Katherine
My Dearest Everett,
It is with no small measure of trepidation that I put pen to paper this evening. The candle burns low, and the hour grows late, yet sleep evades me—as it has so many nights since your departure. There is much I wish to say, and I fear I shall stumble over sentiment or propriety in the attempt, but I must try.
You will recall, I am certain, the many letters I have sent you in seasons past—letters coloured with the full measure of my disdain for Lord Stratford. I did not temper my words then, nor do I entirely recant them now. Yet, it would be dishonest to claim that my heart remains entirely unchanged.
Only a few days prior, the present Lord Stratford and I found ourselves in conversation—an exchange neither planned nor particularly sought after, yet one which left a quiet impression upon me. We spoke not as adversaries nor strangers bound together by unwelcome circumstance, but as two people shaped by the ghosts of our fathers. And in so doing, I believe I glimpsed something more in him than the cold, calculating creature I had imagined.
It may astonish you, Everett, to learn that I have begun to understand him.
My own father, as you well know, was not a man of tenderness or mercy. He taught me many things—duty, ambition, loyalty—but perhaps the lesson he most thoroughly impressed upon me was that of unquestioning reverence. To him, and to the legacy he sought to preserve, I gave my whole allegiance. And in doing so, I fear I blinded myself.
I was loyal to a fault, Everett. Loyal to a name, a title, an ideal built on stone rather than sentiment. And in that misguided devotion, I failed to see the pain of others. Perhaps even your pain. I wonder now, had I known then what I know now—had I allowed myself to question the pedestal upon which I placed my father—might things have been different between us?
That said, I must confess something you may find difficult to receive, though I hope you shall read it not as betrayal but as truth from a heart still bound to yours. I have not given up on you—nor on the bond that once tethered us with the quiet promise of more. But I have resolved to honour the vows I have made to Cillian, to extend to him the warmth and respect befitting a husband, though my heart remains divided.
To live under the same roof as him while withholding all feeling is a cruelty I do not wish to wield—not again. I do not love him, Everett. Not in the way I loved you, nor perhaps in any way that stirs the soul. But I have seen glimpses of humanity in him, quiet acts of consideration I cannot ignore. I will not give him my heart, but I will not deny him my civility.
This arrangement of ours, this union forged by necessity rather than affection, is one I must endure. And if I must endure it, I shall do so with grace, until time or fate reveals what lies ahead. I bid my time as your Katherine still—though I fear I am becoming someone new with each passing day.
You once said war changes a man. I pray it has not changed you beyond recognition. That somewhere beneath the hardened shell duty may have carved into you, the boy I loved still lingers.
I would not ask now, even if I could. But still, I remember. And I wonder if you do.
Do not mistake this letter for a plea. I make no demands, nor do I ask for promises. I write only to share what sits heavy on my chest. That my affection for you has not vanished, though it now dwells in a heart divided. That Cillian is not the villain I imagined him to be. And that, though I wear a different name, some part of me remains yours still.
With the same hand that once reached for yours across an orchard fence, I remain,
Your Katherine.
Always half-turning back.
….
"War changed me," said Lord Stratford evenly, as we took our midday meal. The table, usually governed by strict etiquette, had been rendered far less formal in the absence of guests—and by Mother's clear determination to engage the man in meaningful conversation.
"I cannot give credence to such claims," she replied with an arch of her brow. "For a gentleman alleged to have been ravaged by hardship, you remain remarkably well-mannered."
I said nothing. I cut my steak into smaller and smaller pieces, each slice a silent occupation. Though I gave every appearance of disinterest, I was listening intently.
Cillian's knife scraped lightly against his plate. "Your late husband," he said evenly, "possessed an uncommon talent for making diamonds from brass. I was not spared his methods."
A hush fell over the room. Mother's mouth parted slightly, as though on the cusp of saying something, but she chose instead to lift her wineglass and sip.
Mother, ever the diplomat, soon cleared her throat and introduced a new topic.
"That reminds me, Shirley—we agreed you should ride with me at least thrice before your departure. You leave for Italy in a week."
Shirley, who had by then finished her meal, dabbed delicately at her lips with her napkin. "I had intended to ask you and Cillian to accompany me, but Katherine gave me strict instructions to keep my distance from her husband. And you, dearest Mother, cannot ride astride."
At that, all eyes shifted toward me. I swallowed my next bite with effort.
It was true. I had spoken to Shirley. Warned her, even. Cillian was my husband, and though our marriage bore all the warmth of a stone corridor, appearances mattered. He was lord of the manor, and the sight of my older sister flitting about his heels like a loyal hound, drawing smiles and chatter, was an indignity I could not endure—not when tongues were already eager for scandal.
"Lord Stratford is a man with little time for leisure," I said, placing my cutlery down neatly, my voice measured. "And a young lady seen constantly in his company invites a type of speculation we need not entertain."
I turned more directly to Shirley. "Besides, dear, I could accompany you. Must it be my husband who rides with you? If I were not entirely confident in your innocence, I might begin to suspect you harbour intentions."
Shirley's composure faltered, her shoulders drawing inward like a closing petal. I nearly pitied her. Nearly. But how dare she insinuate jealousy before my husband, and with such theatrical innocence?
Mother gave a weary sigh as she rose to her feet. She reached out, took Shirley's arm in hers, and patted it with light affection. "In any case, we shall freshen up and put on our riding habits for when you're ready for us."
Shirley rose reluctantly and followed mother out of the room leaving me and my plate half filled and my husband.
Cillian regarded me across the table, elbows now resting upon the cloth with careless familiarity.
"It gladdens my heart," he said, "to see you finally embracing your role. What brought about the transformation?"
My eyes dropped to the offending elbows. "Your arms do not belong on the table."
He smirked. "Do save your reprimands for someone in need of them. A friend of mine shall be joining us soon. Have a chamber made ready for him and once he arrives, be so good as to remedy whatever failings he brings with him."
He pushed back from the table, and as he stood, he added, "For the sake of appearances, you may address me as Cillian or else continue with your formalities. I find it rather charming that you're jealous of your sister. But do remember Shirley is not my wife. You are. And should you revise your opinion on wifely duties, you will find me quite willing to oblige."
With that, he strode from the room, leaving his words to hang in the air like perfume after a storm.
I had not changed my mind. I would not call him Cillian. And I would not—could not—surrender to him as a wife does to her husband.
Just then, a servant hurried breathlessly into the dining room, cheeks flushed and hands trembling with the excitement of her errand.
"My lady," she said, holding out a sealed letter. "A missive has just arrived for you."