Chapter 2

Upon returning to the manor, Beatrice Cornwall had the private chapel locked.

She had set that room aside right after her wedding. Every day, she would kneel there, praying for William Ashford's safety and begging the heavens that he might just look her way.

'How utterly foolish I was,' she thought bitterly.

"My lady, what about the prayer books?" Lyra Moon asked.

"Burn them," Beatrice replied.

"And the rosaries?"

"Throw them out."

"Then... what about the statuette of the Holy Mother?"

Beatrice paused to think. That statuette had been part of her mother's dowry.

Her mother gave it to her, saying a married woman needed something to hold onto, a symbol to pray for marital harmony and a long life together.

Her mother never knew her daughter wouldn't even survive three years of this marriage.

"Keep it," Beatrice said. "Pack it away where I won't have to look at it."

Lyra nodded and hurried off to clear the room.

Beatrice sat by the window, gazing at the bare oak tree in the courtyard.

She remembered how, in her previous life, that very tree had been struck by lightning and reduced to charred wood.

William hadn't bothered to have it cleared. He just left it there to rot. She had been so ill by then, confined to her bed, and she actually wept when Lyra told her about it.

'Crying over a dead tree. How pathetic,' she mused to herself.

"My lady," a maid called out from the hallway. "Someone from the Cornwall manor is here. They say Lord Oliver Cornwall has arrived."

Beatrice stood up abruptly. It was her eldest brother by blood, Oliver Cornwall.

Lifting her skirts, she sprinted out of the room. When she reached the grand foyer, she saw him.

He was a tall, handsome man of about four and twenty, dressed in a plain navy coat, bearing the distinct, refined air of a scholar.

He stood there holding a woven picnic basket, glancing around the hall.

"Oliver!" Beatrice rushed over and threw herself into his arms.

The impact made him stumble back a step.

Regaining his balance, he looked down at his sister with a helpless, amused smile. "You are a married woman now, Beatrice. How are you still so utterly reckless?"

She didn't answer. She only buried her face in his chest, gripping his lapels as if her life depended on it.

Oliver Cornwall was the heir to the Cornwall family, who had taken top honors at the university.

He had entered the Royal Archives, then quickly ascended to the King's Privy Council. And then...

And then, three years later, he was thrown into the dungeon for accusing William of treason. He was convicted of framing a war hero and sentenced to death by the guillotine.

She remembered the torrential rain that day. She stood outside the Commander's gates for a full day and night, begging William to save him.

William never even came out.

The last time she saw Oliver was his back as he was dragged to the scaffold. He had been wearing this exact navy coat.

As the prisoner's cart rolled through the cobblestone streets, the commoners hurled rotten vegetables at him, but he just kept his back straight and never uttered a single word.

It was only on the day of his execution that she remembered his favorite treat was her homemade lemon tarts.

And she had never even baked them for him. Not once.

"Beatrice?" Sensing something was wrong, Oliver looked down, his brows drawing together. "What is it? Has someone mistreated you here at the Manor?"

Beatrice shook her head, then nodded, completely losing track of what she was doing. She just pressed her face deeper into his coat.

Oliver sighed and gently stroked her hair. "Silly girl. What could possibly be so terrible to make you cry like this?"

"I am not crying," she mumbled into his chest.

"Alright, you are not crying." Oliver gave her a teasing look. "But could you perhaps let go? If you squeeze any tighter, your dear brother might just suffocate right here."

Beatrice finally loosened her grip and looked up.

Seeing her face, Oliver paused. Her eyes and nose were completely red, the undeniable aftermath of tears.

Yet, her eyes were astonishingly bright, as clear and clean as the night sky after a heavy storm.

"Are you sure nothing is wrong?" he asked again.

"Nothing is wrong." Beatrice sniffled. "What brings you here?"

Oliver lifted the basket in his hand. "Mother asked me to bring you some pastries. She worried you were suffering at the Manor and wasting away. Let me see."

He inspected her from head to toe. "You do look thinner. Your cheekbones are sharper."

Beatrice wanted to laugh, but she also wanted to sob.

She thought sadly, 'When I died, Mother fainted from weeping so many times.

'Later, when the Cornwall manor was seized by the Crown, she was banished to the distant colonies and died on the dreadful voyage.

'I never even got to see her one last time, she thought sadly.'

"Come, let us speak inside." Beatrice Cornwall tugged at her brother's sleeve, leading him into the parlor. "I will have a drink brought in. You have always favored a good sherry, right? I have an excellent vintage right here. It was..."

She stopped herself. It was a gift from William.

Back then, she had been overjoyed, foolishly believing he had procured it specially for her. Only later did she discover it was actually Aurora's preferred sherry.

He had merely requested an extra bottle as an afterthought and had a servant drop it off at her rooms.

She had treasured it too much to actually open it, hoarding the bottle right up until her dying day.

"What was it?" Oliver asked.

"Just a gift from someone," Beatrice smiled lightly. "If you don't mind, you should try it."

Oliver looked at her closely. He could not shake the feeling that his sister was acting strangely today, though he could not pinpoint exactly why.

They settled into the drawing room, and Beatrice poured the drinks herself. Oliver took the crystal glass, took a sip, and immediately raised his eyebrows.

"Excellent vintage," he noted. "This must be an exclusive import. You certainly cannot find this in any ordinary merchant's shop."

Beatrice smiled but said nothing.

Oliver glanced at her and set down his glass.

"Beatrice." His voice grew serious. "Tell me the truth. How are things at the Manor? How does William treat you?"

Beatrice lowered her eyes to watch the amber liquid in her glass.

How did he treat her? On their wedding night, he had become blindly drunk.

He never even entered their bedchamber, choosing to sleep off his stupor in the study instead.

When she brought him a hangover remedy the following morning, he coldly muttered for her to leave it on the desk and never glanced her way again.

In the weeks that followed, he might visit her rooms once a fortnight. Even then, it was a purely obligatory affair, and he would depart the moment his marital duty was fulfilled.

She never dared ask him to stay, terrified of being a nuisance.

She tried so carefully to please him, embroidering his waistcoats, baking his favorite pastries, and preparing hot broths, but he completely ignored her efforts.

When she fell ill, he simply instructed a servant to fetch the physician and never bothered to ask after her health himself.

"It's fine," she finally looked up, offering a faint smile. "The Commander treats me well enough."

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "Beatrice, I am your brother."

"I know."

"You have been a terrible liar since you were a child." He leaned forward, locking eyes with her. "Whenever you lie, you look away. You glanced at that potted orchid three times while you were speaking."

Beatrice blinked and followed his gaze to the windowsill.

There was indeed a white orchid sitting there. William had sent it over, claiming it was a rare breed, and told her to take good care of it.

She had tended to it for three months. It hadn't died, but it certainly hadn't bloomed either. It just existed in a half-dead state.

'Just like me,' she realized.

"Oliver." She broke the silence, meeting his gaze. "What if I told you I want an annulment?"

The color drained from Oliver's face. "An annulment?"

"Yes." She looked at him with an unnatural calmness. "I don't want to stay at this Manor any longer."

Oliver opened his mouth but found himself entirely speechless.

An annulment. She was the legitimate daughter of the Marquis of the North. She had been married to the kingdom's great Commander for merely three months, and now she wanted an annulment.

If word got out, the Cornwall family would be a laughingstock in high society. Her reputation would be ruined.

'How would she ever show her face in public again?' Oliver thought.

Yet, as he looked into his sister's eyes, he swallowed every word of protest.

Her eyes were far too calm. They were as still as a stagnant pool, devoid of hope, entirely indifferent to the world.

"Is he terribly cruel to you?" he asked softly.

Beatrice thought for a moment, then shook her head. "I wouldn't say he is cruel. He has never struck me, never insulted me.

"I have all the finest gowns and food, and he summons doctors when I am unwell."

She paused. "He simply does not love me."

Oliver fell silent.

'Does not love.' He knew those words cut deeper than any physical blow, more toxic than any outward abuse.

"Beatrice..." Oliver started, his voice soft and hesitant.

"I know what you are thinking, Oliver." Beatrice cut him off with a sad smile. "I know how difficult this would be. I know it would humiliate the family and break Mother's heart.

"But I just want to ask you, if I truly decide to leave, will you try to stop me?"

Oliver stared at her. He suddenly remembered her as a little girl with braided pigtails, constantly chasing after him.

When she tripped and fell, she would never cry, just dust off her knees and keep running.

He remembered her wedding day, dressed in exquisite white silk, a delicate veil over her face. His hands had actually shaken as he walked her down the aisle.

This was the little sister he had cherished his entire life.

"No," he said firmly. "I won't stop you."

Beatrice froze.

"You are my sister." He reached out and ruffled her hair, just as he did when they were children. "Whatever you want to do, I will support you. If you want an annulment, then so be it. Let the heavens fall, I will hold them up for you.

"Father may be gone, but the Cornwall name still stands with me. Come home. I will take care of you."

Beatrice's eyes instantly welled with tears. She ducked her head, biting her lip so hard it nearly bled, trying desperately not to sob aloud.

But try as she might, the dam broke. Huge tears fell, splashing hotly against her hands.

"Silly girl." Oliver sighed, pulling her into a warm embrace. "Why are you crying? I meant every word. It's just an annulment. We will manage."

Clinging to his lapels, she wept like a child.

She remembered that day he was marched to the guillotine. She stood in the freezing rain, begging anyone to save him. But no one would help. No one dared.

She could only watch him die.

"Oliver," she muttered thickly. "Promise me one thing."

"What is it?" Oliver responded.

"No matter what happens in the future, you must stay safe. You are not allowed to die before me."

Oliver looked taken aback, then chuckled. "What kind of nonsense is that?"

"Promise me." Her voice was muffled against his coat, but fiercely stubborn.

Looking down at her, he felt his heart soften completely. "Alright," he promised. "I swear it."

Beatrice rubbed her face against his coat, wiping her tears away before stepping back. "I'll have the kitchen prepare dinner. You rarely visit, so you must stay to eat."

Noting her red nose and swollen eyes, he felt a mix of pity and amusement. "Very well. I suppose I can sample your cooking again.

"The last time you cooked for me was right before your wedding. That lemon-glazed fish was absolutely atrocious."

Beatrice glared at him. "You are just impossible to please."

"Impossible to please?" He raised an eyebrow. "It was sour, sweet, salty, and spicy all at once. It tasted like everything in the pantry except fish."

"That was..." Beatrice stopped short.

'That was the very first time I learned to cook, and I did it solely for William. But when I finally served it to him, he never even looked at the plate,' she remembered bitterly.

"Never mind," she shook her head. "No fish tonight. I will make all your favorites."

As he watched her walk out the door, the smile slowly faded from Oliver's face.

Beatrice had changed.

He hadn't seen her in three months, and it was as if she had become an entirely different person. The look in her eyes, her tone, the things she had said...

His mind drifted back to her earlier confession.

"He simply does not love me," she had said.

Oliver lowered his eyes, picked up his glass, and took a slow sip. It was excellent drink, but right now, it tasted nothing but bitter.

*****

Beatrice spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, preparing a lavish feast: Roast beef, baked salmon, honey-glazed ribs, buttered asparagus, and a large tureen of steaming chicken bouillon.

Oliver stared at the spread, his eyes wide. "Did you cook all of this?"

"Yes." Beatrice placed a glazed rib on his plate. "Try it."

He took a bite, and his eyes grew even wider. "Beatrice, your cooking..." He swallowed. "When did you learn to do this?"

Beatrice smiled but remained silent.

'When did I learn?' she asked herself. 'During those countless lonely nights waiting for William.

'I would hide in the kitchen, practicing over and over again, hoping that one day he might actually visit, and I could serve him a perfect meal.

'But he never came.'

"As long as it's good," she replied warmly. "Eat up, Oliver."

He looked at her, the doubts in his mind growing heavier. 'Three months. Could someone really perfect their cooking to this level in just three months?'

He didn't voice his questions; he simply lowered his head and ate heartily.

They chatted for a while after dinner. Before leaving, Oliver held her hand and urged, "If you need anything, send a messenger. Don't bear everything alone."

Beatrice nodded.

"As for the annulment," he hesitated. "Don't rush it. We need to plan this carefully. With William..."

"Don't worry, Oliver." She cut him off gently. "I won't do anything rash."

He looked at her, wanting to say more, but ultimately just sighed and turned to leave.

Beatrice stood at the doorway, watching his figure vanish at the end of the long driveway.

The setting sun stretched her shadow far across the stones.

Lyra whispered from beside her, "My lady, Lord Cornwall is truly wonderful to you."

"Yes," Beatrice replied softly. "He is."

'So wonderful that I would trade absolutely everything just to keep him alive,' she vowed silently. 'In this life, I will not let anyone hurt him.'

*****

That night, William came home.

Beatrice was already in bed. Or rather, she was pretending to be asleep.

She heard footsteps halt outside her door. She heard him push the door open, walk in, and stop by the edge of her bed.

She could feel his gaze resting heavily upon her.

He stood there for a long time. Then, he turned and walked out.

The door clicked shut.

Beatrice opened her eyes and stared blankly at the bed canopy, entirely motionless.

She did not ask why he came, nor did she wonder why he left.

She simply did not care anymore.