Katherine
The morning sun lay warm against my back as I crouched amidst the rosebushes, their perfume doing little to calm the unease coiled in my chest. My knees ached, but it was nothing compared to the quiet dread that gripped me. I had not meant to eavesdrop, but something in Mother's recent smiles—too bright, too quick—had urged me to follow.
"I do not doubt that you desire my happiness," my mother said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "But I confess, I am afraid."
Her tone held no melodrama, only quiet vulnerability. She addressed him—Dr. Lewis, the family physician—as if he were the only person in the world capable of soothing her grief.
"I understand, Amelia," he responded, and I nearly gasped. Amelia. It had been years since I had heard her maiden name spoken aloud, and never from his lips. "But you need not fear. I swore to protect you, and I meant it. Whatever cruelties Lord John inflicted upon you have perished with him."
A choked sob escaped her lips then—a sound raw and strangled with emotion—and something in me crumpled. I had not anticipated such naked sorrow from my mother, not in the weeks following my father's death, and certainly not in the arms of another man.
Was Lewis now capitalizing upon our bereavement, seducing my grieving mother under the guise of compassion? The very idea sent a spike of fury through me.
I shifted slightly, the pain in my knees growing unbearable. Just as I resolved to rise and confront them, I looked up—and saw it.
Their lips met in a kiss. Not chaste, not hesitant, but indulgent. Passionate. Indecent.
My heart thundered. My breath caught. I felt suddenly sick.
I dropped to all fours, desperate to crawl away before a passing servant caught sight of the lady of the house locked in a scandalous embrace. My hands sunk into the soft earth, and I winced as a jagged stone tore into my palm.
Only when I was certain I was well beyond the reach of their gaze did I dare to rise, breathless and dishevelled. My skirts were muddied, my gloves stained. I likely resembled a scullery maid more than a viscount's daughter. Still, I did not stop. Rage propelled me forward, straight into the study of my husband.
I pushed the door open without knocking.
"Forgive the intrusion, Lord Stratford," I said breathlessly, attempting to brush the dirt from my hands—only to realise I had transferred soil onto my bodice. "I come urgently."
Cillian looked up from his papers, arching a brow in mild amusement. "Lady Stratford," he replied, eyeing my dishevelled state with some interest. "I pray you tell me you have not taken to gardening in full court dress."
I ignored his jibe and took a step closer. My gown was in tatters—grass-stained and torn at the hem. The indignity of my appearance only added heat to my cheeks.
"I know what this must look like—" I began.
"Oh, I am not in need of speculation," he interrupted, rising from his chair. "I had the misfortune of witnessing it myself—Lady Stratford, on all fours in the shrubbery, a vision of discretion."
"Do not mock me," I snapped, my voice sharp.
"I would not dare," he said, his tone laced with humour. "But I must say, your father neglected to mention that his daughter was so adept at espionage."
"It is the duty of a mistress to be informed of all that transpires beneath her roof," I returned. "By any means she deems fit."
Cillian chuckled darkly and leaned back against the edge of his desk. "Look at you. The lady of the house, indeed. John raised a formidable daughter."
"Lord Cillian," I said pointedly, "surely you saw what I saw. Perhaps more clearly, given your vantage."
His face sobered. "Yes. I saw. Your mother and the good doctor. Kissing. Quite fervently, I must add. A mutually enthusiastic display, as far as I could discern."
I faltered, momentarily stunned by his nonchalance. "You… approve of this?"
He gestured toward the chair across from him. "You look ready to faint. Sit."
I obeyed, though my limbs trembled beneath me, not from weakness but from disbelief. How could he, of all people, treat this affair with such levity?
"You do not understand," I said as I lowered myself. "My mother may be unattached, yes, but my father has scarcely been buried. What she feels for Dr. Lewis must be new—or worse, it is not new at all. What if she… what if she betrayed him whilst he yet lived?"
"That," Cillian said, folding his arms, "would merely make her his equal."
I blinked. "Pardon?"
"You presume Lord John to have been a man of singular virtue," he continued, "when in truth, he was anything but. He had numerous mistresses, your mother likely only one. Tell me, Katherine—why does her potential infidelity weigh heavier on your conscience than his proven transgressions?"
"I… I am certain Father…" I began weakly.
"Fornicated with half the county?" he supplied with a cold smile. "Yes. He did. Including, might I add, Lady Briona."
The room tilted.
Briona. The woman who had once come to my chamber and offered unsolicited marital advice wrapped in condescension. Her words now struck me like the crack of a whip:
"Urge her to be less inflexible with her husband, as you once were, lest she suffer a fate similar to your own."
No wonder Mother had looked stricken that day. The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.
"So she spoke from experience," I murmured. "She had him. She had Father."
"Oh yes," Cillian said bitterly. "Your father was not a man easily satisfied by fidelity. He was generous, however—in so far as he believed in spreading misery wherever he could. My family included."
I rose then, slowly, as though the weight of this revelation had turned my limbs to stone. "Thank you," I whispered. "You have… opened my eyes."
"I should like to be thanked in another form," he said, eyes gleaming.
I turned to him, surprised. "And what form would that be, my lord?"
"Be an agreeable wife," he replied smoothly. "Cease your endless quarrelling. Spare us both the exhaustion."
I tilted my head, curious despite myself. "Does this mean you have at last accepted my innocence in whatever crimes you once imagined I committed?"
He looked at me then—really looked—and in that moment, something in his expression softened.
He leaned forward, voice low. "I have known of your innocence from the very first."
The relief struck me in strange ways. I wanted to sob, to shout, to strike him for letting me think otherwise for so long. But I only swallowed hard and said, "Then… why make me suffer it?"
His gaze hardened again. "Because justice does not always arrive where it is most deserved."
He returned to his seat, dismissing me with the opening of his book.
There was nothing left to say.
I curtsied without further protest and turned to leave. First, I would change this wretched gown. Then I would speak with my mother—not as a daughter wounded, but as a woman who now understood the weight of hidden truths.