Everyone rejected Master’s obese daughter, and he gave her to his strongest slave.
What happened next would change everything.
In a world where beauty determined a woman’s worth, Lady Eliza faced the crulest humiliation a nobleman’s daughter could endure.
Her father’s solution, a punishment disguised as marriage, forcing her to live with Marcus, his most formidable slave.
What began as the ultimate degradation would spark an unexpected connection that neither society nor her father could have predicted.
But what happened in that isolated cottage would shatter every rule their world held sacred.
Lord Harrington’s estate was the jewel of the county.
sprawling lands, magnificent gardens, and at its center, a daughter who was brilliant in every way, except for the one that mattered in their society.
Lady Eliza Harrington possessed a mind sharper than any scholars’s quill, but her substantial figure had become the only thing potential suitors could see.
Too heavy for a proper marriage, they whispered behind gloved hands at every ball she attended.
Father, I don’t understand why Lord Pembroke left so abruptly, Eliza said, fighting back tears after the fourth suitor that month had made excuses to escape her company.
But she understood perfectly.
She had seen the look of disgust in his eyes when he first laid eyes on her.
The rejection cut deeper when she overheard Lord Wexley, her father’s oldest friend, declare, “Harington, your daughter may have your intellect, but no amount of dowy can compensate for her condition, not even for my third son.
” Lord Harrington’s patience finally shattered like fine crystal against stone.
If no gentleman will have you, then perhaps you need to learn humility,” he roared, his face contorted with frustration and shame.
“Marcus, bring him to me at once.” The doors swung open to reveal Marcus.
Six ft of muscle and silent strength, the slave who had never failed a task, whose back bore the scars of loyalty to the Harrington name.
His eyes, however, held something no whip had managed to beat out of him.
Dignity.
You’ve served this family faithfully for 10 years, Lord Harrington said coldly.
Consider this your reward and her punishment.
My daughter is now your responsibility.
Take her to the North Cottage.
Perhaps when she understands what life could truly be like, she’ll make more effort to secure a proper match.
Eliza’s heart stopped as she realized what her father was doing.
not just humiliating her, but essentially casting her out, giving her to a slave like unwanted property.
But what no one knew was that this arrangement would unleash a chain of events that would shake the very foundation of their society.
The North Cottage sat at the edge of the Harrington estate, far enough from the main house to be forgotten, but close enough to remain a reminder of Lord Harrington’s power.
Its stone walls were sturdy but weathered, much like the man who now escorted Eliza through its threshold.
“This will be your home now, my lady,” Marcus said, his voice unexpectedly cultured despite years of servitude.
It was the first full sentence he had spoken to her, and Eliza was takenback by the lack of resentment in his tone.
Eliza surveyed the modest dwelling with undisguised contempt.
a single main room with a small hearth, a rough huneed table with two chairs and a curtained al cove that presumably contained a bed.
This was to be her punishment, stripped of luxury and forced to live alongside a slave.
“I suppose father expects me to cook and clean as well,” she asked bitterly, dropping her single trunk of possessions onto the dirt floor.
“I’ve never so much as boiled water.” Marcus regarded her silently for a moment before responding.
I will handle those duties, my lady.
I’ve been assigned to care for this cottage for many years.
He moved with surprising grace for a man his size, efficiently lighting the fire and arranging her belongings.
The first week passed in uncomfortable silence.
Eliza spent her days by the window, alternating between angry tears and writing furiously in her journal, the one passion her father hadn’t managed to take from her.
Marcus worked from dawn until dusk, tending the small garden, preparing the cottage and preparing simple but nourishing meals that appeared before her without comment.
“Why don’t you hate me?” Eliza finally demanded on the eighth day, unable to bear the quiet dignity with which he served her.
I’m the reason you’re trapped here instead of working in the main house.
Marcus paused.
A bundle of freshly cut herbs in his scarred hands.
My lady, I’ve been trapped since the day I was taken from my homeland.
This cottage has always been my preference to the main house.
On the 10th day, a violent storm lashed against the cottage.
As water began to seep through the ceiling, Eliza watched in astonishment as Marcus efficiently redirected the leak, his hands moving with the precision of an engineer rather than a laborer.
“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked genuinely curious for the first time.
“One learns many things when survival depends on it,” he answered cryptically.
But something in his eyes, a flash of intelligence quickly concealed, caught her attention.
That night, as Marcus thought Eliza was asleep, she observed him through the partially open curtain.
By the dim fire light, he was carefully examining the pages of her discarded writings, his finger tracing the lines with the familiarity of someone who understood every word.
Eliza thought this was her punishment, but she had no idea that behind those quiet eyes lay a secret that would transform her life forever.
The following morning, Eliza confronted Marcus as he brought in fresh water from the well.
The early sunlight filtered through the cottage’s small windows, illuminating dust particles that danced in the air between them.
“You can read,” she stated flatly, not a question, but an accusation.
The water bucket wavered slightly in his grip, the first sign of uncertainty she’d seen in him before he set it down carefully by the hearth.
A few droplets splashed onto the stone floor, darkening the worn surface.
“Yes, my lady,” he admitted after a long moment.
“I can read.” “How? Slaves aren’t permitted education.” Her voice contained genuine curiosity beneath the challenge.
She moved closer, her skirts rustling against the rough wooden floorboards.
Marcus’ eyes met hers directly for the first time.
They were deep brown with flexcks of amber, intelligent eyes that seem to hold volumes of unspoken stories.
I wasn’t born a slave, Lady Eliza.
In my homeland, I was studying to become a physician before raiders took me.
The revelation struck Eliza like a physical blow.
She had never considered the lives slaves might have had before their captivity.
In her world, they simply existed as property, faceless, nameless tools for convenience.
She sank slowly into the chair by the table, her fingers absently tracing the grain of the wood.
A physician, she repeated incredulous.
Where was your homeland? Marcus hesitated as though the memory itself caused him pain.
A coastal kingdom in West Africa.
We had universities that rivaled those in Europe, though your scholars would never admit it.
My father was a healer before me and his father before him.
How did you come to be here?” Eliza asked, suddenly desperate to know more about this man who had been invisible to her for so many years despite living under the same roof.
Slave traders raided our village during the harvest festival.
His voice became distant, mechanical, as though reciting facts about someone else’s life.
I was captured along with 30 others, the journey across the ocean.
He stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening.
Many did not survive.
I was purchased at auction by Lord Wexley, who later lost me to your father in a card game.
Eliza felt sick.
The casual way her father and his friends traded human lives over brandy and cards had never seemed so abhorrent as it did in this moment.
“The human body has always fascinated me,” Marcus continued, visibly steering the conversation away from painful memories.
His voice took on a new depth as he spoke of his past, how it functions, how it heals, the interconnection between mind and physical form.
Eliza unconsciously touched her side where her corset dug painfully into her flesh, a daily reminder of her failure to conform to society’s standards of beauty.
The whale bone stays pressed against her ribs with every breath, a constant discomfort she had learned to ignore.
Marcus noticed the gesture.
“Those contraptions do more harm than good,” he observed quietly.
“They compress the lungs, displace internal organs, and weaken the muscles that should naturally support your frame.
I’ve seen women faint not from delicate constitutions, as your doctors claim, but from simply being unable to draw sufficient breath.
” “Easy for you to say,” Eliza snapped, embarrassment flooding her cheeks.
You are not a woman who must conform to impossible standards.
Without this, she gestured to her tightly laced bodice.
I would be even more of a disappointment than I already am.
No, he agreed solemnly.
But I’ve seen what those standards do to women’s bodies.
In my country, women of substance were celebrated, not scorned.
Thinness was often associated with illness or poverty, not beauty.
Eliza looked at him skeptically.
“You expect me to believe that?” “I have no reason to lie,” Marcus replied simply.
“Beauty is invented differently in every culture.
Here it is used as a tool of control.” “His words resonated uncomfortably with thoughts Eliza had harbored, but never dared to express.
She had spent years trying to shrink herself, to occupy less space in a world that constantly reminded her she was too much.
Throughout the afternoon, Marcus continued his work around the cottage while Eliza watched him with new eyes.
She noticed the careful precision in his movements, the methodical way he approached each task.
This was not the behavior of a man accustomed to manual labor from birth, but rather someone who had applied an educated mind to his circumstances.
As dusk approached, Marcus prepared their evening meal, a simple stew that filled the cottage with rich aromomas of herbs and root vegetables.
He had fashioned a small table bench that allowed them to eat together, though propriety would have been scandalized by the arrangement.
“Where did you learn to cook?” Eliza asked, surprised by the complex flavors in the humble dish.
“Necessity,” he replied with a slight shrug.
and observation.
Your father’s cook took pity on me when I first arrived and showed me a few techniques when the housekeeper wasn’t watching.
That evening, as rain drumed against the cottage roof, Eliza found herself engaged in the most stimulating conversation she’d had in years.
The small fire cast long shadows across the room as they talked late into the night.
Marcus spoke of medical theories from his homeland that contradicted everything European physicians practiced.
He described the body’s systems not as separate entities, but as interconnected networks, each affecting the other in complex ways.
We believed that illness often began in the mind or spirit before manifesting in the body.
He explained, “Your doctors treat symptoms while ignoring the whole person.” He described herbal remedies for ailments Eliza had suffered her entire life.
Remedies that didn’t involve leeches or bloodletting.
For her monthly pains, he suggested a tea of ginger and willow bark rather than the ludinum her mother had relied upon.
“The women in my village used to prepare these medicines,” he said, a fleeting smile crossing his face at the memory.
“They were the keepers of such knowledge, passing it from mother to daughter.
Women as healers, Eliza marveled.
Here they would be accused of witchcraft, another form of control, Marcus observed quietly.
As the night deepened, their conversation wandered through philosophy, literature, and science.
Eliza was astonished to discover that Marcus had somehow managed to read many of the same books she treasured, stealing moments with texts discarded in her father’s library or borrowed from sympathetic house staff.
“Why haven’t you tried to escape?” she asked suddenly, the question that had been nagging at her for days.
“You’re clearly intelligent enough to plan it.
You could find passage back to your homeland.” Marcus’ expression darkened.
The fire light accentuated the small scar above his right eyebrow and the larger one that disappeared beneath his collar.
“I did twice in my first year.
The punishments were educational.” He unconsciously touched the raised scar that ran from his shoulder to his collarbone.
“And my homeland may not exist as I remember it.
17 years is a long time.” Eliza gasped softly.
17 years, but you can’t be much older than 30.
I was taken when I was 16, he said simply.
And then your father discovered my medical knowledge when I treated a stable boy’s broken arm after the physician had given him up for dead.
He made me a bargain, serve loyally, and someday he would grant me freedom.
My father never gives anything without expecting more in return, Eliza said bitterly, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
I’ve noticed, Marcus replied with the ghost of a smile.
Which is why I’ve wondered about his true purpose in sending you here with me.
The implication hung in the air between them.
Was this truly just punishment, or did Lord Harrington have some other design? Perhaps he hopes I’ll come crawling back, begging for restoration to proper society, Eliza suggested, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Her father was not a man who changed his mind once it was said.
Or perhaps, Marcus said carefully, he believes I might succeed where society’s remedies have failed.
Eliza stiffened.
You mean make me thin and acceptable? Even my father must know that’s beyond anyone’s abilities.
Marcus shook his head slowly.
Not to change your body, Lady Eliza.
To change how you see yourself.
A woman confident in her own worth is much harder to control than one who believes herself deficient.
His words struck her like a physical blow.
Could that be true? Was her self-loathing the very thing that gave her father and society power over her? As the fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the cottage walls, Eliza felt something shift inside her.
A realization that the man before her was not what she had been raised to believe.
Not property, not a tool, but a person with dreams and knowledge that surpassed many of the gentlemen who had rejected her.
The rain continued its steady rhythm against the thatched roof, creating a cocoon of sound around their small sanctuary.
For the first time, the cottage didn’t feel like a prison to Eliza, but rather a place removed from the judgments and expectations that had defined her existence.
And for the first time since arriving at the cottage, she didn’t feel quite so alone in her exile.
In fact, as she finally retired to her small bed behind the curtain, she realized with startling clarity that she had not thought about returning to her father’s house once during the entire evening.
Instead, her mind was filled with questions about this man who had been invisible to her for so long, and the world of knowledge he carried within him, that contradicted everything she had been taught to believe, about medicine, about beauty, about worth, and most disturbingly, about the very foundations of the society in which she had been raised.
A fortnight passed, transforming the cottage from a place of punishment to something Eliza had never expected, a sanctuary.
The rigid schedule of aristocratic life faded away, replaced by rhythms dictated by sunlight and necessity rather than propriety.
One morning, Eliza woke to find Marcus already gone, the cottage door slightly a jar.
Curious, she wrapped her shawl around her night dress and ventured outside for the first time since her arrival.
The dawn air carried the scent of dew soaked grass and wild flowers.
She found him kneeling in the small garden behind the cottage, hands deep in the rich soil.
“What are you planting?” she asked, surprising herself with the genuine interest in her voice.
“Marcus looked up momentarily, startled by her presence outside.” “Medical herbs,” he replied, gesturing to the neat rose he’d established.
“Fever few for headaches, Valyrian for sleep, comfrey for healing wounds.” Eliza moved closer, fascinated.
“My mother’s headache powders come from the apothecary at five shillings per packet.
” “And contain mostly chalk and sugar, I’d wager,” Marcus said with a hint of amusement.
“These plants have been healing people for centuries before apothecary started bottling colored water for profit.” Without thinking, Eliza lowered herself to the ground beside him, her night dress immediately collecting soil stains that would have horrified her lady’s maid.
“Show me,” she said simply.
Marcos hesitated only briefly before beginning to explain each plant, its properties, and how to prepare it.
His hands moved with practiced precision as he demonstrated how to separate seedlings.
When he offered her a small plant to place in the ground, Eliza realized she had never before touched soil with her bare hands.
The earth felt cool and alive between her fingers.
“My father would collapse if he could see me now,” she remarked, patting the dirt around the delicate seedling.
“Perhaps that’s not entirely a bad thing,” Marcus replied with the first genuine smile she’d seen from him.
A transformation that momentarily stole her breath.
Days began to develop a comfortable pattern.
Mornings in the garden, afternoons spent with Marcus teaching Eliza the basics of cooking and household management.
Skills deliberately kept from aristocratic daughters to ensure their dependence on servants.
Evenings were devoted to conversation that ranged from philosophy to politics to Marcus’ memories of his homeland.
In my country, a woman’s size often represented her family’s prosperity, he explained one evening as they sat by the fire.
The wives of wealthy men were expected to be full figured as a display of abundance.
Here, a woman must be as insubstantial as possible, Eliza replied bitterly.
Taking up less space is our greatest virtue.
Have you never questioned why that might be? Marcus asked, his voice gentle but probing.
The question lingered in Eliza’s mind long after she retired for the night.
Why, indeed, why was a woman’s worth so intrinsically tied to the narrowness of her waist, the delicacy of her appetite? One afternoon, a messenger arrived from the main house, the first contact since her exile began.
The young boy handed over a sealed letter and departed quickly, clearly under instructions not to engage in conversation.
Eliza broke the seal with trembling fingers, expecting either a summons home or further admonishment.
Instead, she found a turse note from her father.
Lord Wexley’s third son inquires after your health.
I have informed him you are undergoing treatments for your condition.
He expresses potential interest should significant improvement occur.
Your mother sends regards.
The letter slipped from her fingers to the floor.
Marcus, who had been respectfully keeping his distance, approached with concern.
“Bad news, my lady.
” “Not bad,” Eliza said slowly.
“Just clarifying.” She explained the letter’s contents, surprised by her own lack of excitement at the prospect of renewed marriage interest.
“And how do you feel about this potential suitor?” Marcus asked carefully.
“I’ve met him twice.
He spoke primarily to my father and kept his eyes fixed somewhere above my head,” she replied with unexpected honesty.
“But he has good prospects and a title.
My father would consider it an excellent match.” “That doesn’t answer my question,” Marcus pointed out quietly.
Eliza looked up, startled by his persistence.
No one had ever pressed her to express her own feelings about the men her father paraded before her.
I don’t know, she admitted.
I’ve never considered my feelings relevant to the matter.
Marcus was silent for a long moment before saying, “In my culture, marriage was a partnership.
Compatibility of spirit was considered essential for a household to prosper.” “How exotic,” Eliza remarked with a sad smile.
“Here, compatibility of family fortunes is the only consideration that matters.
” That night, Eliza struggled to sleep.
the letter’s implications weighing heavily on her mind.
Her father clearly expected this punishment to result in her transformation into a more marriageable prospect.
But what transformation could possibly occur in this rustic cottage that would make her acceptable to society? Unless she sat bolt upright in bed as a realization struck her.
Her father knew of Marcus’s medical knowledge.
Was he hoping this slave doctor might succeed where expensive European physicians had failed to somehow reduce her to an acceptable size? The thought filled her with a complex mixture of emotions.
Anger at her father’s manipulation, shame at being considered a problem to be solved, and an unexpected sense of betrayal that Marcus might have been complicit in this plan all along.
When morning came, she confronted him directly, the letter clutched in her hand.
“Did my father instruct you to fix me?” she demanded, her voice sharp with hurt.
“Is that why you’ve been telling me about different views of women’s bodies, preparing me for whatever treatment you’ve been planning?” “Marcus looked genuinely shocked.
” “No, Lady Eliza, I was given no such instructions.” Then why did he send me here with you specifically? A man with medical training? Marcus was quiet for a long moment, considering his words carefully.
Your father values what he can use.
He knows I have knowledge, but I doubt he respects it enough to entrust his daughter’s condition to what he considers primitive medicine.
He stepped closer, his expression earnest.
I have shared my views on beauty and health because they are true, not as preparation for any treatment.
In my medical opinion, Lady Eliza, there is nothing wrong with your body that requires fixing.
The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten unexpectedly.
No one, not her parents, not her governnesses, certainly not her potential suitors, had ever suggested she might be acceptable exactly as she was.
Then why? She whispered, the anger draining from her replaced by genuine confusion.
Perhaps, Marcus suggested carefully, your father simply wanted you out of sight while he negotiates with Lord Wexley’s son.
Or perhaps, he hesitated.
Perhaps what, Eliza pressed.
Perhaps he thought that removing you from the constant scrutiny of society might allow you to find strength he doesn’t want you to possess.
Marcus’ eyes held hers steadily.
A woman who believes in her own worth is much harder to control than one who believes herself fundamentally flawed.
The words resonated with something deep inside Eliza.
A small, nearly extinguished spark that had once been her sense of selfworth before years of criticism had smothered it.
That afternoon, for the first time since her arrival, Eliza asked Marcus to help her remove her corset.
As the restrictive garment fell away, she took the first deep, unrestricted breath she could remember.
The sensation was so overwhelming that tears sprang to her eyes.
“How strange,” she said softly, “to realize I’ve been half suffocating my entire adult life without even knowing it.” Marcus smiled gently.
Sometimes the most powerful chains are the ones we don’t recognize as chains at all.
As the sun set over the cottage garden, casting long shadows across the herbs they had planted together, Eliza realized that something profound was happening to her.
In this exile, something her father had never intended.
For the first time in her life, she was beginning to see herself through her own eyes rather than through the distorted lens of society’s expectations.
and the woman she glimpsed in those moments of clarity bore little resemblance to the shameful, deficient creature she had been taught to believe herself to be.
The summer heat had settled over the countryside, turning the cottage into a warm haven, scented with dried herbs hanging from the rafters.
6 weeks had passed since Eliza’s banishment, and the transformation was evident not just in her loosened corsets and sun-kissed complexion, but in the newfound confidence with which she moved through her days.
Her hands, once soft and unblenmished, now bore the small calluses of honest work, badges of independence she had come to value.
This particular morning, Eliza was kneeling in the garden, harvesting chamomile blossoms when the distant sound of carriage wheels broke the peaceful silence.
She straightened, brushing soil from her hands onto the simple cotton dress she now wore for gardening, a garment that would have been considered suitable only for a scullery made in her previous life.
The dress, plain as it was, allowed her to move freely, to bend and reach without restriction.
a practical liberty she had never before experienced.
“Marcus,” she called, a note of alarm in her voice.
“Someone’s coming.” He emerged from the cottage, wiping his hands on a cloth.
They had been preparing tinctures together, a skill Eliza had taken to with surprising aptitude.
The weeks of working side by side had erased much of the awkwardness between them, replacing it with a comfortable companionship that neither acknowledged openly.
There was an ease between them now, the natural rhythm of two people who had learned to anticipate each other’s movements, to communicate with glances and half-finish sentences.
Likely just a delivery from the main house, he reassured her, though his posture had tensed.
Visitors were rare and seldom welcome.
The isolation that had initially felt like punishment had gradually transformed into protection, a bubble where the rigid rules of society couldn’t reach them.
But as the carriage came into view, Eliza’s heart sank.
The polished ebony finish and the Harrington crest emlazed on the door could only mean one thing.
Her mother had come to call.
The intrusion of her old life into this new sanctuary felt jarring, like a discordant note in a peaceful melody.
“Oh no,” she whispered, looking down at her soil stained dress and bare forearms, tanned from working in the garden.
I can’t let her see me like this.
The thought was automatic, a reflex from years of conditioning to present herself properly at all times.
Marcus understood immediately.
Go inside and change.
I’ll stall them.
His voice was calm, but carried an undercurrent of concern.
He had witnessed firsthand the effect Eliza’s family had on her confidence.
Eliza rushed into the cottage, frantically searching for her more formal attire.
She had abandoned her corset weeks ago, finding freedom in its absence, but now she fumbled with the laces, trying to remember how to secure it properly without a lady’s maid.
Her fingers, stronger now from garden work, but unpracticed at this particular task, struggled with the complex fastenings.
The garment that had once been as much a part of her daily routine as breathing now felt alien and constraining.
Through the small window she could see the carriage halt in the narrow lane beside the cottage.
The driver, wearing the Harrington livery, jumped down to open the door.
First emerged Lady Harrington, her posture rigid with disapproval as she surveyed the humble dwelling.
She was followed by a younger figure, Eliza’s sister, Catherine, whose curious expression contrasted sharply with their mother’s disdain.
Outside she could hear her mother’s imperious voice cutting through the peaceful afternoon air.
Where is my daughter? I demand to see her at once.
Lady Harrington.
Lady Eliza is indisposed at the moment.
If you would be so kind as to wait.
Marcus’s tone was differential but firm.
the voice he reserved for interactions with the gentry.
Nonsense.
I’ve traveled all this way.
I will not be kept waiting by a slave.
The dismissive way her mother spat the word made Eliza wse.
It was a term she herself had used unthinkingly just weeks ago, but now it struck her as unutterably cruel.
Eliza abandoned the corset with a frustrated sigh, settling instead for a clean day dress that she hastily buttoned.
it would have to do.
She pinned her hair as best she could, though several unruly strands escaped to frame her face.
Looking in the small mirror propped against the wall, she hardly recognized herself.
The woman, who gazed back at her, had a healthy glow to her cheeks and a steadiness in her eyes that had been absent for as long as she could remember.
When she emerged from the cottage, she found her mother standing rigidly in the garden path.
Parasol clutched tightly in gloved hands, looking around with undisguised distaste.
Behind her stood Eliza’s younger sister, Catherine, wideeyed and curious, her gaze darting between the herb garden and Marcus, who had adopted the properly subservient posture expected of him.
“Mother,” Eliza greeted, trying to summon the meek demeanor expected of her.
The role felt uncomfortable now, like a dress she had outgrown.
This is a surprise.
Lady Harrington’s eyes narrowed as she assessed her eldest daughter.
Eliza, you look different.
The pause was heavy with judgment.
There was a loaded silence as her mother’s gaze traveled from Eliza’s loosely pinned hair to her uncorseted waist to her bare, tanned forearms.
Horror dawned on the older woman’s face as though she were witnessing some ghastly transformation.
“What has happened to you?” she gasped, bringing a gloved hand to her throat in a gesture of shock.
“You look like a farmers wife.” Catherine, always less constrained by propriety, blurted out, “I think she looks well, mother.
There’s color in her cheeks.” At 16, Catherine still possessed some of the straightforward honesty that society worked so diligently to train out of young ladies.
Lady Harrington silenced her younger daughter with a sharp glance before turning back to Eliza.
Your father sent you here to reflect on your behavior, not to abandon all sense of decorum.
And where is your corset? No gentleman would consider a woman who shows such disregard for proper appearance.
She spoke as though Marcus were not present, or perhaps as though his presence were as inconsequential as that of a piece of furniture.
The words that would have crushed Eliza weeks ago now washed over her with surprising little effect.
She felt a momentary flush of shame, an echo of her former self, but it faded quickly, replaced by a strange new resilience.
“Would you like to come inside, mother?” I can prepare some tea, she offered, gesturing toward the cottage door.
The small dwelling, which she had initially viewed as little better than a huvel, had become a place of comfort and learning.
The thought of her mother’s critical gaze assessing its humble interior made her strangely protective of the space.
I most certainly would not, Lady Harrington replied, affronted.
She adjusted her gloves, a nervous habit Eliza had observed countless times during uncomfortable social situations.
I came only to inform you that Lord Wexley’s son has expressed a formal interest in courting you.
Your father has invited him to dinner next week, and you are to return to the main house tomorrow to prepare.” Eliza felt as though the ground had shifted beneath her feet.
“Return to the main house?” The prospect, which should have filled her with relief, instead created a knot of anxiety in her stomach.
The great house, with its endless rooms and rigid protocols, suddenly seemed more confining than the tiny cottage.
“But my punishment,” she said weakly, searching for any reason to delay.
“Father said I was to remain here until I had learned proper behavior.
Apparently, he considers the prospect of a match with the Wexley’s worth curtailing your exile,” her mother replied crisply.
“Though how any gentleman could be interested after seeing you in this state is beyond my comprehension.” She cast another disapproving glance at Eliza’s uncourseted figure.
Catherine, who had been examining the herb garden with interest, looked up.
“What are all these plants? They smell wonderful.
” She bent to touch a sprig of lavender, her natural curiosity overriding the decorum their mother had tried to instill in her.
Before Eliza could answer, Marcus stepped forward.
Their medicinal herbs, young miss, for healing various ailments.
His voice was gentle but knowledgeable, the voice of a teacher rather than a servant.
Lady Harrington bristled at his unsolicited response, her spine stiffening visibly.
You will not address my daughter directly,” she snapped, her tone sharp enough to make Catherine flinch.
Then, turning to Eliza with mounting suspicion.
“Has this man been playing doctor with you? Your father mentioned he had some primitive knowledge, but surely you haven’t been indulging such nonsense.
” Eliza felt a flash of indignation on Marcus’s behalf.
The dismissive way her mother referred to his extensive medical knowledge, knowledge that had provided more relief than all the expensive London physicians combined, ignited a protective anger she had never felt before.
His knowledge is far from primitive, mother.
In fact, the headaches I’ve suffered for years have completely disappeared since following his recommendations.
She spoke firmly without the apologetic tone that usually colored her interactions with her mother.
headaches? Lady Harrington echoed incredulously.
You’ve been allowing a slave to treat your headaches when we’ve consulted the finest physicians in London.
She said it as though Eliza had admitted to consulting with a street magician rather than someone with genuine medical training.
The finest physicians in London prescribed ludinum and bloodletting, neither of which helped, Eliza replied, a new steadiness in her voice.
Marcus suggested removing my corset and drinking chamomile tea.
The improvement was immediate.
She omitted the other changes, the improved diet, the daily walks, the breathing exercises Marcus had taught her, knowing they would only provoke further outrage.
Her mother looked as though she might faint.
Her face pald, and for a moment Eliza worried she might actually collapse onto the garden path.
Removing your Eliza, have you lost your mind completely?” The question was barely more than a horrified whisper.
Catherine, however, was looking at Eliza with newfound interest.
“Is that why you look so well? Because you stopped wearing your corset?” There was a hint of envy in her voice.
Catherine had only recently been fitted for her first adult corset, and had complained bitterly about the discomfort.
Catherine, be silent,” Lady Harrington commanded, her voice sharp with alarm.
She cast a suspicious glance at Marcus, as though he were responsible for corrupting both her daughters.
“Now Eliza, I don’t know what kind of influence this man has had over you, but it ends now.
You will return to the house tomorrow, properly dressed and behaving as befits your station.
Your father will be appalled to learn of this, this regression.
Eliza glanced at Marcus, who stood with his head slightly bowed, the posture of submission expected of him, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the carefully controlled anger in his eyes.
She had learned to read his expressions over their weeks together, the slight tightening around his mouth that indicated displeasure, the barely perceptible straightening of his shoulders when he felt defensive.
I’m not certain I wish to meet with Lord Wexley’s son, Eliza said quietly, the words emerging before she had fully formed the thought.
The statement hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Lady Harrington stared at her daughter as though she had suddenly begun speaking in tongues.
Even Catherine’s eyes widened in shock.
“Not certain you wish, Eliza? This is not a matter of wishes?” Her mother’s voice rose in pitch, a sure sign of her agitation.
This may be your last opportunity for a suitable match.
You are already 22, practically on the shelf, and with your figure,” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Eliza’s body with her parasol, as though her shape were too distasteful to name directly.
“With my figure,” Eliza repeated, a strange calm settling over her.
“Yes, mother.
Let’s<unk> speak plainly about my figure.
It has not changed in these weeks away, and yet Marcus finds nothing objectionable in it.
In fact, he has taught me that in many cultures my body would be considered a sign of health and prosperity.
The words felt dangerous even as she spoke them, acknowledging aloud the shifting dynamic between herself and Marcus.
Lady Harrington’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment, two bright spots of color appearing high on her cheekbones.
How dare you speak of such things? And in front of this this man, she turned to Marcus, her voice dripping with venom.
What lies have you been filling her head with? My husband will hear of this.
Marcus remained silent, his eyes now fixed on the ground.
But Eliza saw his hands clench slightly at his sides, the only outward sign of his emotional response.
She had seen those hands work with incredible delicacy, preparing medicines, tending plants, demonstrating the proper way to chop vegetables.
Hands that healed rather than harmed.
They aren’t lies, mother, Eliza said firmly.
They’re simply different perspectives than the ones I’ve been taught, and I found them far more conducive to my happiness than being constantly reminded of my failures.
Happiness? Lady Harington sputtered as though the word were foreign to her.
Marriage is not about happiness, Eliza.
It is about securing your future and enhancing your family’s connections.
Your personal feelings are entirely irrelevant to the matter.
She adjusted her hat, which had become slightly a skew during her outburst.
Do you think I married your father because he made me happy? I married him because it was advantageous to both our families and I have performed my duties as his wife without complaint.
The statement delivered with such conviction struck Eliza as profoundly sad.
Had her mother truly never experienced happiness in her marriage? Had she really spent 25 years with a man she viewed as merely a duty to be performed? Catherine, who had been following the exchange with wide eyes, suddenly asked, “But shouldn’t marriage include at least some happiness, mother? Cousin Ellaner seems very happy with Mr.
Pembroke.
Their cousin had caused a minor scandal the previous year by marrying a merchant rather than the baronet her parents had selected for her.” “Your cousin married beneath her station,” Lady Harrington sniffed dismissively.
One expects such people to make a fuss about affection to compensate for their reduced circumstances.
She smoothed her already immaculate skirts, a nervous gesture Eliza recognized from countless uncomfortable social situations.
Besides, she has only been married a year.
Ask her again after she has born four children and managed a household for a decade.
Eliza felt a wave of pity for her mother, a woman so thoroughly shaped by society’s expectations that she couldn’t even imagine questioning them.
Had she ever allowed herself to want more, to dream of a life built on genuine connection rather than social obligation, or had those desires been so thoroughly suppressed that they no longer even registered as possibilities? I will return tomorrow as father wishes,” Eliza said finally, recognizing the futility of arguing further.
The battle would need to be fought on different ground with different weapons.
“But I would like this evening to prepare myself to say goodbye to this brief interlude of freedom,” she added silently.
Relief visibly washed over Lady Harrington’s features.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she nodded with brisk approval.
Very sensible.
I shall send the carriage at 10, and for heaven’s sake, wear your corset.
Lord Wexley’s son may be willing to overlook certain shortcomings, but there’s no need to emphasize them.
The casual cruelty of the remark would have devastated Eliza just weeks ago.
Now she recognized it for what it was, her mother’s own fear and insecurity projected onto her daughter.
Lady Harrington knew no other way to navigate the world than through rigid adherence to its rules, even when those rules caused harm.
As her mother turned to leave, Catherine lingered, glancing between Eliza and Marcus with undisguised curiosity.
There was something in her younger sister’s expression, a dawning awareness perhaps, that made Eliza wonder if Catherine might someday question the limitations placed upon her.
“I think you look happier here,” she whispered quickly, squeezing Eliza’s hand before following their mother to the waiting carriage.
Eliza watched as the driver helped her mother and sister into the vehicle as the horses were turned around in the narrow lane as the carriage disappeared down the path toward the main house.
Only when the sound of wheels had completely faded did she allow her shoulders to slump, releasing the tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
When she turned, she found Marcus still standing rigidly in place, his expression carefully neutral, the mask he wore when interacting with members of her class.
“I’m sorry for how she spoke to you,” she said quietly, the words inadequate for the humiliation he had endured.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he replied, his voice carefully controlled.
“Your mother’s views are shared by most in her position.” He began to move back toward the garden as though eager to return to the work that had been interrupted.
That doesn’t make them right.
Eliza moved closer to him, close enough to see the muscle working in his jaw, the tension he was trying to conceal.
Marcus, I don’t want to go back.
The admission surprised them both, hanging in the air between them like a challenge.
His eyes met hers, and for a moment the carefully maintained distance between them seemed to evaporate.
In that unguarded instant she saw something in his gaze that mirrored her own confusion and longing, a recognition of something that had grown between them that neither had dared to name.
“But you must,” he said softly, breaking the moment.
“This was always temporary, Lady Eliza.
You belong in that world, not in a cottage with He stopped abruptly, turning away to adjust a bundle of drying herbs that needed no adjustment.
With you, she finished for him, taking another step closer.
I’m no longer certain where I belong, Marcus, but these weeks have been the first time in my life I haven’t felt constantly judged and found wanting.
He looked away toward the garden they had tended together, the neat rows of plants, the careful stone borders they had constructed, the small bench he had built so she could sit and read while he worked.
All evidence of their shared labor, their growing partnership.
“Your father will never allow you to refuse Lord Wexley’s son,” he said finally, his voice low, and resigned.
Men like your father do not relinquish control easily, especially when their interests are at stake.
No, Eliza agreed sadly.
He won’t.
The reality of her situation settled over her like a heavy cloak.
Her brief taste of freedom had been just that, brief and ultimately elusory.
The life that awaited her at the main house was as fixed and immutable as the stars.
They spent the remainder of the afternoon in a strange melancholy dance, completing their usual tasks with unusual formality, as though already practicing for the separation to come.
Marcus showed her how to properly store the tinctures they had prepared, explaining their uses one final time.
Eliza harvested the last of the chamomile, carefully drying the blossoms as he had taught her.
Neither mentioned the impending departure directly, but it colored every interaction, every glance.
The easy companionship of the past weeks had been replaced by a painful awareness of boundaries soon to be reinstated.
As twilight descended, Marcus built a small fire in the cottage hearth.
The summer evening was warm enough without it, but the ritual of preparing the fire had become a comforting end to their days together.
Eliza sat at the small table, absently tracing the grain of the wood with her fingertip.
“Will you be allowed to remain here?” she asked suddenly.
“After I’ve gone.” Marcus added another small log to the flames before answering.
“I imagine your father will have me return to the main house.
There would be no reason to maintain this place otherwise.” The thought of the cottage standing empty, the garden they had tended together withering from neglect, created an unexpected ache in Eliza’s chest.
This place had become more than just a dwelling.
It had been a sanctuary, a classroom, a place of transformation.
I could ask him to let you stay, she suggested, to continue growing the medicinal herbs.
He values their potential profit if nothing else.
Marcus turned to look at her, his expression softening slightly.
That would be kind, but perhaps unwise.
Your father might question why you would make such a request.
The implication hung unspoken between them.
Any special interest Eliza showed in Marcus’ welfare would be scrutinized, potentially endangering them both.
Her father’s punishment for perceived impropriy would be far worse than a temporary exile to a cottage.
What will happen when Lord Wexley’s son courts me? She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
When I marry and leave my father’s house.
Marcus was silent for a long moment, the fire light casting shadows across his face.
Your father made me a promise of eventual freedom in exchange for loyal service, he said finally.
Perhaps by then he will have honored it.
and then and then I would return to my homeland if possible or perhaps establish a small practice somewhere remote where my knowledge might be valued despite my background.
He spoke matterofactly, but Eliza could hear the longing beneath his words, the dream of a life lived on his own terms.
“You would be an excellent physician,” she said softly.
“You’ve certainly been a better one than any I’ve encountered in London.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“High praise indeed, considering the exorbitant fees those gentlemen charge.
” The brief moment of lightness faded quickly.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the cottage garden, Eliza realized that her exile was ending.
But instead of feeling relieved, she felt only a growing sense of dread at returning to the gilded cage of her former life.
And beneath that dread, something else stirred, something dangerous and unexpected.
The realization that somewhere during these weeks of exile, she had begun to care deeply for the man who had shown her a different way of seeing herself and the world.
A man who, in the eyes of society, she had no right to care for at all.
Marcus, she began hesitantly, these weeks have changed me in ways I never expected.
You have changed me.
She paused, struggling to find words for feelings she barely understood herself.
I don’t know how to return to my former life, pretending that none of this happened.
He looked at her then, his guard lowering just enough for her to glimpse the conflict behind his carefully maintained composure.
“Some lessons once learned cannot be unlearned,” he said quietly.
“But you must be careful, Lady Eliza.
The world you’re returning to punishes those who question its rules.
And what about you? She asked, rising from her chair to stand before him.
Will you simply return to being invisible, to being treated as less than human by my family and their guests? His expression tightened.
I have survived 17 years by understanding my place in this world.
One does not challenge a system as entrenched as this without consequences.
But it’s wrong, Eliza insisted, a newfound passion in her voice.
Everything about it is wrong.
The way my mother spoke to you today, the way I spoke to you when I first arrived, it’s all wrong.
Yes, Marcus agreed simply.
It is wrong, but it is also reality.
He looked down at his hands, capable hands that had healed and built and taught.
Some battles cannot be won through direct confrontation, Lady Eliza.
Sometimes survival itself is the victory.
The use of her title, Lady Eliza, rather than simply Eliza, as he had occasionally slipped into calling her during their weeks together, felt like a deliberate distancing.
He was already rebuilding the walls between them, preparing for their return to their respective places in the hierarchy.
As darkness fell completely, the cottage grew intimate in the fire light.
Outside, crickets began their evening chorus, a sound that had become a comforting backdrop to their evening conversations.
Tomorrow Eliza would return to a house where every natural sound was muffled by thick walls and heavy draperies, where every aspect of life was regulated by bells and servants and rigid schedules.
I should prepare for tomorrow, she said finally reluctantly.
There will be much to do.
Marcus nodded, stepping back to allow her to pass.
But as she moved toward the curtained al cove that served as her bedroom, she paused beside him.
“Thank you,” she said softly, for showing me that I am not the problem that needs fixing.
For a moment she thought he might reach for her hand, might acknowledge the connection that had grown between them, despite all the barriers of class and race and circumstance.
Instead, he bowed slightly, the gesture both respectful and heartbreaking in its formality.
“Good night, Lady Eliza,” he said quietly.
“May you find happiness, whatever path you must walk.” Behind the thin curtain that separated her sleeping area from the main room, Eliza sat on the edge of her narrow bed, listening to the soft sounds of Marcus banking the fire for the night.
Tomorrow she would return to feather beds and silk sheets, to servants who anticipated her every need, while seeing nothing of her as a person.
She ran her hands over the simple cotton of her dress, feeling the strength in her arms from weeks of physical work.
Whatever happened next, whatever marriage her father arranged, whatever life awaited her, she would carry this experience within her.
The knowledge that she was capable of more than ornamental existence, that her body was not a defect to be disguised, but a strong and healthy vessel for a mind that was finally beginning, ye to think for itself.
and perhaps most dangerous of all, the memory of a man who had seen her, [snorts] truly seen her, and found her worthy exactly as she was.
The carriage arrived precisely at the following morning, just as Lady Harrington had promised.
Eliza stood in the cottage doorway, dressed in her most formal gown, a garment that now felt stiff and constraining after weeks in simpler attire.
The corset beneath pinched her ribs with each breath, a constant reminder of the life she was returning to.
Marcus stood a respectful distance away, his expression carefully neutral as he watched the driver load her small trunk onto the carriage.
They had barely spoken that morning, each moving through the familiar space with an awkward formality that felt like a betrayal of their weeks together.
The herbs should be watered daily,” Eliza said, gesturing toward the garden, especially the new seedlings we planted last week.
She spoke as though giving instructions to a servant, hating herself for the pretense, but aware of the driver’s curious gaze.
“Yes, Lady Eliza,” Marcus replied, his voice devoid of the warmth that had characterized their recent interactions.
He had retreated behind the mask of subservience, a necessary shield for the world they were re-entering.
I’ll ensure they’re properly tended.
The driver approached, bowing slightly.
We should depart, my lady.
Your father expects you for lunchon.
Eliza nodded, suddenly unable to meet Marcus’s eyes.
Goodbye, then, she said softly, the words woefully inadequate for what she wanted to express.
Safe journey, my lady,” he responded formally, bowing with perfect correctness.
The short carriage ride to Harrington House felt like crossing an unbridgegable divide.
With each turn of the wheels, Eliza watched the cottage grow smaller in the distance, until it disappeared entirely behind a stand of oak trees.
She pressed her hand against the carriage window as though trying to hold on to the image of that simple dwelling where for a brief time she had known something like freedom.
Harrington House rose before her, grand and imposing with its classical facade and manicured gardens.
The house where she had spent her entire life now seemed like a beautiful prison, its elegance masking the rigid expectations contained within its walls.
Servants appeared as the carriage halted, moving with the silent efficiency that characterized a well-run aristocratic household.
Eliza was struck by how they kept their eyes downcast, how they seemed to make themselves invisible, a skill she had never truly noticed until now.
“Welcome home, Lady Eliza,” the butler ined as she entered the marble foyer.
“Your father awaits you in the blue drawing room.
” The house smelled of beeswax and fresh flowers, of wealth and privilege.
Eliza followed the butler through familiar corridors, past priceless artwork and antique furnishings that she had never truly seen before.
How strange that she could have lived among such, opulence, while remaining blind to both its beauty and its cost.
Lord Harrington stood by the fireplace as she entered, a commanding figure in his perfectly tailored coat.
He turned as the butler announced her, his assessing gaze taking in her appearance with clinical detachment.
“Eliza,” he said by way of greeting, “I trust your time in reflection has been productive.
” She curtsied, the gesture automatic after years of training.
“Yes, father.
Your mother informs me that you’ve been engaging in some rather unorthodox activities during your exile.
His tone was mild, but Eliza recognized the dangerous undercurrent, gardening without gloves, abandoning proper attire, consulting a slave on matters of health.
Eliza straightened her spine, fighting the urge to hunch her shoulders defensively.
I found the physical activity beneficial, father, and Marcus has extensive medical knowledge from his homeland.
Lord Harrington’s eyebrow rose slightly at her use of Marcus’s name.
Indeed, well, such rustic diversions are at an end now.
Lord Wexley’s son, Mr.
Thomas Wexley, will join us for dinner tomorrow evening.
You will present yourself as befits your station.
Yes, father, she replied, the words bitter on her tongue.
Your mother has arranged for Madame Bowmont to fit you for a new gown.
The appointment is at .
He turned away clearly considering the matter settled.
You may go.
Dismissed like a child or a servant, Eliza left the room, her heart heavy with the realization that nothing had changed here.
Only she had changed.
Her bed chamber had been prepared for her return.
Everything arranged exactly as she had left it 6 weeks earlier.
the four poster bed with its silk hangings, the delicate writing desk, the ornate dressing table laden with silverbacked brushes and crystal perfume bottles.
All the trappings of privilege that had once seemed normal now struck her as excessive, even obscene.
Her lady’s maid, Agnes, appeared almost immediately, curtsying deeply.
“Welcome home, my lady.
Shall I help you change before lunchon?” Eliza studied the young woman, perhaps only a year or two younger than herself, and wondered about her life, her thoughts, her dreams.
Had she ever seen Agnes as a person before, rather than simply a function? Agnes, she said impulsively, “Are you happy here at Harrington House?” The maid looked startled by the question, her hands freezing in the act of laying out a fresh gown.
“Happy, my lady?” Yes, in your position.
Do you find satisfaction in your work? Agnes’s expression grew cautious.
It’s a very good position, my lady.
The Harrington household is well respected among domestic staff.
Not an answer to the question Eliza had asked, she noted.
But if you could choose any life for yourself, would this be it? The maid’s eyes widened slightly before she carefully composed her features.
I don’t think it’s my place to consider such things, my lady.
I’m grateful for my position.
Another non-answer, but revealing in its caution.
Eliza nodded, suddenly tired.
Thank you, Agnes.
I believe I can manage to change myself today.
Perhaps you could return in half an hour to help with my hair.
Left alone, Eliza moved to the window, gazing out at the immaculate gardens where she had once walked only on designated paths, never straying onto the grass or touching the flowers.
How different from the cottage garden, where her hands had connected directly with the soil, where plants existed for use rather than mere ornament.
London was a stilted affair, with Lady Harrington dominating the conversation with details about Mr.
Thomas Wexley.
his education, his prospects, his family connections.
Catherine occasionally caught Eliza’s eye across the table, her expression sympathetic but helpless.
He stands to inherit not only the Wexley estate, but also his maternal grandfather’s property in Darbisher, Lady Harrington explained, as though cataloging the features of a horse at auction.
The connection would be most advantageous for our family.
And what is his character?” Eliza asked, interrupting her mother’s inventory of the man’s assets.
Lady Harrington blinked in surprise.
His character? He is a gentleman, of course, well educated at Cambridge, an excellent shot and rider.
But is he kind, intelligent? Does he have interests beyond hunting and estate management? Eliza pressed, earning a warning look from her father.
Such concerns are secondary, Eliza, Lord Harrington said firmly.
A suitable match is one that benefits both families.
Personal compatibility develops with time.
Like yours and mothers, the question slipped out before Eliza could stop it, causing her mother to pale slightly and her father’s expression to harden.
You would do well to remember your position, Eliza, he replied coldly.
Your recent exile appears to have done little to improve your tendency toward impertinence.
The remainder of the meal passed in uncomfortable silence, broken only by the occasional comment about the weather or local news.
Eliza felt as though she were suffocating, not just from her corset, but from the oppressive weight of expectations and unspoken rules that permeated every aspect of life at Harrington House.
The afternoon brought the promised fitting with Madame Bowmont, a formidable French woman who clucked disapprovingly over Eliza’s rustic complexion and the slight calluses on her hands.
“We must create illusion.” “No,” she declared, draping fabric around Eliza’s form.
“The bodice will be structured to minimize your abundance.
The color, a deep emerald, will draw attention to your face rather than your figure.” Eliza stood passively as the modiste, pinned and adjusted, treating her body as a problem to be disguised rather than a living, breathing entity.
How different from Marcus’ matter-of-act appreciation of her form, his explanations of how different cultures celebrated rather than condemned women with curves.
“Stand straighter, lady.” Eliza, Madame Bowmont commanded, tugging at the fabric.
We must create the impression of height to balance your width.
The words, so casually cruel, would once have cut Eliza to the quick.
Now she found herself wondering about Madame Bowmont’s life.
What experiences had taught her to view women’s bodies as defects to be corrected rather than vessels to be celebrated.
By evening, Eliza felt exhausted from the constant vigilance required to navigate her former life.
Every word, every gesture, every bite of food taken at dinner was subject to scrutiny and judgment.
The freedom of movement and expression she had experienced at the cottage seemed like a distant dream.
As she prepared for bed, Agnes carefully brushing out her hair.
Eliza found herself wondering what Marcus was doing at that moment.
Was he sitting by the cottage fire, perhaps reading one of the books they had discussed? Or had he already been summoned back to the main house, returned to the invisible existence of a household slave? Agnes, she said suddenly, do you know if Marcus, the man who was sent to the cottage with me, has been brought back to the main house? The maid’s hands stillilled momentarily in her hair.
I believe he’s still at the cottage, my lady.
The gardener mentioned taking supplies there this afternoon.
Relief flooded through Eliza at this small mercy.
At least he still had that space, that small measure of independence, even if only temporarily.
Thank you, Agnes.
That will be all for tonight.
Left alone in her luxurious bed chamber, surrounded by the trappings of privilege, Eliza felt more isolated than she ever had in the humble cottage.
The silk sheets felt cold and impersonal compared to the simple cotton bedding she had grown accustomed to.
The silence of the grand house, insulated from the natural world by thick walls and heavy draperies, seemed oppressive after weeks of falling asleep to the sound of crickets and rustling leaves.
She moved to the window, drawing back the curtain to gaze at the night sky.
The same stars shone above the cottage, she reminded herself.
The same moon illuminated the garden she and Marcus had tended together, though separated by distance and circumstance.
They shared at least that connection.
Tomorrow would bring the dinner with Mr.
Thomas Wexley, the first step in what her parents clearly expected to be a march toward matrimony.
Eliza closed her eyes, trying to summon the strength she would need to face this new challenge.
She was no longer the same woman who had been sent away in disgrace 6 weeks ago.
The question now was whether this changed Eliza could survive in an unchanged world, and what price she might have to pay for the awakening she had experienced.
As she finally drifted towards sleep, her last conscious thought was of Marcus’ words.
Some battles cannot be won through direct confrontation.
Perhaps there were other ways to fight for one’s freedom, other paths to independence than outright rebellion.
Tomorrow she would begin to discover what those paths might be.
