and the horrifying certainty she had felt that her life was about to end. The cruel, degrading words of her attackers, and the cold steel of the knife held against her throat—it all came back to her. All of it, including how William had held her in his strong arms as soon as they were both safe. 

But now, as she stood before him, his face so full of regret, the warmth of that memory felt distant, like a flame that had flickered out. “You didn’t fail me then, William,” she said quietly, barely above a whisper. “You saved my life.”

He nodded, as if acknowledging her words, and believing them. But his eyes suggested otherwise—they were regretful, and betrayed the haunting burden of the guilt he had placed upon himself. “Yes, I did save you. I have no regret about that,” he affirmed, his jaw tightening as he seemed to build up courage to speak his next words. “But I do regret accepting your repayment.”

Christine’s brows knit together, and she took an instinctive step back, sensing the weight of his words. “Repayment?” she echoed, her voice uncertain, tilting her head slightly as she observed his expression—remorseful, but for a reason she did not know. 

“Yes, repayment,” William repeated, sighing to himself, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “At the inn, when we… when you allowed me to share the bed with you,” he clarified, his voice lowering into a hushed whisper, as if the words alone carried a shame too disgraceful to be spoken aloud. “I should have slept on the floor, or in a chair—I should have been the gentleman you deserved. But instead, I compromised your virtue. I did you a great disservice by accepting your offer.”

A giggle escaped Christine’s lips, scarcely believing him. “Compromised? Oh, is that it?” she repeated, shaking her head incredulously, despite his blatantly serious expression. “Nothing happened, and you know it,” she told him, her laughter fading away as she spoke in a firmer tone. “My God, William, you can’t seriously be fretting about that still.”

“But I can,” he countered, leaning in ever so slightly. “And I do. You’re an intelligent woman, Christine, surely you understand the importance of a reputation,” he said, looking into her eyes, searching her face for some sign that she might understand the weight of his words. “And unless I have misjudged your character, then I know you would rather be seen as respectable than as a woman who shared a bed with a man she was not wed to.” 

Christine stared at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as she took in his harsh words. She knew he hadn’t meant any offence, but the urge to lash out against him again was irresistible. Therefore, before she could think better of it, her hand once more flew up and struck him sharply across the cheek. “How dare you? Is that what you think of me? Is that why you didn’t want anything to do with me, because you saw me as… as a whore?” 

He could have grabbed her wrist before the slap hit him, for he had seen it coming, but he made no move to defend himself. William knew he deserved it, just as he had deserved the first slap she had given him. His cheek stung, but he only grit his teeth against the pain. It was her accusation that made him flinch, it stung worse than his reddened skin. “God, no,” he breathed, his tone incredulous and regretful, “I could never think that of you. I was only surprised when you laughed at the idea of your virtue being compromised. That is no trivial matter.”

Christine let out a deep sigh, shaking her head in frustration. “No, I suppose it isn’t,” she admitted. “But you shouldn’t talk about that night as though we committed some grave sin. And you definitely shouldn’t refer to it as a repayment, then you really do make it sound like I was whoring myself out to you in exchange for you saving my life.” Her voice was sharper now, more controlled, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface. 

Her words hung heavy in the air, and a bitter silence entailed as William absorbed her words, and for a moment, he stood still, completely taken aback. “You’re right of course, I phrased it terribly,” he mumbled. William cleared his throat, meeting her gaze more steadily. “My initial point was to tell you that I felt bad for all that transpired, and I still do. I highly respect you, and I didn’t send you a letter because… because I don’t deserve you, Christine.”

“And yet here you are,” Christine conceded, her voice calm and impassive, “admitting to… wanting me, wasn’t it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, her tone accusatory, but with a trace of amusement, yet there was no warmth behind it. “Rather bold coming from a man who left me without a single word for six bloody months,” she sneered, her words sharp and pointed. Seeing the surprise her cursing brought to William’s face, she scoffed. “Well, apologies for my tongue, but I’m afraid you bring out the worst in me as of now.”

William exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening hearing the anger in her voice. He had no defence against her words—she was right, in every last one of them. He had abandoned her, he had wronged her terribly, and yet he had the audacity to stand before her and admit to wanting her. “I can understand that,” he admitted, speaking with caution as to not further invoke her ire. “You have every right to be angry, and… to express your anger in any way you need.”

His acceptance of her anger brought a small sense of amusement to Christine, but she only raised an eyebrow, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. “Well, I won’t strike you again,” she said, her voice tight, as if holding back the urge to retract her reassuring words. “I assume you have a limit to how many slaps you’re willing to take before giving me one back,” she added, chuckling humourlessly. 

It was a possibility, she assumed—that he might strike her back. She didn’t expect him to, she didn’t think that low of him. Still, Christine had to remind herself of what century she was in—one where violence against women was often overlooked, and practised without consequence. 

But William only stared at her, brows furrowed, speechlessly repeating her words in his head, and quietly cursing himself whatever he had done to make her question his honour and benevolence. His throat tightened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides—not in anger, but in quiet frustration at the thought that she could ever think him capable of such a thing. “I am not that kind of man. I would sooner cut off my own hand than lay it upon you in anger,” he told her, his voice low but firm, his eyes searching hers for understanding. “Did you really think I would?” he added, his voice softer now, more remorseful. 

“Not you specifically,” she answered with a small sigh, her eyes instinctively looking away. “But I know how men can be.”

His eyes softened, their intense gaze turning sympathetic, almost melancholic. “Yes, you do,” he agreed, his heart clenching at the realisation that her mistrust wasn’t rooted in him alone, but a lifetime of seeing—and experiencing—how the world treated women. “But you can trust me, Christine. I understand you don’t wish to tell me about your situation,” he said with a gentle nod, “but you must at least tell my father, I can almost guarantee he will be able to help.” 

Christine met his gaze again, but she kept silent. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she could tell Lord John everything. But she shuddered to think what a confrontation with George might entail. If he did go through with the blackmail, and spread those vicious lies about her, she would, without a doubt, be ruined. The concept of ‘losing her marriage prospects’ was something she couldn’t quite grasp, as it was so foreign to her. But she knew she couldn’t dismiss it. As William had pointed out, a compromised virtue was no trivial matter, and she would have to accept that. 

When William took a step closer, Christine realised how tall he really was, for she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. He searched her eyes, looking for a sign of the regained trust he so desperately craved. He reached out and took her hands in his. That, along with his quiet, earnest attention sent a blush to her cheeks—a reaction she was not very pleased with herself for having. It reminded her of that morning at the inn, when she had woken up to the feeling of his hand resting gently on her waist, and guilt she had felt for the enjoyment it brought her. 

“William, I…” she stuttered, slowly removing her hands from his grasp. Christine then put on a firm expression, straightening her posture and spoke with mild reproach: “You forget yourself,” she told him, her voice tinged with a certain chill, but not to the point of callousness. “You shouldn’t be so forward.”

He nodded, taking a step back. “Of course,” he said softly, a note of regret in his voice as he complied with her unspoken request for space. “I shouldn’t have presumed-“

“But you did,” she interrupted. Christine saw the genuine remorse in his eyes, and it stung at her heart, knowing she had no real justification for dismissing him so coldly. “You claim to… care about my reputation, and yet, you admit to wanting me. So, either you fail to see, or you are ignoring the trouble such an admission might bring, as I am…” she paused, her voice faltering for a moment as she fought to steady herself, “already spoken for,” she finished, the words bitter on her tongue. 

William’s gaze hardened. “Do I need to repeat myself more clearly?” he asked, his voice firm and dominating. “You will not marry him, Christine.” 

Christine felt the weight of his words settle over her like a heavy cloak. The force of his tone was unmistakable, but it only stirred her already volatile emotions. She met his gaze defiantly, her chest tightening. “While I appreciate your concern,” she paused briefly. William opened his mouth to retort, but she held up a finger, silencing him with an effect so immediate it surprised even her. “You cannot tell me what to do,” she said sharply, her heart racing, and anger flooding her veins at his audacity. 

William didn’t flinch. He allowed her to finish speaking, and when she did—albeit sooner than he had expected—he took another step forward, his gaze unyielding, firm, but not unkind. “I am not telling you what to do. I am telling you what I will do,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “And what I will do is protect you from anyone or anything that would harm you. I saw…” his words trailed off as he recalled the sight of Lord George abusing her—a memory too painful to think about, let alone say out loud. 

He sighed, then met her gaze firmly again. “You think you can endure him, Christine? You think, one day, he will never hurt you again? Because if so, I fear you’re gravely mistaken.” His voice dropped even lower, each word heavy with the weight of his concern. “I saw him throw you to the floor. Tell me, do you really think he won’t do worse than that once you’re legally bound to him?”

Christine recoiled, the force of his words hitting her like a physical blow. Her pulse quickened, her breath catching in her throat. She could feel her emotions boiling, the anger, the shame, the helplessness—all swirling inside her, ready to explode. 

“Excuse me,” she stammered, taking a few steps back. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to be alone together,” she said, her voice weak.

As he watched Christine turn on her heel and stride towards the door, William sighed heavily. He understood it wasn’t propriety that motivated her to leave, but rather a need to escape the overwhelming emotions his blunt words had provoked. And perhaps, the emotions his mere presence stirred within her. 

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After locking herself in her bedchamber, Christine determined that she had no wish to speak to anyone. The events of the day had been distressing enough, and now she just needed some peace and quiet so she could mull over her frenzied thoughts. 

Needing a moment of respite, Christine strode over to the window, opening it and breathing in the pure oxygen she desperately needed. She smiled slightly, thinking to herself how the air in this time was so much cleaner than that of the twenty-first century, especially where she lived in London. However, thinking of London made her think of her mother, and the last thing she needed was more disquieting memories to be dredged up.

She had never been particularly close to her mother, but she never imagined her to be absent at her own daughter’s wedding. Not that either of them had any control over the ordeal. It felt surreal—the entire situation. Part of her had been in denial, naively thinking that her involvement with George was just a passing phase, because, of course, a fate so dreadful couldn’t possibly await her. It wasn’t until William bluntly spelled out the reality of what she was really getting into that she understood the true danger. William didn’t even know the circumstances, yet he had been able to see the peril she was in. That alone told Christine just how dire her situation really was.

“You have people who want to protect and defend you—I am one of them,“ those had been his words, spoken with a sincerity that made a flicker of trust spark within her—a spark she had quickly extinguished the moment she felt it. Christine couldn’t trust him yet, but she knew she couldn’t vilify him forever. After all, he had only ever spoken and acted with her best interest in mind, even though his methods had often backfired, causing her pain in the process. 

Perhaps she was reckless and impulsive, maybe even courting trouble, but an idea had surfaced in her mind that she couldn’t quite resist. Christine closed the window, shivering as the freezing night air seeped through the thin, almost gauzy fabric of her nightgown. She took light steps over to her vanity, picked up the dark blue silk robe she had draped over the chair, and slipped it on.

She discreetly left her bedchamber, easing the door shut behind her, and crept through Helwater’s dark corridors with light, almost mouse-like steps, bringing a candle with her for light. Since arriving in the eighteenth century, Christine had ventured out at midnight twice before—each time driven by a desperate need to escape trouble, only to find herself tangled deeper in it. She hoped this time would be different. 

Christine moved quietly through the halls, her footsteps barely making a sound over the parquet flooring, other than the occasional creak. She wanted to find William, and talk to him once and for all, to make him understand. It was not for his sake, but for her own. To allow herself to confide in someone with the possibility of being able to help, someone she knew understood her in a way she couldn’t quite comprehend. 

She remembered Lady Louisa telling her a story about William as a child, how he would sneak out of his bedchamber at night, and secretly eat cookies in the kitchen. During the telling of that story, Lady Louisa had briefly mentioned the location of William’s bedchamber—a piece of information Christine hadn’t thought would come to use, but now found herself grateful to have remembered it. 

Whispering a silent prayer her memory hadn’t deceived her, Christine paused in front of the door, her fist hovering just before it, raised to knock. She took a deep breath, feeling her heartbreak begin to quicken from the anticipation. Her eyes shut almost instinctively as she finally knocked, an intense nervousness suddenly crashing down on her, and she felt an urge to turn back around and run to her bedchamber. But her knuckles had already tapped softly against the wood, and the sound hung in the air like a fragile thread, connecting her to whatever might await on the other side. She couldn’t turn back now.

And so, she twisted the doorknob and slipped into the room. She eased the door shut behind her, her body freezing as she saw William on the other side of the room, sitting with his legs swung over the side of the bed. He was dressed in only a shirt, and that, along with how he rubbed his eyes groggily, suggested he had only a moment ago gotten out of bed—likely to address whatever odd creature had knocked on his door in the middle of the night. 

He turned his head to face said odd creature, his eyes widening seeing it was Christine standing in his room. Her back was pressed against the door, and on her face was a nervous expression—one he found rather adorable. “Christine,” he murmured, his voice incredulous. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he asked, disapproval, as well as a tinge of thrill heard in his voice. 

“I don’t mean anything inappropriate,” she answered quickly, holding up her palms in front of her as to dispel any misunderstanding. Her voice was steady, but her heart raced in her chest. “It’s only… I have to talk to you,” she clarified, biting her bottom lip as she observed his reaction. 

William regarded her for a moment, his eyes taking in her state of dress—she was covered, at the very least. Not that he wouldn’t love it if she weren’t. “And it cannot wait until morning?” he asked, his voice still laced with sleepiness, though not enough to be unwilling to let her stay. 

The matter itself definitely could have waited until morning, but Christine couldn’t have. If she had stayed in her bedchamber, she would have been restless, unable to sleep, as her mind would plague her, thoughts whirling through her head. And come morning, she would no longer have the courage to speak on the matter. “No,” she replied softly, her voice breathy and hesitant. “I hope you don’t mind me barging in, and I assure you, I am not here for anything…” she quit speaking as William held up a hand, effectively easing her worry. 

He smiled at her with a warmth that softened his expression, rising from the bed with a slow, almost lazy movement, clad only in his shirt. “Do not trouble yourself,” he reassured her gently, his voice calm. “I know your intentions are innocent.” His gaze lingered for a moment before he turned and walked over to a chair by the window with a pair of breeches conveniently draped over its back, picking them up for dressing.

As she watched him dress, Christine couldn’t help how her gaze flickered down to his lower regions as his fingers worked the buttons, almost as if her eyes had a forbidden curiosity of their own that she couldn’t restrain. She quickly averted her gaze, forcing it back to his face, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. William’s grin had only widened, as if he had caught on to her surreptitious ogling, and enjoyed it. “You wanted to talk?” he said, an eyebrow raised. 

“Y-yes,” she replied, her voice a low mumble of embarrassment. Christine took a step further into the room while she tried to regain her composure, lifting her chin and straightening her posture. “It’s quite serious, actually,” she told him, wishing to forget how he had caught her in her moment of weakness. 

William’s expression sobered, abandoning the amused grin, and instead nodded solemnly. “Then you have my utmost attention,” he told her, his voice warm and earnest. He approached her steadily, holding out a hand for her to take. Christine placed her hand in his, blushing as his grip tightened around it. “Come,” he urged, walking her to the ottoman at the foot of the grand four-poster bed. “Alright then, what do you have to say, Christine? Is it about Lord George?” 

His voice was consoling, soothing even, conveying just how much he truly cared. Christine hadn’t forgiven him yet, that was true, but she couldn’t help how her heart fluttered unexpectedly upon hearing the tender concern and sympathetic attentiveness in his voice. “Yes, it is about… him,” she whispered, averting her gaze to the floor. 

“I never wanted to marry him,” she said plainly. “He was courting me, yes, but I hadn’t thought about marriage.” Christine’s gaze flickered back to William, who was watching her with kind, patient eyes. As they locked eyes, she was silent for a few moments, distracted by the sight of him. But she quickly averted her gaze again, searching her mind for what to say. “Last week, I found a letter in my pocket that he had slipped in without me noticing…”

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She told him everything. And he listened, not saying a word, only listening with all his heart as she poured out the whole tale. Hearing the anguish and hopelessness in her voice, William’s heart ached painfully in his chest, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. Being told of the various atrocities Lord George had committed against Christine filled him with an anger so fierce it was almost blinding. But he forced himself to remain still, to be her quiet refuge as she spoke. 

“And I don’t think I can escape him, William,” she said, her eyes full of tears that hadn’t yet spilled. “If I don’t marry him, he will spread those lies about me, and I…” her words trailed off as her tears welled over, and his arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her close to his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, sweetheart,” he whispered, stroking her hair as she began to weep in his arms. “You are so brave, Christine,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

William felt her tug at his shirt, clutching desperately as her body trembled with sobs. He felt truly honoured to be her anchor in this time of distress. “No, I’m not,” she countered in a weak, sniffling voice. “I’m not brave at all. “I’m a coward for letting him treat me like this, and an idiot for accepting his proposal in the first place.”

It broke his heart all over again to hear her speak so lowly of herself. His arms eased around her, and he pulled away slightly to look at her face. Christine’s eyes were red and glassy, her face tear-streaked and flushed with emotion. Her lips quivered, intensely pink and plump from the salty sting of her tears. To William, she was as beautiful as ever. “You are no coward, and you are certainly not an idiot,” he told her firmly, his voice gentle but unwavering. He cupped her face in his big hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “You are a woman in a precarious situation, and you are incredibly brave for telling me. Christine, you cannot be held accountable for falling into his trap, especially not when you were drunk.” 

Christine let out a self-deprecating chuckle, shaking her head softly. “It’s just so ridiculous, I literally did agree to marrying him.” He silenced her by pressing two fingers over her lips, gazing intensely into her eyes with a determination that spoke volumes of his conviction. “No, you did not,” he declared firmly, and removed his fingers from her lips. “You were drunk, and in no right mind to consent to a lifelong decision. And he took advantage of that.” 

She sighed, taking in his words. “Yes, he did, I knew that already,” she whispered, her voice heavy with regret and sorrowful frustration. Christine was in no way unaware of that fact, she knew very well that Lord George had taken advantage, even as she blamed herself for not stopping him. And because she had let him, she would be the one to pay the price. “But that’s just the point, he did. And now there’s no return,” she muttered hopelessly. 

William took hold of her chin, gently but firmly tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Yes, Christine, there is,” he assured her, his eyes boring into hers with an irrefutable, fierce conviction, determined to make her believe him. “I swear to you, I will help you in any and every way that I can. You have my word.” 

He searched her eyes for trust, and his heart nearly skipped a beat when he saw something he thought resembled it. It was a relaxed vulnerability that he saw in her big, brown, doe-like eyes, free from the weight of hopelessness that had clouded them before. “How?” she asked, her voice no longer weak, but carrying a soft tinge of trust. 

The truth was, William wasn’t quite sure how. There was one alternative that immediately appeared in his mind, and that was to marry her. But he couldn’t suggest she tie herself to him forever just for the sake of escaping another man’s clutches. That wouldn’t be fair to her, not when she had already suffered so much at the hands of another man’s control. Still, the thought lingered. If she would have him, he would marry her in a heartbeat. But he would not offer unless she wanted it—truly wanted it. 

Instead, he let out a quiet breath, his thumb stroking over her cheek. “I… I will challenge him to a duel.” 

Those words elicited an incredulous scoff from Christine’s lips, and she shook her head vehemently at the suggestion. “Absolutely not,” she opposed. William frowned, cocking his head as he tried to understand her reasoning. In his mind, a duel would be a rather optimal way to save her from Lord George, and he found it rather silly how determined she seemed about preventing it, judging by her blatant disapproval. “Well, why not?” he asked. 

She scoffed again. “Well, firstly, it’s dangerous,” she shook her head repeatedly as she argued against the idea. “Secondly, it’s absolutely absurd, because… I mean…” her words trailed off as she continued shaking her head, pursing her lips and looking away, as if she were suddenly at a loss for words. She returned her gaze to him, that fierceness he so loved gleaming in her eyes. “I mean, a duel? Really? Just, no. It’s not happening.” 

A soft smile of amusement tugged at the corners of his lips, and William didn’t stop it from spreading. “Are you afraid I will get hurt, Christine?” he teased, nudging her side gently. He saw how a faint smile appeared on her face, but she seemed to suppress it, for it did not take form. “Well, I assure you, I am quite skilled with both a pistol and a sword, so you need not worry,” he added, his words meant to both reassure and amuse her. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Christine said quietly, momentarily averting her gaze to her lap, where William’s hand was closed around hers. He hadn’t intended to hold her hand for so long, but neither of them had made any move to pull away, nor had they any wish to. He heard her chuckle to herself, a sweet, melodious sound that warmed his heart. “I’m not worried about that at all, actually,” she said, a hint of mischief in her voice. 

William raised an eyebrow, gently nudging her side again, drawing her attention back to him. “Do you not care for me then, Christine?” he asked, feigning hurt. She laughed softly at his teasing, the sparkle in her eyes betraying her playful nature. “That’s not what I mean,” she laughed, her eyes bright with a teasing glint. “It’s only… well, George’s father, Lord Calvert, has told me that George is a terrible shot, and swordsman,” she enlightened him humorously, giggling as she spoke. “So you see, I have no cause for worry.” 

It warmed William’s heart to see Christine so unburdened, smiling and laughing as if in her natural habitat. “Then why are you so opposed to the idea of a duel?” he asked, a grin on his face that matched hers. 

She thought for a moment, her answer delayed by the distraction William’s mere presence seemed to bring. “Duels are ridiculous,” she answered at last. 

He raised the same eyebrow again, then sighed, confused, yet in awe of her conviction. He pulled her closer once more, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I believe I couldn’t agree less,” he replied quietly, murmuring his words against her hair as he brushed his lips lightly across the top of her head, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver through her. “I don’t think I would understand your reasoning if you told me, nor would I agree,” he said quietly, smiling slightly against her head. “But I don’t need to,” he added softly. 

Christine raised her head, gazing up into his eyes with a soft smile. “So… no duel?” she asked wishfully. Looking into her eyes, William found that as much as he wanted to avenge her, and give that scoundrel Lord George what he deserved, he could not find it in him to go against her wishes. He didn’t think he could bear watching the hope in her eyes disappear, and therefore, he yielded to her wish. His smile widened, and he nodded promisingly, “No duel.”

Her smile deepened as William nodded, a look of warm, genuine relief washing over her. “Thank you, William,” she whispered. William moved his hand to cup her cheek, his heartbeat quickening as he felt the warm softness of her skin beneath his palm. His gaze flickered down to her lips, still plump and coloured in an intense shade of pink from the lingering sting of the tears that had previously crossed her cheeks. The urge to lean in and let their lips meet in a passionate kiss was almost overwhelming, and for a moment, he considered giving in. But he knew how selfish that would be. His desire wasn’t what mattered now, but her peace of mind, and assurance of her safety. 

“I will protect you,” he promised softly, his voice low and earnest. “You needn’t fear that man anymore.” He felt her tense slightly as he withdrew his hand from her face, and a part of him sensed she longed for more of his touch, just as he longed for hers. Clearing his throat, he tried to push down the desire that seemed to rise uncontrollably within him. “Was there… anything else?” he asked, his voice considerate, though strained by the tension between them.

She shook her head softly. “No, that’s all,” she whispered, her voice small, as if she were still processing everything that had passed between them. William saw how she lowered her gaze to her lap, and his eyes followed hers, and he smiled at the sight of their hands still intertwined, resting on her thigh. 

“You must be tired,” he said gently, his voice filled with concern as he noticed the weariness in her eyes. Christine only nodded in response, and he helped her get steady back up on her feet, never letting go of her hand. “I’ll follow you to your bedchamber,” he suggested as he walked with her to the door. He only meant the idea as a kind gesture, but as he realised how inappropriate the words had sounded, he inhaled sharply, regretting them. “I only meant… I could walk with you, so you get there safely,” he clarified, blushing as he spoke. 

A light chuckle passed Christine’s lips. “I know what you meant,” she replied with a playful smile, her eyes brightening with mischief at the awkwardness in his voice. “As for my safety, I haven’t spotted any ghosts before, so I think I will be alright,” she said with a playful wink, the previous tension between them now a mere memory. “You stay here, William. I’ll walk alone.”

William let go of her hand to open the door for her, and they both grimaced at the loss of warmth they had provided for one another. “You really are brave, Christine,” he murmured softly, adoringly, as he held the door open for her. A teasing smile lifted the corners of his lips, and he leaned in and whispered, “Very brave to walk alone in the dark when all the ghosts are roaming free.”

She laughed again before stepping through the doorway into the corridor, and turned around for one last look at him. “Good night then,” she said quietly. 

“Good night,” he echoed, smiling softly, his heart fluttering as he saw her mirror his smile. They stood there for a while, William leaning against the doorway looking at her, and Christine looking back at him not far away. “Christine,” he called gently, with a hint of sternness. “Off to bed with you, it’s past your bedtime,” he teased, revelling in the laughter he brought her. 

Christine rolled her eyes with a playful sigh, but the smile never left her lips. “I was just going to,” she insisted, though they both knew it wasn’t true. Her smile stayed on her lips as she turned and walked down the hallway. William watched her from the doorway until she and the light from her candle disappeared into the darkness, and only then did he close the door. 

She walked through the dark hallways, with only her candle for light, its flickering light casting faint shadows around her. Christine hadn’t been afraid of the dark for many years, but after William’s teasing warning of ghosts, she couldn’t help how her mind seemed to linger on the thought. At the sound of the floor creaking beneath her feet, she gasped and stilled for a moment, taking a deep breath. But then, as she stood still, she heard another creak, this one more distant. Her eyes, panicked, darted through her surroundings, searching the darkness for the source of the sound. 

But she didn’t see anyone, and while she wanted to call out “who’s there,” the words never came out. Instead, she began walking again, at a quicker pace now, and never looked back as she rushed to her bedchamber. Once she reached her destination, she quickly slipped into the room and locked the door, and only then could she really breathe. 

She wasted no time before throwing her robe off and getting into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She understood the creak of the floor might merely have been because of the old age of the building, but she had always been easily spooked, and her mind had a tendency to play tricks on her—this time was no different. As Christine lay there in the quiet stillness of her room, the darkness surrounding her seemed to press in, but she could still feel the warmth of William’s touch lingering on her skin, a silent reassurance that calmed her racing heart. The shadows of the night no longer felt as intimidating, for in her mind, she knew she wasn’t truly alone. 

Chapter Text

November 1777

The next morning, Christine awoke with a start. She groaned as the curtains of the tall canopy were drawn back, allowing a flood of golden morning light to hit her eyes. “Good morning, Miss Christine,” said Kitty, her lady’s maid, curtsying respectfully, a tray of gleaming silver in her hands. On the tray was a cup of steaming hot tea, and a small plate beside it with a slice of bread, with butter and cheese on top. 

The china clinked as Kitty placed the tray on the bedside table, and Christine slowly fluttered her eyes open, squinting against the brightness as she propped herself up on her elbows. “It cannot be morning already,” she mumbled wearily, her voice hoarse from sleep. She placed her hand in front of her mouth as she yawned wide, while Kitty moved across the room to the closet. 

Due to her visit to William’s bedchamber late at night, Christine had gone to bed very late. Being deprived of sleep, and in addition, unexpectedly forced to wake up unusually early left her feeling sluggish and irritable. Christine reached for the teacup, blowing carefully into the cup as the steam curled into the morning air. She took a small sip, smiling contentedly to herself as she tasted the nostalgic flavour on her tongue—it tasted just like the tea her grandmother used to make, and she had to restrain herself from drinking it down in one big swallow. 

“Forgive me, Miss, but I was ordered to wake you early this fine morning,” Kitty continued, carefully laying out Christine’s folded garments on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Christine made a humming noise of inquiry, and Kitty answered, “His Lordship wishes to speak with you in his study. Post-haste, he said.” 

“What does he want to talk about?” she asked. By then, Christine knew that when Lord John urgently requested her presence, it was rarely for something trivial. And Lord John, by then, had learned that Christine wasn’t one to rise early—and he respected that. Therefore, being summoned so early made Christine wonder if something was amiss, something crucial. She made a hurry of eating her breakfast, barely chewing the bread before swallowing it down. 

Kitty exhaled deeply once she had placed all the many layers of Christine’s clothes on the ottoman, her eyes glancing back at the bed as she hesitated. “He did not tell me, Miss,” she explained. “Only that it is of importance.”

Christine raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued, along with an underlying sense of unease. She pushed aside the warm, layered quilts and stood from the bed, shivering as the cold air of a late November morning hit her skin. With quick, hurried movements, she pulled her nightgown over her head, instantly replacing it with a shift, handed to her by Kitty, and then began to dress in the many layers of clothing. 

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Christine knocked gently on the door to Lord John’s study, waiting until she heard “enter” be called from the other side before opening the door. When she did, she saw Lord John turn his head, watching her with a scrutinising gaze. But his eyes were not the only pair that darted to her—stood on the other side of the desk, was William. He looked at her with admiration in his eyes, but there was also a nervous, alarmed look in them. Seeing his worry, a sense of unease rose within her, and her suspicion that something was amiss grew. 

With tense steps, Christine moved further into the room, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, meeting Lord John’s gaze as she moved to stand beside William, as though they were two naughty children. “Is everything alright?” she asked quietly, even though the answer was practically written on Lord John’s face. 

Lord John’s fingers drummed against the polished wood of his desk as he studied them both. His scrutiny was intense, weighing down heavily on Christine, and she had to will herself not to shift under his gaze. In her peripheral vision, she noticed William reacting similarly, his fingers twitching at his sides as though he was resisting an urge to speak. 

“Christine,” Lord John began, cutting through the torturous silence that had gnawed at them, “I saw you leave William’s bedchamber last night.” 

She thought the silence had been uncomfortable, but the words replacing it hit her like a brick thrown in her face, and she flinched slightly, feeling her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Any words of defence were snatched from her throat as she stood there, speechless and stunned. She looked to William, silently pleading for him to speak, but his eyes were fixed on the floor, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. Christine felt her heart race, an uncomfortable mixture of guilt and fear curling in her stomach. She knew, and William knew, that no scandalous acts had been committed, but the confrontation made her feel as though they had. 

Lord John continued to scrutinise them, appearing to be searching their reactions for any emotion that may convey the truth. Finding guilt evident on their faces, he sighed once more and leaned back in his chair with a look of disappointment on his face. “I must ask, and I expect complete honesty,” he declared, his voice firm, yet unnervingly calm, and with an unmistakable seriousness—just like his expression. Those were not the kind of eyes you could hide anything from. “Is there a need for a marriage licence?” 

The question sent another wave of heat to Christine’s cheeks. Incredibly inconvenient, she thought, for while she knew she wasn’t guilty of anything, blushing would surely suggest otherwise. Through her decent knowledge of historical marriage customs, Christine knew exactly what Lord John was implying with his question; whether she and William had shared a bed—a thought that made her blush even harder. William, however, proved to be far better at dispelling false assumptions than she was, for he met his father’s gaze without hesitance. “No,” he answered firmly, “I swear, there is not.”

Both the men looked to Christine—William, seeking her reassurance and support, and Lord John, still searching for any sign of dishonesty. “Uh… no, there’s no need for… that,” she mumbled anxiously. Lord John regarded her, his eyes fixed observingly on her face, as if reluctant to believe her, especially as he saw the deep blush on her cheeks. “I really don’t know why I’m blushing,” she said, letting out a nervous chuckle in an attempt to lighten the tension. But as neither of the men seemed amused, she turned her gaze to the floor. 

William took a deep, steadying breath, and turned his gaze back to Lord John. “Nothing untoward happened, we only talked,” he told him assuringly, and Lord John listened, despite his doubts. William’s eyes glanced at Christine for a moment, quietly asking for her consent to reveal the sensitive details of their conversation. She met his gaze and made a small nod of her head, to which he gave a slight smile before turning back to his father. “Christine told me something rather distressing about the nature of her betrothal,” he explained, speaking carefully as to not upset Christine. 

Lord John’s brows furrowed as William’s words hung in the air, and Christine felt the weight of the silence grow heavier with each passing second. “He has been blackmailing me,” she whispered weakly. 

At this revelation, Lord John’s eyes widened in surprise, and he shifted slightly in his chair, studying Christine very carefully. Nervous, Christine fiddled with the fabric of her skirt while gazing at the ground. She looked up again when Lord John coughed to get her attention.

“Christine,” he started, his expression completely unreadable, “You mean to tell me that Lord George Calvert, son of one of the most respected nobles of the peerage, has been tempted into blackmailing you, a stranger with no title, and an unknown background, into marrying him? Surely you must hear how ridiculous that sounds.”

Christine stiffened, swallowing hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. She had expected some level of scepticism—how could she not? Lord George was an esteemed gentleman, the heir to a viscountcy. And she was just a girl, relying on the kindness and hospitality of Lord John—but with no family of her own, no connections, only a name tied to nobility, but with no proof it was even hers. Still, she hadn’t expected to be dismissed as if she were a child spinning tales to avoid trouble, and it felt like a sharp slap across her cheek. “So you mean to say, you think I’m lying?” she said, a note of anger in her voice, though it was toned down and subtle. 

Lord John let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable as he folded his hands atop the desk. “I did not say that, Christine,” he assured gently, his expression resembling that of a father trying to reason with a wayward child, rather than a man accusing her of dishonesty. “I would never accuse you of lying, but you must admit that what you are saying sounds unlikely. What would a gentleman like Lord George have to gain from blackmailing you—a woman with no family, and no dowry to offer him?”

In no way was Christine ashamed of her heritage, or lack thereof, but the sharp truth of Lord John’s words stung, igniting a frustration within her, one largely rooted in pride. “He’s a madman!” she exclaimed, her voice rising with a mixture of anger and desperation. “I don’t know why he is doing this, but that doesn’t dispose of the fact that he is doing it,” she stated firmly, her voice calmer, though strained by the intense underlying frustration. 

Beside her, William shifted restlessly. He had a tension in his posture that suggested every fibre of his being longed to speak up on her behalf. And by his sides, his fingers twitched slightly, as though resisting the urge to reach out, take her hand in his and offer her the support she so clearly needed. But held back, his trust in Christine’s strength and resolve keeping him silent. He allowed her the space to speak for herself, knowing how important it was for her to find her own voice in that moment. 

“I realise it sounds unbelievable,” she conceded, calmer now, meeting Lord John’s gaze firmly, refusing to shrink back under his doubts. “But what I am telling you is the truth, and I wouldn’t have anything to gain from lying. He tricked me into agreeing to marry him at a time when I was…” she hesitated, glancing over at William, “in no right state of mind to consent to a lifelong decision. And then he threatened to spread lies about me if I did not go through with it.”

She rambled on, recounting the sordid details of the circumstances—the threats, the abuse, and the fear Lord George had instilled within her. The honesty in her voice was unmistakable, without a trace of deceit—something Lord John could not dismiss. When Christine finally finished speaking, the room fell into an eerie silence.

Lord John wore an expression of deep self-reproach, guilt gnawing at him for the atrocities committed beneath his very roof, unbeknownst to him. And that Christine—whom he had sworn to protect—had been subjected to such vile treatment by a man who wore the guise of a gentleman so convincingly that Lord John had given his consent for them to marry. “Christine, I… I am terribly sorry for my ignorance, I had no idea…” he trailed off, shaking his head slightly. 

Despite the memory of William’s reassuring words lingering in her mind, and her awareness that she wasn’t responsible for what had happened, Christine couldn’t help but partially blame herself. Looking back, she kept thinking she could have escaped before the situation had escalated. Instead, she had allowed herself to be ensnared in a web of lies and manipulation, too afraid to act, too uncertain of what might happen if she did.

“Don’t trouble yourself with that,” Christine told him softly, her voice weak from the weight of the words she had spoken earlier, the emotional burden threatening to suffocate her. “I should have told you from the beginning.” Christine glanced down at her feet, her head hanging low—something that rarely happened. “I was a foolish coward not to,” she mumbled to herself, her hands tightly gripping the fabric of her skirts by her sides. 

“No,” said William, his voice firm and comforting as he stepped closer to her. “I told you last night, you are not a coward, Christine.” 

She looked up at him, feeling a familiar flutter in her stomach as his eyes met hers with such intense attention. Christine wished time could stop right then and there, so she could lose herself in his gaze forever, and savour the bliss his presence brought her for all eternity. She had witnessed time’s rules be defied before; why couldn’t they be defied again, in that moment?

Lord John, far from oblivious to the emotional undercurrent so heavily present in the room, cleared his throat as he looked between the two of them. He could sense the bond between them, as clear as a hawk spotting its prey. And yet, as William and Christine reluctantly tore their eyes off each other, a hesitation so intense it seemed to pain them physically, they went on to behave as though their affection was a well-kept secret, as if it was not evident in every glance they exchanged.

Christine felt her cheeks flush once more as she caught on to the knowing look in Lord John’s eyes—one eyebrow raised slightly, accompanied by a faint smile of amusement. Instinctively, she glanced over at William, only to find him coincidentally sneaking a glance at her. The momentary eye contact caught her off guard, making her blush profusely and quickly avert her gaze. From across the desk, she heard Lord John clear his throat again, and she nervously met his gaze, feeling an odd sense of relief that his expression had shifted to one of seriousness, no longer silently teasing them with his knowing look.

“Well, I imagine there are some matters to address regarding the future,” Lord John began in a steady voice, his fingers tapping gently on the desk as if he were composing his thoughts. “But first, I want to apologise to you, Christine, for my previous doubts,” he said sincerely, his voice carrying a deep sense of remorse, yet an unwavering honesty that made his words feel all the more genuine. 

Christine smiled softly, her expression calm as she made her forgiveness clear with a simple nod of her head, a gesture that spoke volumes. He continued, “Of course, you will not have to marry Lord George, and I will ensure that no pressure will be placed upon you to fulfil such a promise.”

She sighed in relief, feeling a heavy weight lift from her shoulders—one she had carried for far too long. “However,” Lord John continued, his tone taking on a more serious edge, “there is still the matter of reputation to consider.” Christine nodded understandingly, her stance calm and collected, but inwardly, her heart sank at the mention of her reputation. It was something George had told her time and again—that breaking their betrothal would brand her as a deceitful woman, leaving an ugly stain on her name that would be near impossible to erase.

“What do you suggest?” she asked Lord John, who remained silent for a moment, as though carefully considering his answer, though it was clear he already knew the best course of action.

“I believe,” Lord John began, his voice steady but firm, “that the best way to protect your reputation, Christine, and to ensure no further harm comes your way, is for you and William to marry. And considering what I witnessed last night, it would be prudent.”

Christine’s heart skipped a beat at the suggestion. She blinked, trying to make sense of the words that had just left Lord John’s mouth. Marry William? The thought hit her like a sudden gust of wind—both exciting and terrifying. It was a possibility she had privately entertained in the quiet moments of her own mind, but never in such a serious context. She had certainly dreamed of a future with William, imagining what it might be like to share her life with him, but the idea of marrying him now, not for love, but to preserve her reputation, felt utterly overwhelming. 

She glanced at William, and he met her gaze in return. A faint blush spread across her cheeks, but she held his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. His eyes, wide with surprise, mirrored her own. Yet, as Christine continued to look into them, something else became clear—something far deeper than the initial shock. It was a subtle flicker, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable once she noticed it. Hope, joy. Perhaps even… love. The emotions flashed in his eyes, and though she hesitated to fully acknowledge them, she could recognise them for what they were. It was a sight she had dreamt of, and longed to see with her own eyes. 

But now, standing faced with what she had desired for so long, it suddenly felt like more than her fragile heart could withstand. And so, she turned her eyes away once more. 

“How and when?” William asked his father, a faint but detectable tinge of the same hope Christine had noticed in his eyes now evident in his voice.

Lord John thought for a moment, tapping his fingers against the polished wood of his desk as he pondered the alternatives. “It would be best to avoid any unnecessary delay, and act quickly, as to protect Christine’s reputation,” he explained, his voice devoid of any pressure, only a quiet urgency. “I shall procure a marriage licence, and the ceremony will take place within the week. I know it seems cursory, but it is crucial that we do this swiftly. The longer this drags on, the more opportunities Lord George may have to spread rumours or cause damage to Christine’s name. A hasty but legitimate marriage will serve as the best defence against any further scandal.”

Christine swallowed, her throat dry. “A wedding… so soon?” she murmured, the reality of the situation settling in like a heavy fog. 

“Yes,” Lord John responded with a firm nod. “I understand it is a great deal to ask of both of you, but it is necessary,” he finished, his voice softening slightly. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes scanning their faces with a mixture of concern and determination. “Besides, I have noticed a fondness between you two. I have no doubt it will be a successful union.” 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

After a lengthy and detailed conversation, a consensus had been reached. As the arrangements were being ironed out, Christine felt her heart weigh heavily in her chest, knowing it would be a far cry from the grand wedding she had once dreamed of as a young girl. Instead of the vivid childhood visions she once had—of vibrant flowers in full bloom, their petals spilling over in bursts of colour and fragrance, towering stacks of cake too extravagant to eat, and a joyous celebration filled with laughter, music, and the warmth of her entire family—the reality was much simpler. The ceremony would take place in just four days—barely enough time to prepare the essential elements, but enough to ensure the wedding was legitimate and discreet. 

Yet, despite the crushing of her inner child’s dreams, and the haste with which the event was being arranged, Christine found that she was not entirely opposed to it. With William by her side, she left Lord John’s study, and she waited for him to speak up as they walked down the corridor, but the silence only dragged on. It was insufferable, and awkward beyond measure. 

Desperate to break the awkward silence—though without much thought to the action—Christine impulsively grabbed William by the sleeve of his redcoat and pulled him into an empty room. 

William let his eyes wander around the room he had suddenly been pulled into, and saw that they were alone, unchaperoned. He turned his gaze back to Christine, who shut the door behind her with a firm click. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” he snapped, looking at her as though she had just torn her clothes off. 

Christine stayed quiet for a few moments, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her skirts as she gathered her thoughts. She could see the apprehension in his eyes, evidently giving away his instinct for propriety—a look she had witnessed in him countless times, and come to cherish. As William took slow steps towards her, she noticed the desire in his eyes, the hunger, the intensity in his gaze, and she had to will herself not to give in to him then and there. But her restraint felt like a thread on the verge of snapping. 

“I only wanted to talk,” she told him. Despite her words, there was a hesitation in her voice that suggested she had more on her mind than a simple conversation. Her heartbeat quickened as William stepped closer, invading her personal space, making her breath catch in her throat. William’s hands flexed by his sides, as if holding back the urge to reach out and touch her. 

The corners of his lips tugged upwards, and a smirk took form as he gazed down at her, their bodies mere inches apart. “Talk, is it?” he repeated, his voice a low grumble. He studied her intently, an emotion flickering in his eyes that Christine couldn’t quite place, but stirred something deep within her. 

She did her best to push aside the feelings rising within her, and focus on what was important, but she couldn’t help how her body responded to his close proximity. “Yes, talk,” she whispered, her voice hushed, tense due to how her restraint only weakened. “The wedding is only four days from now.” There was a subtle longing in her voice, a quiet desperation that contrasted sharply with her previous doubts. But as the words settled between them, hanging heavy in the air, the sharp reality of the hasty nature of their impending marriage came rushing back, and her expression turned dour, her shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. 

William’s eyes almost instantly drained of the desire that had previously coloured them. Or at least, they appeared to, for as he caught on to her change in demeanour, he immediately shifted, stepping back slightly. Concern swiftly replaced desire, and he valiantly bore the burden of looking into her anguished eyes, despite the way her troubled expression tore painfully at his heart. “Christine,” he whispered, slowly moving his hand up to caress her cheek, thoroughly searching her eyes for any sign that his touch was unwelcome. Finding none, he allowed himself to cup her cheek in his big hand, lightly brushing his thumb over her skin. “I don’t want you to feel trapped with me,” he told her quietly, his voice low and earnest. 

She almost melted under his gentle caress. The desire he had awakened within her still lingered, though it had softened, fading into something more innocent. Her need to touch him was just as strong, but she only gave in to it by raising her hand to her cheek, letting her fingertips lightly trace the veins on the back of his hand, and her eyes fell closed. “I don’t feel trapped, William,” she murmured softly, though her voice trembled with uncertainty. “But I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this… so soon.” Christine opened her eyes again, meeting his comforting gaze with a worried look. “And, of course… I don’t want you to feel trapped either,” she stuttered, anxiously fearing he had assumed she didn’t care about his comfort, and only her own. 

William hushed her, lightly dragging his thumb over her bottom lip before wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into a warm embrace. “I could never feel trapped with you. I want to be with you, Christine,” he admitted with a racing heart. 

Christine rested her head on his chest with her hands on his torso as he pulled her in close, feeling his heart beat fast under her touch. She couldn’t help but smile against him, and her eyes fell closed by themselves in the safety of his embrace. “You… want to marry me?” she asked, hesitant to believe it, deeming it as too good to be true. But as she felt his chest rumble with a soft chuckle, it didn’t seem so unlikely. 

“I would think there are worse fates,” he teased, giving her a gentle squeeze. Christine scoffed in mock offence, lifting her head from his chest and giving it a light slap. William laughed, his amusement only increasing. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Yes,” Christine agreed bluntly, a proud yet playful gleam in her eyes that made William smile wider. “But I could do worse,” she added, not bothering to hide the mischievous grin that spread across her face. 

“You have done worse.”

Christine rolled her eyes and buried her face back into his chest to hide her smile, though as the warmth of his laughter vibrated against her cheek, a contented sigh of a lightened heart escaped her lips—one William noticed. 

He held her a little tighter, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. “I will be good to you, sweetheart,” he whispered softly, pressing another kiss to the top of her head, this one firmer, though no less affectionate, and he let his lips linger for a long while. “I swear to you, I will never hurt you. I adore your spirit, your laughter, your smile, I would never do anything to diminish it. You have my word.” 

His loving words, spoken with a sincerity that made her weak in the knees, touched her heart in a way she had never experienced before. It made her want to cling to him forever, never let go, and be his in every way possible, living for the rest of eternity in the haven of his embrace. “As you said, I would think there are worse fates,” she whispered softly, her heart fluttering as he laughed softly. Christine tilted her head to gaze up into his loving blue eyes. “But in all seriousness, I won’t… mind being married to you,” she assured him, her voice more serious now, even though she feared she would swoon any second. 

An amused, but far from mocking smile appeared on William’s lips. “Is that so?” 

Christine rolled her eyes once more, trying with all her might not to appear as flustered as she felt. “Well, don’t let it get to your head,” she quipped, “the bar isn’t very high after George.”

At the mention of that name, William’s eyes darkened. He leaned in close, his eyes boring into hers with a protective fierceness that made Christine’s breath hitch. “I will handle him, make sure he stays away,” he promised, voice low and grim, sending a thrilled shiver down her spine. 

As much as she appreciated his protectiveness of her, Christine felt a responsibility to end things with George properly, face him herself and tell him the news, instead of hiding behind William as he took matters into his own hands. “No, I will do it. I will tell it to him in private-“

“Christine.” He cut her off, fixing her with a stern gaze that made her listen immediately. “Listen to me, it is very dangerous for you to be alone with him, and you know it. I don’t think he will react very well, and I refuse to put you in danger,” he told her firmly, his tone making it clear there was no room for argument. “I understand you want closure,” William continued, his voice softening as he took her hands in his, squeezing them gently. “But you would only be putting yourself in more danger, and I won’t allow it. No, I will speak to him myself.”

She sighed, mild frustration rushing through her as she realised he had a point. “Speak with your mouth or your fists?” she asked, her voice slightly bitter. 

William smirked as he envisioned the confrontation in his mind. “Whatever gets the message across,” he answered in a low, slightly smug voice. He then let go of her hands, and instead cupped her face, gazing intently into her eyes. “Christine, will you trust me to take care of this?” he asked solemnly, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as he waited for an answer. 

Christine hesitated. Every part of her wanted to argue, to do things her own way and stand on her own two feet, but the truth was, deep down, she knew William was right. It would be dangerous to face George alone—it always was. Truthfully, she never wanted to see him again, not even for a moment, not even to see his face contort with heartbreak as she told him the news. She was above that—above him. And she wouldn’t lower herself to breathe the same air as him, not ever again. “Yes, I trust you,” she whispered, her voice filled with both resignation and relief. There was something comforting in knowing that William would handle it, that he would protect her in a way she couldn’t protect herself. His presence felt like a fortress, and she found solace in the way he spoke to her, and the way he held her. 

A warm smile instantly lifted William’s lips, his heart swelling in his chest, overjoyed to have earned her trust—in protecting her, at least. “Good girl,” he praised softly, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger. “I’m so proud of you, Christine,” he whispered with a deep sense of adoration in his voice, “more than you can imagine.” 

She hadn’t realised before then how desperately she needed the reassurance, the affection, the comfort William so effortlessly provided. But hearing his sweet praise, and feeling his lips press against her skin, a part of her healed. A part she had forgotten was bleeding in the first place. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Snow had begun to fall, swirling in thick, icy flakes as the wind howled through the desolate landscape. It cut through the air like a blade, lashing against William’s exposed skin with a merciless chill. Despite that, he stood unfazed. He had made a promise to Christine—to make sure Lord George never bothered her ever again. 

Right after his rather intimate interaction with Christine, William had composed a short missive, requesting that Lord George meet him in the estate grounds, where they would settle things once and for all. The cold air now bit into his lungs as he breathed, but the burning rage within him kept his mind off the feeling of frost creeping into his fingers. His gloved hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, knuckles pale beneath the leather. 

The approaching sound of boots crunching against the frozen ground put a slight smile on his face, for he knew that the time for confrontation had come. William didn’t turn immediately. He waited, listening intently as the footsteps drew nearer, each step growing more hesitant with every passing moment. The sound faltered, as if the figure approaching was second-guessing their every move, unsure whether to continue or retreat. 

“Lord Ellesmere,” said Lord George, calling out to William, who only then turned to face him. He saw a trace of fear on George’s face, unmistakably rooted in the awareness that his treatment of Christine would not go unpunished. The scoundrel tried to hide his trepidation with a facade of hubristic arrogance, but his eyes betrayed his inner cowardice. 

“Lord George,” William responded curtly, his tone as cold as the air around them. 

The frozen grass beneath Lord George’s boots crackled as he took a step closer. It was clear he was attempting to appear intimidating and imperious, but his attempts only came across as hollow, and bore no success. And yet, he scoffed as though he wielded all the power in the world. “I assume you summoned me here to discuss my betrothal to Miss Christine,” he said with an arrogant sneer. “I suggest you keep your distance, Ellesmere. I’ve seen how you look at her,” he growled, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. “But she is mine. She will be my wife.”

A faint smirk flickered at the corner of William’s lips, though he kept it well hidden. “No, she will not,” he replied, his voice calm yet laden with menace. “Did you honestly believe you could get away with mistreating her?” he asked, his tone low and threatening as he took a step closer. “Well, allow me to inform you; you will not. You will not get away with abusing her, and you will not get away with blackmailing and threatening her,” he finished, his voice growing colder with each word. 

George’s face drained of colour, his arrogant facade slipping as William’s words lingered in the air. “That damned woman,” he muttered bitterly, his jaw tightening with fury. “She told you, did she? Even knowing the consequences?” George scoffed, shaking his head with great revulsion. 

William’s jaw clenched, and he took a menacing step forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “There will be no consequences,” he put forth firmly. “You are going to leave, Lord George, and you are going to stay away. You will not spread any rumours about her—you will not even speak her name. Miss Christine will never belong to you, and you better not think of laying a hand on her ever again,” he snarled in a low, commanding voice. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Oh, I see,” George muttered, his tone dripping with contempt. “You want that deceitful whore for yourself, don’t you?” Though his words dripped with condescension, his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “She is mine, and I will have her.”

The soft, menacing hiss of steel filled the air as William drew his sword from its scabbard, withdrawing it just enough to reveal its sharp, gleaming edge. “Speak of her like that again,” he growled, “and I will cut out your heart and hand it to her.”

Lord George took a cautious step back, his confidence faltering as fear crept into his eyes. “You think you can threaten me, Ellesmere? My father—”

“Your father?” William repeated, hilting his sword back into the scabbard, satisfied with the effect it had on Lord George. “And you believe your father will still want you as his son after he learns what you have done? His intolerance for such behaviour is well known, he would cut you from his will in an instant,” he said, his words sharp and precise, each one aimed to strike at Lord George’s deepest insecurities. “I trust you remember my demands. For your own sake, I suggest you adhere to them.”

A silence followed, save for the howling of the wind as it whipped violently through the barren trees, and lashed at their faces. Lord George stood frozen, as still as the ice in the nearby stream, silent and defeated. His gaze shifted nervously from William’s viciously cold glare to the sword that now rested, sheathed, at his side. “Leave,” William commanded, his voice like ice, as the wind swept away the last vestiges of George’s resolve. 

He hesitated, his lips trembling not just from the cold, and then, with visible reluctance, nodded. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely cutting through the howling wind. “I shall depart at once.” With those words of mortified surrender, Lord George turned and walked away, his boots crunching over the thin layer of snow with each grim step.

William watched him go, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as the weight of his victory settled in. He had kept his sworn word to protect Christine, and now, she could be his—just as he was hers.

Chapter Text

November 1777

“It’s good to see him leave,” Christine murmured, standing in the corridor with William by her side, both gazing out at the driveway where Lord George hastened to enter his carriage.

William hummed in agreement, and she felt a familiar flutter in her stomach as his fingers brushed against hers in a gentle, fleeting touch. “Yes,” he agreed, “you are safe from him now, Christine.” He stole a glance at her, noting the ease in her posture, the softening of her eyes, and the faint smile that played upon her lips. It brought a smile to his own face—seeing her at peace, at last. Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze back to the driveway, where the carriage was beginning to roll away.

Unable to resist any longer, he let their fingers intertwine, giving her hand a light squeeze. Leaning in close, he whispered in her ear, “I am here, and I will never leave you.” William noticed a rich blush bloom over Christine’s cheeks, and a warm smile of affection tugged at his lips as he gazed at her. “Especially not when I still have a game of chess to claim,” he added playfully, lightly nudging her side. 

It felt as though a memory from a distant time had been dredged up, painfully reminding her of things she had tried to forget. “There’s another reminder, William,” she said quietly, her grip on his hand loosening slightly, “that you never responded to my letter.”

A silence followed—a long, oppressive stillness that seemed to steal their breath, for neither had the words to shatter it. Eventually, William spoke, his voice heavy with regret. “I’m sorry. I need you to know that, Christine, even if you can’t forgive me yet,” he whispered, his grip on her hand tightening as if fearing she would slip away like a forgotten memory. 

Christine stayed silent for a moment, letting out a quiet sigh. “I do know it,” she replied softly, her words coming out weak from her suddenly dry throat. “I know you’re sorry. And I accept your apology. Besides, what you did doesn’t hurt anymore,” she paused, taking a steadying breath before continuing, “but I do not forgive you.”

“I understand,” he said solemnly, forcing himself to maintain his composure, even as a wave of sorrow washed over him. “You say it doesn’t hurt… anymore,” William paused, hesitant to continue, unsure whether he dared to hear of the pain he had caused her. He shook his head, silently chastising himself for even considering not confronting his actions. “But I did hurt you, did I not?” he asked, feeling his heart clench painfully as she nodded. “Tell me,” he urged, “I must know the extent of the pain I caused, so that I may fully grasp the depth of my failure.”

Christine hesitated, then slowly shook her head. “Not now,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She withdrew her hand from his, attempting to ignore the cold that crept in once the warmth of his touch was gone. “And not… here,” she added, glancing around the corridor, aware that anyone could pass by and overhear them. She turned her gaze back to him, meeting his eyes steadily. “But I won’t keep you in the dark. I… I will tell you when we play that game of chess.”

A flicker of hope sparked in William’s eyes, excitement and gratitude filling his chest at her words. “You still want me to teach you?” he asked, his voice tentative, as though afraid the fragile moment might slip away if he spoke too boldly. 

An idea sparked in Christine’s mind, and a glint of mischief danced in her eyes as she met William’s gaze once more. “You were hoping to teach me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a little late for that.” Her lips curved into a playful smile as William frowned, confusion evident on his face. “George taught me,” she lied, her voice light and teasing. “He was quite patient, you know. A fine teacher, I must say. We had so much fun.”

“What?!” William snarled, his fists clenching at his sides as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a growl. “You let that man teach you?” he asked bitterly. His tone was sharp, and his eyes narrowed with a mixture of disbelief and jealousy. “Christine, how could you?” 

Christine scoffed, rolling her eyes at his reaction. She had only meant to amuse herself by teasing him, but his response was not quite what she had anticipated. “Ah, yes, how could I?” she scoffed again, her frustration rising as she saw William’s temper flare. “Very disloyal of me. Except, I never made any promises to you about that, did I?” she added with a sly smile, watching his expression twist between jealousy and indignation.

William’s anger subsided ever so slightly, his fists unclenching and his expression softening, but his jealousy remained evident in his eyes. “You… you told me in your letter that you wanted me to teach you,” he reminded her, his voice low and filled with a mix of frustration and lingering hurt. “But you’re right,” he conceded, the sharp edge to his tone softening, “you made no promise. I know I shouldn’t be angry, but I had hoped…” His words trailed off as he looked down at his feet, ashamed.

She had not meant to hurt him—only to test his reaction. But now, seeing the genuine disappointment in his eyes, guilt slowly crept in. The amusement faded from her face, replaced by a pang of regret that twisted in her chest. “William,” she whispered, her voice gentle as she reached for his hand. “I’m sorry, I was only teasing.” She held his gaze, sincerity softening her expression. “George hasn’t taught me a thing. And I do want you to teach me.”

The tension in William’s posture eased as she spoke, and a slight smile tugged at his lips as their fingers intertwined once more. “You were teasing me?” he asked, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “You truly do enjoy testing my patience, don’t you?”

She couldn’t help but smirk. Tilting her head, she hummed as if considering her words. “Perhaps a little,” she admitted, a mischievous glint in her eye as she leaned in slightly and whispered, “or maybe a lot.”

They both laughed softly, the tension gone and forgotten. But as the laughter faded into silence, the weight of unspoken words pressed down on them, and for a moment, neither knew how to break the stillness that followed. Eventually, Christine cleared her throat, though she remained unsure of what to say. “There is… so much we don’t know about each other,” she admitted nervously, merely voicing a truth they were both in complete awareness of.

William raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised by her rather obvious statement, but he hummed in agreement. “That is true,” he acknowledged, with a slight reluctance that suggested he was not entirely comfortable with the fact. “We haven’t had time, but we do now. Christine, I want to know everything there is to know about you,” he said sincerely, an adoring smile appearing on his handsome face as he gazed down into her eyes. 

“And I want to tell you everything,” she responded, her sincerity mirroring his. Christine longed to pour her heart out to him, to let him see the very depths of her soul. Yet a part of her knew she could not—she could never reveal the full truth about her origins. The knowledge gnawed at her, a quiet torment, knowing she would have to deceive him.

But oh, how she longed to tell him. She yearned to see his eyes light up as she spoke of the wonders of the future, to witness the way he would look at her when he knew everything. But she dared not—not when the truth might cost her the very thing she feared losing most.

He must have seen her inner conflict as clear as day in her eyes, for he furrowed his brows in concern and gently cupped her cheek. William gazed deeply into her eyes, his thumb brushing over her soft skin in a soothing caress. “Christine, I know there are things you are not ready to tell me,” he said, as though reading her mind. “I will not force you, but you must know that it will do us no good to keep secrets.”

William cast a quick glance around the corridor, ensuring they were alone before leaning in, his eyes falling closed as he rested his forehead against hers. “I need to know you, Christine. But I swear, I will not rush you.”

Christine’s eyes fluttered shut, and her heart clenched painfully. She was certain she would have cried if not for the comforting warmth of his touch. “I never thought you would,” she whispered, a faint, contented smile curving her lips. “Believe me when I say I want to tell you everything, but I…” Her words trailed off, and he hushed her gently, pulling away just enough to meet her gaze.

“You need not explain yourself, my dear girl,” he assured her, his voice soft and understanding. He waited until the last trace of guilt had faded from her eyes before reluctantly letting his hand fall away from her cheek. A silence settled between them—not awkward, but thick with frustration. They both longed to be as close as they had just been—and more.

Wishing to dispel the tension between them—and to divert his thoughts from the myriad of images that invaded his mind when she looked at him in such a manner—William cleared his throat and sought to change the subject. “So… when shall I teach you chess?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet moment in an attempt at normalcy.

Christine chuckled softly at the abrupt shift in conversation. She considered for a moment, humming to herself as she weighed her answer. “We said we would talk when we played, did we not?” she mused, her tone light, though there was an undeniable seriousness beneath it. “Well, I would rather we speak undisturbed. Perhaps we should meet at night again, for privacy?”

For a moment, William thought his eyes might pop from their sockets. “At night? Again?” he hissed incredulously, lowering his voice to a whisper as though the very notion of it were a crime. He glanced swiftly about, ensuring no possible eavesdroppers lurked nearby, before turning back to Christine with a stern expression—one that faltered the instant he caught the playful gleam in her eyes. A shiver ran through him, and he felt a rush of heat flood his veins, causing his cock to twitch in his breeches. His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard, striving for composure.

“Christine,” he said at last, his voice low but steady. Yet as he parted his lips to speak again, the words evaded him. He was utterly ensnared by the mischief dancing in her gaze. Finally, with a hushed breath of disbelief, he whispered, “Have you lost your mind, woman?” There was a trace of amusement in his tone, despite his feigned indignation.

Christine’s laughter rang out, a soft, melodic sound that chipped away at William’s carefully maintained composure. “Are you afraid your father will catch us?” she teased, her smirk widening with every passing second.

William exhaled an incredulous breath, staring at her as though she had suggested the most absurd notion imaginable. His reaction only encouraged her, and she bit her lip playfully, savouring the battle of emotions playing across his face. He looked torn, as though he wanted to both scold her and kiss her at once, and at the thought of either, she felt warmth rise to her cheeks. “And what exactly do you think he would do?” she continued, her voice dripping with playful defiance. “Force us to marry?”

Though his desire teetered on the brink of surpassing his restraint, William could not help but partake in the humour of her teasing. He snorted, despite his best efforts to maintain his composure. “I am not afraid of getting caught—no, that is not the issue,” he said, his voice serious yet gentle. “It is simply… I do not wish to treat you as anything less than the lady you are,” he murmured, his gaze full of quiet reverence.

Touched by his sentiment, the mischief in Christine’s eyes softened, giving way to something fonder. A tender smile graced her lips, and as she looked up at him, her expression was laced with adoration. “You won’t,” she assured him quietly, her words a whisper of genuine trust. “I am certain you will maintain your… exquisite decorum,” she added, the faintest smirk playing upon her lips as she idly traced a fingertip over a button on his coat.

He was almost certain she was seducing him, and he could not deny the success of her endeavour—whether intentional or not. No woman could be so wholly captivating without meaning it, and yet, she seemed entirely unaware of her own allure. The way she spoke of his decorum, the manner in which the words rolled off her tongue with a knowing lilt that both challenged and caressed his very soul, left him utterly disarmed. And then there was the way she gazed up at him, those long lashes fluttering ever so slightly, as though daring him to abandon his deeply held principles. It left him in a state of exquisite torment, a turbulent longing that ached for more of her.

“Exquisite decorum?” he repeated, his voice edged with a strained chuckle. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, as though holding himself in check, battling the overwhelming impulse to reach out and touch her. “Do not test me, Christine,” he nearly pleaded, his voice husky and low, betraying the war that raged within him. “I do not wish to take liberties with you, my dear girl.”

Reluctantly, he took her hand, gently removing it from the button of his coat and holding it delicately in his own. “I want you, Christine, you know that I do,” he whispered, leaning in ever so slightly. “But I also hold you in the highest regard. I will not dishonour you, I give you my word,” he said solemnly, punctuating his promise with a tender squeeze of her hand.

Christine’s breath caught in her throat, her heart lurching with an unexpected swell of regret. She had not meant to stir such a reaction; her flirtation had been but a harmless, innocent tease. Yet, his response was anything but light-hearted. It was charged with a deep, intense yearning, as though she had ignited something within him—something far beyond what she had intended. What she had assumed to be but a flicker was, in truth, a blazing fire, burning unchecked, overwhelming her. Christine had unwittingly stoked that fire, and in his response, William displayed a restraint that filled her with love and awe. 

While she adored him for protecting her from the burn of her own fire, Christine also felt a deep sense of guilt gnawing at her conscience. She had played with him—she realised with a shock—though without malice, or even awareness of the effect of her actions. “I am so sorry,” she murmured, her voice faltering. “I… I shouldn’t have.”

She pulled her hand from his, stepping back slightly, as if to distance herself from the tumult she had stirred.

William smiled softly, as though untroubled by his own inner turmoil. “Do not fret, my darling,” he said, his voice warm, despite the chill that ran through him the moment she withdrew her hand from his. “I know you did not intend any harm. I shall not fault you for my reaction; that is my burden to bear, and my duty as a gentleman to restrain myself.”

Certainly, he had intended to reassure her, bearing the weight of her actions without hesitation, as though it were his own responsibility. A gallant gesture in its intention, yet it only heightened Christine’s guilt, making her feel even more undeserving.

“You shouldn’t burden yourself,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor, her hands nervously fiddling with the fabric of her skirts. “I should go. I have… matters to attend to,” she added softly, as though speaking to herself rather than the man standing before her, longing for her attention. She turned sharply, eager to flee before she embarrassed herself further. However, before she could take a step, William grasped her arm and spun her back to face him.

William’s grip on her arm was firm, his hand fully encircling her forearm, yet his touch remained as gentle as ever. He leaned in, loosening his hold, but not releasing her entirely. “Do not run from me, Christine,” he whispered, his voice a blend of desperate plea and quiet command. His breath was warm against her skin, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. “But most importantly,” he continued, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made Christine’s breath falter, “do not run from what you feel. I did, as you well know, and all it caused was pain.”

“I am not running from anything,” she hissed, the words edged with a frustration that seemed more directed at herself than him. “Let go of me,” she demanded, though the look in her eyes betrayed her words, revealing no true desire to escape.

William, though he saw through her fragile facade, knew that he could not press his touch upon her. Reluctantly, he released her arm, a quiet ache gripping his heart as she stepped back from him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured again. In William’s eyes, she had nothing for which to apologise, and he opened his mouth to offer her that reassurance, but she swiftly cut him off before he could speak.

“Don’t,” she interjected, her voice quieter now. “We have our whole lives to figure out… whatever this is,” she gestured vaguely between them.

William fought against the overwhelming urge to close the distance between them again. Ultimately, he yielded to his better judgment, staying where he stood, knowing that pressing her further would only drive her further into herself. “We do not need to figure anything out, Christine,” he said, his voice calm but firm, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His fingers twitched at his sides, longing to reach for her, yet he resisted. “I know what this is—I know what I feel,” he told her, his voice firm but gentle, as if offering her reassurance without demanding anything in return. “And I believe you know it too.”

Christine swallowed hard, meeting his gaze, though her heart raced with fear. He was right, she knew precisely what she felt. Love. Pure, indomitable love. The kind that neither time nor circumstance could erode. For months, her deepest wish had been to hear him confess his love for her. Instead, she had heard those very words from another man—a man who had caused her harm and instilled a deep-seated fear within her, all the while professing to be consumed by love. To hear the same declaration from William’s lips now, so soon, was nearly as terrifying as anything she had ever faced.

“Don’t say it,” she pleaded, her voice trembling, “I’m not ready.” 

William’s heart sank as he saw the fear in Christine’s eyes, immediately regretting having ventured so far. He should have known—he should have realised that she was not yet prepared to hear those words. And so, he refrained, keeping silent, despite the overwhelming urge that gripped every fibre of his being, urging him to speak his truth.

His gaze held her captive, urging her to search his eyes for the words that never passed his lips. His feelings were virtually inscribed in the blue depths of his gaze, revealing everything she needed to know, even without a spoken confession.

Christine gave him a small, acknowledging nod—a silent thanks for his restraint, for his understanding. Then, with a quiet grace, she turned on her heel and walked away. In some ways, she felt lighter—unburdened by the doubt and uncertainty that had once whispered to her in the dark corners of her mind—for now, she knew the truth. He felt the same. But in other ways, she felt heavier than ever, burdened with guilt for her inability to fully embrace what she now knew, both in her heart—and now in her mind—to be true.

Surely, it had never been William’s desire to love a woman who feared hearing him utter those words. And in that moment, she realised—she was the true burden.

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

With unspoken words lingering on his tongue, William found himself with little appetite during dinner. He had been eagerly anticipating the occasion—if only for the chance to see Christine once more, after she had left him standing alone in the corridor, his heart ensnared by a cage of restraint. However, to his surprise, she was far more evasive than he had anticipated, for she had not appeared at dinner.

She sure knows how to keep a man on edge, William mused with a rueful smile, now back in his bedchamber, undressing for the night after spending an hour at his desk, writing correspondence. He could not help but feel a growing frustration with her—how she allowed him to be close to her one moment, let him hold her hand, and express his affection in silent gestures, yet drew away as soon as the words of love were about to spill from his lips. William did not know the reasons behind her reluctance, but he was not the sort of man to dismiss her boundaries simply because he longed for more. 

He remained open and willing to hear her explanation, yet, thus far, she had seemed averse to providing one, or even seeing him, as evidenced by her absence at dinner. William found himself concerned for her, and for how their marriage would unfold if such distance persisted between them.

 “I won’t mind being married to you,” she had said. To another pair of ears, the words may easily have been misinterpreted as vague. But when spoken by a woman like Christine, whose reticence spoke volumes, those words felt like an invitation in the ears of a man like William—a man deeply in love. And after so many months, he was finally ready to tell her, but she did not even want to hear it. 

His fingers paused over the second-to-last button on his waistcoat as an idea surfaced in his head—one William could hardly believe he was entertaining. But he craved answers, almost as much as he craved her, and she had already proven it was never too late into the night for a clandestine meeting between them. To offer her his shoulder to cry on at night when she sought comfort was one thing, but to seek her out himself was quite another. 

But had she not suggested it herself? Had she not proven herself perfectly willing to meet him at night again? William knew it would be ungentlemanly, but his patience was wearing thin, and he would not have his marriage built on secrets. Therefore, he buttoned up his waistcoat and made for Christine’s bedchamber. 

Helwater was still at this hour, with no lit candles in sight except for the one William carried. Aside from the pale moonlight streaming through the windows, it was his only source of light, casting flickering shadows across the wooden floor beneath his feet. As he stood before her door, William hesitated. He never hesitated. Not with Christine. The one time he had—when he chose not to send his letter—he had regretted it dearly. Upon that thought, William raised his hand and knocked. 

He heard shuffling footsteps from the other side of the door, and his heartbeat quickened. Before long, the doorknob twisted, and the door creaked open, revealing Christine standing before him. Her hair was loose, just as it had been the first time he laid eyes on her, cascading down her back like a silken waterfall. She wore a simple white nightgown of soft cotton, the ruffled lace along the sleeves and neckline only accentuating her delicate beauty. William found himself aching to reach out and untie the ribbon at the front of her gown, to reveal the body he had so often dreamt of. Yet, he remained still, his fingers twitching by his sides as he silently cursed himself for such a thought.

“William?” Christine’s voice, soft and laced with astonishment, broke his reverie. “W-what are you doing here?” she stammered, her surprise evident. She did not shoo him away, as William had feared she might, nor did she invite him inside. Instead, she stood there, wide-eyed and silent, as breathtakingly beautiful as ever.

Clearing his throat, William forced his mind away from the temptation of her appearance and met her gaze, which was now filled with expectation. “I, uh…” he faltered, scrambling to recall the words he had rehearsed during his brief walk. “I believe you said you wished to meet at night.”

Christine’s eyes widened further, her mouth parting in silent surprise, though no sound escaped her lips. “Oh… I suppose I did,” she murmured, her gaze shifting to the floor as her fingers nervously toyed with the fabric of her nightgown. After a moment, she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze once more, biting her bottom lip in hesitation. “You want to… come inside?” she asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly, seeking clarification of his intentions.

Surprised and taken aback by what he thought to be an offer, William instinctively took a step back—a silent gesture, meant to clarify his intentions. “What?” was all he could say, his eyes as wide as hers had just been. After a long moment of searching for words, he cleared his throat and spoke with a customary politeness. “No, thank you,” he answered, nodding his head with an almost regal courtesy.

A silence followed, during which Christine blinked, staring at him as though he had spoken in a foreign tongue. “What do you…” she mumbled, her brow furrowing in confusion as she tried to make sense of his response, which—to her—had been most obfuscating. Then, realisation slowly dawned upon her, and with it, her eyes widened once more. “I wasn’t offering, you idiot!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in defence, as though challenging an accusation.

Caught off guard by the sharpness of her words, William took another step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” he mumbled, shaking his head, as if the gesture would clarify his vague explanation. His mind offered various ways to remedy the misunderstanding, but unfortunately, none seemed sufficient. William remained speechless under Christine’s baffled gaze, until he finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “I swear, I am not here for… that.”

Christine remained silent, scrutinising him in the dim light. “I see,” she replied, her voice a flat monotone, impossible to interpret. “Then why?” she asked with a dry chuckle as if amused, but her eyes countered such an assessment. 

It was as though he could not quite recall the reason—whatever had compelled him to justify knocking on her door at such a late hour. Yet, fortunately for him, Christine had not demanded an explanation, only an answer. “I didn’t see you at dinner,” he said plainly, though he was acutely aware that it was a feeble excuse at best.

“Good,” she responded with a wry smile, watching William raise  an eyebrow in response. “Because if you had seen me, that would have been quite alarming—considering I… wasn’t there,” she continued, her voice dripping with sarcasm, a deliberate lightness that cut through the tension and, successfully, dissolved it. Christine leaned casually against the doorframe, a faint, amused smile playing at the corners of her lips. 

William huffed an amused breath, and as he watched her smile slowly spread, he couldn’t help but mirror it. “Indeed, that would have been cause for concern,” he agreed with a soft chuckle. “But in all seriousness, I did miss your company,” he admitted sincerely, gazing into her eyes with a gleam in them that left no doubt about his feelings. 

A rosy shade of pink bloomed over Christine’s cheeks, and she averted her gaze to the wooden floor beneath her feet. “Did you now?” she whispered quietly, a flustered expression plastered on her face. 

Resisting the urge to reach out and tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, William instead observed her with silent admiration—without the slightest protest. He allowed a low hum of warmth to escape him, a contented smile curving his lips until his cheeks began to ache from the breadth of his grin. “Have you eaten?” he inquired, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

Nervously, Christine slowly lifted her gaze from the floor to meet his eyes at the sound of his question, her cheeks still flushed with the evidence of her earlier blush. “I had some soup sent up earlier,” she replied, her voice soft as she leaned her head against the doorframe. “But it’s been some time now,” she added, her words trailing off with an understated note of hesitation.

William’s protective instincts flared, and after a brief moment of deliberation, he extended his hand toward her. “You must be famished,” he said with quiet insistence, his expression filled with genuine care. “Come, let us go to the kitchens and find something to your liking.”

His thoughtful offer moved Christine more than she cared to admit, and she felt her head tilt slightly in silent appreciation. A soft sigh of contentment escaped her lips, stirred by the warmth in her chest—a warmth she so often felt in William’s presence. However, as she saw the impatience flicker in his eyes, the arch of his brow conveying his growing restlessness, she snapped back to the present.

Reaching for his hand, her own paused just above his, hovering with uncertainty. “One moment,” she murmured, “I should put on a robe.” With a slight gesture of withdrawal, she retreated into her bedchamber.

Moments later, she reappeared, clad in a delicate pink robe of fine silk, a sash elegantly tied around her waist in a neat bow, the sight of which caused William’s breath to catch in his throat. 

William offered her his hand once more, sparks igniting within him as he felt the soft warmth of her skin against his own. Her fingers trembled slightly in his grasp, yet she made no move to pull away, nor did any such intention flicker in her eyes.

As they passed through the grand house, descending to the lower floors, no words were spoken. The silence between them was comfortable, bearing no need for conversation. William only released Christine’s hand to hold the kitchen door open for her, smiling warmly as she passed through. A sweet giggle escaped her lips as she did so.

“I hope you won’t be a bad influence on me,” she teased, glancing back over her shoulder as she stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, a playful gleam in her eyes. William followed closely behind, careful not to disturb the silence as he shut the door. The warmth that greeted him was a welcome contrast to the chill of the house. The scent of freshly baked bread, sweet biscuits, and the lingering traces of meals prepared filled his senses, bringing with it a comforting sense of ease.

“Bad influence, hm?” William echoed, his voice tinged with amusement as he moved about the room, searching for a morsel that might tempt her.

Standing by the long, worn wooden table in the centre of the room, Christine watched him for a moment before replying, the playful glint never leaving her eyes. “Mhm, I’ve heard of your… shall we say, notorious history of sneaking around late at night for a midnight snack,” she teased, feigning innocence. She hopped onto the table behind her, swinging her legs playfully as she continued, “Why, I cannot recall a single time I’ve committed such a terrible deed myself—sneaking out past my bedtime,” she added with a mischievous grin, her voice laced with ironic mockery.

“Liar,” William said, approaching her with a small container filled with sweet biscuits. He opened the lid, grabbed one, and placed the container down beside Christine, who eyed the morsel in his hand with hunger. Seeing the look in her eyes, William chuckled and brought the biscuit up to her mouth, tapping her bottom lip with the treat. “Open up, dearest,” he whispered, prompting a soft laugh from her before she opened her mouth and took a bite.

He watched, captivated, as her eyes sparkled with delight at the flavour. The sight stirred a deep hunger within him—albeit, not for any biscuit, but for the far sweeter indulgence that sat warm and inviting on the table before him.

Christine’s lips parted with a quiet sigh of contentment as she swallowed the last bite. “Delicious,” she said with a satisfied smile. “You sure know how to satisfy a lady’s cravings, don’t you?” she teased with a wink, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary. 

It was as though someone had lit the kitchen’s hearth without their notice, for the warmth between them seemed to radiate far beyond the physical heat of the room. “You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice low, heavy with innuendo. He found himself unable to tear his gaze from her, watching with burning intensity as she licked her lips, savouring the last remnants of the biscuit. The sight tantalised him, arousing a deep desire that surged through him, sending a jolt of longing straight to his cock, which began to strain against his breeches.

The scorching intensity of William’s gaze felt as though it seared her skin, lingering like a heated touch, penetrating her every pore and igniting a deep, smouldering longing that coursed through her veins and settled in her very bones. Overwhelmed, Christine quickly looked away, her cheeks flushed beneath the weight of his stare. She cleared her throat, striving to regain her composure. “That… that was very kind of you,” she said, her voice losing some of its teasing lilt. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here just to feed me biscuits.”

Noticing her apprehension, William pulled himself out of the haze of wanting that had clouded his mind and coloured his every thought. He cleared his throat, forcing his attention away from the physical evidence of his desire straining against his breeches. “No, I did not,” he replied, his voice tight with restraint. “We need to talk, Christine.”

There was something in the way he said her name, the tinge of seriousness sending a nervous shiver down her spine. It should not have come as a surprise, not after her hurried retreat from their previous encounter and her evasiveness ever since, yet it sent a rush of anxiety through her veins. “About?” she asked, avoiding his gaze.

William sighed. “There are many things I wish to discuss,” he told her, his gaze fixed on her face despite how Christine pointedly refused to meet it. “But I also know you are unwilling to hear most of them.”

His voice was gentle, but an edge of frustration lingered beneath. Catching on to it, Christine glanced up into his eyes and saw that he was not angry—only disappointed. His anger would have been preferable, for anger was a language she understood and could navigate with far more clarity. But disappointment? It cut through her heart in a way no sharp words, blazing glares, or outbursts ever could. “I know I’m a burden to you, William,” she whispered, her voice conveying the sheer amount of emotion charged in those few words. 

“A burden?” William repeated, incredulous, as if a more absurd sentence had never been spoken. “You are not a burden, Christine,” he assured her, his voice softer now, his desire dissipating as he spoke with the utmost gentleness and sympathy. “Why do you think that?” 

Christine took a deep breath, attempting to steady herself and restrain the tears that seemed determined to well up in her eyes. “Because I run,” she answered in a quiet, vulnerable voice. “You said it yourself, and you’re right.” Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, her gaze falling to the floor as though she could somehow escape the weight of her words by avoiding his eyes. “I always run from what I feel. I run from my problems—like I tried to dismiss the danger of my situation with George to make myself feel better. I run from the feeling of missing my mother, when in actuality, I…” 

Her words trailed off as the first tear rolled down her cheek. As if by instinct, William reached out and cupped her face, gently wiping the tear away with his thumb. The feeling of his touch flooded her senses, and the dam she had been holding back for so long finally broke. William pulled her into his arms and held her close to his chest, feeling her tears soak through his shirt, and her body tremble with sobs. “It’s alright, darling. You can tell me,” he soothed, brushing his fingers through her hair. 

“I miss her,” she wept, clinging to him like a drowning woman finding her lifeline. “I miss her so much, William. I can’t believe I’m… getting married, and she won’t be there.” 

Whenever William had inquired about her mother, Christine had been reluctant to answer, speaking only in vague terms. All he had known was her reckless decision to run away after an argument, with no intention of finding her mother again. But as she wept in his warm embrace, William realised that the truth ran far deeper than he had imagined, striking a chord within him. “I know, I feel quite the same,” he whispered, his own sorrow stirred by hers.

“But most of all,” she began, her voice no longer shaky or weak, “I’m running from what I feel for you.” As soon as the words left her lips, her heartbeat quickened, a mixture of fear and relief flooding her chest. She pulled back slightly and gazed up into his eyes. In their blue depths, she saw a love that mirrored her own heart.

William’s breath caught in his throat at her admission. Though he had sensed it in his very soul and seen it in her eyes, her confession felt like a blindfold being removed—exposing him to a light both blinding and clarifying. “You don’t have to run, Christine,” he whispered, his body moving towards hers like a magnet until he stood between her legs. “Why do you torture me so?” His words were a breathless plea, as if he were offering her his heart and soul with every trembling syllable.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she reached out, pressing her palm against his chest—desperate to feel his heart pounding beneath her touch, as if needing reassurance she had not already shattered it.

In a moment, his hand covered hers, pressing it more firmly against his chest. “Can you feel my heart, Christine?” he asked softly, his voice laden with a tenderness that spoke of an eternity of hidden longing, now laid bare. She nodded. “It’s yours,” William professed, a nervous tremble in his voice. “Without you, it would cease to beat, and my soul would wither like the coldest winter—dark, empty, and lifeless.” His grip on her hand tightened, holding it as though anchoring her to the sincerity of his words. “I need to know the truth, Christine. So tell me now, with my heart in your hand and under your mercy—do you love me as I love you?”

Christine’s breath hitched as his words, with all their meaning, sank into her soul and found a home there. And suddenly, there was no room for the fear that had once stifled her tongue and caged her heart. “Yes,” she whispered, a slight tremble in her voice, “I love you.”

The words flowed from her lips effortlessly, each softly spoken syllable dissolving the chill of uncertainty that had gripped her for what felt like an eternity. It was a profound liberation of her heart, a tender surrender of her soul, intertwined in a single moment. Before Christine could fully comprehend the weight of her confession, she felt William’s chest expand beneath her touch with a ragged breath—and before she knew it, he surged forward, capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

The feeling of his lips against hers unravelled the last remnants of her defences, coaxing her body to respond instinctively to his. She slid forward on the wooden surface, bridging the distance between them until their bodies were pressed together in a perfect collision. William pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her lips as he gazed into her eyes, searching for consent. “May I kiss you again?” he asked, his voice hushed with both reverence and longing.

Christine nodded, her eyes reflecting his own, displaying a desire that could burn the world to ashes if given free rein. The sight gnawed at his restraint until he gave in, surging forward once more, wrapping his arms around her and meeting her lips in a kiss fiercer than the last—fuelled by a hunger that demanded satisfaction.

William nipped lightly at her bottom lip, drawing a gasp from her as her body arched against his. He soothed the sting with a slow, sensual sweep of his tongue. She parted her lips, inviting him deeper, and their tongues began to dance in a perfectly synchronised rhythm, matching the pounding of their hearts. Hands roamed freely over each other’s bodies, exploring with eager determination, claiming what was theirs.

With deft fingers, William untied the silken sash around her waist and slid his hands beneath her robe. His palms settled over her hips, kneading the soft flesh through the thin fabric of her nightgown, drawing a pleasured sigh from her lips.

As his hands moved with skill and tenderness over her body, each touch ignited a surge of electricity that danced beneath her skin, leaving every inch of her he caressed aching for more. He pulled her closer still, until she could feel the evidence of his desire pressing against her—hard and throbbing, aching to be freed from the confines of his breeches and sink into her trembling body. And though their bodies were already practically melded together, she craved more.

With a wanton jerk of her hips, Christine rubbed herself against him, her lips parting in pleasure. William responded with a deep groan. “Christine,” he moaned against her lips, his voice low and rough, thick with need bordering on desperation. His lips left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jawline and down her throat, coaxing her head to fall back in surrender.

He sucked down on her neck, hard enough to leave marks, but with a reverence that resembled an artist signing his most valuable masterpiece. His self-control hung by a fragile thread, threatening to snap as Christine moved against him with an intoxicating rhythm.

His hands snaked from her hips to her backside, grabbing and fondling the ample flesh. Christine yielded to him, allowing him to press his hardness against the juncture of her thighs, grinding against her with continued sensual, deliberate motions. The pleasure he drew from her was intense, all-consuming, coursing through her veins and pooling at her core with each shockwave of ecstasy he sent through her body.

She was in a haze, lost and unwilling to leave the heaven he had brought her to. “William,” she moaned, his name falling breathlessly from her lips. Her hands slid up his chest, resting on his shoulders as she guided him over her, lowering herself onto the table.

But then, William’s grinding movements suddenly ceased, and his mouth left her neck with a shudder as he pulled back. William gazed down at her—taking in the sight of her flushed face, her hair splayed across the wooden surface, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and the wild, unbridled desire in her eyes. She wanted this—there was no doubt about that. And his own body was consumed with need for her, but he remembered the promise he had made—that he would not dishonour her. He would keep his word, though he feared it was already too late.

“Christine, we… we shouldn’t,” he murmured, stepping back, his hands leaving her body with a tremor of restraint.

Christine blinked in surprise, gazing up at him with a discernible flicker of frustration in her eyes. The sudden absence of his touch left her with a physical, throbbing ache, desperate for more. And yet, she knew he was right. Though her body and heart were in perfect alignment—eager and willing to be his—she did not want her first time to be a secret, rushed encounter in a kitchen. 

With a shuddering sigh, she nodded. “You’re right,” she said as William helped her sit up.

She tried to turn her head, avoiding his gaze, but William cupped her face in his hands, gently lifting her chin until their eyes met. “You need not be ashamed, sweet girl,” he assured her softly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “I love you, Christine,” he whispered against her skin, letting his lips linger.

“I love you, William,” she echoed just as softly, a contented smile playing on her lips. She pulled back slightly, gazing up into his loving eyes. “So, where will we be meeting in secret tomorrow night? It is becoming quite the regular occurrence, don’t you think?” she teased, giggling despite the deep sense of yearning still lingering in her body.

William chuckled, the sound warm and comforting in the aftermath of retreat. “I’m afraid that will not be possible,” he answered, his smile widening as she tilted her head in confusion, an adorably curious expression crossing her face.

“I must leave Helwater tomorrow and travel to Ellesmere, my darling,” he explained. “I must see to it that the estate is prepared to welcome its new countess.” His smile deepened at the thought—Christine, a vision of grace and beauty, soon to be his wife. Taking a steadying breath, he continued, “We will see each other again on the day of the wedding, my love. Until then…” He took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips, pressing reverent kisses to each of her knuckles. “Know that I love you, and that my heart calls out for you every moment you are not near.”

“So does mine,” she whispered, struggling to remain composed as his lips brushed over her skin, sending a deep flush to her cheeks.

Carefully, as if she were made of glass, William placed her hand back down onto the table, only to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, cupping her cheek and tracing his thumb softly over her skin.

Christine sighed contentedly, melting into his touch like a delicate flower unfurling in the warmth of the sun. “And you’re so handsome,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “I wish we could always be together.”

“We will, sweetheart,” he assured her, his smile gentle and adoring as his thumb brushed over her cheek. “Soon, we will.”

Chapter Text

One of the many stories her grandmother had often regaled Christine with was that of her parents and their love. How Josephine’s cruel family had forced her to choose between them and the man she loved, Thomas Rutherford—and how she had followed her heart and married her great love. Only for him to vanish less than a year after their wedding, leaving her a widow at a young age, with no family but the one she had married into. 

It was no wonder that Josephine had sought to live vicariously through her daughter, ensuring that she would experience a perfect, idealistic life—a life where love was not torn from her heart by the cruel twist of fate that had shattered her own. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

December 2006

The fire crackled peacefully in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the grand living room, now adorned with ribbons of gold and crimson that draped the walls and the large tree by the window, its baubles sparkling in the dim glow of the firelight. It was Christmas Eve, and outside, the streets of Mayfair were alive with festive preparations. But inside the Rutherford home, the world had narrowed to just the happy couple.

“I never much liked Christmas,” Josephine whispered, leaning into the embrace of her husband on the soft sofa. “But this…” she continued, her voice trailing off as she gazed around the candlelit room, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Beneath the weight of her emotions, her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, her hand resting gently on her rounded belly—still small, but unmistakably growing with life. “This is like a dream, Thomas. I’ve never been so happy,” she confessed, turning her head to meet his loving eyes.

Thomas smiled warmly at his wife, his hand moving to rest atop hers. “Neither have I,” he replied, his words imbued with a serene tranquillity that etched its way deep into Josephine’s heart. “You are my entire life, Josie. You and our child.”

She let out a soft breath, leaning closer against Thomas’s chest as her heart swelled with affection for him. “You’re all I have, Thomas,” she whispered, a note of vulnerability and fear threading through her voice. “I’m not sure I could go on without you.”

“There’s no need to think of such things,” he told her, his voice firm yet gentle as he lifted her chin so their eyes could meet. “We have each other, Josie. Not even time could tear us apart.”

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

December 1777 

Three days had passed in a languid haze of restless anticipation, and now, at long last, Christine stood before the grand mirror in her chamber, watching with a faint, wistful smile graced upon her lips as Kitty carefully helped her into the gown that would soon make her William’s wife. 

As time had been a most limited resource, an entirely new gown had not been procured. The foundation of the gown itself had been worn by Christine on previous occasions, but after the mantua maker’s swift and skilful embellishing alterations, it was now unrecognisable. Crafted from the finest white brocade silk, it was adorned with intricate golden embroidery, forming delicate, perfectly symmetrical floral patterns along the bodice front, the edges of the skirt and the sleeves. It was a gown befitting a countess.

And by noon, Christine would be a countess.

Though William had not departed without notice—a pleasant contrast to their last significant parting—she had not seen him since their clandestine meeting in the kitchens. Instead, she had claimed illness the morning after and remained abed the entire day—a decision driven not by any genuine ailment, but by the necessity of concealing from Lord John the marks William had left upon her neck. Therefore, despite her wishes, she had not bid him farewell.

“I was wrong to doubt your choice of a white wedding gown,” said Kitty, as she fastened a diamond necklace around Christine’s neck. “At first, I worried it might not be jubilant enough, but how wrong I was!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as she admired her work, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Christine smiled softly at Kitty’s praise, her fingers brushing over the delicate diamonds resting against her skin. It was the same necklace she had worn the day she went through the stones—her grandmother’s necklace. “Thank you, Kitty,” she replied, a wistful smile curving her lips as she gazed at her reflection. In a way, she felt a deep sense of nostalgia. Though her mother had often been emotionally distant throughout her childhood, there was a tender quality to the memories that now resurfaced. Christine’s fingers lingered over the diamonds, the cool stones grounding her in the present as a flood of memories swept over her.

Her mother, Josephine, had always been excited about the idea of her daughter’s wedding, frequently weaving fantasies of a grand celebration into a much younger Christine’s mind. As a child, Christine had been gifted countless scrapbooks to fill with visions of her big day. Yet, her mother’s dreams had always seemed to overshadow her own, setting high expectations that often felt unattainable. In her early years, Christine had revelled in the challenge of meeting those expectations, but as she grew older, she began to feel as though her mother saw her not as an individual with her own desires, but as a vessel upon which to impose her own.

But now, as she stood on the precipice of the very day her mother had once dreamt of, her heart was heavy with a complex blend of bittersweet emotions. The woman she had become, now wearing a wedding gown that would have fulfilled Little Chrissy’s wildest fantasies, was no longer the naive girl who had once eagerly filled those scrapbooks. Instead, she was her mother. She had, in a way, followed in those footsteps—setting aside her family as well as her entire life for the sake of love, much like Josephine had done. 

“Miss?” said Kitty, startling Christine out of her melancholic thoughts. “There is something I… something I ought to tell you,” she murmured, a faint blush colouring her cheeks as she averted her gaze to the floor.

Christine tilted her head inquisitively, studying Kitty’s expression with quiet curiosity. She noted the unmistakable pink hue that dusted her maid’s cheeks, the way she nervously twisted the hem of her apron, and the uncharacteristic silence that had settled on her lips. It was clear that whatever topic she wished to broach was a source of embarrassment. “Go on,” Christine prompted gently, turning away from the mirror to fully face Kitty.

The maid hesitated, letting out a shuddering sigh before meeting Christine’s gaze. “Well, it’s just… there are things I believe you ought to know in preparation for tonight…” she murmured, her face now crimson with embarrassment. “In, um… preparation for your… wedding night,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper. As though the very mention of the event was a transgression, Kitty’s face flushed an impossibly deeper shade of red.

The expression that crossed Christine’s face was nothing short of mortification, the heat in her cheeks rising like a blazing fire. “Kitty, there’s no need,” she protested softly, her voice hushed and laden with embarrassment. Though she had no experience of her own, Christine was far from naive or uninformed. She was grateful that her mother had broached the subject with her many years ago, speaking with openness and without any hint of shame.

Kitty, however, did not seem convinced. She pursed her lips as if mustering herself for the conversation, and took a tentative step forwards. “Miss Christine, I must insist,” she said, a look of determination in her eyes, despite the bright pink hue of her cheeks. “I am your maid, I must make sure you are not… well, unprepared,” she stammered, her voice faltering but still resolute. “It is important that you are prepared for what’s to come.”

Christine released a weary sigh, lowering her gaze to the floor. She swallowed hard before offering a slight nod. Kitty took it as an invitation to proceed—and indeed, it was, though given with reluctance. “After the celebrations, your husband—Lord Ellesmere—will… pay a visit to your bed, and he will take you as his wife,” she paused, fiddling nervously with her apron. “It is his right, and your duty to submit to him,” she finished, her voice barely above a discomforted whisper. 

Were it not for the nervousness that pressed down upon her, Christine might have laughed. Of course, to her modern sensibilities, the notion of submitting to her husband was utterly laughable. And yet, as Kitty spoke of it with such earnestness, the weight of the words struck Christine with an unsettling force. It was clear that Kitty, along with everyone who had grown up in a world governed by such strictly defined rules, viewed this not only as normal but as absolutely vital. And it scared her. 

“But fear not, Miss,” Kitty reassured, her voice gaining a touch of warmth, as though to offer some comfort to her mistress. “While many wives do not enjoy the marital bed with any… particular enthusiasm, Lord Ellesmere is a kind young man who cares deeply for you. Therefore, I am certain he will be most gentle,” she continued, offering Christine a sympathetically generous smile. She reached up to perfect Christine’s already flawless updo, tucking in a stray curl that had fallen loose. “Besides,” she added with a slight lowering of her voice, as though revealing a secret, “his lordship is rather handsome, and he has certainly had experience with women. Trust that he will be attentive to you.”

At those words, Christine scoffed. “Right, yes, he is permitted to have experience, while I—a woman—am expected to be an innocent lamb. Or at least until my duty is to please a man with my body, rather than my… desirable innocence,” she snapped, her voice laden with bitter sarcasm. “How quaint.” The notion sat poorly with her, and the frustration swirled inside her like a storm. It was not the idea of remaining a virgin until her wedding night that troubled her, but the way it was framed—as if her worth were entirely tethered to her purity and submission. 

And perhaps, there was even a tinge of jealousy that William—her William—had known the touch of other women. 

Kitty withdrew her hands from her mistress’s hair as though burned. Taken aback by Christine’s sudden outburst, she took a tentative step back. “I beg your pardon, Miss,” she quickly apologised, her eyes wide with alarm, her face flushed with embarrassment. “It was not my intention to upset you, only offer reassurance.” Seeing Christine’s expression soften, Kitty let out a relieved sigh. She resumed her task of smoothing down Christine’s hair, though her movements were now more hesitant. “All I meant was… you need not fear your wedding night. Lord Ellesmere will take good care of you, I’m sure. He does not seem the type to… fumble,” she added, her words accompanied by a small chuckle. 

Christine let out an amused snort, her previous frustration now replaced by a sense of anticipation—she knew William, she knew his treatment of her would remain just as respectful as it had always been. And the memory of his hands roaming her body, his lips against hers stirred emotions far removed from those of fear or anxiety. No, she thought, fumbling will not be a concern. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

William gazed restlessly out of the window of his dressing room, the winter sun casting a pale golden light across the snow-covered grounds. He could not tear his gaze away from the road that wound its way up to the estate, for he knew his bride would soon traverse it by carriage, accompanied by his father.

‘What if she does not show up?’ he thought, a sense of dread flooding his mind as the minutes seemed to stretch endlessly. In his anxiety, he began to pace the room, his thoughts a whirling storm of doubt and uncertainty—a stark contrast to the clear skies viewed from the window. 

Since arriving at Ellesmere three days prior, William had been preoccupied with preparations, ensuring every detail was perfect for Christine’s arrival. The estate, after years in the absence of its lord, was now immaculate, every corner gleaming with the careful attention that had been lavished upon it. The staff had been diligent, working tirelessly in their collective task to ensure that every room their new countess might enter would astonish her.

From the intricate flower arrangements in the grand hall to the polished silverware set for the celebratory feast, every detail was a testament to William’s desire to impress Christine. He had even ordered that the countess’s bed be prepared with the finest linens—to the housekeeper’s great displeasure, for such linens were typically reserved for visiting dignitaries or honoured guests, not for the new wife of the lord himself. Yet, in the end, William had gotten his way, and the most exquisite sheets and bedding were placed on the bed that would soon belong to his lady. 

But it was all a distraction, keeping his mind off the gnawing fear that gripped him. He was afraid that after the events in the kitchens at Helwater, he had overwhelmed her to the point of retreat. That, somehow, in his passionate pursuit of her, he had caused her to doubt his honour, leading her to reconsider everything. And perhaps worst of all—doubt his love.

William could still recall it as clearly as if it had happened only moments ago—the way she had melted into his embrace, their lips meeting in a kiss that ignited a greedy need for one another. Not a moment went by without him recalling the taste of her, the sensation of her soft body pressed against him, and the exquisite sound of the moans of pleasure replaying in his head—moans he had drawn from her lips as he ground his hard cock between her legs, their clothes the only barrier between them. 

The sight of Christine’s face, lost in pleasure, now haunted his dreams more vividly than ever. 

A sharp knock at the door broke his train of thought, and he turned toward the sound. “Enter,” he called, and the door opened, revealing his valet. 

The valet stepped inside, bowing respectfully as he entered the room. “My lord, the carriage has arrived,” he announced, his voice calm, yet carrying a discernible hint of excitement. “Your bride is here.”

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

As the carriage rolled up the long, snow-dusted path towards the Ellesmere estate, Christine gazed out of the window, an inconcealable excitement gleaming in her eyes. It was a grand, majestic sight—the towering estate looming ahead, imposing in its splendour, its magnificent facade bathed in the luminous glow of the winter sun.

Flanking the space between the windows, each crowned with pointed pediments intricately carved with delicate motifs, stood Corinthian pilasters, their noble forms rising to a graceful entablature. The estate’s architecture, a masterpiece of ornate design, captivated her, holding her gaze far longer than was prudent, far beyond the bounds of reason. And the grounds—oh, the grounds—unfolded like a winter tableau, a pristine expanse of untouched snow, where barren trees rose as silent sentinels against the chill. In the distance, a lake lay shrouded beneath a thick crust of ice, its surface sparkling beneath the radiant beams of the sun.

She imagined what it might look like come spring, when the earth would awaken from its icy slumber. The trees, no longer skeletal, would don their lush green coats, vibrant flowers would bloom in riotous colours, and the lake, no longer a frozen mirror, would shimmer with the reflection of the sky, its surface alive with the ripples of playful winds. Christine could almost hear the birdsong in her mind and feel the warmth of William’s hand entwined with hers as they walked together beneath the golden embrace of the sun…

“I cannot believe this place is to be my home,” Christine marvelled, turning to face Lord John after committing to memory every detail of the impressive estate that her eyes could reach.

Lord John smiled at the sight of Christine’s amazement, his heart swelling with a mixture of joy and affection for the woman who was about to become his daughter-in-law. “Does your new home please you, my dear?” he asked, his voice warm and tinged with adoration. 

Christine nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide with wonder. “More than I ever imagined,” she whispered dreamily, her voice filled with awe as she cast another glance out the window. She would certainly have no difficulty making this grand estate her home, and yet, as she turned her gaze back to Lord John, a poignant expression crossed her face. “But I am going to miss Helwater—terribly so. And… and most of all, I will miss you,” she confessed, her voice faltering as she looked at him with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. “You have become a father to me, Lord John.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ever since she had been placed under his protection, Lord John had cared for Christine as though she were his own daughter. At first, it had been out of duty, but as the months passed with her remaining under his care, a bond had formed—one that went beyond mere obligation.

“You are a daughter to me, Christine,” he replied softly, reaching over to take her hand in his. “But do not mistake this for a goodbye, my dear. When you marry William, you will become my daughter-in-law,” he added, his voice rich with sincere reassurance. “And I am certain you will be happy here—William will ensure it. He loves you, Christine. I have seen the way he looks at you—there is no doubt about it.”

“I know,” she answered softly, a smile crossing her features as she recalled William’s heartfelt confession. “He told me as much. And I love him.”

The carriage came to a smooth stop before the estate’s private chapel. A coachman descended from his perch and promptly opened the door, allowing a rush of crisp winter air to sweep into the warmth of the carriage. Lord John stepped out first, and Christine pulled up the hood of her cloak to shield herself from the biting cold as she followed him onto the snowy ground.

She tilted her head to gaze up at the majestic chapel, its tall spire reaching towards the sky like an outstretched hand. The stained-glass windows shimmered in a myriad of hues, catching the daylight in a dazzling display. The intricate patterns within the glass depicted scenes from the Bible, each more vibrant and detailed than the last, their colours casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the snow beneath them.

“My dear,” Lord John said, offering her his arm as they approached the chapel. Christine hesitated for a brief moment, glancing over her shoulder to take in the estate once more before placing her hand upon his arm, allowing him to lead her inside.

“I shall have a word with my son, and in the meantime, I advise you to prepare yourself for the ceremony,” he said, his voice gentle yet firm. “It will not be long now.” 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

The ceremony unfolded with the effortless grace of water gliding over smooth stones in a brook—fluid and swift. Christine could scarcely recall her walk down the aisle escorted by Lord John, nor the words exchanged during the vows. What lingered in her memory was how every trace of nervousness dissolved from her mind like the morning mist yielding to the sun, replaced by an overwhelming euphoria as her gaze met William’s, poised by the altar.

Only when William gently took her hand in his did her senses fully awaken. She drew in a sharp breath as he slid the ring onto her finger, the contrast between his warmth and the cool metal sensually gliding over her skin sending a ripple of anticipation through her veins. Her gaze dropped to the ring now encircling her finger, marvelling at its intricate design, which seemed to capture the very essence of elegance.

The ring was nothing short of exquisite—crafted from gold, its band adorned with delicate floral engravings that appeared to bloom from the metal itself. And the crowning jewel, a small yet captivating Santa Maria Aquamarine, sat at the centre, its deep blue depths shimmering as though they contained an entire universe. Encircling the stone were six smaller pearls, embedded into the gold, like flower petals cradling the magnificent jewel.

“Before God and these witnesses, I now pronounce you man and wife,” declared the priest, an older gentleman with a kind smile and compassionate eyes. “You may kiss your bride.”

At those words, Christine’s gaze drifted from the ring, trailing up past the light blue and gold embroidery of William’s ivory waistcoat until her eyes met his. She found him already looking at her, his expression soft and tender, yet in his eyes glimmered an emotion she could not quite name—one that sent a thrill through her nonetheless.

The chapel was as silent as the stillness of the snow-laden grounds beyond, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric as William slowly leaned towards her, his breath warm against her skin. He gently tilted her chin up, his breath catching in his throat as he gazed into those dark eyes of hers—eyes that seemed to pull him into their depths like the tide drawing the moon.

Christine’s heart fluttered as William’s lips finally brushed against hers, soft and hesitant at first, as though he, too, wished to savour the moment before surrendering to it entirely. Then, within a breath, the kiss deepened, and the world outside the chapel melted away. There was only the warmth of his lips upon hers, the firm yet tender hold of his hand in hers, and the profound sense of belonging that filled her chest.

As they pulled away, William looked at her with a smile that was equal parts tender and exuberant. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice quiet yet imbued with undeniable sincerity.

Though the ceremony had been attended only by their closest family, the celebrations that followed were surprisingly grand. The estate seemed to glow with the warmth of candlelight, and the air was alive with music, joyous laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

By the time all their guests had gathered for the feast, Christine was positively ravenous. The table stretched endlessly before her, an opulent parade of courses, each dish presented in delicate, artful portions. Beside her sat Margaret, and Christine eagerly filled her in on the details of the past week that had been left out of her letters. Many different wines were served, and Christine cast several discreet glances towards William, by the other end of the table, ensuring he did not overindulge.

As the meal progressed and the festivities unfolded, Christine found a quiet sense of relief in witnessing the contrast between William’s composed demeanour and the boisterous antics of his friends. While his companions revelled in the abundance of wine, their laughter growing louder with each passing toast, William merely sipped his drink on occasion—his gaze finding hers every time he did so.

After the feast, the celebrations continued in the grand ballroom, where music and dancing carried on well into the evening. It was the highlight of the festivities, for Christine found herself swept into a whirlwind of movement and mirth, laughter spilling from her lips as she was passed from one partner to the next, her heart light with unrestrained joy.

“Lady Ellesmere,” William called as Christine, now his wife, approached him after a lively dance with one of his friends. He knew, with the utmost certainty, that any jealousy he might have felt was entirely unfounded—for he trusted her, and the two of them had already shared several dances that evening. And yet, seeing her so thoroughly entertained by the company of the other men in the room gnawed at him. But noticing how her eyes lit up at the sight of him, her smile widening as she drew near, William felt his feeble attempt to conceal his jealousy melt away like snow beneath the warmth of spring.

She reached out her hand, and he took it, drawing her closer. “You look beautiful, dear wife,” he praised softly, his thumb brushing over the ring on her finger. 

For once, Christine did not look away as a blush bloomed across her cheeks. The thought of averting her gaze from his loving blue eyes felt like the greatest challenge she could face at that moment. Instead, she held his affectionate gaze, her own eyes mirroring the devotion shimmering in his. “Thank you, dear husband,” she replied, her blush deepening at the last word. “I must say, you cut quite the fine figure yourself.” With her free hand, she trailed her index finger along the edge of his silk coat in an innocent gesture. 

A grin spread across William’s face as he glanced down, watching her absentmindedly trace her delicate finger in swirling patterns over his coat. The sight of her sent a thrill through him, a warmth spreading within him that was far more intoxicating than the wine served throughout the evening. “I have missed you these past three days, my love,” he murmured, gently taking her hand and removing it from his coat. As much as he relished her soft touch, he had noticed the curious glances from their guests and wished to avoid inviting any gossip.

“As have I missed you,” Christine replied, her eyes widening as she spotted a round table a few metres away, holding a magnificent champagne tower.

William laughed softly as his wife made a beeline for it, dragging him along with her towards the sparkling display. He shook his head in mock disapproval as Christine grinned up at him, her eyes alight with mischief. “Ah yes, it seems you have missed me very much indeed—judging by the way you rush towards the nearest champagne tower,” he teased as she reached for one of the delicate flutes, the crystal catching the soft candlelight. “And let us not forget, you did not even bid me farewell before I left Helwater,” he reminded her, his voice lowering to a playful murmur, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Tell me, wife, were you truly ill?”

“No,” she confessed, a mischievous giggle escaping her lips. “But I thought it best to stay out of sight that day—and the day after.”

William’s brow arched in curiosity, though his amusement did not wane. “Oh?”

Christine took a slow sip of her champagne, savouring his undivided attention. “I woke up with… quite the rash,” she revealed, her voice playful yet edged with feigned innocence.

She watched with no small amount of delight as William’s smirk faded, his brows furrowing in concern. His eyes instinctively swept over her, searching for any lingering sign of the mysterious ailment. Christine could barely suppress the smirk that threatened to spread across her face. Once William’s gaze returned to her face, his expression had grown decidedly more severe. “You are lying,” he declared with certainty, his voice carrying both reproach and concern. “I see no evidence of a rash.”

“That is quite the oddity—considering you caused it,” she quipped. Her eyes flickered around them in a quick, practised glance, ensuring no one was within earshot before she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Luckily, it has faded now, but I am quite certain the evidence of your attentions can still be detected on my neck.”

The playful, sultry note in her voice sent a shiver racing down William’s spine, his breath momentarily hitching in his throat. His gaze dipped, drawn irresistibly to the curve of her neck. And indeed, as he inspected her skin more carefully, he spotted them—faint bruises just below her jawline, remnants of their passionate meeting. His heartbeat quickened, and for a moment, the noise of the party—the clinking of glasses, the laughter, the hum of conversation—faded into nothing.

“Christine,” he breathed, his voice low, laced with desire. “You are wicked, teasing me so openly.” Yet even as he chastised her, his lips curled into a slow, indulgent smile, a mixture of satisfaction and disbelief.

“I do not tease, my lord,” she countered, her voice a silken thread of mischief. “I speak merely the truth.” With a playful wink, she took a slow, deliberate sip from her champagne flute, her gaze never once leaving his.

William’s mind raced with the many things he would like to do with her, his gaze inevitably drawn to the swell of her bosom. He caught himself in his unapologetic staring, swiftly shifting his gaze back to her eyes and clearing his throat in an attempt to steady himself. The air between them practically hummed with unspoken desire, yet William reined in his impulses, unwilling to surrender to the moment in such a public space. There would be time for that later, when he had her naked and entirely to himself.

“Persist with such words, my lady,” he murmured, his voice low, carrying an edge of warning and simmering intensity, “and I shall leave you with more evidence.”

Christine’s breath hitched at his words, the heat of a deep flush blooming across her cheeks. She took a shaky sip of her champagne, squirming beneath the weight of his searing gaze. “I believe I am growing rather weary,” she said, her voice faltering as she fought to regain her composure—a task that proved far more difficult than she had anticipated. Her declaration of tiredness was little more than an excuse, and the gleam in her eyes betrayed her inner anticipation. “And if that is your intent,” she continued, her words laced with playful challenge, “I should think it best I retire for the evening.”

Deliberately, she set her empty flute down on the table, the motion slow and purposeful. Then, with a glance upwards from beneath her lashes, she watched the subtle tightening of William’s jaw.

Entranced by his wife’s provocative performance, William exhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly around her hand. “If you are tired, dear wife,” he murmured, his voice laden with intent, “then I shall escort you to your chambers.”

Chapter Text

December 1777

With each step down the dimly lit corridor, the distant hum of the ongoing celebrations waned, the jubilant clamour muffled by the walls, drawing them further from the lively ballroom. Christine’s breath hitched as William’s hand pressed gently against the small of her back, his touch both reassuring and commanding.

“This way, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, rich with an intimate warmth that sent a shiver down her spine. She was almost certain her legs would fail her at any moment, yet somehow, with every step, she drifted closer to him until his arm encircled her waist.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of William’s lips as he guided her through the opulent hallways, his fingers tracing subtle patterns on her waist. Yet, though anticipation surged through him, a slight pang tightened in his chest at the sound of Christine’s breath—shallow, uneven, betraying the anxiety she fought so hard to conceal. Her composure was a masterful facade, but to him, her unease was as tangible as the warmth of her body pressed against his. The thought of causing her distress was unbearable, so he slowed his pace, turning slightly to meet her gaze.

“Christine, you are safe with me,” he murmured, his voice a quiet reassurance, a balm to her racing heart.

Hesitantly, Christine met his gaze, her eyes glistening with a delicate blend of vulnerability and trust. The words she longed to speak clung stubbornly to her throat, yet the intensity of his gaze—so open, so unwavering in its devotion—made her heart swell. She swallowed the lump rising within her, her fingers brushing lightly against his as she sought steadiness. Slowly, she exhaled, her shoulders easing, if only slightly.

“I know,” she whispered, a soft smile ghosting her lips as she leaned into his touch.

They reached two grand, pedimented oak doors at the end of the corridor, momentarily confusing Christine before she recalled—married couples of their standing in the Georgian era maintained separate chambers. The tradition was partly a display of wealth, but also a means of ensuring privacy and preserving the notion of a husband’s authority and a wife’s modesty. Though Christine knew she would appreciate having her own space, she still found it a strange and impersonal custom. Yet she said nothing, following William through the door to the left.

As she stepped inside, her breath caught, her eyes sweeping over the splendour of the room. The chamber was grand, its furnishings opulent yet imbued with a quiet serenity. The soft glow of candlelight flickered from the sconces, casting golden illumination over the ornate wallpaper—a delicate, intricate pattern of florals framed by gilded wainscoting, lending warmth to the regal space. To their right, a fire crackled in the hearth of an ivory marble mantelpiece, its flickering light sending shadows dancing across the Aubusson rug beneath their feet.

William guided her further inside, his presence a steadying force against the weight of nerves settling over her. Christine’s eyes flitted about, absorbing every lavish detail, but they lingered longest on the bed—an extravagant creation commanding the centre of the room opposite the fireplace. The canopy soared above like an intimate sanctuary, its curtains mirroring those draped over the windows. The coverlet had been folded back, exposing fine linen sheets, and she knew it invited more than just a good night’s sleep. 

The warm pressure of her husband’s hand slipped from her waist, leaving a chill in its absence. Startled, Christine turned to him, finding William stood with his hands now clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I shall leave you to prepare yourself, then,” he murmured, a nervous chuckle escaping as he met her equally anxious eyes. “Until then, my lady.” 

Christine remained in the centre of the room, flabbergasted, stunned into silence as she watched William disappear through the concealed passage beside the fireplace—undoubtedly leading to his own chamber. The door clicked shut behind him just as her lady’s maid entered, executing a ceremonial curtsy before crossing the room to attend to her mistress. 

“Why did he leave?” Christine asked, her voice betraying a mixture of confusion and a deep, inexplicable disappointment that curled in her chest, settling there like an ache she could not quite name.

Her lady’s maid, Kitty, smiled softly as she stepped closer to Christine, her hands already working with practiced ease to remove the delicate pins securing the front of her gown. “It is customary, my lady,” she explained gently, her fingers moving with the precision of long habit. “It would be unseemly for his lordship to remain while you prepare for bed.” She paused for a moment, carefully easing the gown from Christine’s shoulders, ensuring the rich fabric did not crumple inelegantly to the floor. “It is a sign of respect, my lady. It proves he does not wish to intrude upon your privacy or modesty.” Kitty’s voice was calm, measured, devoid of any judgement, yet Christine felt a sharp pang of emptiness at the thought.

She understood the customs well enough, but in this moment, those very traditions seemed only to widen the space between her and the man to whom she had just pledged herself. A husband and wife, bound in sacred vows, yet expected to retreat to separate rooms before their wedding night, as though strangers. It felt oddly cold, strangely impersonal. Christine nodded absently, though she barely registered the movement, her mind drifting through the quiet reverberations of the room, lost in thought.

A soft sigh of relief escaped her lips as she was freed from the heavy layers of her gown, the weight of the fabric falling away like a burden she had not realised she was carrying. The many, warm layers of petticoats had kept her warm against the chill of the December air, but now, stripped down to only her shift and stockings, she shivered slightly, her skin prickling at the sudden coolness. Kitty, ever attentive, gestured for her to follow into the adjacent bathing chamber, a smaller yet equally elegant space designed for comfort and quiet indulgence.

The floor was adorned with diamond-patterned tiles, their cool surface smooth beneath her stockinged feet, and at the centre of the room stood a large copper bathtub, steam curling lazily from the water within. The scent of fragrant oils—lavender, rose, and a hint of citrus—permeated the air, calming her senses as she stepped closer. The warmth of the bath enveloped her the moment she sank beneath the surface, soothing her body and mind alike, easing away the tension that had woven itself into her limbs since she, with her husband, had retreated from the party.

By the time she emerged from the bath, her skin was warm and soft, imbued with the delicate fragrance of flowers and citrus. Kitty helped her into a fresh nightgown—fine white cotton, light and flowing, brushing gently against her skin as she moved. The fabric settled over her figure, whispering with the motion of her steps, and as her lady’s maid removed the last of the pins from her hair, the waves tumbled freely down her back, reaching her waist in soft cascades. It had never been so long. 

Clearly, she had underestimated the quality of historical hair care—until she saw firsthand how her hair thrived in the absence of fabricated shampoo. 

She draped a pink silken robe over her shoulders and walked with her maid into the dressing room, where she settled before the vanity. Kitty moved behind her, brushing through Christine’s long, silken locks with slow, deliberate strokes, each pass of the bristles soothing in its rhythm.

“Will there be anything else, my lady?” the maid inquired gently.

Christine bit her lip as she pondered her answer, her fingers absently tracing the intricate embroidery of her robe. Her gaze drifted to the mirror, where she observed her own reflection—her skin still flushed from the warmth of her bath, and perhaps, a tinge of anticipation.

For a moment, she hesitated, knowing that dismissing Kitty would signal the inevitable crescendo of the evening. There was no uncertainty in her desires—she wanted William, wanted him desperately—but the weight of what was to come tightened into a knot in her stomach. Anticipation and nerves warred within her, yet she exhaled softly, smoothing her expression into something composed before meeting her maid’s gaze in the reflection.

“No, Kitty. You may go. I will call for you in the morning.”

Kitty nodded respectfully, her face betraying no surprise at Christine’s decision. With a slight curtsy, she turned and slipped effortlessly through the discreet passage to the servants’ quarters, leaving Christine alone with her thoughts.

Still gazing at her reflection, Christine took a few steadying breaths before rising from her seat. Stepping back into the main chamber, she noted how the fire in the hearth had begun to dwindle, its once-bright flames now subdued, crackling gently as their warmth stretched towards her like an embrace. Yet it was not the fire, nor the embrace she longed for.

She lowered herself onto the foot of the bed, drumming her fingers lightly against her thighs as she waited, her eyes fixed on the passage connecting her chamber to that of her husband’s. It was well concealed, she mused. It seamlessly blended into the wallpaper, as though it were never truly there—and in the dim glow of candlelight, it did appear so. Had she not watched William disappear through it earlier, she might have remained oblivious to its existence altogether. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

The sound of a knock—though gentle, scarcely more than a tap—startled her.

Christine barely had time to steady her breath before the door creaked open, agonisingly slow, each passing second stretching into an eternity. Her throat went dry as William stepped inside. He was dressed simply—a crisp white shirt and beige breeches—yet the sight of him, framed by the dim glow of candlelight and the flickering fire, stole what little composure she had left. His steps were quiet, deliberate, as he crossed the threshold, his presence commanding the space with an effortless grace.

Then his eyes met hers.

A slow, searing intensity burned within them, making her heart stutter before racing ahead, pounding in her chest. He looked so handsome—so devastatingly so—with a gaze alight with both tenderness and the kind of desire that sent heat coursing through her veins, igniting a hunger that only grew. And yet, though every part of her ached to rise, to meet him, to close the space between them, she remained rooted to the bed, as though held in place by some invisible force.

William, however, conducted himself with far less hesitation. He shut the door behind him with a soft click, his gaze never wavering from hers, never breaking, as he closed the distance between them one steady step at a time.

When at last he reached her, his movements slowed. His expression softened into something almost reverent as he took her in—the way she sat waiting for him, bathed in the golden glow of the firelight, her long hair cascading over her shoulders, her lips parted just so, her chin tilted up to meet his gaze. He could see the longing in her eyes, unmistakable and deep, yet intertwined with a quiet apprehension. Her hands fidgeted restlessly in her lap, a subtle but telling gesture.

She was nervous. He could see it, could sense it in the charged silence between them, in the way anticipation hung thick in the air, an unsung melody thrumming just beneath the surface.

Slowly, William lowered himself to one knee before her. His hand came to rest gently on her thigh, his touch warm, grounding. He searched her eyes for any sign his touch was unwelcome, but all he found was an ocean of longing, woven with fragile hesitation. 

The warmth of his hand on her thigh caused Christine’s breath to hitch, feeling the heat of it sear through the thin fabric of her robe and nightgown. His touch was reverent, not demanding, as though he worshipped rather than claimed. 

“Christine,” he murmured, his voice a low caress that bore an intimacy meant for her ears alone. His thumb traced delicate patterns over her thigh as he gazed up at her, his eyes full of love and devotion. “If you are afraid, or simply tired, I…” He paused, his gaze faltering for the briefest of moments before returning to hers, his voice softer still. “I shall not force you—not ever. I never want you to feel obligated to do anything you do not wish to do, especially not with me. So I ask you—may I share your bed tonight?”

The sincerity in his words, the thoughtfulness, pierced her. She had feared he might take this moment as an inevitability, as some form of right, but instead, he had given her the choice. And that small act of kindness—the respect for her comfort—made all the difference. 

“Yes,” she mouthed, not a sound falling from her lips. A wave of heat washed over her, blooming from the depths of her chest and settling in her cheeks. She sighed in embarrassment, then, finally, found her voice. “Yes,” she whispered, her fingers reaching out to brush against his cheek. “Stay with me William—I want you to. I…” She paused, biting her lower lip as she scrambled for the courage to speak her mind. “I want you,” she admitted at last. 

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, yet in his eyes was something deeper than mere satisfaction—an emotion closer to reverence, as though he had been granted something sacred. He turned his head slightly, pressing a tender kiss to her palm before rising to his full height.

Extending his hand, he guided her gently to her feet, his gaze never leaving hers. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her close, his breath shuddering as he felt her delicate, feminine curves pressed against the hard planes of his body. 

Christine leaned into him, her hands gliding up to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling lightly in his hair. Her heart pounded with such force that she was certain he could feel it, thundering against him. And yet, despite the nervous energy coursing through her, she had never been more certain of anything in her life.

“I’m nervous,” she admitted, a breathy, self-deprecating chuckle slipping from her lips.

At her confession, William tightened his hold around her waist, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head as a quiet chuckle escaped him in turn. “I know,” he murmured, his voice laced with warmth and understanding. “I am nervous as well.”

One hand left her waist, travelling up the delicate curve of her side until it reached her cheek. His thumb brushed over her skin in slow, soothing strokes, as if to ease the tremor in her breath. “Think of our moment in the kitchens,” he continued, his tone gentle. “We did not plan what we did—it simply happened. Let us do the same now. One moment at a time… let it happen.”

The gentle tone in his voice was felt in every fibre of her being, igniting a warm sense of comfort, along with a spark of longing as she recalled the passionate touches they had shared those four days ago. “You’re right,” she agreed, giving a slight nod of her head. Slowly, she took his hand that cupped her face and guided it lower, placing it on her hip as a silent affirmation of her consent. 

A quiet breath left William, his fingers instinctively tracing the curve of her waist. “You truly are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he murmured, his voice rough with adoration. His hand skimmed upward, his fingertips ghosting over the lace trim of her robe.

Leaning in, he pressed a trail of feather-light kisses along the column of her neck, inhaling the soft, sweet scent of her skin as his fingers found the sash at her waist. He paused, exhaling slowly against her throat. “May I remove this, dear heart?” he asked softly, his voice rich with reverence.

Christine met his gaze, her breath unsteady, before offering a quiet nod.

At her silent permission, William slowly pulled at the knot, unravelling the sash with careful precision. The fabric loosened, slipping from her shoulders, the silken robe cascading to the floor and pooling at her feet.

William paused, allowing himself a moment to simply take her in—the way she stood before him, bathed in the soft, flickering light, her form delicate yet breathtaking in its quiet confidence. The robe had slipped away, leaving only the thin fabric of her nightgown, which clung to her in a way that revealed far more than it concealed. He could see the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her nipples pebbled beneath the sheer material, but despite the undeniable allure of her body, it was her eyes that held him captive. They gleamed in the firelight like stars caught in a web of longing and nervosity, gazing up at him with love written in their warm, dark depths. 

His gaze traced over her form, his hands following, moving with deliberate slowness as he allowed himself to commit the moment to memory—the silken warmth of her skin, the gentle curve of her waist beneath his fingers. Every part of her enticed him, yet even in the height of his desire, he remained mindful of her. A slow, steady breath left his lips as he sought her gaze once more, needing to see that she was still with him.

Their eyes met, and Christine instinctively leaned into him, her body drawn to his as though by some unseen force. Her lips parted, a quiet breath escaping them before she whispered, “Kiss me.”

William did not hesitate.

Their lips met in a kiss unlike any before—not the chaste, ceremonial kiss shared at the altar, nor the fervent, unrestrained one in the kitchens. No, this was something else entirely. It was not duty, nor pure desire—it was natural, simple yet intimate, the warmth of their bodies pressed together thawing at the tension between them. 

A low groan rumbled in his throat as he felt her body yield to him, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. He responded in kind, his hands exploring the contours of her body, smiling against her lips as the undeniable truth settled over him—she was his.

Yet even as the intensity of their kiss deepened, William forced himself to slow, to pull back just enough to meet her gaze once more. His breathing was uneven, his pulse unrelenting, but none of it mattered if she was not truly certain. He searched her face, his thumb brushing softly over her cheek, a silent question in his eyes. He needed her to know—she had every right to stop, to change her mind at any moment. Nothing, not even the depths of his desire, would ever take precedence over her comfort.

Christine, sensing the unspoken question lingering between them, reached up to cradle his face in her hands, her fingertips tracing the strong, defined angles of his jaw with such tenderness that his breath hitched. “There is one thing I worry about,” she admitted at last, hesitating over whether to give voice to the thought that had haunted her since morning—for fear of how he might react. “I don’t think I’m… well, I…” she faltered, her gaze dropping to the neckline of his shirt.

She exhaled softly, frustrated by her inability to articulate the unease that had plagued her for some time. But William, ever patient, lifted her chin gently with his knuckles, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “You do not think you’re what, my love?” he murmured, his voice imbued with tenderness and quiet reassurance.

Another sigh passed Christine’s lips. At last, she swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to speak. “M-motherhood. I’m not ready for that,” she whispered, barely audible. She fought the instinct to turn away and instead studied his reaction—calm, though tinged with confusion. But none of the anger she had feared.

“I do want to have children someday, just not so soon. It would be unjust to the child if its parents were not ready for such a responsibility,” she reasoned, bracing herself for his response. She had heard the stories—of husbands who expected, even demanded, an heir without heed for their wife’s wishes or well-being. And though she trusted William with all her heart, a flicker of fear remained that, perhaps, he was not quite as understanding as she believed him to be.

She continued, “And I do not think—meaning no disrespect, of course—that you are ready to be a father either.” She paused, searching his face for any sign of protest. But William remained silent, his expression contemplative rather than displeased.

When he finally spoke, he did so with a gentleness in his voice that made her heart swell, as though he understood every single one of her worries. “Christine, my darling, you need never fear speaking your mind to me. You are right, while I do wish to have children with you, I wish it to happen when we are both ready, so that we may embrace our child with all the love we can offer.” 

He saw how lightened she was at his words, a soft smile curving her lips, and how a relieved breath escaped her. “Truly?” she asked, reluctant to allow herself the full acceptance of the sincerity in his voice. 

William smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Truly,” he murmured. “We will take precautions. I will be careful.” His lips left her forehead and trailed down her face, brushing gentle kisses over her cheek, each one more tender than the last. As his lips hovered near her mouth, he whispered, “I love you, Christine.”

“I love you too,” she replied, her gaze falling to his lips before she leaned in to meet them once more. As their lips met, Christine felt herself melt into William’s embrace, her heart thrumming in a steady rhythm against his own. His kiss was slow yet deep, intimate. His hands, warm and eager, traced the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. One hand slid up her back, tracing her spine with his fingertips in a touch as light as feathers, sending a shiver coursing down her body. Christine gasped softly against his lips as he tangled his fingers in her hair, the sound escaping her mouth sending a deep, satisfied hum through William’s chest as he gently tilted her head back for better access to her neck.

Every kiss he pressed to her neck seemed to set her ablaze, her pulse quickening beneath his lips like a spark kindling into a soft, growing fire, each touch fanning the flames. Christine’s body responded instinctively, her back arching towards him, fingers tangling in his hair as his lips moved with increasing urgency over her skin. A soft gasp escaped her as his hand slid from her waist, tracing the curve of her hip before settling on her thigh, only to slowly trace its way higher, finally grasping her rear.

His lips left her neck then, pulling back slightly to rest his forehead against hers. “I would very much like to see you, my love,” he murmured breathlessly, tracing the lace-trimmed neckline of her nightgown with his fingertips. 

She nodded. “You may,” she whispered, standing before him, her heart pounding in her chest as William carefully pulled loose the white ribbon which tied together the front of her gown. It fell open, hanging on loosely by her shoulders and revealed the skin over her sternum and the shadow of her breasts. William’s breath caught as he traced the lace along the edge of her nightgown with the lightest touch, as if not wanting to disturb the delicate fabric that clung to her form. His fingers trembled slightly as they slid higher, carefully pushing the fabric off her shoulder. He did likewise with the other side, letting the delicate fabric drift down her body, pooling around her waist before he tugged at it so it fell past her hips and down to the floor, leaving her standing before him, bare and vulnerable. 

William took a step back, taking in the breathtaking sight of his bride standing naked before him. His fingers twitched by his sides as he fought the urge to reach out and touch her, yet he resisted, and simply admired her, allowing his gaze to sweep over her delicate form. The firelight flickered over her figure, casting dancing shadows and highlights over her fair skin as he memorised every inch of her luscious curves. 

“Good heavens,” he murmured, eyes wide in astonishment. His gaze swept over her with a reverence that made Christine’s cheeks burn, but she did not shy away. Nor did she make any attempt to cover herself. Not from him. Not when his eyes held nothing but adoration, nothing but devotion. 

When he finally allowed his hands to move, brushing over her skin in featherlight caresses down her arms, tracing the flare of her hips, the dip of her waist, he did so with a gentleness, a carefulness, as though he were handling something sacred, something irreplaceable. And to him, she was. 

Standing bare and exposed before him, with his eyes drinking in every inch of her, Christine felt a wave of heat wash over her, causing her cheeks to flush a bright shade of pink under the soft glow of the firelight. Yet, there was no fear in her, only a gnawing worry that he might not find her as beautiful as he claimed. As that thought took root in her mind, Christine let out a shaky breath before moving her arms to cover herself, her gaze falling to the floor.

But before she could, William reached out and, with great care, took her hands, guiding them back down to her sides. His eyes locked onto hers, now downcast, and he saw the flicker of self-consciousness that passed over her face. It stung at his heart, and so, he gently tilted her chin up with his knuckles, ensuring their eyes met once more. “You are more beautiful than I could have ever imagined,” he assured her, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertips.

“Truly?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though she could not fully believe his words. 

William’s gaze softened, his fingers trailing down her neck and chest in a touch so tender it made her breath catch. “Truly,” he affirmed, a warm, adoring smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You are perfect, beyond compare,” he whispered, his breath shuddering as he felt the softness of her skin beneath his touch. William’s hands slid up to cup the gentle weight of her breasts, thumbing her nipples until they hardened beneath his touch. “Magnificent,” he breathed. 

While delighted by his admiration of her appearance, Christine let out a soft chuckle as he fondled her breasts. Her laugh was soft, almost nervous, but it eased the tension between them. It was a sound that brought a smile to William’s lips—a smile that deepened in warmth as he lifted his gaze from her chest and locked eyes with her. 

Christine bit her lip, reaching out with a trembling hand to rest it against his chest, revelling in the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Slowly, she let her hand trail lower, brushing past the firm planes of his abdomen before settling at the waistband of his breeches. William drew in a sharp breath as she traced her finger along the hem, her eyes never once straying from his.

The emotions playing in her gaze held him utterly captive, her curious hunger stirring something deep within him. He watched her, fascinated, as her touch sent tremors of anticipation coursing through him. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asked, his voice a breathless whisper, thick with longing.

At his hushed inquiry, Christine’s eyes sparkled with a devilish gleam, clearly revelling in the intense response her touch had stirred within him. “Perhaps I do,” she admitted, a teasing smirk gradually spreading across her lips. 

Hearing those words, and how she spoke them with such deliberate flirtation, William surged forwards, capturing her lips in a hungry kiss. As their lips met, the kiss was intense, filled with the hunger of two souls starved for connection. His hands slid down her body, a groan escaping his lips as he dug his fingers into the ample flesh of her bottom. 

A breathless moan fell past Christine’s lips, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. At the sound of her pleasure, a satisfied smile ghosted across William’s lips. With a gentle yet insistent motion, he pushed her upwards, prompting her to wrap her legs around his waist. She obeyed without hesitation, and he held her there, her body pressed flush against his in a firm yet tender grip as he carried her towards the bed.

With careful, reverent movements, as if fearing she might break beneath his touch, William laid her down upon the white linen sheets. Christine gazed up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs as he settled his larger frame over hers. He braced himself on his elbows, ensuring his weight would not overwhelm her, and smiled softly as he searched her eyes.

“Are you certain about this?” he asked, his voice hushed with reverence and restraint.

She hummed in response, nodding with unwavering conviction. A slow, relieved smile spread across his lips before he leaned in, capturing her mouth in a lingering kiss. Then, with a hunger barely restrained, he let his lips trail lower, exploring the delicate column of her throat.

Desire coursed through her veins like a storm set alight, crackling beneath her skin as he sucked and nibbled at her neck, his hands roaming freely. He gripped her thighs, parting them with ease, and her breath caught as his touch grew bolder, teasing along the soft skin of her inner thighs. His lips traced a scorching path downward, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her chest before reaching her breast.

A sharp gasp escaped her as he swirled his tongue around her sensitive nipple, the sensation sending a shudder through her body. He lingered there, luring breathy moans from her lips before taking the rosy bud between his teeth and tugging ever so gently. Christine writhed beneath him, her fingers tangling in his hair as his slow torment continued. 

He lavished attention upon her breast, his fingers itching closer to her core so slowly she thought he might be teasing her to insanity deliberately. Just as the words of a desperate plea were about to spill from her lips, a strangled cry tore from her throat as pleasure crashed over her—he slipped a finger between her folds to feel the dripping evidence of her arousal. 

“Good God!” he groaned under his breath, his eyes darkening with yearning as he felt the heat of her body against his fingers. Carefully observing her face, he gently pressed his thumb against the sensitive nub, exhaling sharply at the way it throbbed beneath his touch as he gently rubbed it. He sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, and she gasped, her back arching off the bed as pleasure seized her. She lost her hold of his hair, and her hands fell to the sheets, grabbing onto the linen as she tried to steady herself, her breathing coming in shallow gasps. 

Smiling as he watched the effect he had on her, William slowly slipped a finger inside her, feeling the way her walls clenched around the intrusion. He began to stroke her carefully, moving his finger inside her as his thumb pressed firm, purposeful circles against her nub. “Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he murmured, his lips grazing the delicate skin of her neck, his voice thick with desire. He watched her intently, drinking in every gasp, every sweet moan that spilled from her lips as he gradually quickened his pace.

Christine could only moan in response, her body tensing as the pleasure coiled tighter within her. She threw her arms around him, clinging to him as though he were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. “Oh, William,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Encouraged by her breathless plea, he added a second finger, stretching her gently as he deepened his strokes, savouring the way she trembled beneath him. “I cannot wait to make you mine,” he murmured, his smile wicked as his lips brushed her jaw. “Is that what you want, Christine?”

She gasped, arching against him, her nails biting into his shoulders. “William…” she breathed, her voice laced with both desperation and anticipation. “Please.”

Yet, instead of granting her plea, he withdrew his fingers. Christine let out a soft whimper, but her protest died on her lips as she watched him lift his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean—his smouldering gaze never leaving hers.

A shiver ran down her spine as he leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead before brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with aching tenderness. She frowned, frustration simmering in her gaze as she reached for him, desperate to pull him back down to her. But before she could, he moved away, standing at the edge of the bed, his eyes raking over her naked form with a hunger that made her breath hitch.

At first, confusion clouded her thoughts, her mind reeling as she watched him—standing there, simply watching her, a blaze of desire burning in his gaze. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath, yet thick with the raw need she struggled to conceal. “You’re making me lose control.”

William smirked. “Well, my dear girl, that is entirely the point,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement, though his gaze remained dark with hunger. His eyes never left hers as he reached for the buttons of his breeches, watching intently as her breath hitched, her expression betraying her anticipation.

Her gaze was fixed on his calloused hands, moving with measured precision, each flick of his fingers deliberately slow, teasing her with the promise of what was to come. He pushed the fabric past his hips, kicking it aside, pausing only when his shirt remained the final barrier between his body and her eager eyes. He revelled in the way she watched him, the hunger in her gaze unmistakable. And then, with deliberate slowness, he grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, casting it to the floor without a care.

He stood before her, proud and unashamed, allowing her to take in every inch of him. And she did.

Christine feasted her eyes on him, tracing over his broad shoulders and the sculpted lines of his chest, the taut muscles flexing subtly with each breath he took. Her gaze drifted lower, following the defined ridges of his abdomen, down to the sharp V of his hips, and finally even lower. A shiver coursed through her as her eyes landed upon the hard length of him, standing thick and proud, aching for her.

William watched her with keen satisfaction, drinking in the sheer desire burning in her eyes. He saw how she swallowed, how her thighs pressed together as though she could quell the heat pooling between them. A surge of masculine pride coursed through him at the sight—knowing he had done this to her, that she was aching, wanting, needing him just as much as he did her.

Christine’s eyes travelled back up the expanse of his torso until her eyes met his, a teasing smirk toying at the corners of her lips, threatening to bloom across her expression entirely. “Well,” she murmured, rolling onto her side to face him fully, “don’t just stand there collecting dust,” she ordered in a calm tone, eliciting a slight chuckle to fall from his lips, which perked up into a smirk that mirrored hers. “Take me,” she whispered, and he obliged. He drew closer, gently pushing her onto her back and settled above her, bracing himself on his elbows. 

Despite her bold words, a wave of nervous anticipation coursed through her as he settled over her. She willed herself to conceal it, not wanting him to see the flicker of vulnerability in her expression, yet it was impossible to ignore the mingling rush of excitement and trepidation thrumming through her chest.

“Christine, I need you to listen to me,” he instructed gently, tracing his index finger along her jaw in a featherlight caress. His breath shuddered as she skimmed her fingertips over the bare expanse of his back, sending a tremor through him. He swallowed hard, finding his voice. “This may hurt for a moment, but I shall endeavour to be gentle—you have my word,” he vowed, his voice thick with sincerity.

Christine nodded slowly in response, the vulnerability in her gaze contrasting with confidence of her earlier teasing. “You are everything to me, my darling girl,” he whispered, pressing fervent kisses all over her face. 

“As are you to me,” she responded quietly, his kisses soothing her, allowing her to relax into the bed as she lay beneath him. 

William nudged her legs apart with his knee, inhaling sharply as she instinctively wrapped them around his waist, drawing him closer. “I love you so much,” he murmured, cupping her face with one large hand, his gaze locking onto hers with tender adoration flickering in his despite the fierce desire coursing through his veins like a caged fire yet to be exposed to air. 

Christine’s eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment as she rested her hand against the back of his head, guiding his forehead to hers. When she opened them again, she found him still gazing at her, worshipping her with his eyes alone.

“And I love you even more,” she declared softly. Then, with a steadying breath, she whispered, “I’m ready.”

A low chuckle rumbled in William’s chest, stirred by the delicate trust in her words. His hands trembled slightly as he held her, overcome with the profound weight of the moment. Slowly, he pushed forward—not fully entering her, but allowing her to feel the tip of his cock pressing against her warmth. A sharp gasp escaped her lips at the contact, her fingers tightening in his hair. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, his voice pleading. She nodded in response, her breath shallow, her body taut with anticipation. Only then did he begin to ease into her, inch by aching inch, claiming her in one of the myriad of ways he had longed to for months.

It did hurt then, yet she made no complaint, only drawing in a sharp breath as her eyes squeezed shut.

William felt her go rigid beneath him, her body as taut as marble, and despite the intoxicating pleasure coursing through him, his heart clenched at the sight of her discomfort. “Shh, I’ve got you, my love,” he soothed, pressing soft kisses over her face once more as his hands left not a single inch of her skin without sweet caresses. “Look at me, Christine. Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he ordered gently, brushing his thumb over her soft, flushed cheek. 

Her breath shuddered as she fluttered her eyes open, and as her eyes met his, and saw the affection they held, the pain seemed to drift away like a hot breath fading in the winter air, with only its memory to testify to its fleeting existence. Her body released its tension by its own accord, and her arms slid to the back of his neck and pulled him down to meet his lips with hers. 

He kissed her voraciously, teasing his tongue between her lips until they parted, inviting his tongue to mingle with hers. As he devoured her mouth, and she his, William withdrew his cock to the tip before thrusting himself to the hilt inside her. A deep moan spilled from her lips as he hit a particularly good spot inside her, sending pleasure coursing through her limbs.

Gripping her hips, he rocked against her with slow, deliberate movements, his breathing coming in shallow breaths and moans as he drew sweet sounds of pleasure from her mouth. 

Christine tightened her legs around his waist, her nails digging into his back as she clung to him, desperate for more. She met each of his thrusts with a roll of her hips, their bodies moving together in perfect synchrony.

The air filled with soft moans and gasps, mingling with the rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin. “William,” she panted, her back arching off the bed. “You feel incredible, and I… ah!” Her words broke off in a sharp cry of pleasure as he hit that sweet spot again, drawing a strangled moan from her throat. “Yes! Right there, just like that,” she pleaded, her voice breathless, her body trembling beneath him as he quickened his pace.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, reverence thick in his voice as he pressed fevered kisses along her neck, flicking his tongue out to taste the delicate skin. “Christine, my love, you are being so brave for me. I am so proud of you, my darling wife,” he murmured, lifting his head to rest his forehead against hers, his breath hot and uneven.

His sweet praise sent a hazy smile to her lips, her half-lidded eyes shimmering with bliss. “Harder,” she demanded, her voice hoarse and breathless.

William’s eyes widened, if only for a fraction of a second, before darkening with unbridled desire. He obliged without hesitation—without question—his eagerness matching hers as he drove into her with deeper, more forceful thrusts. Christine cried out, her voice raw with pleasure, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as she urged him on, needing more, craving the exquisite torment he wrought upon her body. The bed creaked beneath them, its rhythmic protest barely audible over the symphony of moans and gasps that filled the air.

She could feel every inch of him stretching her, filling her completely, possessing her in a way that left her limbs trembling, left her utterly surrendered to him. They moved together with a natural rhythm, as if they had been made for this—for each other. And in that moment, nothing beyond the intoxicating pleasure they gave and took existed.

“That’s it, my love,” William grunted, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own climax. “You are taking it so well—such a good girl,” he praised. Christine could only whimper in response, too lost in the throes of pleasure to form coherent words. She arched her back, pressing her breasts against his chest as she met his increasingly forceful thrusts with equal fervour. William groaned at the sensation, then dipped his head, capturing her taut nipple between his lips, sucking gently before teasing it with his tongue. With his hand, he fondled the other breast, cupping and kneading it. 

Christine let out a strangled moan as the tension inside her coiled impossibly tight, her body strung between pleasure and the edge of something overwhelming. And then it snapped. With a cry of his name, her body convulsed as the first waves of her climax crashed over her with the force of a tidal wave, sweeping her under and leaving her breathless. 

William felt her tightening around him, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vice as she came undone. He felt her tremble uncontrollably as the sensation of his cock driving into her over and over pushed her higher and higher until she finally tumbled over the edge into pure bliss. “Just like that, darling,” he panted, his gaze roaming over Christine’s flushed face and heaving breasts. “You look so beautiful like this. You are so good for me.” 

He continued to drive into her trembling body, harder, faster, his hips slapping against hers as he chased his own release. With a few, final, erratic thrusts, he brought himself to the same edge his dear wife had just fallen over. With a swift movement and a needy whimper, he pulled out of her just in time. 

“Christine!” he roared, his release spurting forth to coat her belly as he held her close, their sweat-slicked bodies pressed together as one. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

They lay entwined, boneless and sated, as the coital bliss slowly ebbed into a warm afterglow. Christine shuddered with each breath, resting her head against his chest as he caressed her back in soothing circles. Their chests rose and fell in tandem, hearts still pounding in unison.

She could feel the hot, sticky evidence of his release cooling on her stomach, marking her as his in the most primal way. As she gazed up at him, her eyes glassy from the unshed tears of overwhelming emotion, a deep sense of satisfaction and contentment washed over her.

“William,” she whimpered, her voice hoarse from the cries of her pleasure. “That was…” She trailed off, unable to find the words to capture the sheer intensity of what he had made her feel. It had been more than she had ever imagined, more than all the fantasies that had filled her lonely nights before their wedding day. “I felt so…”

“Ecstatic?” William finished for her, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he gazed down at her with a look of pure male pride and possessiveness.

Christine chuckled, nodding in response. He combed his fingers through her mussed hair, releasing a contented sigh as he turned onto his side and gathered her close, wrapping his strong arms around her trembling form and holding her tightly against his sweat-slicked chest.

As their breathing gradually steadied, the world beyond their intimate cocoon began to seep back in—the distant hoot of an owl, the rustling of leaves against the windowpane, the faint crackling of dying embers in the fireplace. A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the occasional hum of satisfaction Christine let out as William traced idle patterns along the curve of her spine. She nestled closer, savouring the warmth of his bare skin against hers, her body still tingling in the aftermath of her climax.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked hesitantly, gently tilting her chin up with his knuckles so their eyes met. He cupped her cheek, brushing soothing strokes over her skin.

Leaning into his touch, Christine searched her fogged mind for any memory of pain. Her body still thrummed with lingering bliss, making thinking a chore she would rather not attempt. “Hmm… yeah, a bit,” she admitted softly, turning her head to press a kiss to his palm.

At her quiet confession, William felt his heart clench painfully. “I am terribly sorry, my love,” he murmured, his voice thick with concern. He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there as if willing away any remnants of discomfort. “I promised I would be gentle, but I… lost myself in the pleasure. I am so—”

Christine chuckled lightly, cutting him off. “No, there is no need,” she assured him, nestling impossibly closer. “It did hurt a little, but only in the beginning. Then, as you said yourself, I felt ecstatic.” She reached out to trace her fingers over his bicep, smiling to herself as she admired the way his muscles tensed slightly beneath her touch.

Relieved by her reassurance, William pressed another kiss to her forehead before pulling back slightly to gaze into her eyes. “You should know it pleases me greatly to hear that,” he murmured, eliciting a soft laugh from her kiss-swollen lips.

They remained that way for a while, simply gazing into each other’s eyes, as if searching for a glimpse of their very souls within them.

After what felt like a blissful eternity, the spell was broken by Christine’s self-deprecating chuckle as William idly stroked her hair. “I must look a mess,” she murmured, nestling her face against his chest as if to shield herself from his gaze.

Though he saw nothing but beauty in her, William could not entirely deny the truth of her words—her hair was a wild tangle, her cheeks were still flushed from the aftermath of their passion, and though he could not see it, he knew the remnants of his release lingered on her skin. “You do,” he admitted, amusement evident in his tone. “Shall I brush your hair for you?” The offer slipped from his lips before he had even considered it.

Touched by his offer, Christine looked up at him with affectionate gratitude shimmering in her eyes. “Yes, please,” she whispered. 

Something in her gaze sent a warm ache through his chest, swelling his heart with quiet devotion. He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple before reluctantly untangling himself from their embrace. As he rose from the bed, Christine watched unabashedly, enjoying the sight of his bare form as he strode towards the oak door to the left of the bed—the entrance to her dressing room. He returned moments later, an ornate wooden hairbrush in hand, his lips curving into a knowing smile as his eyes found her, now sat up in their marital bed, not a single inch of her luscious body concealed.

“Well,” he drawled, a playful glint in his gaze as he settled beside her, the brush now poised above her tangled locks. “Don’t you look as though you have had a rather good evening.”

Christine smiled, a bright blush colouring her cheeks once more as he began to brush through her hair. “I most certainly have,” she said delightedly, glancing over her shoulder for a brief look at him. He was smiling as he worked through the tangles with gentle strokes, careful not to cause her discomfort. “And what about you, my lord?” she teased, tilting her head slightly to grant him better access to her hair.

A low chuckle escaped William’s lips, a sound of deep contentment that sent a pleasant shiver over her skin. “I have indeed, my lady,” he replied, setting aside the hairbrush before threading his fingers through her locks, now soft and silky from his careful attention. He felt her breath shudder as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest and brushing light kisses over her shoulder. “You were so perfect, Christine. So brave,” he whispered against her skin, his breath hot yet still sending an excited tremor through her body. “I could never have asked for more.”

His words comforted her as much as his embrace, each syllable spoken with such love and reverence that it seemed to caress her heart. She melted into his arms, her eyes fluttering shut as his hands trailed down her chest. And then he cupped her breasts.

Her eyes flew open at the sensation. “William!” she admonished in a hushed voice, her breath hitching as she turned her head to meet his gaze.

William only smirked at her reaction. Sure enough, her expression held a mixture of reproach and surprise, but there was something else too—a subtle warmth in her eyes that betrayed her flustered state. “Forgive me, my love. But you cannot fault me for finding you irresistible,” he murmured, his smirk deepening as she rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation. He gave her breasts a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hands, simply holding her close as he buried his face in her hair.

His arms around her soothed her, and she leaned in closer, melting into his embrace. “Am I decent now?” she asked softly, turning to face him while remaining wrapped in his hold. “No longer a mess?”

“Oh, but you are,” he countered, a playful glint sparking in his eyes, drawing a soft laugh from her lips. He watched her with quiet admiration, his fingers rising to brush over her flushed cheek, his touch feather-light and reverent. “A most beautiful mess, if I may say so. But I am a gentleman, so I shall assist you in cleaning up,” he said, giving her hip a light pat before rising from the bed once more. He moved about the dimly lit room, extinguishing the candles for the night before making his way to the washstand. Christine watched him with amusement and curiosity as he dampened a cloth with warm water and returned to her side.

“You know,” she mused, a satisfied smile playing on her lips, “when you said you would leave me with evidence of your attentions, that is not quite what I thought you meant.” She gestured to the unmistakable proof of their passion upon her skin just as he began to wipe it away with slow, gentle strokes.

William chuckled, his eyes glimmering with quiet amusement as he tended to her with care, his touch both tender and unhurried. “No, I should not think so. An innocent lady such as yourself would hardly entertain such inappropriate thoughts,” he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice betraying his barely contained laughter.

Christine rolled her eyes, though the warmth in them undermined her feigned exasperation. “Hardly innocent now.”

Raising a brow in mock surprise, William smirked. As his gaze leisurely roamed her bare form, a surge of pride stirred within him. She was right—by all appearances, she no longer looked innocent in the slightest. And he took immense pleasure in knowing he was the one who had undone her so thoroughly. Yet, rather than voice his satisfaction, he leaned in, his lips mere inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“Oh? And what, pray tell, has stripped you of your innocence, my dear?” His voice, though laced with amusement, carried a rich undercurrent of sensuality that sent a delicious shiver through her body.

She tilted her chin, feigning a haughty disposition. “A most improper gentleman, I am afraid. He has most thoroughly ruined me,” she teased, pouting her lips as though the notion troubled her.

The warm laughter that escaped William’s lips was soft, full of affection and mirth. It sent a pleasant tightness through her chest, and an admiring smile crossed her flushed features.

His laughter faded into a gentle smile as he finished his task, folding the cloth neatly before setting it aside. Then, without hesitation, he gathered her into his arms, his gaze tender as he took her in—the glow of her cheeks, the way her lips curved into a knowing smile, one that held a myriad of wicked secrets and desires.

“You are not ruined, Christine. You could never be ruined,” he murmured, his voice warm, like the sweet caresses he brushed softly over her skin. “You are exactly as you were meant to be—mine. My wife, my countess, my lover.”

Christine’s breath hitched, her heart racing as the weight of his words wrapped around her like an embrace. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching his with an intensity that mirrored his own.

“Yours,” she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue, savouring the intimate bliss of the moment. “And you… are mine.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “I am,” he whispered, his hand sliding to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her into a deep, lingering kiss.

When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, their breaths slow and synchronised. Christine’s eyes fluttered closed of their own accord, a contented sigh slipping past her lips as she nestled closer, resting her head against his chest. He exhaled softly, lowering them both back onto the bed, his arms wrapped securely around her.

“I am cold,” she whispered, tilting her head to meet his gaze, her voice barely above a breath. “And tired.”

A quiet hum of understanding rumbled in his chest. He tucked the covers around them both, pulling the soft quilt over their entwined forms, his warmth enveloping her as she melted into him, safe, cherished, and wholly his.

“Sleep now, my love,” he ordered gently, brushing his lips over the crown of her head, breathing in her scent as though it were the very air he needed to survive. “You have more than earned it.”

A playful smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and despite the weight of exhaustion pulling at her, she looked up at him with mischief flickering in her drowsy gaze. “I was not aware sleep was something I must earn,” she murmured, her voice a whisper of amusement.

William chuckled, trailing his hand down the curve of her spine to her bottom, giving it a slow, admonishing squeeze. “Hush now, wife,” he chided, though his tone was more indulgent than stern. “You know very well that you have earned it. Now, do as you are bid and close your eyes.” 

Christine sighed softly but finally obliged, her eyes fluttering shut as she nestled deeper into his embrace.

A profound sense of contentment washed over her, wrapped securely in her husband’s arms, his fingers threading idly through her hair with the lightest of touches. “Yes, husband,” she murmured, her voice already thick with sleep. Her breathing slowed, her body growing heavy and pliant against his own. “I love you,” she whispered before surrendering to slumber.

William’s arms tightened ever so slightly around her, his lips grazing her temple as he breathed his reply. “I love you more.”

He remained awake a while longer, watching over her in quiet adoration, until the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing finally lulled him into peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

December 1777

Perched upon the narrow ledge outside the grand window, the silhouette of a small yet dignified creature could be spotted in the faint light of dawn. Sir Reginald Puddington III was his name—a name he bore with great pride, for he believed it did justice to his noble conduct. 

And yet, Sir Reginald was not a regular man of fine breeding. For despite what his gentlemanly bearing, and how he stood with his paws clasped behind his back may suggest, he was… a squirrel. 

Be that as it may, he was a squirrel of the utmost calibre—distinguished and academic. Sir Reginald’s accomplishments were many, but his greatest pride lay in having a mind that was as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife. Or at least, that was what he would tell others. Because in truth, he was most proud of his fur—a lustrous shade of chestnut, with golden tinsels threaded into the powdered wig he wore atop his head. Not to mention his tail, so voluminous and impeccably groomed. 

He was, without a doubt, a creature of many talents and qualities, but on this day, he was also a creature of righteous fury. 

For there, in the bedchamber beyond the glass, lay his beloved. 

This was not the first time he had watched the beautiful Christine in her sleep, but it was the first time the sight filled him with rage. She was a vision of ethereal beauty, slumbering peacefully as she always did, but now, she was in the arms of that wretched brute. Sir Reginald’s beady black eyes narrowed with barely concealed disdain as he beheld the villainous interloper—William Ransom, Lord Ellesmere, as he was so unworthily called—wrapped around his lady like an unwashed, overly muscular leech. 

It was as though the stainless steel kitchen knife used in that poor analogy pierced his heart. He had never felt such pain. And I… will always love you… he thought, and he felt his vocal chords twitch with the urge to let the lyrics be sung into the morning air. But alas, he held his silence. This was not the time for a heartfelt ballad. This was the time for action. 

His whiskers bristled with indignation. It had been agony to witness the slow corruption of his dear Christine. Once, she had been a creature of purity and grace, untouched by the filthy hands of any human man. But he did not fault her for the misfortune that befallen her. Surely, a lady so illustrious as herself simply must see that a distinguished and academic squirrel with a mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife would be a far better match than some titled brute with a jawline too defined, and all the refinement of a barnyard goat. 

No, the poor sweet Christine must have been tricked!

And though the woeful Sir Reginald was a gentleman with a heart as broken as the vase he had knocked over at some old lady’s house in London, he would not give up. 

The manicured claws on his delicate paws dug into the windowsill. He knew that with his stainless brain… no, mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife, he could easily—so terribly easily—break the glass and slip inside like a spectre of vengeance and restore the natural order. The brute would never see it coming, and he could liberate the poor lady once and for all. 

For a moment, he closed his eyes, allowing the solemn silence to give him the peace of quietly singing songs in his mind—still sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife. 

What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me… he thought sorrowfully. 

And then William stirred, tightening his grip around Christine’s waist, pressing a kiss to her temple with the ease of a man utterly at peace. 

Sir Reginald saw red. 

“Never gonna give you up,” he whispered, the words spilling forth before he could stop them. And then, with the grace of a king and the fury of a thousand betrayed lovers, he launched himself at the window, using telekinesis to form a hole in the glass so he could pass through. 

He felt not a tinge of surprise that his plan—so far—had succeeded. Of course it had, for it was a plan made up by Sir Reginald Puddington III. 

The hole in the glass was perfectly shaped to his silhouette, as though the very laws of nature bent in deference to his noble composure. Not even Sir Isaac Newton with his little ideas could best the abilities of Sir Reginald Puddington III! 

He landed on the Aubusson rug without a sound, because he wished it, and not even the rules of sound could defeat Sir Reginald Puddington III’s will. The disdain in his eyes was as evident as his esteemed nature—so like, extremely evident—as he watched his beloved lay in the shackles that were the arms of her so-called husband. 

Husband? As if! That brute was a usurper at best. 

With the stealth of a master assassin and the righteous fury of a betrayed poet, Sir Reginald Puddington III advanced across the chamber. He took a giant leap—think Neil Armstrong—and landed on the bed, closing in on his mortal enemy. 

But before he could charge into battle, he glanced at his beloved, still in peaceful slumber.

“I wanna love you but I better not touch…” he sniffled to himself as he gazed at her with a love in his eyes that was… literal, for his pupils turned into hearts. 

And then, he turned his eyes to his enemy, and his tail—his magnificent, voluminous tail—twitched with barely restrained fury. This… this could not stand. 

He would act. Now. 

With a battle cry as fierce as it was melodic, he leapt.

“Don’t stop me nowwwww!”

The beast had no time to react before Sir Reginald landed squarely upon his wretched, broad chest, sinking his meticulously manicured claws into the unreasonably firm flesh. Ugh, even his pectorals were insufferable. 

Sir Reginald had always deemed himself a worthy warrior, having had the most acorns out of any other squirrel in like… the world, or something! There was no other squirrel that could stuff quite as many acorns into its cheeks, and Sir Reginald always had his cheeks full of acorns. He thought it made him look younger, like Botox for squirrels. 

And now, he could put them to good use. 

As his enemy woke with a start, his eyes widening at the terrifying sight of the distinguished and academic squirrel attacking him. And beside him, Christine said: “Is that a chicken?” in a high-pitched voice. 

The male human side-eyed Christine, then tried to grab Sir Reginald and remove him from his chest, but the distinguished and academic warrior-squirrel spat out a large acorn he had stored in his cheek—like a barrel full of bullets—and shot at his heart. 

“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame!” Sir Reginald sang victoriously. 

But rather than dying from the totally dangerous bullet, William only groaned at the sensation, his gaze hardening with anger. This time, when he reached to grab the distinguished and academic warrior-squirrel, he succeeded. Sir Reginald shrieked and shrieked as the brute stood from the bed and carried him away in his iron grip. 

Christine held a hand in front of her mouth as she watched the scene unfold, her jaw dropping as Sir Reginald began to sing “baby bye bye bye” as the distance between them increased. 

“Wait!” she called after her husband, who turned back around to face her. 

Sir Reginald knew then, that he was right to love the woman, for she could see how worthy he was, and she could stand up to the brute who had led her astray. 

He had never felt such joy, such relief that his plan had succeeded—even though all his plans did—because this time, Sir Reginald Puddington III was not just fighting for acorns—he was fighting for love. 

But then Christine spoke again…

“Perhaps we could keep it as a pet?”

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Throughout her entire childhood, Christine had always wished for a pet. Never a distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel with a mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife, and a powdered wig with golden tinsels… but nonetheless, she had gotten her wish. 

A big cage was procured for her new pet, placed in her dressing room as she sat by her vanity, clad in a nightgown and robe, brushing her hair with a hot pink plastic fork. That fork actually did the job like no hairbrush ever could. Well, she wouldn’t know—ever since she was five years, three months, two days, five hours, forty three minutes, and fifteen seconds, Christine had only ever used that fork to brush her hair with.  

The fork, with its googly eyes glued on, had seen her through many stages of her life. 

Sir Reginald Puddington III, despite the indignity of his confinement, had not lost his spirit. He sat upon his small velvet cushion (for even captives of his calibre demanded luxury), one paw resting upon his heart, the other dramatically outstretched as he peered through the bars at his beloved Christine.

He had fought for her, had bled (not literally, but emotionally, which was far worse) for her, and now—now, he was reduced to a mere pet. A jester in the court of Lord Muscular Buffoon. 

Unacceptable. 

And yet… love knew no chains. Sir Reginald was still a distinguished and academic warrior, and not even the bars that held him captive could disprove that. And he would make sure his only love would know it. And if fighting for her was not enough, he would serenade her. 

Sir Reginald cleared his throat, and with his high-pitched squirrel-voice, he began to sing with his heart. (Not literally, of course. He sang with his vocal chords, obviously.)

Christine froze, as suddenly, she heard a voice behind her. It was a voice with a very posh British accent—the kind that could usually only be heard in a parody—singing a song she had not heard for over half a year. 

It was Grenade by Bruno Mars. 

She slowly turned around, her movements mimicking that of a character in a horror movie. The sight she was met with made her jaw drop, and she had to catch it with her hand so it would not fall to the floor and possibly dislocate. 

Putting her jaw back in its place, Christine stared at her pet squirrel, who was singing his heart out to her (once again, not literally, it was soundwaves he sang, not actually his heart). Startled, her gaze left the ludicrous sight, and settled on the hot pink plastic fork in her hand. 

There was something about those eyes—googly as they may be—that always seemed to captivate her, as though they understood parts of her no one else did. 

She stroked the three thick slots of the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush before carefully placing it down on her vanity, making sure her dearest friend did not get hurt. Then, she turned to face the singing squirrel once more. 

With a shuddering breath, Christine stood from her vanity stool and took cautious steps towards the cage in the centre of the room. 

“This cannot be real…” she murmured to herself, her hand never leaving her jaw, making sure it would not drop to the floor as realisation dawned on her—that song would not be written for… a really long time, and yet, this strangely distinguished creature was singing it now, and with his vocal chords no less!

“How do you know that song?” she asked frantically, pinching her arm with her free hand to make sure she was not dreaming. 

Sir Reginald quieted down, searching his mind for song lyrics that may explain how he knew modern songs. He had travelled through time, but his memory of songs that mentioned time travel was limited. But the last thing he wanted to do was keep secrets from his dearest, and so, he decided he would remove the curse, so that he could speak like normal, and not have to only ever sing. 

He knew what he had to do to remove the curse, and that was to transfer it to another person. It was the only way to be free of it, and he knew the spell by heart. He locked eyes with her, and began to hypnotise her with his song. 

“Everything I say, it rhymes,” he began, reciting the lyrics of the Teen Beach Movie song that was the spell to transfer the curse. “Here comes another line,” he continued, his voice strained by the sorrow that filled him, knowing he was dooming Christine to the curse which had plagued him for so long. Like, three days! 

“Just close your eyes if you don’t wanna see…”

But Christine could not close her eyes, she could only fall deeper into the trance, her irises swirling in her eyes as though she was a cartoon. “What’s this choreography?” she sang, so deep in the hypnosis she could only continue the lyrics. 

“Someone won’t you make it stop?” Sir Reginald sang in an almost mournful tone, his eyes reflecting a deep sadness, knowing what he was about to do. He turned his gaze to the floor, releasing Christine from the hypnosis. 

And it seemed to have worked, for Christine then snapped out of the hypnosis, her eyes returning to normal. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words that came out were not just words—they were song lyrics. 

“Oh, I can’t stop singing. Make it stop, make it stop! Am I real or just a prop?” she sang with panic in her voice. 

Her eyes locked on Sir Reginald again, the betrayal in her eyes giving him a pain unlike any he had ever felt. “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn?” She sobbed as she sang the lyrics to the Rihanna x Eminem song. 

Seeing her sorrow, and feeling guilt crash upon him with the force of The Hulk throwing a stone at him, Sir Reginald jumped, using his telekinesis powers to bend the bars of his cage. He landed on the floor, and shapeshifted his legs to be much longer, allowing him to meet Christine at eye-level. “I am so bloody sorry,” he said, his posh British accent thicker than ever. 

Though his heart was as heavy as stone (not literally, that would be very alarming and unhealthy), Sir Reginald Puddington III was relieved to be rid of his curse. His relief must have been evident on his face, for Christine scoffed and took a step back, disdain written plainly on her face (not literally). 

With tears in her eyes, she sang, “You and your words flooded my senses, your sentences left me defenceless.” 

“Christine,” Sir Reginald begged, his words laced with remorse. 

But Christine only held up her hands, continuing her song. “You built me palaces out of paragraphs, you built cathedrals…” 

Sir Reginald raised an eyebrow, straightening his posture to seem like the distinguished, academic, warrior-squirrel he was. “Madam, I must object,” he declared, his chest puffed out in defiance, despite the tears running down Christine’s face. “I did not build palaces out of paragraphs, nor any cathedrals for that matter. Surely a lady so intelligent as yourself must realise that a building made of paper would collapse!” 

That only made Christine sob harder. “I discovered that my castles stand upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand…” 

“No, it does not!” Sir Reginald insisted, jabbing a finger at her like an annoying school teacher. He was baffled, flabbergasted, and most of all, disappointed, that the woman he had thought was everything he had ever dreamt of could be so dumb as to think a squirrel could build palaces and cathedrals out of paragraphs. Even Sir Reginald knew that only Bob The Builder was capable of that! (Or Alexander Hamilton)

He shook his head, his powdered wig with golden tinsels sliding to the side with the motion. He immediately reached to fix it. Then, he spoke again, “And I assure you, that I—Sir Reginald Puddington III—would never be so foolish as to build anything out of salt, sand, or paragraphs!” 

With those harsh words that broke Christine’s heart (not literally, she was not experiencing heart failure), Sir Reginald deemed that the best cause of action was to remove himself from the situation before that… that… deceitful woman called for that brutish husband of hers. And so, with a metaphorically heavy heart, Sir Reginald shapeshifted back to his original size, and jumped through the window using telekinesis to form a hole in the glass. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

After the distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel had left, Christine ran into her bedchamber and threw herself onto the bed, crying very much. She locked the doors, refusing to see a single person, because she knew that if she did, they would expect her to speak. But she could not speak, only sing. 

The light of the day dimmed quickly, as though someone had turned the light switch off. 

Still laying in her bed, Christine frowned in confusion as she heard a melody play from outside her window. She languidly rose from the bed, making her way to the sound. She opened the window, and despite the fact that the ground was covered in snow and it was mid-winter, the cold did not bother her. 

She felt her vocal chords twitch in her throat, an urge to sing rising within her unlike anything she had ever felt. And before she knew it, she gave in to the urge. 

“The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen,” she began to sing as the wind howled beyond the window like the swirling storm inside her. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

“The cold never bothered me anyway,” she finished, shutting the window very dramatically, now magically dressed in a perfect replica of Elsa’s dress in Frozen. 

Then Christine realised that she felt different—like she felt before that horrendous curse. Her vocal chords no longer twitched with the urge to sing, and… no, that’s all. 

“Uhh testing testing,” she said to herself. A smile graced her lips as relief began to sink in—she was free of the curse. 

All she had done was sing a specific Disney song, and, simsalabim, she was free of the curse! And she had not had to transfer it to another person, like Sir Reginald Puddington III—the distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel with a voluminous tail, powdered wig with golden tinsels, and a mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife—had done. 

Gosh, and here I thought my husband had a long name and list of titles, Christine thought, chuckling to herself. 

With a mind unburdened of curses and distinguished, academic warrior-squirrels with… you know what, Christine began to walk around the room, merely taking in every detail and relishing in how her vocal chords did not twitch with the urge to sing. She had never known such peace since the curse—several minutes ago! 

And now, she could be alone and utterly at peace—save for the company of her dearest friend, the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush. 

“Oh, my hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes, wherefore art thou, my hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes?” she called out, twirling in place, before spotting it on the vanity where she had left it.

A smile instantly crossed her face as she approached her dearest friend and carefully picked him up, cradling him to her chest like a puppy, or something. As though wishing for assurance that this reunion was real, Christine stroked her friend’s handle, her smile widening at the calming sensation of the hard, worn plastic beneath her fingertips. 

Ah yes, Mister Fork was an individual most experienced in the fields of both hairbrushing and emotional support. For as long as Christine could remember, Mister Fork had been by her side, his googly eyes always brimming with silent wisdom, his hot pink plastic body always ready to untangle the messes of her hair and, metaphorically, her life. 

They had always had each other, and no matter the trouble, they stood together—fork in hand, fork in hair. 

Though speech was an ability he did not possess, Christine had always known that Mister Fork had lived a life of calamity before they found each other. For even though his eyes—oh, those beguiling googly eyes—bore a wisdom that challenged the very philosophers of old, and a mystique that rivalled the Mona Lisa’s smile, there was a sorrow within them, a heartbreaking agony etched into his plastic irises like a tragic tale inscribed on a Viking rune. 

Christine pulled her dearest friend away from her embrace, tears welling up as she witnessed the dark depths of Mister Fork’s anguish in his striking googly eyes. She blinked away her tears, knowing they would only upset her friend further. 

With a heart as broken as the vase Sir Reginald had knocked down at some old lady’s house in London, Christine leaned in, pressing a loving kiss to Mister Fork’s shaft. 

As Christine pulled away, she gazed into Mister Fork’s eyes with solemnity of a woman who had just kissed her dearest friend for the first time—a woman who, after so long, showed her feelings for said friend. 

Although she was at a peaceful certainty her kiss told just as much as Mister Fork’s googly eyes did, Christine also knew that she, unlike her hot pink companion, had been blessed with a mouth, and thereby chosen by God to speak. 

Poor Mister Fork, she thought, though she knew she was gambling with her tears by even allowing the thought to surface. For what cruel fate had befallen her dearest companion, that he should be doomed to an existence without speech? To be blessed with eternal wisdom, yet cursed with the inability to utter a single syllable? 

An injustice so profound it surpassed even the worst atrocities known to man, was its nature. A grievance beyond the comprehension of the human mind. And yet, anyone who gazed into the melancholy depths of those googly eyes, noted the residue of glitter pink hot glue around the edges, would be enlightened with the knowledge that the greatest pain any creature had ever suffered, had been suffered by an innocent hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush. 

Oh, such tragedy!

And yet, Christine did not weep. No, she would not insult Mister Fork by flaunting her ability to form real tears in her real eyes. She knew Mister Fork was an envious individual, but he was also an individual deserving of respect and submission, and she, knowing what was best for her, would give him what he was due. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

When Christine retired to sleep that night, she did not allow her husband entry to her chamber. Nor did she sleep in her own bed, for she had experienced a spiritual awakening, and therefore, could not in good conscience steal from Mister Fork—whose possessions were everything his protector owned in name. And since long, Christine had been Mister Fork’s protector, yet she had been neglectful in her duty. And now, she ought to repent. 

The Bed, previously usurped by Christine, rightfully belonged to Mister Fork. He would have his rest there, not Christine—a mere servant. 

Yet, the thought of spending the night on the floor did not trouble her, for she knew it was what Mister Fork commanded, and she must obey. Serving Mister Fork gave her a sense of righteousness she had never once felt before—a pride that she alone would give the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush a rest worthy of his might and silent suffering. 

And because of that, panic washed through her at the startling sound of a thud on the window. Christine immediately got up on her feet, glancing at her master laying in deep slumber upon the pillow before tiptoeing over to the window to put an end to the possible disturbance of Mister Fork’s sleep. 

But there, standing on the snow-covered ground below the window, was Sir Reginald Puddington III. Though the darkness was near total, Christine could see that he held several acorns in his paws. She had heard the tales of Sir Reginald’s acorns—how smooth they were, glimmering like diamonds in the moonlight—and she simply had to see them in greater detail. 

She reached into her Elsa style braid and pulled out a pair of professional binoculars, poised them before her eyes and then…

Awe struck her like a bolt of lightning, 

For she had never seen such exquisite acorns before—they were perfect beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Each acorn was polished to a glossy sheen, reflecting the moonlight like the surface of a pristine lake at dawn. Their curvature was divine, their symmetry immaculate. Every flawless detail of the acorns drew her in like a moth to a flame, calling her name like a siren’s song. 

“Do you want one?” 

The words, spoken in that absurdly posh British accent by Sir Reginald, pulled Christine out of her trance. She lowered her very professional binoculars, held them firmly in her hands as she adjusted her focus on the distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel. 

Of course she wanted an acorn so pristine as the ones her eyes were blessed with the sight of, but it was a wish she had never thought to voice. But now, when offered, she felt her desire surge within her. The acorns seemed to gleam even brighter, taunting her with their flawless beauty.

“Yes,” Christine replied, her voice barely a whisper, as though the very act of saying it would shatter the magic that the acorns had created. 

Sir Reginald Puddington III, standing in the snow below, smirked in a way that only a distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel could—mysterious and filled with secret knowledge. He then tossed one of the acorns upwards, and Christine’s breath caught in her throat as the glimmering relic sailed through the freezing wind towards her. 

The moment she caught the acorn with both her feet, she could feel its magic rush through her veins. “Deez nuts,” she murmured, her voice a breathless gasp of awe. 

She looked down to the snow-covered ground again, only to find that Sir Reginald was gone. She returned her gaze to the acorn, and then realised how truly delectable it looked. Unable to resist, Christine took a bite, her eyes closing in delight as she tasted the yummy flavour of the enchanted acorn on her tongue. 

“Mmm, scrumptious,” she murmured to herself, savouring the nutty flavour that seemed to dance a tango on her taste buds. 

When she opened her eyes again, she saw the world in a different light, and her thoughts were different from what they had been before. 

But most of all, she wanted to kill Mister Fork. 

Her eyes turned red as she crossed the room towards the bed where the ridiculous little hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes lay sleeping. Christine picked up the pillow beside the one Mister Fork rested his prongs on, and then pressed it over the tiny individual’s whole plastic body, intent on suffocating him. 

How could she have been so stupid? How could she have thought that a fucking toy fork from, like… Toys “R” Us, or something, had her best interests in mind? No, he was obviously possessed by a malicious spirit intent on deranging Christine into insanity. And she, a naive fool, had almost—almost—fallen for it. 

A vengeful smile graced her lips as she heard Mister Fork gasp for air under the suffocation of the pillow, but it was no use, for Christine—a human—was far stronger than her opponent, who was a mere plastic fork. 

After exactly seventeen minutes and forty three seconds, Christine lifted the pillow. It was a gruesome sight she was met with. Mister Fork, now a corpse—and a dead one at that—lay crushed into more pieces than most three year olds could count. Luckily, Christine was not a three year old, and could therefore quickly assess the seven pieces the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes had been broken into. 

He truly was as broken as the vase Sir Reginald had knocked over at some old lady’s house in London. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Two days later. 

“Christine Ransom,” the judge’s voice rang out, sharp and foreboding in the cold, austere courtroom, “you stand here today accused of the premeditated murder of Mister Fork of Toys “R” Us. How do you plead?”

The courtroom was full of curious spectators that had come from the village, all eager to witness their countess be trialed for a heinous crime against a toy fork with striking googly eyes. Tales of the mysterious Mister Fork had spread throughout the lands like a wildfire, how the poor little fork had been abused and enslaved by one selfish lady who had forced the innocent individual to brush her hair, and ultimately, murdered him. 

Christine trembled on her feet, glancing around the courtroom, searching the crowd for sympathy, yet she found none. The sheer, glittery cloak she wore suddenly felt as though it had been woven with lead, weighing her down like the weight of anvils upon her shoulders. She swallowed hard, attempting to steady herself against the burn of a whole lot of accusing eyes against her neck. 

Two days ago, that one enchanted acorn had changed everything. It had opened her eyes to the truth—Mister Fork had been a malevolent force, a danger to society. And by ridding the world of the threat the hot pink plastic fork with googly eyes posed against humanity, Christine had done the world a favour. 

And yet, instead of being awarded a superhero costume, she had been arrested for murder. 

But in her heart, Christine knew she had done no wrong, and therefore, she lifted her chin and stood proud as her voice rang out in defiance. “I plead not guilty, your honour,” she stated firmly, with a conviction in her voice that sent a ripple of gasps through the courtroom. 

Hushed murmurs erupted, and somewhere in the back, a child sobbed. The sound of the child’s weeps made Christine’s heart clench with sympathy, sorrow washing over her as she came to a startling realisation of how awful that era truly was. She had known about the deadly diseases, the patriarchal oppression that demanded women wear stays or corsets—evil torture devices that restricted breathing and deformed organs (and this is definitely not a myth that can be disproven)—and how no one ever washed themselves, because everyone in the past had a kink for stink. 

But this was an injustice beyond anything history had recorded. Sweet, innocent children, forced to witness the trial of a murdered hot pink plastic fork with googly eyes. Christine could recognise how awful it was that these children did not have access to iPads, and instead had to entertain themselves by watching a trial, or worse, playing!

However, she could not grieve over the lack of cocomelon while facing a jury. And so, she began to explain herself, and how she had been forced to kill Mister Fork in self defence. 

The trial went by, but even as Christine pleaded that she ought to be rewarded with a superhero costume for her heroic efforts, the judge did not approve of her actions. She was sentenced to death, and was locked away in a prison cell until the date of her execution. 

Laying in her bed with her arm draped over her forehead like a sick Victorian child, Christine gazed through the bars of the small window in her prison cell, the only thing separating her from the outside world. The moon, yellow and made of cheese, hung in the sky like an ominous eye, watching her with the judgement of a thousand dairy-based deities. 

Her eyes widened as she saw the shape of a bat reflect on the cheesy surface—the symbol of Batman. She jumped to her feet and strode to the window to get a closer look, but just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Christine sighed in annoyance and got back into bed, defeated and hopeless. But just as she thought there was no saving her from the fate that awaited her, a dark figure swooshed through the window bars and landed gracefully in the shadows of her cell. 

A hushed silence settled over the cell, save for the drip of what was hopefully water and not aqua regia against the stone flooring. Christine’s heart leapt faster than Usain Bolt could run as she stared at the cloaked figure standing in the centre of her cell. 

Then, Batman stepped out of the shadows and slowly removed his mask. The face beneath it made Christine’s breath hitch—it was Lord John. 

“My dear,” he said, his voice a calming sound against the chaos the past two days had wreaked upon her soul. “I have come to save you.” 

Lord John extended his gloved hand, and Christine placed her trembling hand in his. He gently pulled her to her feet, drawing closer as he did so. His free hand encircled her waist like a boa constrictor that wished to hug its prey with affection rather than crush it. 

Because, as the saying goes: not all snakes. 

Christine gazed into Lord John’s yearning eyes, fluttering her lashes so much that her feet lifted off the ground. But he held her steady, his grip firm yet tender, as if he feared she might vanish like a dream.

“We must make haste,” he whispered, letting go of her hand to caress her cheek, “the guards will return soon.” He paused, torn between whether to leave now, or tell her what he had been longing to say for an unknown amount of time. He sighed, his thumb brushing over her cheek in a caress so tender one might think Christine was as fragile as a sand castle. “But before we leave, there is something I must confess,” he added, his eyes gleaming with an emotion rawer than chicken contaminated with salmonella, and a depth deeper than the Marijuana Trench—or whatever it is called—that made Christine’s breath catch in her throat. 

Lord John hesitated for a moment before finally uttering the words that had been locked in his heart for what felt like an eternity, “I love you, Christine.” 

In the background, a prisoner in one of the other cells whistled the melody of Baby by Justin Bieber, adding a romantic soundtrack to the moment. 

“I love you too,” Christine replied, her heart wiped of any romantic notions she may or may not have felt towards Mister Fork… and Sir Reginald… maybe even William. 

“Hold on tight, spider monkey,” Lord John said before sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. With a quiet shriek passing Christine’s lips, they flew through the window and into the night, soaring over the prison walls like a pair of majestic, romantically entangled bats.

As Lord John carried Christine through the dark, cheese-moonlit sky, the air rushed past them, cold and exhilarating. The moon hung ahead, its cheesy surface glowing softly against the endless night (not literally endless, they are not on the Norwegian island Svalbard). The big cheese ball grew larger in their view, and for a moment, Christine feared it was about to explode and ruin her hair with its cheese debris, but then she realised that the moon was not literally expanding—they were simply getting closer. 

To her surprise, Christine was not unable to breathe once they exited the earth’s atmosphere, like NASA, with their deceitful lies of a round earth had proclaimed. It now made sense how Sir Reginald had been able to bend the laws of physics to his will—Sir Isaac Newton, along with some other people, were liars. 

They landed on the cheesy surface in complete silence—because they wished to, not because of the conspiracy that space was silent. Christine took in her surroundings, noting the surreal, cheese-crusted landscape beneath her feet. The moon was nothing like the fake, photoshopped, studio-recorded, lifeless images she had been indoctrinated with throughout her life. Instead, it was warm, yellow—like cheese usually is—with pools of mac’n’cheese (without the macaroni) in the craters, inviting a spa-like bathing experience. 

She was surprised to find that a civilisation of chumans (cheese-humans) inhabited this wonderfully cheesy biosphere, living in little houses of Parmesan bricks and cheddar shingles. The chumans were walking around on the yellow brick roads of their cosy little chity (cheese-city), wearing robes of mozzarella and top hats of Brie. 

And beside her, Lord John stood in his bat-suit, an arm wrapped possessively around her waist. “Do you like it, my dear?” he asked, the warmth in his voice as palpable as the scent of cheese in this cheesy chplace (cheese-place). 

“Yes,” Christine answered, her voice breathless and awestruck, “This… this is my chome.” 

A loving smile immediately spread across Lord John’s face, his eyes reflecting the cheese around them. “Our chome,” he corrected, and pulled her in for a cheesy kiss. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Christine and John were henceforth known as: 

Her Chmajesty Chempress Christine 

and 

His Chmajesty Chemperor John

The generous chumans built them a chastle of the finest Parmesan bricks, with fountains of cheese fondue, and a lush garden with cheese-carved flowers. 

And then they lived chappily ever after. 

The End. 

Chapter Text

December 1777

The morning sunlight had begun to creep through the curtains, slowly rousing William from his slumber. Blinking against the golden light that stung at his eyes, he stirred, his arm instinctively tightening around the delicate form nestled against his chest. 

Christine lay still in his arms, her face turned towards him, her long lashes resting softly against her cheeks. William exhaled a quiet sigh, his gaze tracing over her features with such admiration she would have been sure to swoon—were she awake. He had never seen a more beautiful, serene picture than the one before him. The sight of her, wrapped in his strong arms, bathed in the soft glow of the morning, and her pink lips parted ever so slightly in deep slumber, stirred something deep within his chest—something beyond mere desire, beyond even love. 

With great care, as to not awaken her, he shifted slightly, bringing one hand to trace the barest touch along the curve of her shoulder. Her skin was warm, and impossibly soft beneath his fingers. His eyes gleamed with deep affection as he marvelled at how utterly peaceful she looked, so different from the woman who had trembled beneath him mere hours ago. 

A smug smile tugged at his lips at the memory, slowly spreading into a grin as he recalled the wanton moans he had drawn from her lips, the way her body had arched and writhed so sweetly beneath his touch, so utterly undone by him. As William indulged in the memory, his fingers continued their languid exploration, tracing over her arm, her collarbones, her waist, and finally settling on her hip. 

She stirred in his arms, pressing her face against his chest. William’s eyes widened, regretting ever disturbing her sleep. She had, as they had established, earned it. He stilled his hand, carefully searching her face for any sign of wakefulness. For a moment, she remained still, her warm breath fanning over his skin, her soft body moulded so perfectly against his own that he found himself unwilling to move at all. 

Then, with a drowsy hum, Christine shifted again, curling impossibly closer, her soft lips grazing his chest with the lazy motion. It was the barest touch, surely unintentional in her drowsy state, merely drifting over his skin for a fleeting moment. Yet, it sent a slow, pleasurable ache curling through him, and he drew in a sharp breath, as if to will his body not to react. His grip on her hip tightened, if only for a moment, as he fought the urge to rouse her in a far less innocent manner. 

But then, as he gazed down at her delicate face, he saw a smirk form over her lips. She was not asleep. She was simply pretending.

“Awake, little wife?” he murmured, his voice hushed, rich with amusement.

Christine’s smirk widened as she tilted her head to gaze up at him. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, gleamed with mischief as she peered up at him through her lashes. “Perhaps,” she murmured, stretching languidly against him like a contented cat. “Though I must say, I was rather enjoying your sweet caresses and how you hummed in adoration.”

William raised an eyebrow, shaking his head in mock disbelief. A chuckle of genuine amusement tumbled from his lips as he tightened his hold of her, remaining gentle, yet dominating with his inescapable embrace. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You are a clever little minx, Christine.” There was a tinge of reproach in his voice, as though he chastised her. And yet, rather than narrowing with disapproval, his eyes could only show pure enjoyment. “Deceiving your husband, and on your honeymoon no less. Whatever shall I do with you?”

A soft laughter escaped Christine at his words, the sound warm and melodic. “You can do many things with me, my love,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep, yet carrying a flirtatious lilt nonetheless. She dipped her head, pressing kisses to his chest, smiling against his skin as she felt him shudder beneath her touch. 

As her lips drifted from his chest to his neck, she felt him rumble with a deep groan, his muscles tensing ever so slightly beneath her kisses. William tightened his grip on her hip, his fingers digging ever so slightly into her soft flesh as though it were his restraint he was holding onto. “Christine, you do not know what you are playing at,” he murmured, his voice a rumbling sound of desire restrained by an attempt at decency. 

“Oh, but I am not playing,” she whispered, tilting her head to gaze up into his hungry eyes. “And,” she continued, tracing her index finger along his jawline in a warm, light touch that seemed to ignite a fire within him, “I know exactly what I am doing. Or do you truly believe me so ignorant?” 

Her lips brushed teasingly against the sensitive skin of his neck, and for a moment, William forgot everything but her touch. His body responded before his mind could catch up, and his grip on her hip tightened once more, pulling her closer. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her face—warm, yet sending a shiver through her. “No, I believe you wicked,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire and playful reprimand. “But I must protest—a wife should not torment her husband so mercilessly.” 

Though his words suggested displeasure, the wicked gleam in his eyes and the playful tug at his lips betrayed the truth—he was enjoying every moment of it, and Christine, taking notice of it, made no attempts to conceal her own mischievous smile as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “No, that would be awfully scandalous,” she quipped, a playful chuckle following her words. She lowered him onto his back, her movements slow and deliberate, yet filled with confidence. 

As she straddled him, her hands trailing up his chest, she leaned down to whisper against his lips, her breath warm and teasing. “If my torment bothers you—which I highly doubt—I suppose I shall take your request into consideration… later. For now,” she continued, her lips brushing against his with the faintest contact, “we will do things my way.” 

“It was not a request,” William responded, his voice low and thick with a commanding edge that sent a shiver down Christine’s spine. His hands found their way to her waist, pulling her flush against him as he whispered, “It was a warning, sweet Christine,” he finished, fighting with all his might to contain the laughter that threatened to burst from his chest at the boldness of their game. 

Christine’s breath hitched as he tightened his hold of her waist, his grip firm, but not forceful. His words had been a warning, yes, and yet there was no true threat to be detected beneath them—only indulgence, and barely contained amusement. And so, the mischievous gleam in her eyes never flickered, nor did the boldness in her voice falter as she spoke, “Oh? And how, pray tell, do you intend to make good on your little warning?”

“You test me, wife.” 

“Now, that is hardly an answer,” Christine pouted, smiling as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his in a teasing whisper of a kiss. “You’ll have to do better than that, my dear husband.”

William groaned low in his throat, a sound of both frustration and pleasure. He grasped onto her hips once more, his grip firm enough to remind her of his strength, but with enough care not to intimidate her. “You shall have your answer soon, darling,” he murmured, moving to sit up, lifting Christine with him so she straddled his now sitting position. “But I suggest you prepare yourself for receiving more than what you bargained for.” As he spoke, his hands slid from her hips to her bottom, kneading the soft flesh with undisguised delight gleaming in his eyes. 

At his touch, Christine gasped softly, her naked body instinctively arching against his. “Give it to me then,” she whispered, a soft, teasing smile ghosting over her lips as she leaned in, her fingers tracing slow, languid patterns across his chest. “I bet you can’t resist,” she taunted, brushing her lips against his. 

She let out a soft gasp as she felt his hand tangle in her hair, gently tugging her head back, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. “I am resisting, believe me,” he murmured, his voice low, lips trailing lightly over her skin. “But with your body against mine,” he continued, drawing a soft moan from her lips as he nibbled on her neck, “it grows harder for every passing second.”

“I have no doubt something is growing harder,” she laughed breathlessly, watching his jaw drop in disbelief at her brazen teasing. His incredulous expression did nothing but fuel her amusement further, for he appeared genuinely caught in disbelief, as though she had truly scandalised him. 

As she opened her mouth to taunt him further, mischief glimmering ever even brighter in her eyes, her speech faltered, hanging unspoken on her tongue as she noticed the shift in William’s expression. The disbelief that had once been etched deeply into his features quickly melted away, morphing into something far darker, far more wicked. Before she could speak again, before her lips could even part to deliver the next playful remark, he acted. For the briefest of moments, one hand left her bottom. Christine barely registered the loss of his touch before William swiftly brought his hand down with a resounding smack to her rear. 

Christine let out a sharp gasp, and for a brief second, her mind spun in surprise, thoughts rushing through her head in a chaotic flurry—shock, delight, outrage, and an undeniable thrill colliding all at once, stealing the breath from her lungs and leaving her utterly speechless. His swat left her skin tingling with a brief sting, but as the sensation slowly faded, she realised there had not been any pain—not even a fraction. 

However, she had been rendered speechless by the surprise of her husband’s gesture, reduced to a state of merely staring at him with eyes wide as pies. And William, wearing a smile as smug as can be, watched her reaction with a look of pure satisfaction. 

“You are bold this morning, my love,” he murmured, his voice low and tinged with playful amusement. “Too bold for your own good,” he added. 

Though he knew that his actions had been far removed from that of proper gentlemanly conduct, William could not deny that the regret he perhaps should feel was nowhere to be found. Instead, he revelled in the look of stunned surprise on Christine’s face, and how quickly he had made her go from brazenly teasing him to being speechless and wide-eyed. 

But Christine’s surprise was fleeting, and before William could fully process the satisfaction of his victory, a mischievous spark returned to her eyes. “You bastard,” she whispered, though her tone was laced with something far closer to admiration than scorn. A breathy laugh followed her words, and she shook her head incredulously. “I may be bold,” she continued, absently brushing her fingers over his shoulder, “but you love it. You love my boldness so much that you couldn’t resist answering it in kind.” 

William caught her hand, holding it gently as he brought it to his lips for a soft kiss. His eyes never left hers, glimmering with affection and mischief. “You are treading a dangerous path, darling,” he said in a smooth, low voice that mirrored the warning his words suggested. And yet, the affection in his eyes never wavered, reassuring her, telling her that his warning was more playful than threatening—that he was still her devoted, loving husband. 

“Perhaps I am,” she replied, her voice free of any regret or doubt. Instead, she spoke with unwavering confidence, as if daring him to prove just how dangerous that path could be. She shifted on his lap, itching her hips ever so slightly closer to his, but not quite making intimate contact. “But if so,” she continued with a teasing smirk on her lips, “is it not your responsibility to guide me to a safer path?” 

A slight gasp escaped her lips as William grabbed onto her hips, preventing her from making any further teasing movements. His grip was gentle—and she expected no less from him—yet firm enough to ensure she could not escape his hold, nor continue her torment. “Oh my dear wife,” he whispered, leaning in to press fervent kisses to her neck, “I am afraid there is no turning back now.” 

That bloody man, Christine thought, yet there was no venom behind the sentiment. He always knew how to turn the tables on her, how to take the games she thought she ruled and twist them until she was the one left breathless, aching, and utterly at his mercy. And he was right, there was no turning back. Nor did either of them take issue with the fact. 

“Then perhaps I should instead turn onto my back,” she suggested, the words spilling out before she could curb the sultry edge she then heard in her voice. Christine felt William’s grip instinctively tighten on her hips, pulling her closer. 

When he lifted his face from her neck and met her gaze, he only smirked, as though he had been expecting such a reply. “No,” William answered, his smirk widening as he saw confusion flood her eyes, “you are staying precisely where you are.” With those words, he gently lifted her hips to guide her down over his aching cock. 

Christine let out a soft moan, her eyes widening for a fleeting moment before fluttering shut as she felt his tip press insistently against her most intimate of places. “William…” she whispered, his name falling from her lips in a breathless plea, each syllable permeated by the mixture of surprise and eager anticipation that coursed through her veins. 

Slowly easing into her, William’s breath shuddered for every inch he gave her. He kept his eyes fixed on her face, observing and devouring every delicious reaction he elicited with his hands that roamed her bare body as he carefully sheathed himself to the hilt inside her. 

With an instinctive moan, Christine’s head fell back as William thrust deeper from below. “I don’t know how to…” she murmured, meeting his gaze with a look in her eyes that bore a resemblance to embarrassment. But most of all, her eyes told him that she was eager, thoroughly desperate to feel every sensation he could give her. 

And he wanted to do just that. 

William silenced her declaration of ignorance with a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue delving past her lips as his hands began to guide her movements. Breaking away, he gazed at her with eyes darkened by lust and insatiate need, as though despite being wholly one with her, he was still holding back more. “Yes, you do. Your body knows what it wants,” he said in a tone that was as commanding as it was tender. 

He encouraged her with praise and guided her movements until their mutual pleasure took over, and no guidance but the instinctual rocking of their hips was necessary. Christine gasped and moaned, meeting William’s powerful thrusts with deliberate rolls of her hips. She clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as she rode him with increasing abandon, chasing the ecstasy she knew was within reach. 

She threw her head back as William’s upward thrusts grew harder, one of his hands rising from her hip to tangle in her hair, tilting her head sideways to gain access to her neck. A deep groan fell from his lips as he felt her arch against him, and he surged forwards to bestow his most thorough attentions upon her neck, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin there as moan after moan tumbled from deep in his throat. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

A peaceful silence replaced loud noises of pleasure and passion once the afterglow settled in, and every caress they exchanged was as soft as the love they found in each other’s eyes. They both lay on their sides, facing the smiles of one another—the kind of smiles that spoke without words, telling tales of blissful joy and love. 

“Did you like it?” William asked, though he knew the answer. The response, however, he had not anticipated, for it was laughter that spilled from her lips, not a simple “yes.” It was not mocking or dismissive, but light and musical—like wind chimes stirred by a warm breeze. 

He raised an eyebrow at her sudden display of amusement, yet finding himself utterly besotted by the way her face scrunched up with her laughter. It slowly faded, and in the warmth left by the carefree echo of her laughter, she reached up and gently traced her finger along the edge of his jawline. William let out a sigh of delight, and she chuckled softly. 

“It wasn’t so bad,” she murmured, scarcely able to curb the laughter that threatened to burst from her chest once more as she saw the expression that appeared on her husband’s face. 

William shook his head with a mixture of amusement and fond exasperation. “I suppose I shall have to do better next time,” he said, a sigh of feigned disappointment entailing his words, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his true delight. “And you see, my love,” he continued, trailing his fingers down her arm until he reached her wrist, encircling his hand around it, “that time is now.” 

Following those words, William rolled them over, capturing her other wrist and pinning both above her head with one hand. He loomed over her, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he took in the sight of her beneath him—lips slightly parted, and her eyes wide with both surprise and excitement that merged together into an exquisite gleam. 

“Does my little countess wish for more?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, as his breath tickled her ear, making her squirm beneath him. “I suppose I ought to do something about that,” he added, lightly brushing his thumb over her inner wrist, sending a ripple of anticipation through her. 

Christine tugged lightly at her wrists, testing the strength of his grip, though she knew well enough that any attempt to break free would be futile. She groaned, glaring up at him with a defiant look in her eyes. “You always think you’re the one in control,” she yammered, rolling her eyes with exaggerated annoyance. 

“Answer my question, wife.” 

She opened her mouth to argue back, yet found no words suitable for protest. “Fine,” Christine replied with a dramatic sigh, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “Well, I suppose you could say I do want more,” she admitted at last. 

Despite her reluctance to give him the pleasure of her surrender, Christine could not deny the rush of warmth that flooded her as William’s smirk grew. He lowered his face towards her, his breath brushing over skin like a hundred ghostly kisses, yet his lips remained hovering just an inch above hers. 

“Do you then?” he taunted, aware of her surrender, yet making no move to give her what she wanted. Christine lifted her head off the pillow in an attempt to kiss him, but he tilted his head back just in time, denying her the satisfaction of contact. A soft whimper of frustration escaped her lips, and William chuckled, his grip on her wrists tightening ever so slightly. 

He leaned in close, brushing his lips against her earlobe before he whispered, “I believe it’s time for breakfast.” 

As he pulled away, Christine let out a scandalised gasp, her eyes narrowing into a vexed glare. “Breakfast?” she echoed, her voice laced with incredulity and outrage. “What is wrong with you? You are just cruel if you find this amusing. How would you like it if I were to—”

William silenced her by placing a finger over her lips, finally releasing his grip on her wrists to intertwine his fingers with hers. “You misunderstand me, my love,” he chuckled, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, softly, as though he was apologising. “It is not food I crave.” 

He trailed his lips from her forehead to her temple, then down her cheek and jaw. With every kiss he pressed on his way down, Christine felt her indignation melt away into something sweeter, something far more intoxicating. A breathy moan fell past her lips as he captured her nipple between his teeth, making her squirm and writhe beneath him as he lavished tender attention upon her body—still sensitive with the remnants of her previous climax. 

Christine trembled and arched off the bed as William swirled his tongue around her nipple, his hands moving down her sides, tracing the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips with the expertise of a master sculptor. Before she could curb the needy sound that escaped her lips, Christine whimpered as her husband’s mouth left her breast, exposing the wet, hardened peak to the chilly air, causing her to tremble with dual sensations of coolness and desire. 

Yet despite how the air made her shiver, the warmth of William’s touch repelled any thought but the desperation and desire he ignited within her. “Don’t you dare stop now,” she pleaded, her voice breathless and desirous from the amorous kisses he trailed lower still. 

She received no vocal response to her plea, but his actions promised her he would not leave her wanting. Christine’s hips jolted as William slipped a finger between her folds and rubbed her most sensitive spot, drawing a strangled cry from her lips, followed by a series of shuddering moans. 

“Please,” she whimpered, reaching down to tangle her fingers in his hair as he planted numerous blazing kisses to her lower abdomen. “William, please, you’re killing me,” she begged, her voice trembling from the torturously slow strokes he gave her. 

William took a moment to glance up at her face, his eyes devouring the desperate arousal that was so tantalisingly evident on her face. “Shh, I’m here,” he murmured, his voice strained from having held back the urge to bury his face between her thighs for an unbearably long time. He soothed her with gentle caresses over her inner thigh with his free hand, and lowered his mouth to her skin again, bestowing starved kisses down her lower abdomen to her trembling thighs. 

“May I kiss you here?” he asked, pressing down harder on her sensitive nub to indicate his meaning. 

He was almost as desperate as her, but his desperation was not out of a need for personal pleasure, regardless of how his cock was once more hard and aching for release. No, he was far more desperate to taste her, to draw salacious moans of pleasure from her lips, and make her body convulse with the force of the climax he wished to give her. 

Christine nodded in response, the movement hasty and quick from the frustration her desperation had brought. 

As soon as he received her permission, William dipped his head between her eagerly spread thighs, placing a lingering kiss to her swollen nub, making her gasp and writhe like a serpent against the sheets. Slowly, he dipped his tongue and dragged it along her slit, groaning out of pure delight as he tasted her. 

“You taste wonderful, dear wife,” he murmured against her aching flesh, his voice rumbling from deep in his throat, sending vibrations rocking through her body. 

Her eyes fluttered shut in bliss as he sealed his lips around her swollen, throbbing nub and sucked greedily, making her hips jolt and moans of exquisite pleasure fall from her lips. “Oh, William, never stop…” 

William hummed against her, the vibrations adding to her pleasure as he lapped his tongue at her most sensitive area like a man starved. He could feel her hips starting to grind against his mouth, seeking more of his touch. Smirking to himself, he gripped her hips tighter, placing her thighs over his shoulders and holding her firmly in place as he feasted upon her aching flesh, savouring the taste, the feeling of her soft skin beneath his hands, and the sound of the moans that now flowed freely from her mouth—loud and unfiltered. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you,” he encouraged, only pausing his ministrations for a second before delving back in, sealing his lips around her nub once more and suckling hard, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue. 

Christine’s fingers sunk into his scalp, holding him in place as though she feared he would cease lavishing her with ecstatic pleasure if she did not. But she could tell he was enjoying this as much as she, for he held tight onto her thighs, sliding his hands to squeeze the soft globes of her arse, kneading and fondling the supple flesh as he kept his face buried between her thighs. 

She could feel the pleasure quickly building up to a crescendo, her body trembling like a leaf in the wind, and her breath coming in shallow, uneven pants. One of his hands left her bottom, moving to where his mouth worked greedily and slid his fingers deep inside her. First one, and then two, stroking her to the precipice of rapture. 

The dual sensation of his tongue and his fingers brought her tumbling over the edge, and her body went taut like a bowstring as a strangled moan tore from her throat. William drew in a sharp breath, hissing as her fingers tightened painfully in his hair. But he paid it no heed, never relenting in his task of bringing her to ecstasy. Her back arched off the bed as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed upon her with the force of a lightning strike. 

“William!” she cried out, clenching her thighs together around his head as he worked her through her peak, not letting up until he felt her start to come down from her high. 

Only then did he pull away slightly, remaining between her legs, gazing up at her with lust-filled eyes, his mouth and chin coated with her arousal, and his lips curved into a satisfied, almost smug grin. 

Christine let out a soft whimper, her half-lidded eyes locking onto his as he pressed a final kiss to her trembling inner thigh, causing her to shudder. William wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then slowly climbed back up her body, coming to rest beside her. 

He gathered her close, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair as she caught her breath. “I take it you enjoyed that as much as I did,” he murmured against the top of her head, planting a kiss there. 

“Probably more,” she replied, her voice breathless and shuddering. A peaceful smile tugged at her lips as William tightened his embrace, guiding her to rest her head on his chest. Christine traced lazy, swirly patterns over his chest, her eyes falling shut as he caressed the curve of her back, a deep sense of peace easing into her body as the warmth of his touch soothed her to serenity. 

“I love you so much, William,” she whispered, tilting her head slightly to place a tender kiss to his chest. 

A surge of gentle affection overwhelmed William’s heart at the sound of her words, and the kiss she bestowed—so pure, yet inexplicably enticing—stirred something deep within him. “I love you even more, my darling girl,” he murmured, the words falling from his lips with an ease that surprised even him. For he had not thought before he responded—he did not need to—because the words were as true as air he breathed, and truth was all he could speak in Christine’s presence. 

Nestling impossibly closer, Christine brought her leg over his thighs and pressed her body against his. She slid her leg further up, a slight gasp escaping her lips as her thigh met his erected cock. She tilted her head up, gazing into his eyes. “You’re… you’re hard,” she stammered, a hint of incredulity in her still breathless voice. 

Amused and utterly besotted by the surprise in her voice, a laugh, raw and deep from his throat, tumbled from William’s lips. “Ah, you noticed that? Clever girl,” he praised, an unabashed smirk tugging at his lips as he met her gaze. “You could say I… thoroughly enjoyed seeing you so lost in pleasure,” he continued, stroking her hair in a tender caress. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“I only meant…” she began, her gaze dropping to his chest as she fumbled her mind for words, “if you were… you know, why didn’t you tell me? I imagine you desire my help in… alleviating it.”

William cupped her face in his large hand, tilting her head so she met his gaze. He could see how worn out she was—it was clear by how her eyelids hung heavy, her cheeks flushed, and how her parted lips. 

He brushed his thumb gently across her cheek, his touch light and tender despite the hunger that simmered beneath his calm demeanour. “You are not wrong,” he admitted with a slight hesitation to his voice, “but I can tell you are quite spent, so I shall respect that.” William paused for a moment, merely caressing her face and admiring her beauty—debauched as she may appear, but exquisitely so. 

“Christine, I meant what I promised last night—” he continued, his thumb stilling on her cheek, “I will never force you.” 

A flicker of emotion passed through Christine’s eyes, and her breath caught at his words—not with any surprise, for she had known, deep within her soul, that he would never do anything to harm her. Yet she still felt the warmth of his words wrap around her like an embrace—the kind of comfort that she only ever felt in his presence, and in his arms. “I know,” she whispered, leaning into his touch. “You didn’t have to tell me again, but still… it means the world to me hearing you say it.” 

She leaned down, meeting his lips in a soft kiss before laying her head on his chest again. 

Before long, the gentle caresses William bestowed upon her bare skin, and the sound of his heart beating steadily like one of nature’s lullabies beneath her ear, coaxed Christine into a peaceful slumber. 

William held her close as her breathing slowed, deepened, and her body seemed to melt against his. He kept one hand splayed over her lower back as the other played with her hair, his fingers weaving slow, languid patterns through the soft strands as though he were memorising every wave, every texture. 

“I love you, Christine,” he murmured into the silence, though she was already lost to sleep. His eyes never left her sleeping form, admiring her peaceful expression and how her chest rose and fell with each gentle breath. 

“You are so perfect I can scarcely believe you are real, let alone mine,” he whispered, planting a kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling her scent as though it was all he breathed. “I know I don’t deserve you, I know I broke your heart, but I will spend the rest of my life making up for it.”

He felt her stir against him, and he hushed her, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face as he whispered, “Sleep, my love. I will be here when you wake up, and I will never leave.” 

As William held Christine, lost in the warmth of the moment, his thoughts began to drift to the future—a future that, up until that point, had felt like a dream out of arm's reach, but now seemed to be within his grasp. 

William had dreamt of many things in his life, but each past dream paled in comparison to the wish he knew he could never let go of—his wish of living the rest of his life with Christine, of building a life with her, and her face being the first thing he saw every morning, and the last every night. 

It was as though she had carved out a space within him, filling it so completely that he could scarcely remember what life had been before her. 

He could see it now, clear in his mind—a life where they shared everything—their joys, their sorrows, their victories and their losses. He envisioned their home, full of love and laughter, and the patter of several small pairs of feet chasing each other around the estate. 

The idea of children, of their own family, filled him with an almost overwhelming sense of warm joy. A smile of pure bliss grew on William’s lips as he pictured the children in the lush gardens of Ellesmere, running wild with joy, and Christine being unable to contain her laughter as she chased after them. And before long, William would join in on the fun, scooping up their children and spinning them around as pearls of carefree laughter erupted from their small mouths. 

And then, when they were all exhausted and hungry from hours of playing together, they would gather around the dining table for a hearty family dinner, defying the social norms of keeping children separate from their parents, and share stories and jokes as they ate. Their youngest might grow weary, and William would gently scoop them up into his arms and let them sit on his lap with their little head resting against his chest, a contented sigh escaping their lips. 

Christine would smile at the sight, her eyes sparkling with love and pride as she watched her husband with their child in his arms. And their other children, likely envious that their youngest sibling got to fall asleep in their father’s arms at the dinner table, would quickly crowd around their mother, arguing over who should receive the same privilege. Laughter would fill the air as Christine playfully mediated the squabble, ensuring each of her children felt equally cherished. 

As the evening wore on, they would gather around the fireplace in the parlour, the crackling flames casting a warm glow over their faces. The children would snuggle up close to their parents, trying to fight off sleep as William read them their favourite stories, but would eventually all doze off before he even reached the tenth page. He would smile to himself, gaze down at his wife whose head rested against his shoulder—she too, having drifted off into a deep slumber. 

William would place a tender kiss to her forehead, and whisper an instruction for the nursery maid to settle the children for the night. Then, he would gather his wife in his arms and carry her to their chamber. With slow, deft movements, he would undress her with tender care, as though unaware of the feigned sleep she had perfected since the moment she stirred in his arms. 

But he would pretend he had not noticed, and lay her down against the soft linen sheets, slip into bed beside her and gently tuck her in under the covers. And in the faint glow of the dying embers flickering in the fireplace, he would watch a slight smile tug at his wife’s lips as he draped an arm around her warm body, pulling her close to his chest and whispering a final “I love you” before he, too, surrendered to a peaceful slumber. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

“How long was I asleep for?” Christine asked groggily, blinking her eyes open and glancing around the dimly lit room, trying to shake off the remnants of slumber. Her head was still nestled against William’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her cheek. 

William had stayed awake throughout her rest, his hands never ceasing the gentle caresses he brushed over her skin, his eyes full of love as he watched over her, and his mind adrift with musings of their future. Now, he tightened his arms around her, as he had wished to do since she first fell asleep, but had been afraid of disturbing her rest. 

“Not long, my love,” William replied softly, his voice as warm as the embrace he held her in. “But enough for me to envision our entire lives.” 

Christine smiled against his chest, tilting her chin up to gaze into his loving blue eyes, finding those very eyes already fixed upon her. A warm flush crept up her face, colouring her cheeks a bright pink, making William raise an eyebrow with unabashed amusement. “Tell me,” she encouraged, propping herself up on her elbow to better meet his gaze. 

However, instead of indulging her, William only smiled, tangling his fingers into her hair and gently rubbed her scalp. “No, it should be a surprise,” he said simply, watching her with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “But don’t fret, sweet darling, I have it all figured out.” 

Letting out an incredulous scoff, Christine shook her head. “Oh you do, do you?” she grumbled, narrowing her eyes with evident displeasure. Yet despite her determination to assert herself, her eyes fluttered closed in quiet pleasure as William gently massaged her scalp, drawing a contented sigh from her lips. The distraction was effective, but also proved fleeting as Christine pried his hand off her scalp. 

Regaining her confidence, she spoke, “Well, it’s my life too, and you can’t make choices for me.” She punctuated her words with a defiant lift of her chin. 

Utterly entranced by his wife’s fierce independence, William chuckled—a sound that earned him a light swat to his chest. 

“Tell me!” Christine urged, now grinning playfully. 

“Alright, alright,” William relented, and regardless of the smack he had been given, he still smiled with delight at the unwavering defiance in Christine’ eyes. “Just… calm yourself, woman, and don’t assault me.”

Christine scoffed at his teasing words, not out of true vexation, but rather out of fond exasperation. With a gleam in her eyes, she put on an expression of feigned seriousness, folding her arms over his chest and leaned slightly closer. “Assault, he says,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow as she looked down at him with mock severity. 

“That was scarcely more than a tap,” she countered, giving him another smack right where the first one had landed, for good measure. Though slightly more forceful, it was not enough to inflict pain. She continued, “And it’s not as though you are any better, considering the slap you gave my arse earlier.” 

William raised an eyebrow in mock reproach, but the corners of his lips tugged upwards into a smile that betrayed his pretence of sternness, speaking of nothing but adoration. He chose to play along, groaning in a play of pain, and shutting his eyes as if attempting to recover from the supposed injury. 

When he opened his eyes again, he smiled at her, his hands drifting down her body to grab onto the firm globes of her rear. “Such bold language from a lady,” he teased, kneading the pliant flesh beneath his eager touch. 

Christine opened her mouth to protest against his chastisement, but the words caught in her throat as she felt his hands on her. She did, however, feel a tinge of annoyance at his reproach, but it died down as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to rest her head on his chest. 

Gently stroking the soft but tousled locks of her hair, William took a deep breath while gathering his thoughts to recount his vision of their future. Clearing his throat, he began, “Firstly, now that I have sold my commission in the army, my foremost duty is to you—my darling wife—and the family we will one day create,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

Confusion etched its way onto Christine’s features, her brows furrowing as she tilted her head to meet his gaze. “You sold your commission? I thought you were only on leave,” she asked, her voice laced with a touch of concern. 

Because of their many heart-to-hearts during their brief time spent together in the Dismal Swamp, Christine knew that her husband had long wished to partake in the glory of fighting for his country, and though she had heartily worried for him, she had only ever encouraged him to fulfil his dreams. And yet, it seemed to her now that he had abandoned those very dreams, for her sake. 

“Is that a disappointment to you?” William inquired, a tinge of hesitation in his voice—borne out of worry that she might take issue with his decision. He feared her judgement, that she might see his sudden decision as one made by a coward, or a man neglectful of his duties. 

Christine's heart swelled at the vulnerability she saw in his eyes, and the fragile need for validation she had unwittingly ignited within him. She sighed heavily, shifting onto her forearms to better meet his gaze. Another sigh fell from her lips, prolonging the moment before she spoke, “No, of course not.” 

She gave him a reassuring smile, cupping his face in her hand and brushing thumb tenderly over his stubble. “I think it’s rather romantic, but that doesn’t mean I want you to give up something that is important to you for my sake.” 

William caught her hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss over her palm before holding it to his chest, right over his heart. “You are what is important to me,” he said solemnly, brushing his fingers over her bare back in a soft caress. “In any case, I am not allowed to fight—as per the conditions after Saratoga,” he explained, his voice softening as he spoke. “It was not what I would’ve wished for when I first joined the army, but I cannot say I regret it.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Christine’s face, as though trying to memorise every flicker of emotion that danced across her features. 

He opened his mouth to continue, but instead shook his head, releasing a huffed breath. “I would tell you all about the battles, but… I don’t suspect you have much interest in such matters,” he said with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle. 

“Why, because I’m a woman?” Christine retorted, her voice laced with mock indignation. “You think I’m too delicate?” 

There was no venom in her accusation, only playful teasing, for both knew that her question was a rhetorical one. Still, said teasing earned her a light smack to her rear, which made her yelp in surprise. Her teasing gaze turned into a glare, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed the feigned nature of her annoyance. “You’re lucky I love you,” she muttered. 

The smile that appeared on William’s lips was as warm as the morning sun, thawing at her pretence of irritation until her smile mirrored his. “Indeed, I believe I am,” he concurred softly, his hand moving from her bottom to her head, raking his fingers through her hair. 

“Well then,” he continued, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “if you truly wish to hear, I shall tell you.” 

Christine’s smile grew at his words, and she nestled up close to his side with his arm wrapped securely around her waist. “I have been curious, and worried—most of all. So yes, I would very much like to hear,” she encouraged, her voice calm yet noticeably eager as she rested her head on his chest, releasing a contented sigh as William continued to brush his fingers through her hair. 

“I fought in two battles,” he began, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes through her hair, “the first being at Freeman’s Farm, in which we barely held ground, but ultimately did win.” 

Without intent, or even notice, William’s fingers stilled in Christine’s hair, and his voice dipped lower as he recalled the events. “I was rather naive, beforehand, thinking that battle would be some grand, heroic spectacle. But the reality—as I am certain you can imagine—is far less romantic.”

As he paused, a silence followed, and Christine felt his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek with deep, steady breaths. He stayed admirably calm as he spoke, barely a trace of emotion breaking through the steady cadence of his voice. But Christine understood that beneath his soldierly facade, he was still just a man. 

“Were you scared?” she asked carefully, her tone devoid of any judgement. 

She felt his chest rise with a deep breath, his arm tightening around her waist before he spoke again, his voice quieter this time, scarcely exceeding a whisper, “Not… not scared in the typical sense. When a soldier is in the midst of battle, and you know any move, or hesitation to move, can lead to your death, fear cannot truly surface. Not unless you let it.” He let the words hang in the air, gathering his thoughts as his fingers resumed their motions through her hair. “It’s more of an instinctual awareness, like your body is on high alert. But you don’t think, you just act.” 

Another silence settled down on them as his words painted vivid images in Christine’s mind—images of her beloved husband facing the chaos of battle, his body moving with precision and purpose amidst the violence and destruction. She instinctively shifted closer until her body was pressed against his, her hand placed over his heart brushing gentle caresses with her thumb, as though her tender touch would chase away any lingering fear within him. 

William gazed down at her, and as he noticed her unusual reticence and almost timid countenance, his heart stung in his chest. “I’ve frightened you,” he asserted, tender remorse permeating every syllable. 

Somehow, his words managed to break the tension in her body, or at least, they served as a catalyst for the release of her held breath. 

Christine shook her head, her lips brushing against the skin of his chest with the slow, languid motion. “No, you didn’t,” she assured him quietly, and while she did not lie, his observation had not been entirely inaccurate either. 

But she pushed the feeling aside, and instead shifted her position to better meet his gaze. She leaned in, planting a chaste yet unmistakably affectionate kiss to his lips, gazing deeply into his eyes as she pulled back. 

A smile tugged at William’s lips at the simple gesture, wrapping his arms tighter around her body and holding her close. “Very well, my brave little wife,” he whispered with a tender smile, his tone affectionate yet tinged with a teasing warmth. “You see,” he continued, one hand moving over her back in gentle caresses, the other coming to cup her face, “in the moments before the first battle, I thought about you.” He traced the smile that curved her lips upwards, a soft chuckle escaping his own as he recalled that moment. “And my friend, who stood beside me, noticed.”

Christine laughed alongside him, leaning into his warm touch as her laughter subsided. “What did he say?” 

A slow smile deepened across his face as the memory surfaced, a playful glint igniting in eyes that had moments ago been calm and unreadable. There was a shift in his expression, subtle but unmistakable—mischief beginning to stir beneath the composed exterior. “I must warn you,” he said with a low chuckle, his tone threaded with amusement, “it was not exactly the most appropriate of conversations.”

“I don’t expect anything less from two young men,” Christine scoffed, shaking her head with a playful smirk on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, betraying her interest despite the mock disapproval in her voice. “Especially if a woman happens to be the topic of conversation,” she added. 

“Oh, but you are mistaken, my love,” he said, a teasing grin playing on his lips, his fingers gently brushing over her cheek. “I said nothing inappropriate, I am too much of a gentleman,” he corrected in a mockingly serious tone, his lips twitching with barely contained amusement. “We were standing there on the frontlines, and Lieutenant Sandy Hammond asks me: ‘Who do you think has a better bosom, Mrs Lind or the Baroness?’” 

Christine’s eyes widened, and she stifled a surprised laugh, her lips curving into a smirk as she raised an eyebrow at him. “And what was your answer, hm?” she asked, a tinge of jealousy in her voice. 

A grin etched its way onto William’s features, his expression turning into one of pride and fond reminiscence as he drew her even closer. “I told him I would not comment on such a vulgar topic,” he boasted, feigning an air of natural decorum. 

But despite his efforts, it was clear to Christine that he was trying to impress her with his steadfast loyalty and gentlemanly manners—it only made him all the more charming in her eyes. She raised an eyebrow at him, chuckling softly as she regarded him with fond amusement. “How very noble of you,” she teased, tracing the sharp edge of his jaw, causing him to shudder slightly. 

The gleam in his eyes softened as her fingers traced along his jawline, igniting sparks of desire with her featherlight touch. But he quickly regained his composure, taking her hand in his and gently removed it from his jawline, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “He noticed I was evading the question, and assessed that I had an eye for someone,” he smiled, his lips still gracing her knuckles as he spoke. “And this was before I received your letter, so I thought I would never see you again.” 

For once, Christine did not tense at the mention of that letter, nor did a wave of sorrow rush through her at the reminder of her heartbreak. Instead, her eyes shimmered, not with pain, but with aching tenderness. 

“But I told him your name, and that I love you,” William continued, brushing his thumb over her knuckles as he spoke, his voice dropping to a sorrowful whisper, “and then he was shot.”

Christine’s face paled at the revelation, her lips parting in surprise. She released a soft breath, letting her free hand move to caress his cheek. “I’m so sorry, William,” she whispered. 

The warmth of her touch stirred a gentle comfort within him, prompting him to lean into her touch and hold her palm firmer against his cheek as though she alone, with her soothing touch, could heal all of his sorrows. And for a moment, she did. 

He took a deep breath, letting his eyes fall shut in a moment of silence before he opened them again, gazing up at her with eyes that gleamed with love and gratitude. “God knows I don’t deserve you,” he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to her palm, “but I thank the Lord every day for having you as my wife.” He cupped her face in his large hand, watching as her expression softened into a peaceful look of serenity. “I love you more than life itself,” he added quietly. 

Christine’s breath caught in her throat at his words, as though despite all the times he had professed his love for her, those words still filled her with joyous relief, as though they chased away a linger of doubt that was not meant to be there. “And I love you even more,” she replied with a soft smile, her eyes shining with the emotion that had welled up there. 

“Impossible,” William said with an almost teasing lilt to his tone, his thumb poised under her eyes to catch the tears that had yet to fall. A smile, woven with tender adoration, tugged at the corners of his lips as he gazed into those warm, dark depths of her loving eyes. “Let your tears spill, sweet girl,” he encouraged softly, cupping the other side of her face as well, “I will wipe them away.” 

His tender words sent another wave of tears to her eyes, and this time, she let them trail down her cheeks and be wiped away by her husband’s thumbs. She closed her eyes, taking a few deep, steadying breaths as William carefully dabbed her eyelashes dry. “It is I who doesn’t deserve you,” she whispered, her voice carrying a slight tremble that made William’s heart clench painfully in his chest. 

Wrapping his arms around her waist, William pulled her closer into his embrace and rolled her onto her back. He bestowed countless kisses all over her face, wishing that his lips against her skin would fend off any lingering doubts or fears that may lurk in the darkest corners of her mind. 

Delicate sighs fell from her lips as his kisses rained down on her skin like soft petals in a gentle breeze, caressing her to the very core of her being. When he pulled away, he cupped her face in his hands and whispered, “You deserve everything the world has to offer, Christine. I am merely the lucky bastard blessed with the honour of giving it to you.” 

A rush of adoration washed through Christine like a tidal wave, sweeping her under and deep into the warmth of his love, where fear and doubt dissolved like salt in the sea. She snaked her hands to the back of his neck, taking a moment to gaze into his loving blue eyes before pulling him in for a kiss. 

The kiss lingered, deepening as their hands began to grope each others’ bodies with amorous intent. 

“William,” whispered Christine, the sound falling from her lips in a breathless hum as he began to trail kisses from her lips to her neck. “We shouldn’t…” she protested, but her voice lacked conviction, any trace of true disinclination. 

And as he always did, he noticed that. 

With a slight groan of resisted indulgence, William pulled away and observed her flushed face. Unable to rein in the smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips, he let it spread into a smug grin as he took in the battle of desire and decency so blatantly displayed in his wife’s eyes. “You want it,” he countered with confidence and, to Christine’s great vexation, truth. 

Frustrated, she averted her gaze for a short moment before returning it to his face, opening and shutting her mouth an unpropitious amount of times before finally finding her words. “That’s… irrelevant,” she stammered, her voice clipped but breathless, revealing more than she intended. 

William chuckled. “You don’t even deny it.” 

She bit her lip in a moment of holding back an impudent declaration of how she deemed him an insufferable, arrogant lecher—and how she, maddeningly enough, adored him all the more for it. 

In the end, she only sighed, threw her arms around him, and giggled softly at how utterly helpless she was against him. 

“We really should get out of bed,” she insisted, putting on a mock serious expression that belied the undeniable urge to stay between the sheets with him for the whole day. “I’m hungry, and… we, uh, really need a bath,” she added with a playful grin.  

Her smile made William instinctively lean closer, his expression softening as he pulled her into another kiss. “A bath, you say?” he echoed against her lips, failing to curb the sultry edge to his voice that quickly earned him a light swat to his shoulder. 

“To wash ourselves!” Christine groaned, shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and fondness at his continued teasing. 

William pulled back slightly, just enough to get a full view of her face and the adorably irked expression she wore. “Well, if that is your wish,” he said softly, wiping her dramatic pout away with a gentle brush of his thumb across her lower lip, “I shall most happily oblige you, my lady.” 

She smiled at that—with uninhibited satisfaction—and a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes, making him grin even wider. “That’s more like it,” she teased, letting out a startled shriek as he swept her into his arms and carried her from the bed. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

A bath was drawn, and they stepped into the steaming water, the warmth enveloping them both as the tension from their earlier exertions began to melt away. Christine leaned back against William’s chest, resting comfortably in his arms—one wrapped around her waist, and the other cupping her breast. 

After a long, peaceful moment of simply holding her, William’s fingers slowly slid under the surface and scooped a handful of water from the bath, letting it pour gently down her chest. 

Christine let out a contented sigh, a faint smile curling on her lips as he planted soft kisses to her temple. “You’re good at this,” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering shut as the warm water cascaded down her torso like a series of soothing caresses. “You’re a good husband, I mean,” she whispered, tilting her head to catch a glimpse of his eyes—those eyes that never wavered from their steady, loving gaze upon her. 

William felt his heartbeat quicken at her words, and with a pleased smile on his lips, he pulled her closer into his warm embrace, wrapping his arm around her waist once more and seizing the opportunity to give her breast a gentle squeeze. “I want to make you happy, my darling,” he whispered softly in her ear, giving her temple another kiss. 

A tender warmth blossomed from deep in her chest, and settled on her cheeks in a warm, rosy hue. She lifted her hand from the water, droplets dripping from her fingertips and creating small ripples in the bath as she brought her hand to the one he had placed over her breast, tracing the lengths of his fingers splayed out against her damp skin. 

“You succeed rather well in that endeavour, my lord,” she hummed approvingly, revealing a tinge of playful formality in her otherwise calm demeanour. 

William chuckled softly at her playful response, instinctively tightening his arms around her and brushing his lips over the top of her head in a featherlight, almost subtle, kiss. “I’m glad, my lady,” he murmured in a low voice that rumbled from deep in his chest, sending a surge of anticipation through her. 

Emboldened by his reticent yet telling response, Christine shifted impossibly closer until she could feel all of him against her backside. She knew she had an effect on him, she knew it by the way his breath shuddered at the intimate contact, and how his hand flexed its hold of her breast. 

But when his hands travelled south and grasped onto her hips, he did not hold her closer and grind himself against her—as she had anticipated—instead, he pushed her away slightly, but still letting her relax against his chest. 

“Not so close, love,” he whispered, his voice laced with restraint, “I will… react.” 

To his baffling surprise, laughter tore from Christine’s lips in a series of unrestrained, cackling bursts. She could not help herself—there was something so adorably amusing about his arguably feeble attempts to hold back, and his confusion over her laughter, etched into his features, only further stoked her amusement. 

As her laughter slowly faded, leaving behind a devilish grin that lingered on her lips, William’s gaze fell upon her, his eyes revealing a blend of vexed irritation and amusement yet to be acted upon. His hands found their way back to her hips, this time with a grip more firm and deliberate, as he turned her to face him properly, her legs gracefully sweeping across his thigh.

Her grin remained unshaken as he repositioned her, its mischief only serving to coax a brief, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his lips—one that fleetingly resembled a smile before it vanished as quickly as it appeared. 

Closing his eyes, William let out a breath of simmering control, ever so slightly tightening his grip on her hips as his brows knitted in mock severity. He reopened his eyes and held her gaze steadily, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that sent a flutter through her stomach. “And what, pray tell, is it that you find so terribly amusing?” he asked, gently tilting her chin up with his knuckles so she properly met his gaze. 

Christine’s grin deepened further as she, boldly and unflinchingly, met his gaze as her damp fingers drifted lazily over his chest. “You,” she said simply, her voice a sultry lilt. She cleared her throat, then dipped her voice lower to mimic his, valiantly keeping down her laughter as she spoke: “Not so close, love, I will… react.” She drew out the last words with exaggerated caution, her teasing tone both mocking and affectionate, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. 

At the way his mouth fell open in startled offence, Christine burst into another round of laughter, leaning closer to rest her forehead against his chest in an attempt to stabilise herself through the gales of laughter that shook her body.  

William narrowed his eyes, but the storm behind them was more heat than fury. Despite the mild offence he took with her mockery, he could not help but smile as her laughter echoed lightly through the steamy room. When her laughter quieted down, she lifted her head and gazed at him with a look of apologetic affection, melting away any remnants of his initial irritation. He could not stay upset with her, not when she looked at him with such sweetness in her eyes. 

“Do you find it so amusing then, my lady,” he began, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, “that your husband finds your body absolutely irresistible?” 

Christine bit back a chuckle. “Just the way you phrased it,” she corrected, the teasing smirk reappearing on her lips. “Not so close, love—”  she began, but got cut off by William placing his hand over her mouth to prevent her from continuing in her mockery. 

She laughed into his palm, the sound muffled yet still enough to stir a warmth of affection in his heart, regardless of how he sighed at her relentless teasing. 

“Are you quite finished?” he asked, removing his hand from her mouth but keeping it hovering just above her lips should she persist. And Christine, still holding back her giggles, gazed up at him with an expression of feigned innocence. But as she saw the serious look in his eyes, she stilled, her lips curling into a smile far more tender than the ones she had worn previously. 

Nodding, she pulled him in for a kiss, soft and apologetic. 

When they pulled apart, William cupped her cheek, his smile conveying—without a single word—that she was forgiven. Christine nestled into his embrace, her head finding its place against his chest as he gathered her warm body into his arms and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head.

He gently caressed the damp skin of her back, his fingertips tracing slow, soothing circles as he held her close. Yet his curiosity had not vanished entirely. Shifting slightly, he tilted his head, looking down at her with a soft, teasing smile. “What about…” he paused, releasing a quiet sigh, “what I said—did you find so funny?” he asked.

Christine hummed as she thought for a moment, her fingers playing idly with the water’s surface, creating tiny ripples in the otherwise still bath. “Well, it was the way you said it,” she began, her voice lighter now, yet still carrying a hint of mischief. “The restraint, the polished voice, it was all so very… proper and… lordly.” 

There was no doubt that her mockery had resumed—it was obvious in the exaggerating tone of her voice, and how she had to bite back her laughter after speaking. But despite it, William found himself smiling fondly at her. 

“Believe it or not, but that is how a gentleman conducts himself,” he answered with a mock seriousness that met her mischief head-on, one eyebrow raised as if to emphasise his point. 

Christine tilted her head to meet his gaze, a smile curving her lips as she saw the one plastered onto his. “Even when said gentleman is holding his naked wife, who he only hours ago ravished in their marital bed?” she teased, her voice laced with a sultry edge, as though she was daring him to do it again. 

“Would you prefer I speak in more lewd terms to you then, my lady?” 

Those words made her blush, with it drawing a breathless chuckle from her lips. Christine blinked at him, her grin faltering for a fleeting moment before it returned with full force. “Yes,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m no delicate flower, you know—I can handle it.”

William shook his head in wondrous amusement, the corners of his lips twitching as he fought the smile that so desperately wanted to break free—and was teetering right on the verge of doing so. 

“I have no doubt you can handle it,” he affirmed, scooping up a handful of water and letting it cascade over her chest once more. “And while you are certainly no delicate flower, you are still my wife—my lady—I will speak to you with the utmost respect.” He paused, his fingers trailing over her damp skin in a light, almost tickling, touch. “Even when you insist on mocking me mercilessly,” he added, giving her waist a gentle, reprimanding squeeze. 

“You can take it,” she whispered boldly, her voice low and sultry, tempered by a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You’re rather strong, aren’t you, my lord?” she asked, trailing her fingers over his shoulder and then down to his bicep, gripping it with deliberate slowness, as though appraising his strength through touch alone. 

He flexed his muscles ever so slightly under her fingers, a roguish gleam sparkling in his eyes. “Strong enough to toss you over my shoulder and carry you straight back to bed, should you forget yourself again,” he murmured, his voice deep and low, the sound like a slow roll of thunder, laced with just enough threat to make her pulse flutter. 

Christine’s eyebrows shot up with surprised intrigue, a nervous laugh spilling from her lips. “Is that so?” she said, a hint of mock surprise slipping into her voice. “It’s as I thought then—you’re strong, but you can’t resist me,” she teased, placing her hand over his heart, feeling it pump steadily beneath her touch. “Especially not with your…” She let her words trail off, and instead let her gaze trail down his torso to where the water met his abdominal muscles, and then lower still. 

William followed the direction of her gaze with narrowed eyes, then looked back up at her and let out a low, indulgent laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath her palm. “Watch your mouth, little wife,” he warned, yet despite the play at sternness in his voice, there was no true danger behind the threat. 

With a grin that only deepened, Christine slid her hand to the back of his neck, playing with the damp hairs there as she leaned in close, her lips brushing against his in the faintest of touches. “Watch it for me,” she asserted, a bold edge to her tone that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him, his gaze darkening with something fierce and tender all at once. 

His hands found her hips, pulling her closer before surging forwards and capturing her lips in a voracious kiss. 

When they broke away, they did so only slightly, resting their foreheads together so they could catch their breaths. 

William traced his fingers up her spine, drops of water trailing down in their wake. His gaze dipped to her lips—pink and swollen from his kiss—before returning it to her eyes, and a smirk curled his lips, bearing proof of his growing amusement. “For a sharp-tongued minx,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, “it is remarkably easy to keep that mouth of yours otherwise occupied.” 

And with that, he silenced any further retorts with a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs and every last coherent thought from her mind. 

Chapter Text

December 1777

“Are you nervous?”

Christine broke her gaze from the passing landscape outside the carriage window, setting her eyes upon her husband, whose eyes she had practically felt tracing the flushed curve of her cold cheek. 

For the past three weeks, the lives of the Earl and his new Countess had in many ways resembled the tranquil view beyond the snow-dusted windows of their chambers. Not in the way of coldness, but rather being as solid and secure as the thick layer of ice coating the lakes—never brittle, but melting when treated with warmth. And warmth, they had exchanged lavishly. 

Mid-winter had long since staked its glittering claim upon the countryside, acting as a catalyst for late mornings spent between the sheets—or perhaps, an excuse. 

But now, the leisurely days of their honeymoon had passed, and the reality of their lives beyond their sanctuary crept in like the chill seeping through the seams of the carriage door. 

Christmas was right around the corner, and it was with bittersweet anticipation that Christine felt its approach. The very mention of the season had previously stirred feelings of warmth and familiarity within her, but now, she had none of the things that were once familiar. 

“Nervous?” Christine repeated, averting her gaze to her lap where she fumbled with the edge of the sketchbook that rested there—neglected. She ceased fidgeting and folded her hands upon the sketchbook’s surface, as though stilling her fingers might steady her thoughts. “No, of course not. They’re your family, and by extension, mine.” She spoke with supposed composure, but the way her gaze flickered between his eyes and around the carriage was enough to apprise William of the pretences she voiced. 

He instantly noticed the anxiousness crossing his wife’s features, and took her gloved hand in his with a firm grip, yet holding it with reassuring gentleness. “You cannot lie to me, and you know it, Christine,” he said, tracing a slow, soothing circle over the back of her hand. “I can see that you are troubled—it is written all over your beautiful face.” A faint smile tugged at his lips as he leaned in slightly, and she did too. “But you are right, they’re your family too. And you have no cause for doubt that they will love you.” 

Christine let her eyes fall shut as she released a heavy sigh, opening them again and, this time, holding his gaze. “I am not worried about their opinions of me, although, now that I think about it, I cannot deny that there is a level of nervousness about that…” she trailed off, her brows furrowing as if trying to untangle the thoughts behind them. “You know, I loved Christmas as a child,” she said, a spark of fond reminiscence lighting up in her eyes, and seeing the look of genuine interest on her husband’s face, that spark glowed brighter. 

“It would be me, my mother, and my grandparents. I remember I always began counting down exactly one hundred days before Christmas—sixteenth of September, it was like a holiday in itself,” she said with a soft laugh, grinning fondly at the memory. “But my mother never showed any interest in Christmas. I know she had a difficult childhood, I suppose that has to do with it. Still, she did participate in the festivities—for my sake, I think.”

She paused, her smile dimming slightly, as though the memory were a fragile glass ornament that may break if handled for too long. “She was always so secretive, I don’t think I ever truly knew her. I almost felt closer to my dead father than to her. Largely because my grandparents, especially Granny, would tell everything about him while my mother hardly ever mentioned him. And one of the reasons I loved Christmas so much was because I felt even closer to him. But as soon as I asked Granny and Grandpa about him, my mother just… left the room—every time.” 

William’s smile faded, and his brows furrowed into a deep, thoughtful crease as he watched Christine retreat momentarily into her emotions. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and Christine felt it—not just beneath her glove, but deep within her chest. 

“She was grieving,” he said softly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to his wife’s temple. “And it’s not your fault, Christine.”

Letting out a soft, tremulous sigh, Christine closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment to lean into his touch before pulling away, avoiding his gaze. “I know. And contrary to what I am certain you believe—I don’t resent her for it,” she said, almost defensively. She turned to face him again, meeting his sympathetic expression with one of determination. “But I admit, I used to. And last summer, it flared up.” 

William remained silent, giving her time to speak further if she wished. But when she did not, he took a deep, steadying breath, shifting closer. “And I assume that is why… why you ran away?” He let the words hang in the air, observing how the determination on Christine’s face ebbed away, morphing into a look of hesitation. 

“Yes,” she whispered carefully, voicing the admission like it had been plucked from the back of her throat, dusty from long neglect. She withdrew her hand from his, ignoring the chill that arose in the absence of his touch, and once more set her gaze upon the view beyond the carriage window. 

Frost threaded the edges of the glass in delicate patterns—like fragile lace crafted by winter’s hand. She studied the patterns, watched as new snowflakes settled on the panes, and tried to focus on the otherwise enchanting beauty of winter, but it now failed to capture her scattered thoughts in its frosted webs. 

Though the silence gnawed at them both, Christine deemed it safe. For every time she spoke, she felt herself teetering on the verge of letting go, and thereby telling him everything— and that was a risk far too grave to take. 

And therefore, she kept silent, and desperately hoped her husband’s actions would reflect her own reticence. 

The carriage rolled on, its wheels churning softly as they tore through the snow-covered road ahead, muffled beneath whirls of the freezing wind slashing against the surface of the carriage. A crow called somewhere in the distance, its cry slicing through both the stillness and chaos like a knife, and then silence reigned once more—save for the tense breaths inside the carriage, the sound of hooves clopping against the earth, and the whispers of nature beyond. 

Christine distracted herself by staring out the window, observing the trees they passed by, their bare branches clawing skywards like fingers reaching for something long lost—something they could never again touch. 

Beside her, William watched her with a surreptitious eye, studying the side of her face, pale against the grey light filtering through the window, and thought how delicate she looked in her silence—as if her soul, too, had grown translucent in the winter’s hush, only visible to those who looked closely enough. He knew she held her secrets tightly, just like the frost clung to the branches outside, and he wondered how long it might take for her to thaw completely in his presence. 

But he held his breath, like one would before crossing a frozen lake, knowing the ice would hold, but fearing the first crack, as though breaking the silence would send them both plunging into depths neither were ready to face.  

Releasing a shuddering breath, William slowly reached out his hand and placed it over hers, letting it rest there in a moment of hesitation before he laced their fingers together. 

Little warmth could truly seep through the fabric of both their gloves and warm their hands, and yet, a slight smile tugged at the corners of Christine’s lips at the sensation. She brushed her thumb over his—a peace offering, perhaps, for her earlier retreat; an affirmation of her love, even when her words had momentarily fled her. 

The touch between them prolonged the silence, and though it did not inspire any words, it softened the sharp edges of the tension that had begun to fester between them. 

William’s gaze lingered on the small smile curving Christine’s lips, the flicker of it, and felt its weight more deeply than most grand declarations. And yet, it was not enough to dispel the doubts that haunted him—not when her silence spoke louder than any confession, and not when her past lingered like her breath on the windowpane, clouding over the present they tried to share. 

“I know you are afraid,” he whispered, his voice soft and unhurried, “afraid that some truths might change things between us. But my love doesn’t hinge on perfect stories or clean pasts. It is already rooted. And I would rather walk through shadows with you than stand in the light alone.” 

Slowly, Christine turned her head, facing him with a look in her eyes that failed to hide the uncertainty lingering in their depths. Her gaze flickered to their hands—tangled together on her lap—and for a moment, she considered withdrawing her hand, once again retreat into silence, and bury herself in her unspoken truths. 

But seeing the sincerity in William’s eyes, she could not bring herself to do it, knowing that to pull away now would be a selfish cruelty to the man who had never once turned away from her storms. 

Instead, she willed herself to hold his gaze, to not cower, and not shut her beloved husband out—having promised to never do that again. 

“I want to tell you everything,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rhythmic thud of hooves and the pounding of her heart. “But I… you wouldn’t understand— trust me , you wouldn’t.” The words left a foul aftertaste on her tongue, but Christine swallowed it down as best she could, clinging to the hope that, somehow, he would not hate her for the silence she held onto. But he had cracked a dam within her, and now that the current was beginning to flow, it took almost all of her strength not to be swept away. 

William held his tongue as he gazed upon her face, and the melancholic countenance he saw there tugged at his heart. “Tell me how I may help you,” he pleaded, his brows furrowed with determination, contrasting the flicker of desperation glimmering in his eyes. He held her hand firmly in his, raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. His eyes never left hers, and he noticed how she fumbled for words, noticed the guilt that flashed in her eyes, and how it clouded their mesmerising sparkle. 

As he shifted closer across the velvet upholstery, William took a deep breath, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “That night at Helwater, when we kissed, you told me that you miss your mother,” he said softly, his voice steady yet tender, as if testing the waters of her deepest emotions. “It is not too late to search for her, Christine.” 

Christine’s breath hitched at the implication. She turned to the carriage window once more, but the patterns in the frost no longer brought her the comfort it did mere minutes ago—they blurred and bled together, like memories long suppressed finally surfacing through the tears welling up in her eyes. 

With a shaky breath, she blinked them away, turning to face her husband once more. “No,” she told him, her voice firm. “It’s not possible, and even if it were, I wouldn’t want your help.”

William frowned in surprise, raising an eyebrow at her instant refusal. “Why ever not?” 

He received no vocal answer, only a long, hollow silence. Christine’s lips parted, as though the words had arrived,  but lingered behind her teeth like frightened birds, refusing to take flight. 

“Christine,” he implored, her name rolling off his tongue in a whisper, barely audible over the muted howl of winter. “I want to help you—I truly do, it is no burden.” 

Though he searched her face, observed every tinge of emotion displayed there, Christine did not cooperate—she could no longer meet his gaze, and instead fixed her eyes on her lap where she absently fidgeted with her sketchbook. 

“I shall make inquiries, if it is your wish,” he said, his voice dipping lower, gaining a solemnity, as if the words carried an untold vow. “We will be in London for the social season, perhaps… the Duke of Barlings may be of assistance. You said he is a distant relation of yours, did you not?” William ventured, watching her closely. 

The mention of the Duke made Christine freeze, her head snapping sideways to face her husband with a wide-eyed look that flickered between disbelief and alarm. For a fleeting moment, she appeared as though the very air had been stolen from her lungs. But she quickly composed herself, realising her reaction would only paint her as the liar she felt she was, and thereby invite his scrutiny further. 

“I told you—in clear terms, if I recall correctly— I do not want your help ,” she said, her voice firmer this time, though it trembled faintly, betraying the delicate nature of her composure. 

William stared at her, stunned by the sharpness of her words as though they had truly pierced his chest. The hurt in his eyes was evident, but he masked it quickly, concealing it beneath a facade of indifferent stoicism. He slowly leaned back against the carriage seat, keeping his eyes locked with hers as he pulled his hand away from hers—not in punishment, but rather as a knight laying down his sword when battle no longer called it, though the threat remained. 

The loss of his touch made the warmth they had relished in feel less like the undying flame it once had, and the bond they had carefully nurtured during those soft, secluded weeks of simple serenity, now trembled—not broken, but undeniably bruised. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, but despite the sincerity in her voice, she was uncertain whether the apology was for the words she had weaponised, or the ones she continued to withhold. Perhaps both. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

The frigid chill that had seeped into their bodies slowly eased away once they were immersed in the warmth of Harold Grey’s estate, the scent of fine dining and luxurious wines filling their nostrils like a fog over the tension that clung to them tighter than the icy chill itself. 

Christine gazed around the opulent dining room—its gilded walls, brocade draperies, and tapestries as much of a feast for the eyes as the lavish spread before them. And the chandeliers, though beautiful, loomed above like the angry clouds of an impending storm, their glittering crystals wearing the brittle guise of grandeur, as though the brilliance might conceal the tempest that seemed to follow the Earl and Countess like a shadow. 

And yet, despite the lingering personal strain, the atmosphere was buoyed by the jovial chatter of family reunited after too long a separation, and the excitement of welcoming a new face into their midst. 

In usual settings, married couples would not be seated beside one another, but since Christine and William had only so recently wed, their hosts had thought it a kind gesture to make an exception, having been informed by Lord John of the love the newlyweds shared. 

William sat by her side, his posture deceptively at ease as he made polite conversation with his father and uncle about the war. But Christine could detect the tightness in his jaw, the way his knuckles paled with the firm grip of which he held his wine glass—one of the many he had already consumed. 

The subject of war, politics and the burdens of army life had dominated the conversations of the menfolk for the better part of the evening, and though Christine had tried to pay attention, her disinterest soon hindered her focus, and she immersed herself in far more engaging topics of conversation with Lady Minerva, who told Christine to call her Minnie. 

It was then, just as William adjusted in his chair and drained his wine glass with a soft sigh, that the conversation took a turn. Harold Grey, who had been quiet for a moment, intently listening to his nephew’s army experiences, leaned forwards slightly as if to deliver a question of the utmost importance. 

“Well, now, William,” Hal began, his gaze shifting from the younger man to Christine, who caught his eye before he turned back to William, “while I am proud to hear of your accomplishments on the battlefield, I must admit, I am far more curious to hear how married life has been treating you.” The smile on Hal’s face was warm and genuine, but the undercurrent of curiosity that laced his words had an edge to them—sharp, as if he had been waiting for just the right moment to pose his question. 

Christine’s heart gave a jolt, her gaze darting to William in instinctive alarm. She could see his posture stiffen, a light flicker of discomfort flashing through his eyes. He was regretting the wine, she could tell, as did she regret not putting an end to his drinking sooner. 

But the question hung in the air, drawing eyes to settle upon the couple, like a trap that could not be avoided. 

William cleared his throat, the sound too deliberate to be natural. He sat up straighter in his chair, the edges of his smile sharpening as he met his uncle’s gaze. “It has been three… most exceptional weeks spent with my dear wife,” he said, though his voice held a tightness that only fed into the suspicion his uncle politely concealed with an indulgent smile. 

There was no lie in his words, that much was certain. And yet, the eerie silence that followed made it seem as though every syllable had been permeated by pretence. 

Hal turned his scrutinising gaze to Christine, studying her expression as if searching for answers even before he spoke. “And you, Lady Ellesmere, has my nephew treated you well?” 

Before Christine could answer, before she could force a fake smile and speak fragile truths, William’s hand covered hers atop the table, preventing her absent fidgeting with the table cloth, making her breath catch. 

“No need for such formalities, Uncle,” said William, his voice smooth but strained, “my darling Christine is a part of this family now—you should call her by her name.” 

His hand over hers was warm, caressing her skin with tender brushes of his thumb, a flicker of affection igniting within Christine’s heart before it quickly dimmed, replaced by a sudden annoyance at his words. 

With a swift movement, her hand was no longer resting beneath his. She withdrew it from his gentle grip, settling her gaze upon her husband’s eyes and the puzzled expression they bore. “I believe I can speak for myself,” she asserted firmly. 

A flicker of regret flashed in William’s eyes, and he nodded, releasing an exasperated sigh before waving over a servant to pour him another glass. 

The umbrage Christine had felt quickly simmered down, fading as she met Hal’s eyes that now held a tinge of disapproval. Clearly, her assertiveness had only sharpened the tension in the room. 

“To answer your question,” she began, a slight tremble in her voice, “William has been a wonderful husband to me. I couldn’t be more happy.” 

Christine’s words, though without falsehood or insincerity, landed with an artificial weight, like a brittle and over-polished veneer concealing a splintering surface. Yet it seemed sufficient enough, for Hal gave her a smile—tense, but enough to convey social satisfaction if not total belief. He leaned back in his chair, by every appearance content with her response, or at the very least not interested in further venture, and turned to his brother, seeking conversation. 

Letting out a quiet sigh, Christine returned her attention to her plate. The porcelain before her was costly, no doubt, adorned with gilded filigree that swirled in delicate patterns around the Grey Family Crest in the plate’s centre. The meal set before her was a portrait of indulgence—roast venison, its flesh dark and tender beneath a glossy glaze of jus; potatoes almost too perfect to consume, crisped and glistening in butter. 

But despite the artfulness of the meal, she found herself lacking in appetite. 

Instead, she turned her attention to her husband, whose countenance was as tense as she had anticipated. His breaths came sharp yet uneven, fogging the crystal of the glass he held to his lips before fading like the wine disappearing into his mouth. Christine watched as he put the empty glass down with a light thud, his movements clumsy in his inebriated state. 

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” were the words that tumbled from her lips, each one permeated by the irritation that had begun to brew within her. 

William’s body tensed a fraction, his jaw set as he turned to face his wife. His love for her ran deep, far deeper than any circumstance could ever diminish. But his exasperation was evident, distinct in the vexation his eyes could not conceal. 

“And you shouldn’t speak to me—your husband —as though I am a child,” he snapped, his voice hushed, chiding her in a tone more petulant than stern. He bore an irked expression, imbued with a tinge of bafflement, as though her assertion was cause for bewilderment. 

Christine could only glare at him. Despite how her mind whirled and composed various responses to shoot at him—each one more bitter than the last—none seemed suitable, nor efficient in knocking sense into a man deep in his cups. 

William caught the eye of his father from across the table, who gave him a warning glare, silently beseeching him to not let his temper escalate any further.  

Christine knew she had married a stubborn man, and in the back of her head, she had always known her secrets would take a toll on their marriage. But William, bless his heart, had been so very patient, compassionate and understanding, despite the glacial wall that remained unmelted between them, towering and imperial. 

But in the warmth of their honeymoon, he had wandered too close to that wall, felt its icy solidity beneath his skin, devotedly letting the cold seep into his bones until he no longer felt the chill. And now that wall, once hers alone, now lived within him as well. 

It was William who broke eye contact, swiftly removing his gaze off his wife to stare down at his plate. Christine followed suit, settling her eyes on her lap where she found her hands fidgeting absently with her skirt. She noticed a redness in her skin, and it was dry, too, as a consequence of the pestering climate. And her hands trembled slightly. That, however, she could not convince herself the weather was entirely to blame for. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Conversations around the table ebbed and flowed like a tide carefully avoiding jagged rocks—delicate, deliberate, and cautious. Most cautious was perhaps the interactions—or lack thereof—between Christine and William. They ignored each other—a mutual choice made, not out of resentment, but a wish to preserve peace. For they, as well as the most nosy of dinner attendees around the table, had silently deemed a break from spousal communication to be in their best interests. Instead, they engrossed themselves in conversations with others. 

Lord John had taken notice of the tension brewing steadily between his son and daughter-in-law, paid careful attention to their mannerisms, the fragmented way their eyes danced  around each other, meeting only by accident and withdrawing just as quickly. It filled him with a sense of profound worry, seeing those he had been convinced would live in blissful union act like strangers. 

Only a month had passed since he first grasped full comprehension of the love his son shared with Christine. But of course, he had early on understood that the girl placed under his protection had an infatuation with his son, but he had not foreseen that the two would eventually marry—least of all that he would be the one proposing the union. 

But when he called them to his study that day in late November, and saw how they looked at each other with such palpable fondness, even in the quiet, dignified way of those unaccustomed to naming their affections, the decision had only seemed natural and effective. 

And yet now, less than a month into their marriage, that warmth had, by all appearances, turned brittle. It was not animosity that filled the space between the Earl and his Countess, but the look on their faces—almost resembling grief—reeked of unsolved conflicts. 

He leaned forwards slightly from across the table to Christine, who had, ironically enough, taken after her husband in the frequency of wine glasses being drained. 

“Christine, my dear,” he said gently, his voice low enough to pass as confidential, yet firm enough to demand her attention. When she met his gaze only a moment later and hummed in inquiry, he continued, “I must ask, and I hope you shall forgive the directness—are you well?”

Christine froze, not because the question startled her, but because she had expected it. Whenever her mind had been afflicted, Lord John had always interjected, making her wonder for a brief moment whether he possessed the power of telepathy. But of course, she had each time realised that, perhaps, her facades were not as opaque as she liked to believe. Nevertheless, it was a startle, this time as well as the previous times. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. First then did she realise the fog obscuring her mind—she could hardly compose a single logical thought, let alone a response. 

“Yeah…” she muttered, a nervous, humourless chuckle escaping her lips. “Quite superb,” she added, averting her ever so telling gaze the very moment the delusive words left her mouth. 

Lord John was not convinced, and she knew that, but it was a surprise to her when he did not immediately press the matter further. 

“Very well,” he murmured, the words permeated by reluctant acceptance, as though he had placed a hand against a locked door and, and finding it would not budge, stepped back—only to return a mere moment later. “But when you…” He gestured to the half-empty glass before her. “—are in a more stable state, I would ask that you speak with me about it. You need not bear your burdens alone, Christine.” 

Christine offered a brittle smile in return, a shallow mask of gratitude she knew he would see through, but appreciate nonetheless. 

Beside her, William had gone quiet. The conversation he had held with his uncle had ceased, and he now gazed longingly at his wife. 

Christine sensed the shift in his demeanour before she saw it, in the corner of her eye, a softening of his countenance. She set her gaze upon him, looked at him— truly looked. Not with a cursory glance complemented by a courteous smile, but deep into those eyes of his—the very eyes that had, time and time again, set her heart and soul ablaze. And now, she felt those familiar flames once more. Not their smouldering passion, but their warmth. The same warmth that had formerly been swept away by the glacial winds, she now felt stirring in her chest—a rekindled geniality. 

The smile that etched its way onto William’s lips was not of any extraordinary distinction, and yet it was everything. It was not wide, nor boastful, nor meant to charm, but it was real, and Christine met it in return. 

Locked eyes. 

Soft smiles. 

Peace. 

William lifted his hand off the table, and swiftly at that— too swiftly —moved it towards hers. In his sudden motion and drunken state, the edge of his hand grazed his wine glass with unintended force, and for a brief, maddening moment, Christine watched in slow motion as the liquid sloshed dangerously before toppling completely over. It tumbled, and a crimson cascade spread over the white linen tablecloth like an ominous bloom. 

“Damn it,” William muttered under his breath, his eyes immediately drawn to the liquid painting the tablecloth a red stain of failure. 

The misfortune caught the attention of all around the table. Silence, stifling and heavy, reigned over the room before the whispers began. There was no stench of judgement discernible, but the awkwardness of the moment spread, reaching every corner of the room, like the ripple of a stone dropped into still water. 

A flush crept up William’s neck and coloured his cheeks the same shade of deep embarrassment his wife donned beside him—ferocious and distinct. 

Christine, sitting beside him with a posture as stiff as stone, was on the verge of sinking under the table in mortification. She did not dare meet the eyes she knew were now fixed on them. She watched as the wine stain spread like a wound, rich and ugly against the pristine white linen, and all she could think was of course. 

Of course it had to happen now—right when peace had been in reach, right when they had just begun to smile. 

One by one, the onlookers’ attentions was distracted from the scene—prompted by benevolence, perhaps, or the decorum of the well-bred steering them away from what was clearly a mere accident. 

Minnie made a sharp gesture with her hand, whereupon a  few servants subtly approached to blot at the stain, though their attempts proved to be futile, for nothing could truly hide it. The tablecloth was ruined. 

“Worry not, Willie, dear,” said a hushed but amiable voice some seats away—belonging to Minnie, who smiled warmly at the Earl with a compassion that was much needed to dispel the fog of ignominy. “Accidents happen, it is of no concern,” she added, receiving a slight smile from him, but he uttered no words. 

And then, it was as though the incident had never occurred in the first place. On the surface, at least. 

William turned to his wife with a gaze that was cautious but open, still tinged with that softened warmth, as though he was hoping to reclaim a whisper of that tender moment they had shared scarcely more than a minute ago. 

She responded in kind, giving him a soft smile—barely visible, but tender. 

“Give me yours, will you?” he asked, nodding to the glass of wine by her still not empty plate. 

Those words made Christine blink. She glanced at the glass—half-full, but hitherto fully hers . Her gaze snapped back to her husband, searching his face for any sign of jest, any sign that he was not sincere in his request to something he had no right to—but found none. She found only a gentle sort of sheepishness, edged with something almost boyish gleaming in his eyes. 

Christine hesitated. Her first instinct was to deny him, out of pride, perhaps, or merely principle. There was something in his tone that needled her, for it carried a presumptuousness, an entitlement, as though she owed him to make up for what he himself had destroyed. 

A quiet chuckle escaped her lips, incredulous, and unmistakably mocking. “You want mine?” she replied, her voice slightly breathless from the disbelief that lingered, despite how his eyes gave away his answer far earlier than his words did. 

The conspicuous mockery in which she spoke was not lost on William, who narrowed his eyes—eyes that no longer shone the way they so tenderly had done that peaceful moment, lost before truly appreciated. 

“Well, I believe you have had quite enough, my love,” William said, the final two words wrapped in velvet but lined with steel, reclaiming a shred of pride that seemed to have slipped with the wine. 

Christine held back a scoff—and a myriad of insults far too uncouth to be spoken in impressionable company. Her eyes travelled to the glass once more— her glass—before she slowly turned her gaze back to her husband. She had hoped his eyes would relay a measure of apology, a tinge of understanding, but the man before her gave her no such courtesy. 

She reached for the glass, held it tightly by the stem as she fought to control her temper. “You think I have had enough?” she hissed, glaring at him with the restrained fury of a woman long practiced in disguising storms behind polite smiles. “ You— the man who can’t even hold his own glass?” she snapped. 

William clenched his jaw, releasing a shuddering breath. It was clear his patience was wearing thin, and even clearer was it that he had assumed his wife would take notice of that and yield accordingly. But no hint of retreat was perceptible in the determined glare she continued to direct at him. 

“You have had enough, Christine,” he said sternly. “And I assumed you would know by now that you make sour mistakes when you overindulge.” He paused, letting the insinuation hang in the air before continuing, “Or must I remind you—”

Christine’s hand moved fast—so fast he did not even register the shift in her posture until the contents of her wine glass were no longer in the glass. 

They were on his face. 

Silence seized the room before scandalised gasps fluttered down the table, dropped silverware clinked against plates, and all eyes were evidently fixed on the Earl and Countess.

Across the table, Lord John had seen the display of adversity, though did not regard Christine with the same look that the others did. No gasp had escaped his lips, nor had he moved. But he met her gaze, not with condemnation or sympathy, just with a quiet, almost imperceptible shake of the head that asked her “ what have you done?” before he looked to his brother, whose stare he had already felt fixed in his direction, and found him silently asking whether he knew of the root to the dilemma in his nephew’s marriage. He shook his head, compelling his brother not to intervene. 

Having turned her face away from her husband the moment the wine met his face, Christine had not yet witnessed the expression he bore. Instead, with the glass still in her grip, she gazed down into the last crimson drops that remained, and then lifted the glass to her mouth and drained it. 

When she set the glass down, she did so with a deliberation and confidence that suggested she had placed the final piece in a game she was no longer inclined to play. By all means, she was aware of the eyes that had witnessed—and possibly judged—her actions, and yet no hint of regret could be discerned in her prideful stance. 

“ Now , I have had enough,” she said firmly, voicing the words loud enough that everyone in the room should hear. Only then did she turn to face her husband; and only then did her composure waver. 

Wine dripped down his chin, stained through his pristine white cravat and the meticulous embroidery of his waistcoat, trailing in thin rivulets that mirrored the way fury now coursed beneath his skin. It bloomed like a wound cut deep, and the look of grave indignation and hurt etched into every line of his face suggested there was indeed a wound—one in his heart, hidden beneath the red-stained ivory silk he wore. 

That made her falter, and reconsider her actions. 

Christine’s resolve trembled under the weight of what she saw. Each drop seemed to mark a toll far greater than embarrassment, and she realised that the man before her was not the petulant husband she had hoped to shame into silence, nor the callous manipulator she had momentarily envisioned, and sought to humble. 

His countenance was something different now—his clenched fists spoke of anger, though his eyes contradicted any such sentiment with the harrowing depth of hurt they portrayed. 

For all but a few moments did William remain still, but with the way his eyes bore into hers with that unflinching, wounded intensity, permeated by shock, those moments felt like an agonising eternity, as if time itself deviated from its nature with the intent on driving her to insanity. 

Then, slowly, a deep flush crept up William’s neck, spreading to his cheeks as he realised the full extent of the situation. He set his jaw, his gaze hardening as he reached for his napkin and dabbed at the wine on his face. 

Christine looked away, her throat tightening around any words of remorse she felt inclined to voice, and thereby suffocating them. There was a different kind of heat surging beneath her skin now—one of shame, not only for her outburst, but for the rawness it had exposed. 

Victory was a triumph she knew well, one she had on many occasions fought for until she held it tight in her grasp. And this time was no different—she had won, in a sense. She had silenced him, turned the tide of the room in one audacious stroke. And yet, victory had never felt so hollow, like making an enemy of your own reflection, not recognising your opponent until you feel the knife go through you as well as the one whose heart you share. 

The sound of a chair scraping abruptly against the floor to her right caught her attention, prompting her to snap her head back to her husband who now stood tall beside her. He held out his hand for her to take, almost gallantly, though she knew by the glare in his eyes that he did so out of politeness, and not affection. 

“Come along, wife,” he whispered, the forced civility of the words biting like a blade sheathed in ice, each syllable laced with the effort it took to keep fury from spilling over. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me—before we bring more disgrace upon the evening,” he added. 

Christine stared at the offered hand for a moment, unsure whether to recoil from it or reach for it in compliance—or contrition. She did reach for it, eventually, though it was not submission that prompted the decision, but something in his eyes—not the glare, not the anger, but the deeper glint of disappointment and quiet pain that flashed within them despite his attempts to conceal it with sternness. 

As she allowed William to lead her out of the room, she kept her spine straight, but her eyes were downcast—not in shame, but in restraint, as though she were holding back a thousand things she could say, but no longer had the will to voice. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Neither of them looked back as the footmen closed the door to the dining room behind them, but they could feel the silence they left in their wake, a dense and judgemental presence that lingered like the last scent of smoke after a fire. 

William led her through the hallways with fast but measured steps, never fully meeting her eyes but taking the occasional glance to make sure she was keeping up. He did not slow the pace, not even when the soft rustle of her skirts faltered behind him, nor when her breath caught in her throat from the sudden pressure of silence pressing in too close. 

When William finally stopped, they were at the foot of the grand staircase leading to the second floor and the guests’ wing. He turned to face her, his expression resembling one caught between rage and restraint, like a man navigating the edge of a precipice, refusing to look down for fear of what might occur if he allowed himself to fall. 

“I suppose I ought to lecture you,” he said, voice low and controlled, though there was a slight tremor there, and he prayed she had not noticed it. He pinched the bridge of his nose in weariness, then sighed deeply and met her gaze again, with slightly less fury this time, but his eyes bore a trace of it. He continued, “Or scold you—perhaps even punish you—”

“ Punish me?! ” she repeated, and heard the words come out louder and more rancorous than she had intended. 

A flash of anger reappeared in William’s eyes, but he reined it in, determined to not let his temper get the better of him—not now, not with her . “Christine,” he began, his eyes boring into hers, “I was going to say that I will not do any of those things,” he clarified firmly, but despite how his voice was imbued with stern severity, his grip on her hand remained as gentle as it had always been. 

Christine raised an eyebrow, not quite believing his words, and it seemed he took notice of that, for he took a tentative step closer, his eyes softening as though the nearness of her chased away any hostile sentiment. “No?” she echoed, quieter now, the word not a challenge but a genuine question, as though she herself could not yet believe in the mercy he offered. 

William gave a slow shake of his head, though his jaw remained tight. “No,” he assured her gently, searching her eyes for any sign of doubt. “Christine, I will not lie to you, I am… furious.” He paused, releasing a sigh of frustration. “But I am not in the right state of mind to speak fairly, as I fear the wine has… addled with my senses.”

“Oh, you don’t say!” she exclaimed, dryly, the sarcasm slipping past her lips before she could stop it. 

At those words, William flinched, just slightly. Not because the words were cruel, but because he recognised them as a defence—defence against him . But he quickly steeled himself, letting the comment slide past him as one might let a dagger glide off chainmail. It wounded him, yes, but he would not let it penetrate. Not tonight . 

“Do not pretend as though you are not just as intoxicated as I am—if not more,” he added, his voice sharpening with each word, though not in accusation. He was not trying to wound her—nor penetrate her for that matter—but to reflect the mirror she had held to him back onto herself, not in spite, but in honesty. “But we shall not argue now. I will go outside for a moment, take some air.” A moment went by where he did not speak, instead, he searched for the right words, and then his gaze turned commanding. “And you—you will retire to our chamber, and you will do so this instant. Am I understood?” 

The spark of indignation Christine had kept meticulously under wraps now flared up, growing into a scorching flame that surged through her veins like a wildfire impossible to contain. “You will not speak to me that way, William,” she snapped, her voice as sharp as the crack of a whip. “I may be your wife, but that does not mean I am your subordinate, nor am I required to obey your every command.” She took a step closer. “Now, tell me, am I understood?”

Her words left him momentarily speechless, not in anger, but in genuine surprise, and though he was anything but inclined to admit it—respect. “Well, technically, you…” he murmured, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips before he willed it away and shook his head. “I did not imply you are my subordinate. But Christine, will you not just cooperate? For both of our sakes?” 

Christine sighed then, letting go of the resistance she had clung to as though it were her sense of self. “Fine,” she muttered bitterly, though not unwillingly. “I will go to our chamber,” she added, her tone laced with defiance even as her body began to turn away from him. 

Her compliance clearly appealed to him, for he released a breath that eased the tension in his shoulders, as though it had contained a part of his frustration. And he smiled at her—a gesture of approval. 

“Because I need to think ,” Christine clarified, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. “Someone must be the one to do it in this marriage.” 

Were he not so cross with her, William might have chuckled. He watched as she turned and ascended up the staircase with an inscrutable expression, but a muscle in his jaw twitched—the only outward sign of the storm he was attempting with all his might to weather. And he could only hope that his anger would not blind him to the pain of which that storm might inflict upon his beloved. 

Chapter Text

December 1777

Christine sat by her vanity, dragging the brush through her hair with rough, careless strokes. Though the mirror before her faithfully reflected her every feature—now marred by the shadows of temper and regret—it felt as though she were staring at someone else entirely. Someone more fragile. More breakable, yet also more destructive. Someone she refused to be. So, she avoided her own gaze, kept her eyes averted from the proof of her own misfortune, and ignored it. 

The brush caught on a tangle, and she yanked it through, welcoming the sting—as if pain could somehow cleanse the rest. 

It had been nearly an hour since she had last seen her husband. As per his command, she had retired to the guest chamber they would share, and in her solitude, sought clarity. But clarity proved as distant and elusive as ever, and in its stead, she found only the dull throb of regret, the unease of waiting for a storm you know is coming, sharpened by the knowledge that it could have been avoided—had only things been handled differently. 

The sound of a knock on the door drew a startled gasp from her lips. Christine set the brush down with a light thud, her lips pursed as she released a shaky breath out of her nose before turning to face the door—now ajar. 

William stood still in the doorway for a moment, his eyes locked with those of his wife as he closed the door quietly behind him. His expression was guarded, but it no longer bore the sharpness or anger that had previously been so indisputably evident. 

He sighed, and stepped further into the room. 

“I don’t wish to argue,” he said to her once he had crossed the room and taken a seat upon the ottoman by the foot of the bed. His voice was low and steady, yet tinged with a gentleness that brought Christine a modicum of surprise beneath her neutral facade. 

“Neither do I,” she whispered. 

He responded only with a curt nod of his head, then leaned forwards, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped loosely, and his eyes downcast. 

Still seated by the vanity, Christine unconsciously drove her nails into the soft skin of her palms. Many such habits did she keep, and her attempts to quit only resulted in replacement. Like ridding a long-abandoned corridor of cobwebs while the spiders still roamed free.

The silence between them—not quite tense, but charged—made her chest feel tight, as though even a breath might cause it all to collapse again. She gazed upon her husband, tried to read his expression—he looked tired; exhausted from the tribulations of the day, and she knew it was not the kind of weariness she could mend by simply letting him sleep in her arms. And that was foreign to her. 

Just then, William cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “I’ve calmed down, sobered up,” he murmured, glancing to meet her eyes. “And now I understand. Or at the very least, I can see that this— ” He gestured to his wine-stained cravat, wrinkled and discoloured where the burgundy had dried into the fabric— “was not an act of malice. Make no mistake, I am far from pleased with what you did, but I don’t begrudge you for it. I never did.”

“I am so sorry, William,” Christine said, her voice scarcely more than a breath. “I never wanted to humiliate you like that. I just felt so patronised by you when you said I’d had enough to drink. And then when you compared it to how George tricked me into an engagement to him when I was drunk… it really hurt. That was what you were insinuating, wasn’t it?” 

Ashamed, William averted his gaze to his feet again. “It was,” he murmured, clenching his jaw, “I shouldn’t have said it. Although, you didn’t exactly let me, did you?” A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he let out a wry chuckle. 

Christine couldn’t quite help but mirror his smile, allowing herself a small, fleeting moment of reprieve from the weight pressing in on her chest. “No, I suppose I didn’t,” she agreed. But even in the echo of humour, sorrow lingered like dust in the corners of a room. 

A moment passed where they did not speak, though their mutual attempts to untangle the disarrays that were their minds made it feel anything but silent, robbing them of the peace that could have been. 

After a while, a sigh fell from Christine’s lips as she rose from her vanity chair with slow, uncertain grace, and walked over to her husband by the bed. She did not sit, not yet. Instead, she stood with one hand loosely gripping the bedpost, her posture uncertain—as though she feared that sinking into comfort might dissolve the fragile civility they had rebuilt in the last few minutes. 

William looked up at her, his brow softening. 

“Sit with me,” he urged gently, holding out his hand for her to take. She did—her fingers chilled and trembling as they entwined with his warmer ones. William gave her hand a soft squeeze, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand in a gesture that neither asked too much nor promised too little. 

He kept her hand in his as she sank down beside him on the ottoman, but his eyes wandered towards the carpet. “We can move past the wine,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’ve already begun to. But Christine… sometimes, it feels as though I don’t even know you. Even worse—like I don’t deserve to.”

“You do,” she said, without hesitation, though her voice failed to conceal the pain that permeated every syllable. “You do deserve to know me. It is only…” Her throat constricted, for she knew that any words that were not the truth laid bare would either be deceitful or dismissive. But what else could she do? What else did she know how to do? “I never wanted to keep secrets from you,” she said at last, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, and a tremble in her voice. “But it’s just so complicated, you wouldn’t even believe it.”

William’s gaze darted back to his wife. He regarded her with a frail sort of hope beneath all of his worry, as if searching for a thread he might grasp. “I would,” he asserted, his hand tightening slightly around hers. “Christine, you are my wife, and I love you. Whatever your past contains, whatever secrets you keep, it does not matter. My only wish is for you to trust me with all of that, and it breaks my heart that you do not.” 

“But I do trust you, William!” Christine’s voice cracked—raw, as though torn from a wound that had yet to scab. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about… fear. I’m scared of what might happen if I do tell you—what you might think, what you might do.” 

Though her words were not cruel or harsh, William felt a sting deep in his chest as her voice echoed in his head. “So I was right then,” he snapped. “You don’t trust me.” 

He stood abruptly, letting go of her hand as if it burned him. 

Christine’s breath hitched. “William, please…”

But he did not so much as glance in her direction. He only paced like a caged animal, then stopped near the hearth, bracing one hand against the mantelpiece, his head bowed. 

“Do you not see how much this hurts me?” he asked, his voice shy of even a whisper, as though he feared speaking the words too loudly might invoke things he could not take back. But he finally met her gaze, his expression pained and his eyes glossy. 

The sight nearly crushed her heart all over again. 

Christine’s mouth opened a fraction, her lips quivering as though she were mustering the courage to speak words she feared would burn her tongue when uttered. “I know it hurts you,” she said finally, assuming a facade of certainty despite the tremble in her voice. “And I hate that I’m the one doing it. I hate it more than I could ever have the words to express.”

She rose from the ottoman, her bare feet soundless against the rug as she stepped towards him—but not too close. There was a sacred silence between them, forged not from anger, but something quieter. Sadder. 

“I want to tell you,” she said to him, her voice resembling that of a plea. “I do. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But every time I think I can, something inside me… freezes. Like there’s a wall in my chest that won’t come down, no matter how much I want it to. And yet, keeping all this from you…” Her voice broke. She looked down at her hands, now marred by red marks where her nails had pressed too hard into her skin. “Keeping it from you,” she continued, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice, “it’s tearing at my heart.” 

A breath fell from William’s lips as he slid his hand off the mantel, letting it fall limply by his side. “It is tearing at mine too. You know that, Christine,” he said, softer this time, the words brittle as frost. “So if you keep tearing at your own heart, how can you say it’s mine?”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, neither of them moved. She merely stood before him, hollowed out by guilt, while he remained near the hearth, his silhouette framed by the fire’s flicker like a man caught in the crossfire of tenderness and despair. 

Eventually, William drew in a sharp breath, and spoke words she could never have foreseen, “But I forgive you. No matter what you do, there is not a single moment where I find myself loving you any less for it.”

Christine blinked, stunned by the weight of his words. Her lips parted, but no answer came. His forgiveness, and how freely he gave it, pierced her like a dagger laced in mercy. It offered reconciliation, yes, but it also deepened the ache of not having earned it. 

She stepped a little closer. 

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice fraying like thread. “We keep hurting each other, but we can’t not forgive every single thing we do. But it still hurts.”

Only then did William turn to face her fully, gazing upon her with eyes no longer glossed, but clear and resolute. “Yes,” he agreed, simply. “God, it kills me. And I am hurting you, too. Because I keep pushing, demanding answers you are not yet ready to give. And I hate myself for that.”

A silence followed, and Christine merely blinked at him, her lips parted in disbelief. “You don’t have to hate yourself.”

But he only shook his head, the movement sharp. “Don’t you see? I love you so damn much, and it’s killing me not to know how to protect you from this thing you refuse to name.”

All Christine could do in that moment was fight the sob rising in her throat. And she fought it valiantly at that, as though it were her enemy; as though letting it slip past her lips might besmirch every following word she would ever utter. Therefore, when she could speak, her voice was strained, and she could not bear to look him in the eye. “There is one thing I can tell you. It’s that I grew up around secrets. Around lies, and silence, and questions I never received answers to. Hidden words were the only language I ever knew.” 

William swallowed hard. “Then unlearn it,” he beseeched. “Please. I will wait. I have waited. But I can’t stand beside you if you never turn to face me.”

With a tentative step, Christine moved closer. “And what if I never can?” Her voice cracked again, and with it, she felt her resolve crumble a little more. 

When William looked at her then, he did so not with fury, but with the deepest sorrow she had ever seen in his eyes. “Then we will remain married,” he said. “But we will both know it is broken. You and I.”

That shattered her. 

Her arms dropped to her sides as if defeated, her breath catching in her throat as though the force of his words had knocked the wind out of her. She stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to commit every line of his face to memory in case it all vanished tomorrow. 

“Christine,” he then said, his voice ragged, stepping forwards. “I love you.” He raised both hands and cupped her face, gazing down upon her features—softly, as though his words and touch alone could chase the tears away from those eyes he loved so very much. “But my darling, you must know,” he continued, “love needs air, and secrets suffocate us.”

A tear rolled down her cheek, but as William wiped it away, more came flooding. Seeing it, he thought he might die then and there. 

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace, gently hushing her trembled sobs as her tears soaked through his shirt. His eyes welled up, too, blurring his vision as his hand stroked through her soft hair in slow, soothing motions. 

“What if this part of me,” she murmured into his chest, her voice barely audible, “this wall—what if it’s all I have left of the person I used to be? What if I don’t know who I am without it?”

William held her tighter, as though holding her might somehow steady the both of them. His hand stilled where it had been combing gently through her hair, and he slowly set his eyes on hers. “Only you can decide who you are, my love. No one else. Just you.” 

Christine did not answer at once—she hadn’t the words to. Her tears had begun to abate, but the ache in her chest had not. It lingered there, not as a sharp pain, but a stinging kind of silence, one that pulsed like a bruise beneath her ribs. She felt hollow. Held, yes. Loved, undoubtedly. But hollow. 

“I think we need time apart,” said William, unbearably softly. 

The words made Christine flinch, and her arms stiffened where they clutched him. “What do you mean?” she said in a breath, her eyes wide, but not meeting his. 

Closing his eyes, William contemplated his next words, but they evaded him like birds startled into flight before he could name their song. “I am not saying I will leave you,” he eventually clarified, his voice hurried, yet low and tender. “God, no. I could never—” His voice broke, the thought alone seeming to wound him. “But I think… just for a little while, we should stop pretending everything is alright. That we are alright.”

He felt her arms tighten around him with a quiet desperation, as if by instinct, and not deliberation. “We keep kissing each other’s wounds without ever cleaning them. And now they’re festering.”

She gave a little laugh through her tears, muffled by his chest. “That’s an awful metaphor.”

God, that lovely laugh, he thought, smiling despite everything. “I know,” he admitted, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “But you understand me, do you not?”

“I do,” she whispered. 

For a while, they just stood there—locked in an embrace that was neither wholly reconciled nor entirely broken, as though they were two souls weathering the same storm from opposite ends of the sky, clinging to the warmth between them as proof that the clouds had not won. 

At last, Christine shifted in his arms. She tilted her head up from his chest, just enough for her eyes to meet his and see the aching tenderness they bore between the red rims. “Will you stay with me tonight?” she asked, tentative, like a girl afraid of being told she had asked for too much. 

“Yes,” William murmured, without a second thought. “Of course.” 

Christine nodded slowly, a fresh tear spilling down her cheek. It had not welled her eyes by anguish, but from the soft, strange—still foreign—relief of being promised love despite difficulty. 

Wordlessly, William took her hand and guided her towards the bed. The covers were already turned down, the hearth casting a low amber glow across the room, making their shadows stretch long against the walls. 

He settled into bed first, lying on his back, one arm offered in silent invitation. She curled into him, resting her head on his chest, her hand splayed gently across his ribs where his heart beat steady and strong beneath. 

Christine closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat. It was the one thing in the world that felt steady in that moment—unlike her breath, unlike her thoughts, unlike the tides of shame and longing that coursed through her. 

No words were uttered, no promises were spoken, but the way his hand moved over her back, slow and reassuring, made her feel safe in knowing that nothing was broken beyond repair. It never could be. Because even though her heart was bruised, it did not bleed when he held it. And as he did, she knew he would never let go. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Journal of Christine Ransom—January 7th, 1778

It has now been two days since William and I arrived in London, and I find myself with a mind much befuddled. We are some of the first members of the peerage to arrive, as the season does not truly commence until Parliament convenes two weeks from now. 

William insisted upon our early departure from the country, wishing to make certain connections ahead of the session, and to be seen amongst those whose good opinion he hopes to secure. And so, he spends the greater part of each day in the most esteemed gentlemen’s clubs, offices, and drawing rooms—all of which I am neither invited to nor feel inclined to join. 

But in his diurnal absence, I am left rather lonely. I mostly stay inside the house, busying myself with reading books from our library, playing the piano, or drawing the view from each window in our house, one at a time—though I suspect I will soon give up on that pursuit. There are simply too many windows, and while I am plagued by boredom, I am not that patient. However, I do find a certain fascination in watching the townsfolk go about their daily lives. Especially since I have lived so differently until only recently, I am struck by how natural this way of life is to them—one that was once entirely foreign to me. 

Beyond those windows I gaze out of for hours on end, it is cold and the sky is grey—as I very well remember—and as I promenade through St. James’s park, the chill of the winter air brushes against my face with the same sting of coldness it did when I was a child. 

It is my home, I suppose, but it grieves me to think that I will never find a trace of the life I once led in a city I have walked innumerous times, but where now is the first time I leave footsteps. Every corner I pass feels like an echo of something I once knew. As if the city is both young and ancient, and I am caught somewhere in between. 

It is a peculiar thing to belong somewhere only in memory, especially for some as sentimental as I. But I am no longer the girl I was when I last set foot in this city. I have changed so tremendously since I last set foot here, but I feel like a flower blooming in a dark, enclosed space, beating reason and possibility, yet having no one to attest to my triumph, nor tend to me. My home is here and yet it cannot embrace me. 

And neither, it seems, can my husband. Not in the way he used to. 

We are polite, as I believe we ought to be, and yet I do not know whether it makes things better or worse. Because every time he gives me a smile, I feel a flicker of the warmth he used to bathe me in. And then when it passes, I find that a flicker is not enough. I want all of it—all of him —even if our passion burns us to ashes. He once told me he would rather walk through shadows with me than stand in the light alone. Though I remain in the shadows—now alone—I am not certain whether he is truly in the light. Perhaps we were never in the shadows at all. Perhaps the only light we may ever find is each other. 

Since that night at the Pardloe estate, we have not spoken of what was said. And for the first time since I married him, I woke up alone the following morning, with only the dent in the pillow beside me and a note placed atop it to greet me. It was brief, both comforting and shattering all at once, no more than a few lines—but written in his hand, and folded with that sharp precision no man but my husband possesses. I read it once, then twice, and then thrice, until I unintentionally was able to recite it. 

“My dear Christine, 

I am sorry to leave bed before greeting you, but I awoke early and could not fall back asleep. Tomorrow morning, I ride out with the other gentlemen on a hunting excursion, which requires a rather unforgiving hour of departure. Thus, I shall sleep in another chamber tonight, so as to not disturb your own rest, my love. But if you wish for me to return to your bed tomorrow evening—should you find your heart willing—you need only say so. 

—Your devoted husband, William”

Even now, weeks later, I have not asked him to return to my bed. Not because I do not wish for his company at night. God knows I do. And that is the conundrum, for even though I lay abed at night, yearning for the touch of his hands and the feeling of him inside me, I know he did not choose to leave our bed simply to spare my slumber. He did so because he could no longer bear the sight of me each morning, knowing he is not seeing all of me. And if that is not true, and I have misunderstood the intention behind his quiet retreat, then it pains me all the more, for what sort of wife assumes threat when the arms she sees reach out to her wishes to hold her with only affection? 

I know the answer. I know what kind of wife I am. I know that I once thought I would be the wife of another, and that the arms of that man was my prison, not my fortress. But the two appear much the same to a woman not given the time to distinguish the two apart. 

And yet, I know in my heart that William is nothing like George. Not in word, nor in deed, nor in soul. Whatever struggles we face, I have never feared my husband. I have never shrunk from his touch or gaze and wondered what part of me he might try to possess and bend to his liking next. He does not covet to own me. When he touches me, it is not to make me feel small or to prove himself strong, but to remind me that he loves all of me for who I am. 

That is the cruelty of it. That he loves me rightly, gently—so gently—and yet I have made our marriage a maze of thorns for him to thread. I do not mean to. Heaven knows I would tear up every last root of this wretched hedge if I could. But my pain has grown wild. It twines around the parts of me I do not know how to reveal, and I fear that if I tried to unravel it all at once, I would come undone entirely. 

Sometimes I wonder whether he thinks of me while he’s out among all those important men. If his mind ever drifts to the way I curled into him that night, like I was trying to make myself smaller, as if that would also shrink the importance of our issues. 

I know I have every power to make things right, for all I must do is tell him the truth about everything I keep hidden. But I cannot give him every piece of myself when I have yet to put those pieces together, and remain unsure whether those pieces are fit to be seen at all. Innumerous times, I have tried. But every time I open my mouth to truly speak to him, I hear his voice from that night echo in my head: “You don’t trust me.” 

And it is true. Not because I deem him untrustworthy—he has proven himself anything but. It is because what I carry would either alter his view of the world or of me. It is not mistrust. It is terror. 

Perhaps that is the greatest tragedy of it all, for my heart is his. It has always been his. And yet I do not dare show it to him. 

I do not know what I shall do in two days’ time when his birthday arrives. We are hosting a small gathering in his honour. It is nothing of considerable grandeur, only a few of our friends and family and his political allies. I have already looked over the decorations and the menu for the evening, but I have been pondering over what I shall give to him. How does one gift a man something he already has in every way except for the one that truly matters? 

I cannot simply wrap a ribbon around my heart and place it in his hands. I would, if only the outcome would not be my blood dripping onto his hands and staining the very skin that has only ever held me gently, for that is what would surely become of it. 

However, I fear that anything less would be an insult. Yet still I ponder, turning over ideas as though some mere trinket might suffice. I suppose I will settle for something thoughtful, something sentimental, perhaps clever or useful. A book, perhaps, but then again, I cannot in good conscience gift him words that are neither mine nor personal. I considered giving him a new cravat to replace the one I unfortunately ruined, but that feels perfunctory, and almost disrespectful in a way. 

And so I return to the one thing I cannot wrap, cannot stitch, cannot purchase from a jeweller or bind in leather. 

Myself. 

I have stood before him naked in every physical sense, and yet I have not let him see the scars beneath my skin. He knows that. And so it hurts him, too. But love, I think, cannot heal a wound I refuse to touch. 

I know no gift will feel right until I can offer the one thing I am withholding. Perhaps, when the time comes, I will not wrap a ribbon around my heart, and instead give it to him bare. But it will be when I have come to terms with it; with all the blood that may spill. 

—C.R. 

Chapter Text

January 1778

Christine dragged her thumb along the handle of her teacup, feeling the subtle sting of the heated porcelain press into her skin. During the past idle weeks spent in London, she would have been alone and languid at this hour. But after eventually growing restless enough to make an effort, she had sought to change her situation. 

Invitations had been sent out to her fellow ladies of the ton—those whose husbands or families had shared in the Earl’s endeavour for a head start in London’s early season. The drawing room had been polished to a shine, the house’s finest tea set made to gleam in the low winter light that filtered through the windows, and platters of meticulously arranged doll-like cakes and biscuits sat upon the tables between the upholstered chairs and settees. 

She had not expected all of them to accept. Yet within hours of her note being sent, four replies had come—all in the affirmative. And now, the scent of citrus and floral perfumes clung to the air, and the light laughter of ladies floated above the clink of china and the whirls of the wind beyond the ornate walls that surrounded them. 

“Such a beautiful home you have, Lady Ellesmere,” said Lavinia Howard, her voice low and warm, with the subtle confidence of someone accustomed to being listened to. Seated by Christine’s right, the dowager Duchess of Eastleigh was in her early thirties, famously widowed half a decade prior, and now known for her outspoken disposition and her spending habits of the immodest wealth left by the former Duke. 

“If only I had been so lucky when I was first wed,” she continued, drawing to her the eyes of the other ladies present. “But no, I had to make peace with the rather awful styles preferred by my former husband. A blessing to the eyes, it was—to redecorate after his passing.”

A ripple of soft laughter passed through the group, though Christine caught the flicker of something sharper behind a few smiles—mild discomfort, perhaps, at Lavinia’s candor. Or envy at the freedom such widowhood afforded. 

“I imagine that must have been very satisfying. And I do admire your honesty, Your Grace,” Christine responded, glancing sideways at the Duchess with a polite smile. “And I thank you for your compliments, but I wouldn’t dare take any credits, having not made any changes to the place myself.”

Seated on the settee opposite Christine, Miss Beatrice Stratton tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips yet failing to warm her gaze. “You are lucky, indeed, my lady,” she murmured, taking a sip of her tea whilst not breaking eye contact. “To have found a husband of means before you so much as make your debut in society, why, that is quite the… accomplishment.” Her voice carried a note of something carefully measured—not quite so innocent as mere curiosity, but neither venomous enough to be taken for disdain or undignified disrespect. 

Regardless of her disposition, she was a striking young woman—unmarried, and in possession of a dowry larger than most, despite the whispers amongst society which claimed her family was on the cusp of financial ruin. Whether such rumours bore any truth or not could hardly be deduced by appearances, for the young woman was donned in jewellery of an opulence that was arguably unfit for daytime wear, as well as a pale blue gown of the finest silk. It was the precise shade of those angelic blue eyes of hers—eyes that told tales of nothing but haughtiness despite her sweet smile and soft voice. 

Christine felt the rim of her teacup press a little harder against her lip than necessary before she set it down with care. “An accomplishment, perhaps,” she said lightly, though her tone held no genuine mirth. “But I believe it was fate that brought us two together. I fell in love even before I knew of his title or wealth.” 

“So the rumours are true!” exclaimed Sophia Grantham, a dark-haired viscountess only a few years Christine’s senior, and notoriously eager when it came to society chatter. “It was a love match!” 

A soft smile graced Christine’s lips as memories of those carefree days with William resurfaced. Back then, she had felt so adrift—confused, uncertain, and weighed down by the feeling of being lost—not merely physically, but emotionally as well. But in the midst of all her turmoil, there he was. William. A man she had only just met but felt inexplicably drawn to. 

And now, half a year and seemingly a lifetime later, their situation remained without improvement. They still did not speak, let alone share a bed. 

“Yes,” Christine affirmed, her voice permeated by the bittersweet awareness that the love match in question carried far more complexities than the romantic fantasy the other ladies surely imagined. “It was a love match. And nothing could stand in the way,” she added, smiling fondly. 

“If only we were all given such a blessing,” rang the voice of a blonde-haired lady seated beside Miss Stratton. Her name was Constance Sheffield—the eldest daughter of the Earl of Fairford—and renowned for her impeccable reputation befitting her family’s good name. 

“My mama advises me to stay well clear of romance,” Miss Sheffield continued, “She believes it will lead me astray, and invite inclinations towards less suitable matches.” She let out a sigh, one that seemed to carry with it a myriad of wishes suppressed and words silenced as she folded her hands neatly in her lap like a proper lady—though in spite of it, a glint of rebellion could be perceived gleaming in her green eyes. 

In the corner of her eye, Christine glimpsed Lavinia tilting her head with a certain air of disapproval before she spoke, “Surely, Miss Sheffield, your mama doesn’t mean to deprive you of all pleasure in life?” 

Her words made Constance’s eyes go wide with a mixture of alarm and delight never yet acted upon, as though no one had ever dared contradict her mother in her presence before. A nervous laugh passed her lips, and she shook her head, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. 

“Of course not, Your Grace. She is merely looking out for my future, is all,” she explained in defence, but even as she did, the smile lingering on her lips whispered of something in contrast to her display of propriety. 

“It is the main reason for my family’s early arrival in London—to find me a husband among the more… serious gentlemen,” she added with a light sigh. 

Lavinia offered a lazy smile, slowly lifting her teacup to her lips and taking a sip before clearing her throat. “Well, if it is a serious gentleman you seek, Miss Sheffield, you may find yourself disappointed—they are not in as great of an abundance as your mama has you believe.” 

Equal parts amused and in agreement with the duchess, Christine nodded, a smile quickly forming on her lips. “That’s very true, Your Grace,” she concurred, her voice steeped by the growing respect she felt for the woman beside her. 

Directing her gaze onto Constance—who now wore a look of scandalised surprise—Christine failed to resist letting out a slight laugh, though it was not one of mockery. “Most men are self-serving twats,” she explained with a playful wink, eliciting bubbles of laughter from the other ladies. 

But the once light atmosphere of the drawing room shifted almost instantly as Beatrice interjected, her voice smooth but brimming with an undercurrence of acidity. “Why yes, many gentlemen of the finest breeding forfeit their good name by indulging in less… savoury pursuits.” Her smile tightened a fraction, inducing a sense of discomfort in Christine that only seemed to grow, yet she found herself lacking the words to change the subject. 

“But of course, it would be impolite to name names,” Beatrice insisted, smiling sweetly as she folded her hands primly in her lap, but her eyes never lost the gleam that was as sharp as a blade freshly drawn. 

“Oh but please do!” Sophia Grantham coaxed, shifting slightly closer. 

Beatrice shook her head and laughed in a perfectly demure manner, directing a condescending gaze at Sophia as though she were nothing but a child asking to play with fire. “No, I mustn’t,” she protested with a lack of conviction so obvious that Christine almost laughed. 

“It would be unmannerly, besides, I have never been one to engage in gossip,” she added, her eyes widened slightly as though the very notion of it were abhorrent to her. And still, there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lip, betraying just how little she believed her own words. 

“Very well. Since you’re so curious, I shall tell you,” she sighed in defeat, drawing out each word like a ribbon she meant to tie around someone’s throat. The young woman bit her lip as she thought, giggling softly to herself. “Well, Lord Tremayne has been seen rather too often in the company of various scandalous opera singers. Some say he keeps over five mistresses!” 

Gasps rippled through the drawing room like the fluttering of their lace fans. Young Miss Sheffield pressed a hand to her mouth in scandalised horror, while Sophia Grantham’s eyes widened with intrigue, her cheeks flushing crimson. Christine, however, sat straighter in her seat, the corners of her smile tightening ever so slightly. And beside her, Lavinia Howard rolled her eyes with undisguised disinterest. 

“And then there’s Lord Theodore Stafford, an infamous rake, gambling away the money meant for his daughters’ dowries,” Beatrice continued, her tone growing more triumphant with every word, like a cat who had finally cornered its prey. “It is quite sad, actually. I could hardly imagine the stress his poor wife must be going through.” 

She shook her head mournfully, pouting her lips in a display of sympathy—no doubt devoid of sincerity. 

“And his daughters, bless them—they’ll be lucky to secure a match at all, with a reputation so thoroughly tarred by their father’s misdeeds,” she finished, her voice lilting into a near whisper of mock sorrow. 

The silence that followed hung thick and uneasy, like the haze before a summer storm. Christine let her eyes scan through the drawing room—her drawing room, and yet she felt as though she were an unwelcome guest come to disturb peace. Constance still looked as though she may faint outright; Sophia was rapt; and Lavinia—thank the Lord—appeared as unimpressed as Christine herself. 

“… and one mustn’t forget Lord George Calvert.” 

Christine froze. 

Throughout the latest few minutes, her disinterest had made her practically deaf to Beatrice’s incessant gossiping. But now, with the name she had once been closely tied to mentioned, she was startled out of her reverie, every nerve in her body suddenly strung taut like the strings of a harp pulled too tight. 

Her gaze quickly snapped from the floor to Beatrice’s face and the smug expression she wore, taking in the look in her piercing blue eyes. They gleamed, evidently self-satisfied with the accomplishment of having finally struck a nerve. 

“Oh yes,” Miss Stratton murmured, drawing out her words with relish. “It was only last year that Lord George was known as the perfect gentleman… but now, I hear talk nearly every day of his rather… disreputable habits.” 

A strained silence followed, punctuated only by the soft clink of china as Lavinia set down her teacup. The dowager duchess peered to her left, where Christine sat with her back as rigid as a marble sculpture, her hands trembling slightly where they rested on her lap. 

Beatrice leaned back against the plush settee, clearly enjoying the attention. “He’s become quite reckless since his return to London, they say. Gambling in private clubs until sunrise, drinking himself to oblivion every night, even frequenting houses of ill repute without a scrap of discretion,” she revealed, her lips curling into a smile far too pleased to be telling a supposed tragedy. “Quite the fall from grace, shouldn’t you agree?” 

Christine could not bring herself to speak. Her throat felt as though no air could pass through, and her heartbeat thudded in her ears so loud that it was a wonder she even heard Beatrice’s voice. But heard it, she did, and the words echoed through her head. His return to London. He was there. 

Due to his standing, it was inevitable, of course, for every respectable member of the peerage partook in the social season. And yet, the revelation hit Christine like a bolt of lightning. 

Perhaps it was self-preservation that had kept the thought buried, her mind refusing to give it form. But deep down, she had always known. It had always been a mere matter of time before she found herself in the vicinity of that man again. The man who had so callously frightened and abused her, blackmailed and silenced her—he was there, in London, walking the same streets as she did. 

She stared down at the tea in her cup, watched as the dark liquid tumbled over the gilded brim ever so slightly, betraying the unsteadiness of her hands as well as her composure. 

It all came back to her. The fear, the hopelessness, the feeling of his hands grabbing at her without any care for the pain he caused her. And that deep sense of dread she had felt, believing she could never escape him unscathed—she now found the memories as raw as if they had been carved into her skin only yesterday. They rose, unbidden and merciless, from the recesses where she had so carefully locked them away, crashing against her with the force of a wave that had been building for far too long. 

Never before had she looked back. Since the day her marriage to William was decided, she had abandoned the wounds in her spirit left by Lord George. She had turned her back on the calamity she had lived through, and relished in the love between her and her new husband, distracted from the viper she was sure lured behind her back. Could it be so, that she had not healed from his venom all along?

“Lady Ellesmere?” It was Lavinia’s voice—gentle, uncertain. 

“Are you unwell? Ought we summon a physician?” asked Constance. 

Christine let out a shaky exhale, slowly regaining control of her breathing. “No, I… I’m alright,” she mumbled, forcing a smile to curl on her lips, though she doubted any of them would take it as sincere. “I’ve slept poorly of late, is all. Must be catching up with me.” She chuckled, tightening her grip on the teacup in an attempt to cease the trembling of her hands. 

As the ladies finished their tea and biscuits, polite chatter resumed, shifting between topics of the latest fashions and the newest arrangements at the opera. Yet beneath the genteel conversation, the dark shadow of the past lingered on Christine’s mind like the thickest of storm clouds. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

On the morning of his birthday, William had been stirred from his slumber by the pale morning light spilling through the gap between the velvet curtains. Its beams had cast long, golden bars across the floorboards, brightening up the room. The fire had long since died out, its warmth faded, letting a faint chill take its place. William had shifted beneath the covers and, with the haze of sleep still clouding his mind, reached out a hand to the other side of the bed, seeking warmth. 

But when his palm met only with the cold linen sheets, he’d flinched, just slightly. He had not expected her to be there. He knew better than that. But habit was a treacherous thing, forged in better nights, when they had slept tangled together, and the world beyond their door seemed like a distant, far off land. 

Quite like he always did, William devoted the greater part of the day to affairs that paid no heed to the passing of birthdays. A bundle of reports had arrived from the estate in Cumberland, each demanding his attention, along with a flurry of correspondence from acquaintances to whom he replied with his usual measured care. In the afternoon, he took the carriage for a brief visit to White’s, where he had been summoned by a few friends requesting a meeting at the renowned gentleman’s club for a birthday toast and drinks. 

Despite the myriad of birthday wishes and the good company he surrounded himself with, William thought little of the day itself—how could he, when the one person whose presence truly mattered was within his grasp, yet not in his arms?

It was for the best, he knew that. Their decision to keep to their separate chambers and lives had not been made lightly, nor in anger. It was—in its own twisted, excruciating way—an act of mercy. For to continue as they had before, pretending that their wounds and problems had vanished simply because of the love they shared, would have been a poison to their marriage, tearing it up from within. 

And yet, without her, William felt as though his longing was tearing him apart. He prayed every night that she did not feel the same, that she was not as afflicted by their distance as he was—even if it meant her love was not as strong as his. 

As the hour drew closer to dinner, William stood by the foot of the marble staircase at Ellesmere House, his gaze absently sweeping over the grandeur of the room as he waited for his wife. Heavy velvet drapes framed the tall windows, their muted teal hue appearing resplendent in the mellow glow of the lavish chandelier and wall sconces. Shadows gathered along the carved mouldings of the white wall panels, dancing faintly over the portraits of deceased ancestors and fading tapestries whose once-vibrant hues had grown stately with age, and the hall was quiet but for the distant footsteps and clatter of silverware as the servants took care of the final touches to the dining room decorations. 

At the sound of a heeled foot stepping onto marble, William’s eyes darted to the top of the stairs. And there she was. Christine. She descended slowly down the stairs with such natural grace that, for a moment, he was sure she was a figure of his imagination, conjured out of longing. 

His eyes didn’t avert from her for a single moment, not even to blink. Instead, his gaze swept over her. She wore a dress of deep emerald brocade silk, the bodice adorned with subtle gold embroidery and fitted closely to her frame. The neckline was respectable, yet revealing enough to stir the ache in his chest. And her sleeves tapered delicately to just below her elbows, where lace spilled like white petals over her wrists. 

Her hair was gathered tall atop her head, a few light brown tendrils escaping to frame her face. She kept her spine perfectly straight as she descended, her chin tilted slightly upwards with that certain air of confidence that had first drawn him to her. 

The golden light of the low sun streamed in through the windows and made the emeralds she wore around her neck sparkle in its glow. But to William, she had never needed any ornament or jewel to shine brighter than the sun itself. 

They locked eyes then, and suddenly his heart squeezed tight in his chest, a sensation so visceral it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Fortunately, he quickly recovered once she reached the bottom of the staircase. Then, he stepped forwards, his hand instinctively offering itself to her, palm up. 

As she gently placed her smaller hand atop it, William’s gaze travelled down her neck and collarbones, lingering for a moment on her bosom before snapping to her hand. 

He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, softly, and for all but a second, he caught a glimpse of a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a soft kiss there. William noticed her draw in a deep breath, and a rush of warmth coloured her cheeks a rosy hue. And in that moment, he knew—nothing was lost. Only changed. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

Dinner was a joyful, elegant affair, attended by family and friends of William—some whom he had been acquainted with since childhood, others he had met recently through his former regiment and among London’s high society. There had been toasts, a few polite jokes that elicited laughter around the table, and the dishes served had been nothing short of delicious. 

And yet, once the house had quieted, the halls had emptied of music and chatter, and guests had departed in good spirits, when William found himself alone in his bedchamber once more, the silence that surrounded him was not one of peace—but one of emptiness. 

He’d removed his coat, draped it neatly over a chair, and loosened the cravat at his throat before lowering himself onto the recamiere by the hearth, his forearms braced on his thighs as he stared into the fire. The flames moved lazily, casting gold and copper shadows against the walls—shadows he had once watched dance across Christine’s bare body. 

God, he missed her. 

He missed the sleepless nights spent laying their hearts bare to one another through body and words, the warmth of her skin against his, and the way her breath would soften against his collarbone when sleep finally claimed her—and how she mumbled his name once it had. He missed that fearless glint in her eyes when she said something bold, the sound of her laughter spilling forth without restraint, and how she would look at him as though there was no one else in the world she could ever wish to belong to. 

It was beyond his control—how those memories of her would remain on his mind no matter the distraction before him. Not a moment went by where he did not think of her. For every pleasant sound that met his ears invited memories of her voice to play in his head like an enchanted harp, every vision of beauty conjured images of her face, and every touch made him yearn for hers. 

Because in the most vulnerable parts of his very being, where pride could not shield him and neither logic nor duty held any sway, he dared to believe that everything of beauty in the world carried a piece of her soul. 

She was the only light that had ever shined on the darkest crevices of his soul. Both an ache and a balm; poison and cure; she made him feel alive. She was the tether that kept him rooted to life even as her absence threatened to unmoor him entirely, and the essence with which he measured his own purpose. She was—in a sense no poet or philosopher could ever truly capture—his whole world. 

A soft knock drew his gaze from the fire, but before he could rise or call out, the door eased open. Christine stood in the threshold, her silhouette framed by the dim candlelight streaming in from the corridor. For a moment, she neither moved nor spoke—merely lingered there like an apparition borne of his own yearning, her hair loosened from its earlier arrangement, tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders and down her back. 

With a breath that seemed to steady her resolve, she stepped inside, gently pushing the door shut behind her. 

“I thought,” she said at last, her voice soft with something akin to hesitance, “that you might like some company.” 

In one hand, she held a bottle of wine; in the other, two glasses, their delicate stems clinking faintly in tune with her heels as she moved towards him. 

A smile formed on William’s lips, brought on by the sheer adoration and gratitude that filled his chest upon the sight of her. “I would,” he murmured in response, a chuckle escaping his lips as he grinned fondly at his beloved wife. “And I see you brought wine,” he added, nodding at the contents her hands held. “Ought I run for cover?”

Christine halted in her steps, her eyes narrowing into a glare, though it failed to mask the tinge of amusement brewing behind it. “Oh, very funny,” she said, her expression blank except for the slight smile threatening to curve at her lips. 

“I had hoped for a warmer welcome than that, but I suppose I can manage,” she added playfully, carefully setting down the bottle and glasses on the round, intricately carved wooden table beside the recamiere. 

The grin on William’s face only grew at her indulgent words, and his eyes raked over her form as he watched her pour up their glasses. She had dressed out of her evening gown and jewellery, appearing before him clothed only in her blue, pink-trimmed stays and white shift. A pair of clocked stockings clung to her slender legs, held up by ivory-coloured silk garters adorned with pink floral embroidery. 

“For the birthday boy,” she said, a joyful smile brightening her features as she handed him his glass. 

William snorted amusedly, patting the spot beside him. “I’m not a boy, Christine,” he chided lightly. 

“Oh I wouldn’t dream of insulting you so,” she teased, biting her lip as though doing so could curb the grin that so evidently pulled at the corners of her mouth. 

She settled beside him, their glasses meeting with a soft clink before they both took a sip. 

“I know you better than to believe those words, my darling,” he responded without thought, as though the words had fled his mouth by their own accord. It had been weeks since he had last addressed her as such—as per their arrangement. But now, the words hung in the air like a confession revealed without intent. 

Slowly, William turned to face her. Her eyes were already fixed on him, meeting his own and revealing a fragile storm in which hope shimmered faintly, stirring within him the dangerous temptation to believe again, and yet shadowed by an anguish so deep he would have bartered his very soul to spare her from feeling it ever again. 

Christine let out a slight sigh, then hastily averted her gaze to the floor and cleared her throat in an attempt to dispel the fragile sense of wishfulness that had arisen with his words. It could not yet be fulfilled, she knew that, though the warmth blooming in her chest suggested otherwise. 

“Would you like some more wine?” she asked, the words coming out more quiet than she had intended, likely due to the nervous flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with the wine itself. 

At her husband’s immediate hum and nod of approval, Christine rose to her feet and approached the bottle she had left on the round table. She returned to his side with their glasses held steadily in hand, now nearly brimming with the burgundy liquid that swooshed with her every step, though never quite spilling over. 

With each glass they emptied, the words exchanged between them began to flow more freely. They talked, laughed—like they hadn’t for what felt like an eternity—and drew closer without even acknowledging it. 

The bottle, now nearly drained, had found a place resting in Christine’s lap after both she and her husband had descended onto the floor. They sat together, a peaceful silence surrounding them as they gazed into the flickering flames. His arm was wrapped around her shoulders, and her head rested against his chest. 

“This reminds me—there was something in particular I wanted to speak to you about,” William hummed softly against the top of her head. He dared to press a kiss there, inhaling her scent as though it were the only air he breathed. 

Christine’s eyelids fell closed in contentment, and she smiled—just like she had all evening. It was a genuine smile. The kind that reached her eyes in the special way it only ever could when she was truly at peace. 

“Mhm?” she urged quietly, trailing her fingertips over the exposed skin of his rolled-up sleeves. 

“I, uh…” he began, uncertain whether he could ever get a full sentence out when the distraction of her touch clouded his mind. “I have been thinking about taking the Grand Tour. Paris, Rome, Athens, places of culture a gentleman oughts to visit in his youth.” 

“Although, most complete the tour years before finding a wife,” he added, a soft chuckle entailing his words. 

Christine fell silent then. She could not shake the thought that in her hastily arranged marriage to him, she had robbed him of the opportunities he had dreamt of since he was a boy. Even if it was true, she knew he did not fault her for it. But the consolation in which such an acknowledgement brought her was—if at all—scarce. 

“And I can imagine,” she mumbled, her voice barely above the crackling fire, “that women aren’t usually welcomed to this Grand Tour.” 

Catching on to the melancholy tone of her voice, William frowned, tightening his arm around her shoulders. “On the contrary,” he opposed, lifting his hand to gently tilt her chin up so their eyes could meet, “it is far from rare for a man to bring a lady companion with him. However, in most cases, that would be a mistress, not a wife.”

“So you… you want me to come with you?” Christine asked, hesitantly, as though she feared the question was too bold, too wishful. 

A chuckle of what appeared to be genuine mirth escaped William’s lips, and he shook his head in incredulous disbelief. “My love,” he smiled, his eyes warm and full of a love that was both revering and impossibly tender, “I have scarcely been able to keep my sanity these past weeks, and you believe I could bear spending a full year without you?”

She let out a laugh too, then, and repositioned her head to comfortably rest against his chest again. “I apologise for overestimating you, my lord,” she teased, not bothering to keep the playfulness out of her voice. 

“But are you sure?” she eventually asked after a long moment of strained silence. “It all sounds lovely but… it’s hardly the right time, is it?”

“No, of course not,” William agreed, passing a defeated sigh. “Parliament will be in session soon, and I know you have anticipated the social season. We can wait five years to take the tour, if that is your wish,” he assured her gently, pressing another kiss to the crown of her head. 

The smile on Christine’s lips grew wider, remaining lazy and peaceful, but now holding a stronger sense of joy to it. She shifted closer in his arms, and lifted her head to meet his gaze again, watching as the glow of the firelight danced in those pools of blue she had fallen in love with all those months ago. 

“I don’t want to wait five years,” she hummed softly, her cheeks beginning to ache from the smile that had persisted on her lips. “It’s such a long time… I’ll be twenty-three by then.” 

“Twenty-two, if we are being precise,” William corrected her with a teasing grin, giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “Your birthday is not until May.”

Christine groaned in exasperation, though there was no true annoyance behind the gesture. “Yes, thank you, I know when my birthday is,” she assured him, failing to resist the urge of rolling her eyes, regardless of the fondness with which she gazed at him. 

“Are you sure about that?” William asked, not letting up the chance to tease her further. “I had imagined you were too drunk to remember.”

“I am not drunk!” Christine protested weakly, though her words were devoid of any true conviction. She only laughed, and for what reason, she did not know. But it felt good to let it out. It was lightening, freeing, as though the weight of the last few weeks had been outshined by something warmer and far gentler—if only temporarily. 

Gazing down at his wife with an admiration so deep it blinded him from all else, William held her close, planting a number of kisses to her temple. “Could have fooled me,” he murmured against the side of her face, feeling her warm body shake against his with the force of her drunken laughter. 

“You’re giggling like a child being tickled,” he remarked, his grin wide with pure enjoyment as he watched Christine laugh even harder. 

Her laughter eventually faded, softening into a gentle smile as she looked up at him, the firelight twinkling in her eyes like tiny stars. “Maybe I like being a little silly around you,” she confessed, reaching out to boop his nose. “Besides, if you claim I’m drunk, then you must be too since you’ve had just as much to drink.”

“I’m sure you like to think that,” William said, booping her nose in return. “But as I think you know very well, I have a far better tolerance than you,” he bragged, though there was a slight sludder to his voice that belied his words. 

“Perhaps I’m not entirely sober either,” he sighed. 

“No, you’re not,” Christine laughed in agreement, a glint of pride twinkling in her eyes, enhanced by the victorious smile on her lips. “So you see, I am right. As always.” 

William only shook his head, wrapping his arm more firmly around her, letting her lean into him, as though the warmth of the fire still crackling in the hearth did not suffice. 

“Oh God,” Christine then groaned, a self-deprecating laugh following her words. “I almost forgot—I have a present for you,” she told him, a trace of excitement entering her voice as she set down the bottle on the floor and shifted to sit more upright. 

A rush of adoration swept over William, making his heart swell beneath his finely tailored waistcoat as he watched her reach into her dress pocket and withdraw a small box, wrapped in a blue silk ribbon with a note tied to it. She handed it to him, and her sweet smile made his own grow even wider. 

For my dearest William, the note read, and he felt his heart swell once more as he read it over and over again. 

“I hope you’ll like it,” Christine whispered, the vulnerable anticipation in her voice barely concealed beneath her tender smile. 

The silk ribbon felt smooth beneath his fingers as he untied it, carefully. He lifted the lid of the box, and inside, nestled on a bed of soft velvet, lay a golden pocket watch. Its surface was embellished with intricate ivy and floral patterns that resembled the engravings of Christine’s wedding band. In the centre, a small Aquamarine gemstone was embedded, just like the one she wore on her finger. 

The brilliant stone caught in the flickering firelight, casting gentle reflections that danced across William’s features. He looked up, his eyes glossy with gratitude and the sheer force of love he felt for her in that moment—now perhaps stronger than ever. 

“This is… beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with the undercurrence of emotion blooming in his chest. Slowly, he lifted the trinket out of the box, turning it over in his hands. On the other side, their initials were engraved into the centre, nestled in the midst of more ivy and floral patterns. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she interrupted softly, her fingers brushing over his hand. “Open it.”

With careful fingers, William unclasped the locket, revealing the ticking clock inside with Roman numbers and dainty, meticulous embellishments adorning the dial. On the other side of the locket—opposite the clock face—was a miniature portrait of Christine. It appeared to have been painted with exquisite care; small, precise brushstrokes colouring a depiction of his beloved wife lying artfully on a chaise lounge. She was dressed in only her nightgown, her soft yet alluring gaze staring back at him, one hand resting on a cushion by her face. 

William’s breath caught in his throat as he traced the edge of the portrait with his fingertip, his heart swelling anew. He let out a chuckle, turning to face her once more. “I certainly hope you did not hire a male painter for this, dear wife,” he smiled, his voice teasing but warm. “No man but me is allowed to see you in such a state.”

Christine rolled her eyes, to which he laughed. “Of course not,” she smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Besides, I was glad to support a young woman pursue her talents.”

“It is a fantastic gift, Christine,” William whispered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on the flushed skin of her cheek. “I am so very grateful—but not quite so much for the gift as I am to have you. Or at least… I hope I still do.”

A sigh fell from Christine’s lips at his words, and her brows furrowed with a tinge of woe. “Of course you do,” she whispered, her hand coming to cover the one caressing her cheek. She then shifted her gaze from his eyes to the watch resting in the palm of his hand. 

“It’s just clockwork,” she murmured, tracing her fingertip around the circular frame. “No matter the sentiment attached to it, it stops eventually, and you have to rewind it.” She shifted her gaze to meet his eyes again, and tried to disregard how her heart leapt when she saw he had already been looking at her. “I had it modelled after the wedding ring you gave me, because I wanted it to be special. But it’s just clockwork. It doesn’t rule time, it just tells it. And our time will never run out.”

Tears of joy welled up in William’s eyes, and though he blinked them away, he could not prevent the way his voice trembled when he spoke, “Christine…” he mumbled, his voice tentative but warm with affection. “That’s… rather philosophical for a drunk woman,” he chuckled softly, his hand moving from her cheek to cup the back of her head. 

“Well, even a broken clock is right twice a day,” she whispered with a slight laugh, her eyes now as glossy as his, and they flickered to his lips. 

She leaned in then, hesitant at first, but every tinge of doubt evaporated from her mind as he met her halfway. They let their breaths merely mingle for a moment, as though gathering courage to sate the hunger that had gnawed at them both. Their lips brushed once—tentative and careful, trembling with all the words they had stifled—before the dam broke. 

The kiss deepened into something urgent, possessive—almost feral—and their hands roamed in frantic, greedy paths, mapping familiar terrain as if they feared it might vanish again. 

William’s hand tangled in the soft locks of her hair, eliciting a soft gasp to slip past her lips before he gently tugged her head to the side for access to the slender column of her neck. Her body arched against him as he sucked and nibbled at her sensitive skin, and her hands groped and grasped at his shoulders and back as though searching for a lifeline amidst the ocean of desire he aroused within her. 

They stumbled towards the bed together as their hands fought to remove the layers of clothing that had become nothing but obstacles. The sound of fabric meeting the wooden flooring was drowned out by the ragged rhythms of their breaths, each discarded garment clashing against the ground without mercy. 

“I need you,” William panted harshly into her ear as he loosened the strings of Christine’s stays. He paused only for a moment, pressing himself against her backside, letting her feel the evidence of his all-consuming desire. “Say you need me too,” he ordered as his hands resumed their task. 

Christine sighed heavily, tightening her grip on the bedpost she clung to. “I need you,” she whispered. “I never stopped needing you.”

He spun her around to face him, his eyes boring into hers with a storm so intense it evoked within her both desire and the slightest fear of being swept away by it. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me,” he said in a low voice as he pulled her stays over her head and tossed them onto the floor. 

“Oh, shut your mouth,” she murmured breathlessly before pulling him into a deep kiss. 

⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹

The fire had burned low, the last of its hot embers casting a faint orange glow over the tangled sheets. William lay on his back, propped up against the pillows, watching her. He smiled, just slightly, as though letting bliss consume him might wake him from a dream. But it was no dream. Christine—his Christine—was nestled up close to him, her warm body pressed against his, now grown relaxed and pliant in her deep slumber. 

He let his gaze trail over every exposed inch of her porcelain skin, marvelling at the way she glowed so effortlessly in the faint moonlight filtering through the frost-coated windows. Her hair had gone mussy with all the hours spent making love in his bed, now curling in soft, unruly strands against her flushed cheek. And one hand rested right above his heart—for it was, even now, hers. 

A single tear slipped down his cheek—he was at peace, at last. Yet even amidst the light she bestowed upon him, sorrow gnawed at his heart, for he knew that nothing had been truly mended. That the days of warmth and bliss had not returned, and tomorrow would carry more tribulations than yesterday. 

But he whispered to her still, “I love you,” and prayed she would one day let him love even the parts she did not yet dare reveal.