I didn’t want to rise. The light crept in slowly, pale and cold, spilling through the curtains in faint streaks across the ceiling. I lay still, staring at nothing, the weight of the morning already pressing down on my chest before I moved a single muscle. I would have given anything to stay in bed. Not out of fatigue, though I was tired, but because I knew what the day held. I would see him again. Benedict.

And I didn’t want to. Not because I disliked him. If anything, that would have made things easier. But because I didn’t dislike him. Because every time his eyes met mine, something unspoken sparked between us. Something I wasn’t allowed to feel. And because I knew what his name meant to my family.

Collins.

It was more than a surname. It was a wound—an old one, stitched shut with secrecy and shame. Bartholomew Collins—Benedict’s father—was the man who threatened to expose my father’s past. A past hidden under layers of status and silence. A past that marked him as a graverobber. Bartholomew unearthed it all. Not out of moral outrage, but to gain leverage.

And now here I was, preparing to see his son. A man who looked nothing like a villain. Who smiled as if he didn’t carry the weight of his father’s betrayal in his blood. Who walked the halls of King’s as if he belonged there. Did he even know?

The knock came at the same time as always. Josephine entered with the quiet grace of someone who knew better than to speak too soon. She said nothing as she laid my uniform out at the foot of the bed—just as she always had. She didn’t ask how I was. She could see it in my face.

I let her dress me in silence. Each button, each fold, each pin in my hair felt like a small act of defiance. I didn’t want to go, but I would. Because the Matron wouldn’t tolerate absence. Because this position—this path I had chosen—was a lifeline I couldn’t afford to lose. And because running from Benedict would mean surrendering to a feud I had never agreed to uphold.

Josephine finished with a final pat of my cap. “You should eat,” she said gently, the first words of the day.

“I’ll try,” I murmured, already knowing I wouldn’t.

Breakfast was simple—toast, tea, and silence. Aunt Eliza glanced up from her correspondence only once, and though she didn’t ask, I saw the shadow pass through her eyes.

As I rose to leave, she spoke, her voice quiet and precise. “If you see him today, keep your distance.”

I froze. “Why?”

She set down her cup. “Because he’s his father’s son.”

“I doubt he even knows what happened,” I said, more defensive than I intended.

Eliza's eyes met mine, cool and steady. “Then let’s hope it stays that way.”

 

I didn’t reply. Mr. Lockhart was already waiting at the front door, solemn as ever. The footman opened the carriage door as the mist clung low to the ground, curling like smoke around the wheels.

The moment I stepped inside, the familiar rhythm began. The carriage jolted forward, and the world slipped by in shadowed hues. The countryside blurred into vague outlines—trees, stone fences, quiet paths worn into the earth by generations of footsteps. I sat with my hands folded tightly in my lap, watching it all slip by as though I could read my thoughts in the movement of the fields. I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I had never shied from that. But I was afraid of uncertainty. Of feeling things I couldn’t yet name. Of being asked questions I didn’t have answers for. I knew Pippa and Connie would be merciless—not unkind, just excited. They meant well, and that only made it harder.

The fog lifted as we neared the city. Brick buildings replaced the trees. The air thickened with the smell of coal smoke and human industry. Children darted between carts, and vendors shouted as they set up for the morning’s rush. I watched it all pass by as if from a distance, the thrum of life and commerce brushing past me without touching. As the carriage turned onto the familiar avenue leading to King’s, I caught sight of the hospital’s grand facade. The stone was slick with dew, and the windows reflected the pale morning sky. It loomed with a kind of cold majesty, unmoved by the nerves twisting in my stomach.

I took a breath. Then another. You can’t turn back now, I told myself. I had chosen this. I had wanted this. And I would not let fear or feelings pull me off course. The carriage rolled to a stop. I adjusted my cloak, stepped out into the grey morning, and began walking toward the servants’ entrance. The day had started, whether I wanted it or not. And I would meet it—every shadow, every question, every glance—with my head held high. Even if my heart wasn’t quite ready to follow.

The familiar scent of vinegar and starch hit me the moment I stepped into the women’s influenza ward. It was warmer than expected, the air thick with breath and murmurs and the ever-present hum of illness. I made straight for the back, not pausing, not speaking. My cloak was damp at the hem from the mist outside, and I hung it carefully on its peg, smoothing the shoulders down as if to press the morning from them.

From across the ward, I felt Pippa and Connie’s eyes on me before I saw them. There was a hush between them, the sort that follows mischief or anticipation. I didn’t need to turn around to know what they were thinking. They locked eyes, and I heard the tiniest stifled giggle between them, like girls before a dance. If only they knew. If only they’d sat at that table and felt the cold weight of every word unsaid. If only they’d watched Benedict’s mother blink slowly, deliberately. If only they’d seen the way Eliza’s lips thinned when she spoke his name. They didn’t know. And I wouldn’t tell them.

I moved to the ledger and opened it with care. The ink was slightly smeared in one place—Dr. Fletcher’s scrawl rushed as usual. I traced my eyes down the columns: patient names, conditions, fevers rising or breaking, those who’d taken broth, those who hadn’t, those we needed to watch closely. I made a mental note. No one spoke to me. I didn’t invite it.

The broom was where I always left it, propped behind the cabinet near the window. I took it quietly, letting the rhythm of sweeping fill the space where my thoughts tried to speak. It was easier this way.

I stopped once to pour a glass of water for a woman coughing in short, painful bursts. Her hand shook as she took it, and I steadied it with mine. “There you are,” I whispered, tucking her blanket closer around her shoulders. She didn’t speak—just nodded, eyes rimmed red and grateful.

Then I returned to the broom. The sound of straw brushing floorboards kept time with the breath of the ward, a steady beat in the blur of another Monday. I didn’t look up when Pippa tried to catch my eye. I didn’t answer when Connie half-whispered my name. Not yet.

Not until I had steadied myself again. Not until I could push the image of Baratholomew’s eyes from my mind—dark, searching, unsure. He had watched me at dinner like he was waiting for me to flinch. I hadn’t. I wouldn’t. The ward moved around me, slow and aching and alive. I swept on.

 

By the time I returned from the laundry run, my arms ached from the weight of linens, but I welcomed the sting. It was something real, something I could hold. The ward was quieter now—less coughing, more resting. Afternoon light slanted in through the high windows, catching on dust motes that swirled above the patients like soft, weightless ghosts.

I had just set the basket of clean linen down when I heard Pippa’s footsteps, quick and purposeful. She came up beside me, pretending at first to fuss with folding the linens, but I could feel her eyes on me. “What happened?” she asked in a low voice, careful not to draw attention. “You’ve been quiet all day. More than usual.”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly. I reached for a fresh pillowcase and started smoothing it just to keep my hands busy. “It’s nothing.”

She tilted her head, not buying it for a second. “Lilibet. Did something go wrong? Was it… was it Benedict? Did he—” her voice lowered, “—did he do something? Something ungentlemanly?”

My head snapped up. “No. Absolutely not.” I heard the sharpness in my tone and softened it, though I didn’t feel soft. “He did nothing wrong. He was—he was perfectly kind. A perfect gentleman.”

Pippa blinked. “Alright.”

I looked down. The fabric in my hands had wrinkled again, and I didn’t bother fixing it. The silence stretched. Pippa didn’t press me. She just reached out, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. A squeeze—brief, but full of understanding. “It’s alright,” she said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s alright.”

I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak.

She stepped away then, heading over to where Connie was sorting bandages near the supply shelves. I didn’t hear what she said, but Connie looked over at me with a quick, questioning glance before giving a small nod of agreement. They wouldn’t ask. Not today. I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. There were rounds to do. Vitals to check. Comforts to tend. I started with Mrs. Hill, who was running a low fever again. Her pulse was weak but steady. I offered her a cool cloth for her brow and coaxed a few sips of water past her cracked lips.

Next was Clara, no more than twelve, who smiled through her coughing fit just to make me laugh. I helped adjust her bed so she could sit up a little. “Thank you, Sister,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You’re doing very well,” I murmured back, brushing her hair from her face.

One by one, I moved down the line. No more thoughts of dinner, Eliza’s warnings, or Bartholomew’s searching eyes. Just warm foreheads, damp cloths, soft blankets, and thin hands reaching out for a little comfort. I gave what I could. It was all I knew how to do.

The work should have calmed me. It usually did—something about the order of it, the repetition. There was comfort in small tasks, in knowing exactly what came next. But today, the more I did, the worse it got. Every glass I filled, every corner I swept brought me closer to the moment I’d been trying not to think about. Benedict was somewhere in the building—perhaps in his office, perhaps in the physicians’ lounge, sipping tea and speaking calmly about things that didn’t make my pulse quicken or my chest tighten. But soon enough, his path would cross mine.

I kept moving, fast and quiet. I wiped down the windowsills even though it wasn’t my turn. Took Connie’s notes to the matron’s desk without being asked. I offered to fetch fresh linens again, though we didn’t need them yet. Pippa raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She knew better than to push. When I wasn’t helping a patient sit up or change their dressings, I was sweeping. And when the sweeping was done, I dusted the baseboards with the edge of my apron. Anything to stay in motion. Stillness felt like surrender.

I caught my reflection once—just a flash—in the glass of the medicine cabinet. I didn’t recognize the tightness in my jaw. The way my shoulders curled forward like I was bracing for something. Because I was.

The thought kept circling, no matter how I tried to shake it: He was always waiting by the side door where the staff carriages pulled up. It had become a quiet routine between us. A few minutes, nothing more. A brief exchange at day’s end, where the world felt momentarily simpler. But tonight it wouldn’t be.

And worst of all, I didn’t want—just for a fleeting, foolish second—to ask him outright. To say his name aloud and ask him how he could carry it so lightly. To ask him if he knew what his father had done. The things Bartholomew Collins had said. The threats he’d made. The way he used people like levers.

Cruelty wore a suit and a smile in that house. And now I had to face the man who came from it. The man who had never once been unkind to me.

 

I tucked a blanket around Mrs. Wilkes, an elderly patient whose cough had worsened overnight. Her fingers curled around mine as I adjusted the edge. “You’ve a heavy heart today,” she murmured, voice scratchy but kind.

I managed a smile. “That obvious?”

“Only to someone who remembers what it feels like.”

I pressed her hand gently but said nothing. I didn’t have words that would make sense of what I was feeling. I barely understood it myself.

The sun began to lower outside the windows, casting long orange shadows across the floor. The ward quieted further, patients dozing, breath soft and slow. Supper trays had come and gone. I realized suddenly that I hadn’t eaten. Or sat down. I looked around and found I had nothing left to do. Not really.

Pippa and Connie said goodnight in their usual way—Pippa with a warm pat to my arm, Connie with a mock salute and a wink. I gave them a tired smile, one I didn’t quite feel. They didn’t linger. They never did when the quiet settled in like this. When they disappeared down the corridor, I stood alone in the ward’s hush. The air had cooled. Somewhere down the hall, a cart wheel creaked. I moved slowly, methodically, to each bedside table, checking the pitchers. Most were still half-full, but I replaced the water anyway. Freshness mattered. Dignity mattered. I struck matches and replaced short candle stubs with new ones, their fresh wicks upright and expectant.

The ward grew dim behind me. I closed the last drawer, satisfied that at least this part of the night would begin in order. Then I crossed behind the nurse’s desk and opened the narrow wardrobe. My cloak hung there, smelling faintly of lavender and coal smoke. I pulled it free and swung it over my shoulders, fastening the clasp just below my throat. I stood at the threshold of the ward’s door, hand resting on the latch, and could not move. My feet wouldn’t lift. My fingers trembled. I stared at the worn brass handle, willing myself forward, but nothing happened.

I knew what was waiting beyond that door. A walk through the hall, and then—him. And the truth I had to speak. My father’s shame. The reason Eliza’s words echoed like curses in my head. I tried to breathe. My throat felt tight. My body, stiff. Like it had taken root here, refusing to betray me with action.

This had to happen. I had known all day that it would. That it must. There was no avoiding it. But knowing and doing were not the same. With a shaky hand, I touched my face, pressing my palms to my cheeks. My skin was cold. The contact steadied me just enough. “Come on,” I whispered to myself, under my breath. “Move.” I pushed the door open.

The hallway beyond was quiet, lit by wall sconces and the pale tail of the moon through high windows. I stepped into it. My shoes were too loud. My heart louder still. But I kept walking. Past the linen cupboard. Past the closed door of Matron’s office. Past the patient ledger stacked for morning rounds. I found the servant’s door easily, as I always did. Its latch was slightly crooked. The floorboards just before it creaked. I paused one last time, hand hovering over the knob. He would be there. Or maybe he wouldn’t. But either way, I had to stop carrying this like a secret I wasn’t strong enough to hold. I pressed my lips together, squared my shoulders beneath my cloak, and stepped through.

 

He was there. Leaning against the pony wall just outside, where the lantern light spilled over the cobblestones in flickering halos. His coat was clean, his suit sharp, and his dark red hair tucked beneath his hat. But it still curled at the edges, defying order in that small, familiar way. He looked up as the door shut behind me, and when his eyes found mine, he smiled like nothing in the world had gone wrong.

My heart lurched. I didn’t want it to, but it did. God help me, I loved him. I had tried to stop—told myself it was impossible, unwise, a betrayal of everything my family had suffered—but none of it mattered when I looked at him. All that mattered was the aching, maddening truth of it.

“Elizabeth,” he said, stepping toward me. His voice was warm, and low, like always. “I’m glad I caught you. I’m sorry I didn’t see you off after dinner. My father told me you weren’t feeling well and needed to leave early.”

I stopped walking. That warmth in my chest curdled. “That’s what he told you?” I said, and my voice came out cold—colder than I meant, but I didn’t take it back.

Benedict blinked, startled by my tone. “Yes… why? What happened?”

“What happened?” I repeated, the words bitter. “Your father is what happened.” His expression tightened slightly, confused but listening. “I sat at that table and watched everyone around him shrink,” I said. “Your mother barely spoke. The staff wouldn’t meet his eye. Your siblings—all of them except Andrew—looked like they were trying not to breathe too loud.”

Benedict looked down. The silence that followed wasn’t defensive—it was heavy. Familiar. “I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I don’t live there anymore. Why I haven’t for years.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s also why Andrew and I don’t speak much anymore. He’s becoming just like our father.”

The honesty in his voice hit harder than any denial would have. Still, the anger pulsed under my skin. “I don’t know what to do with this,” I said. “Because I love you, Benedict. But I hate what your name has done to my family.”

His head lifted slowly, eyes meeting mine, cautious now. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “What has my name done to your family?”

And there it was. The question that would open everything. I looked at him, jaw tight. If he didn’t know—if he truly didn’t know—it would change everything. And if he did... then I’d have to decide if love could survive the truth. I held his gaze, weighing whether to say the words out loud. Then I did. “Do you remember me talking about my cousins?”

Benedict’s brow furrowed for a second—then his face lit, just faintly. “Of course. The wall of blondes, right? You once said they looked like a line of matching dolls at a village fête.”

Despite everything, a breath escaped me—almost a laugh. “Yes. That’s them.” He smiled, waiting, still not understanding where this was going. “Their mother is Genevieve,” I said. “Sweet, sweet Genevieve. The sort of woman who apologized to the roses when she trimmed them. Who cried when she saw a crushed bird on the road. She wouldn’t hurt anyone, not even when she should’ve. She was once engaged to your father.” I swallowed, throat tight, and went on. “While he was engaged to her, your father was also blackmailing my aunt.”

Benedict blinked. “What?”

I nodded. “He was using some rumor—some ugly, unfounded thing—to pressure her into being his mistress. Threatened to ruin the family name. Said he had proof.”

Benedict stepped back slightly, stunned. “Blackmail?”

I nodded again, more slowly. “He told her he had evidence that my father had once been involved in—” I hesitated just long enough, “—in graverobbing.”

Benedict’s expression shifted. Like a shutter closing. My chest burned. I was telling the truth. Or most of it. I left out the part where the accusation wasn’t entirely false. Where the bones of that secret were real and buried just deep enough. He didn’t need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Benedict’s jaw clenched. “Jesus.”

“My aunt never spoke of it fully. But she was terrified. Young, alone, vulnerable. And he knew it. He pushed her, cornered her.”

“And Genevieve?” he asked.

“She found out. I don’t know how. But she did. She ended the engagement. She never told anyone why, but she walked away. And she never forgave herself for not doing more.” He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting downward. “The only reason your father ever backed down,” I said, voice tightening, “was because someone finally stood up to him. My cousin’s father—the heir to the Dukedom of Bedford—called him out at the opera. Publicly. Said he’d heard whispers that a certain Mr. Collins was blackmailing a young woman. He didn’t name names. He didn’t have to.” Benedict looked like the floor had shifted under his feet. "That’s all I know,” I finished. “After that, your father let my aunt be. Genevieve never looked back. And the whole thing vanished like smoke. Buried under silence and shame.”

 

He was quiet for a long time. “I believe you,” he said, finally. “I don’t want to. But I do.”

“Thank you,” I said softly. “For believing me.”

Benedict looked up at me like it hurt him not to reach out. “Of course I believe you, Elizabeth. How could I not?” He took a step closer, voice lowering. “But what do we do now? Because I love you. Not just in passing moments or stolen glances—every hour, every breath, I ache for you. It’s maddening. I see your face when I close my eyes, I hear your laugh in the silence, and I crave your touch like it’s the only thing that keeps me sane. You are not just in my heart—you are the very pulse of it.”

I let out a soft laugh—half disbelief, half ache. “My father will never allow it. Not now. Not after he knows who your father is.”

“Then I’ll talk to him,” Benedict said quickly.

I stiffened. “No.”

He blinked. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not a good idea,” I said, firmer. “You don’t know what my father is capable of when it comes to protecting this family. I don’t know what he’d say to you. Or what he’d do.”

“Then let him,” Benedict replied, stepping in closer. “I have to speak with him. I have to show him that I’m not my father. That I’m nothing like him. He’ll never believe it from you or anyone else. It has to be me.”

“Benedict—”

“Please, Elizabeth,” he said, voice quiet but urgent. “Let me try. Let me stand in front of the man who raised you and prove that I am worthy of your love. It’s the only way forward.”

I opened my mouth to argue but stopped. He looked so determined. So stubborn and sincere, like he’d already fought a hundred battles just to have this conversation. “I don’t know if I can make him agree to meet you,” I said finally. “But I’ll try.”

He smiled then, something gentle in his eyes. “That’s all I’m asking.” I nodded, heart thudding, trying to calm the sudden wave of feeling swelling in my chest. Then he added, quiet and sure: “I’m not going to stop, Elizabeth. Not until we’re wed. Not until we’re happy.”

My breath caught. “Are you—” I looked at him, eyes wide. “Are you asking me to be your wife?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Not yet. Not properly. We’ve got to find our way through the mess my father left behind first.”

I smiled despite myself. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” he said, “but it’s ours. And that means we’ll survive it.” Benedict stepped closer and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. His hands found mine, warm and steady, and laced his fingers through them. The world around us slowed, and quieted, like even the wind was holding its breath. I blushed—deeply. The warmth bloomed across my cheeks before I could stop it.

“I should get home,” I mumbled, eyes dropping to our joined hands. But I didn’t move. If anything, I gripped his hands tighter. My body betrayed my words, rooted in place, unwilling to leave the safety of him. The closeness. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth standing still for.

I looked up again. He was closer now. I could see everything—the gentle slope of his cheekbones, the way his light brown eyes shimmered in the low light, half-lidded and soft. His lips were slightly parted, pink and full, and I could feel the warmth of his breath.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The words undid something in me. I wanted to kiss him. And only then did I realize what a small mountain that would be—he was a full foot taller than I was. I tilted my head back and caught a glimpse of amusement in his eyes. He must’ve seen the calculation in mine because he let out a quiet chuckle, deep and low in his chest.

Still smiling, he reached up and gently lifted my chin with one hand. Then he leaned down. And kissed me. His lips met mine with the kind of care that broke through every wall I’d ever built. It wasn’t rushed, or hungry, or uncertain. It was deliberate. Grounded. Full of quiet promise. My hand stayed in his, fingers tightening.In that moment, nothing else existed—not our families, not the rumors, not the tangled history stretching behind us like a shadow. Just the kiss. Just us.

 

The kiss broke gently as if neither of us really wanted it to end. Benedict lingered, his forehead resting lightly against mine for a beat before he pulled back, just enough to meet my eyes. “You should get home,” he murmured, voice low and warm.

I sighed, reluctant, but nodded. “I know.” Still, I didn’t move until he slowly released my hand. My fingers felt cold without his.

We walked together to the waiting carriage. The footman opened the door, and Benedict offered his hand. I placed mine in his, and he helped me up as if I were made of glass. “Let me know the moment your father agrees to meet me,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

I settled into the seat, drawing my cloak tighter. “It’s going to be a long battle.”

His eyes met mine, steady. “You’re worth the wait.”

The carriage door shut. A knock on the roof. The wheels creaked into motion. As we pulled away, I turned to look back through the small rear window. Benedict stood just where I’d left him, one hand in his coat pocket, the other raised in a quiet farewell. I watched until the street curved and he disappeared from view. I wasn’t going to give him up. I loved him. And I would find a way.

By the time we reached the edge of town, my mind was already working—quiet, focused. My father would never agree on his own. Not willingly. But if I could shift the room around him, set the tone before he ever had a chance to speak.

It wasn’t until we passed the old mill, half-lit in the moonlight, that it struck me. Caroline. If I brought her into it—along with our mother and Aunt Eliza—I might just stand a chance. Caroline had always been able to soften him, and if Eliza backed me too, the argument might hold. It had to be over dinner. Casual, controlled, no room for theatrics. Let him speak last. Let him feel outnumbered without knowing he was.

I stared out at the night beyond the window, already plotting the seating arrangement. The timing. The exact moment to mention Benedict’s name. It would be war—but one I intended to win.