The Unchosen

​​‍​They arrived just as I was moving the ale barrels into position for the week’s brewing.

​​‍​Charlotte. The friend from London he’d mentioned a few times this past month—always in passing, always vague.

​​‍​But he’d never brought anyone home before.

​​‍​Edward came up the path with her now. She wore traveling clothes finer than anything in our village—deep green velvet with lace at the collar, a hat adorned with feathers. She walked close beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

​​‍​“Bess,” Edward called out, his voice warm. “This is Charlotte. An old friend from London.”

​​‍​The woman smiled at me, her expression bright and friendly, almost playful. “How lovely to finally meet you! Edward has told me so much about your charming little cottage.”

​​‍​But when her eyes swept over me and the rough yard with its brewing equipment, I caught something else entirely. A flicker of amusement, perhaps. Disdain. The look someone gives a curiosity not quite worth their time.

​​‍​I wiped my hands on my apron. “Welcome.”

​​‍​Edward shifted, glancing at the barrels I’d been arranging. “Charlotte needs help with some business matters in town. I’ll be going with her for a few hours.”

​​‍​A few hours. My hands stilled. “Will you be back for supper?”

​​‍​“Of course.” His smile was gentle, reassuring. He stepped closer, and when he looked at me, his eyes held that particular softness they sometimes did—tender, but with something layered beneath it, something I’d never quite been able to read. “I’ll be back in time to help you move these barrels. Don’t try it yourself—wait for me.”

​​‍​Careful words. Solicitous. The kind a man uses with someone he cares for.

​​‍​“Wait,” I said, already turning toward the cottage. “It’s cold. Let me get your coat.”

​​‍​I ducked inside and grabbed it from the peg by the door—the brown wool work coat, worn thin at the elbows where I’d carefully mended it last winter. When I came back out, Edward was still there, Charlotte beside him.

​​‍​I held out the coat. “Here. You’ll need it.”

​​‍​Charlotte’s gaze swept over it, just for a moment—a flash of contempt in her eyes, gone almost before I could name it.

​​‍​Edward stared at the coat in my hands. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

​​‍​Something crossed his face—recognition, maybe, or hesitation. His eyes met mine, and in that brief moment I saw something complicated there.

​​‍​Not quite guilt. Not quite regret. Something I couldn’t read.

​​‍​I’d never asked Edward about his past.

​​‍​Three years ago, I was pushing my ale cart back from town when I saw him lying by the roadside, unconscious, dressed in rags, covered in blood and wounds. Alone. Abandoned, it seemed. I stopped and looked at him, then kept walking. Half a mile down the road, I turned back.

​​‍​The way he lay there reminded me of myself—just as alone. Maybe if I brought him home, I’d have company. And the village hadn’t been safe lately—several households had been robbed. Living in that broken-down cottage by myself, a woman alone—I was afraid, though I hated to admit it.

​​‍​That’s how I convinced myself.

​​‍​I struggled to haul him onto the ale cart and pushed him all the way home. Getting his wounds treated cost me most of my savings—I had to fetch a doctor from town. When he woke, he said he had nowhere to go. So he stayed. We lived together, just like that.

​​‍​I knew Edward had a life before he came to this village, just as I’d had mine. But I was afraid to ask—afraid that if I did, this companionship we’d built might shatter. That he might leave.

​​‍​Maybe I’d always known he would leave someday. I just hadn’t imagined he’d have friends like this—friends from London, dressed in velvet and lace, elegant and refined in ways I could never be.

​​‍​Then Charlotte’s gloved hand closed around his wrist, casual as anything, as though she were simply steadying herself on the uneven path. “We really should hurry, Edward. The meeting is at four.”

​​‍​He took the coat from me, his fingers brushing mine. “Thank you, Bess.”

​​‍​His voice was quiet. Almost apologetic.

​​‍​Then they turned and walked back down the path, Charlotte guiding him with that light touch on his arm, already talking to him about something I couldn’t hear. Edward didn’t look back.

​​‍​I stood in the yard, my hands still damp from the barrels, watching them disappear around the bend.

​​‍​He’d be back, I told myself. He promised.

​​‍​I made supper just as the sun was setting. Stew with the vegetables from the garden, fresh bread I’d baked that morning. I set out two bowls, two spoons, two cups. His place across from mine.

​​‍​The light through the window turned gold, then amber, then gray.

​​‍​I sat down to wait.

​​‍​The stew grew cold. A skin formed on the surface, thick and unappetizing. I got up, stirred it, added more wood to the fire. Sat back down.

​​‍​Outside, the sky deepened to violet. I could hear the village settling in for the night—the Widow Miller calling her chickens, someone’s dog barking in the distance, the creak of shutters being closed.

​​‍​I went to the door. Opened it. Looked down the path.

​​‍​Nothing.

​​‍​Just the empty road, the trees dark against the last light of day.

​​‍​I told myself he’d said a few hours. Maybe Charlotte’s business had taken longer than expected. Maybe they’d stopped at the inn in town for something to eat. He’d be back soon. Any moment now.

​​‍​I closed the door. Went back to the table.

​​‍​The bread had gone hard at the edges. I broke off a piece anyway, chewed it without tasting. Washed it down with water.

​​‍​His bowl sat there, waiting. The spoon I’d laid beside it gleamed dully in the firelight.

​​‍​I thought about Charlotte. The way she’d looked at our cottage, at the brewing equipment in the yard, at me in my rough work dress and apron.

​​‍​That flicker in her eyes—not quite disgust, but close. The look you give something quaint. Curious. Beneath you.

​​‍​And Edward. The way he’d hesitated when I held out his coat. That complicated expression on his face, there and gone so quickly I’d almost missed it.

​​‍​I’d seen that look before, I realized. Small moments over the years.

​​‍​When he thought I wasn’t watching. A shadow crossing his face, brief as a cloud passing over the sun.

​​‍​The fire burned low. I added more wood, though the room was already too warm.

​​‍​Midnight came and went. I knew because I heard the church bell in the village, faint but clear in the stillness. Twelve slow tolls.

​​‍​I didn’t move from the table.

​​‍​My hands were folded in front of me, still and cold. I looked at them—rough from work, the nails cut short, a small burn scar on my left thumb from when I’d been careless with the brewing kettles last month. Working hands. Common hands.

​​‍​Charlotte’s hands had been soft in their gloves. Pale. Delicate.

​​‍​I stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor.

​​‍​The stew had congealed completely now, a thick layer of fat on top. I carried my bowl to the table and ate it anyway, cold and unappetizing as it was. Waste nothing—that’s how I’d learned to live. His portion I carried to the slop bucket and dumped it. Congealed like that, it was beyond saving.

​​‍​The leftover bread was stale now. I broke it into pieces and took it outside, scattered it for the chickens scratching in the yard. They came running, soft clucking sounds in the darkness.

​​‍​I washed my bowl, the spoon, put them away. Banked the fire.

​​‍​Then I sat back down at the table.

​​‍​The cottage felt very large suddenly, and very empty. Every sound seemed magnified—the settling of the roof beams, the wind against the shutters, my own breathing.

​​‍​I thought about the barrels still waiting in the yard. He’d promised to help me move them. Don’t try it yourself, he’d said. Wait for me.

​​‍​I’d waited.

​​‍​Outside, an owl called. Another answered from somewhere in the woods.

​​‍​I folded my arms on the table, rested my head on them. Not sleeping.

​​‍​Just waiting. The wood of the table was smooth under my cheek, worn soft by three years of meals, of Edward sitting across from me with that gentle smile, of mornings when he’d bring in eggs from the neighbor’s chickens we fed in exchange for ale, of evenings when we’d sit and talk while I mended and he carved small things from wood.

​​‍​The first year, he’d made me a stool. Simple, sturdy, useful. I still used it every day.

​​‍​The second year, a carved wooden spoon.

​​‍​I’d understood what that meant. In our village, when a man gives a woman a wooden spoon, carved by his own hand—it means something. It means forever. Or so I’d thought.

​​‍​This year he’d given me nothing. Had forgotten entirely, I think.

​​‍​I lifted my head. The room was darker now. The fire had died to embers.

​​‍​He wasn’t coming back tonight.

​​‍​I knew it the way you know a storm is coming—some shift in the air, some instinct deeper than thought.

​​‍​But still I sat there. Still I waited.

​​‍​Because what else could I do?

​​‍​The day passed the way days do when you’re trying not to think.

​​‍​I rose at dawn, fed the chickens, checked the fermenting barrels. The ale needed attention—it always did. I stirred, measured, added hops.

​​‍​My hands knew the work even when my mind was elsewhere.

​​‍​By midday the barrels still needed moving. I started shifting them one by one. Heavy work—slower alone than with two people, but not impossible. I moved two of them, sweat running down my back, arms aching. Four more to go.

​​‍​I stopped to rest. The rest could wait until afternoon.

​​‍​By afternoon I’d moved the last of them. Then I gave up on work entirely. Brought out the small stool—the one Edward had made—and sat by the door. Watching the road.

​​‍​The sun moved across the sky. Shadows lengthened.

​​‍​He didn’t come back.

​​‍​“Well now, that’s a sight.”

​​‍​I looked up. The Widow Miller stood at the wall between our properties, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her weathered face.

​​‍​I didn’t answer.

​​‍​“Waiting for your man?” She came closer, leaning against the wall.

​​‍​“Saw him yesterday, you know. At the inn with that fancy woman.” She paused, a smile playing at her lips. “Let me guess—he told you it was business? Business! What business could he possibly have? Boy doesn’t even own a decent coat that you didn’t make for him.”

​​‍​I kept my eyes on the road. Let out a small sigh.

​​‍​“Three years ago, you dragged him home half-dead. Paid good money for the doctor from town—money you could barely spare. Stopped brewing entirely for weeks, just to nurse him.” The Widow’s voice took on that edge women use when they’re being cruel for your own good. “I told you then, girl. Told you you were a fool. Betting everything on some stranger from God knows where, didn’t even know his story. What were you thinking?”

​​‍​“I wasn’t,” I said quietly.

​​‍​“That’s the truth of it.” She shook her head. “And now look. Three years you’ve kept him, and he’s all cleaned up, handsome and proper.

​​‍​What a bargain for that London lady.” She clicked her tongue. “Left you with nothing, hasn’t he?”

​​‍​I wanted to say he’d left me something. The stool. The spoon. Three years of not being alone. But I didn’t say it out loud.

​​‍​The sun was setting now, the sky turning amber. Already the second evening.

​​‍​“If he’s leaving, you get something back. Don’t you go being a fool and asking for nothing.” She leaned forward, let out a short laugh.

​​‍​“That doctor—how much did that cost you? And three years of keeping him? That’s got to count for something, girl. Three years of your youth isn’t worth just a handful of coins.”

​​‍​I nodded slowly. The doctor had been expensive. Five pounds at least.

​​‍​“The money he’s earned these past years helping folks around the village—you’ve been keeping that for him, haven’t you?”

​​‍​“Yes.”

​​‍​“Good. That’s his, fair enough. But what you spent—that you ask for back. You hear me?”

​​‍​The Widow pushed away from the wall, started back toward her cottage.

​​‍​“And don’t sit out here all night looking pitiful. Makes the rest of us sad just watching you.”

​​‍​I sat there a while longer after she’d gone. The sky deepened from amber to violet to gray.

​​‍​My stomach was empty. I stood up, looked one last time at the empty road.

​​‍​Enough. Wasn’t waiting anymore.

​​‍​Inside, I lit a candle, sat at the table. Made myself eat some bread, drink some water.

​​‍​Then I went to the wooden box where we kept the money. Opened it.

​​‍​Counted it out.

​​‍​Eight pounds in smaller coins—his earnings. Twelve pounds I’d saved over the years.

​​‍​Twenty pounds total. Two more years of saving, and I’d have enough to build a brick cottage.

​​‍​I’d thought that’s how it would go, thought he’d stay, we’d save together, buy some land, build a solid brick cottage that wouldn’t leak. No more worrying about the roof when it rained hard, no more freezing wind coming through the cracks in winter.

​​‍​Didn’t look like that anymore.

​​‍​If he was leaving, then I’d give him his eight pounds. I’d keep my twelve.

​​‍​Getting the doctor that year had cost five pounds. Three years of food and lodging, that wasn’t cheap either…

​​‍​I did the math. If we were husband and wife, shouldn’t expenses be split in half? So he’d owe me…

​​‍​I was coming out behind.

​​‍​But we’d said we were married. Married people split things like that, don’t they?

​​‍​I closed the box. That was that, then.

​​‍​I sat at the empty table, the candle burning low.

​​‍​Yesterday, the way he’d said my name. So soft, so careful.

​​‍​Almost apologetic.

​​‍​Like he’d already decided.

​​‍​He came back on the third day.

​​‍​I was in the yard, checking the barrels, when I heard footsteps on the path. I felt a jolt. I straightened up, wiped my hands on my apron.

​​‍​Edward.

​​‍​He was alone.

​​‍​He looked tired. His coat—the one I’d given him—was dusty from the road. But he was smiling, that gentle smile I knew so well, and he was carrying something wrapped in brown paper.

​​‍​“Bess,” he said, and there was that softness in his voice again.

​​‍​“I’m sorry I was away so long.”

​​‍​I stood there, my hands still damp. I’d had three days to think about what I’d say when he came back. Three days of questions building up inside me. Where had he been? What had Charlotte wanted? Why hadn’t he come home that first night like he’d promised?

​​‍​But looking at him now, standing there in the afternoon sun, I found I couldn’t ask any of it.

​​‍​“I brought you something.” He held out the package. “Your favorite. I went all the way to town specially to get it.”

​​‍​I took it. The paper was still warm. I unwrapped it carefully.

​​‍​Chelsea buns. The kind the baker in town made, with currants spiraled through the dough and sugar glaze still sticky on top. Expensive. The sort of thing I never bought for myself.

​​‍​“You remembered,” I said quietly.

​​‍​“Of course I remembered.” He stepped closer. “I know you love these.”

​​‍​The tightness in my chest eased. All those questions, all that hurt from the past three days—it softened, just a little. He’d thought of me.

​​‍​He’d gone out of his way, spent money we didn’t really have, just to bring me something he knew I’d like.

​​‍​Maybe the Widow was wrong. Maybe Charlotte was just business after all.

​​‍​Maybe I’d been sitting here worrying over nothing.

​​‍​I pulled off a piece of the bun. It was still soft, still fresh. The sugar melted on my tongue, sweet and rich, the currants bursting with flavor.

​​‍​“Thank you,” I said. “It’s good.”

​​‍​Edward smiled, and for a moment it was like before. Like the past three days hadn’t happened. Like we were just us again, Edward and Bess, living our quiet life together.

​​‍​Then his expression shifted slightly. He cleared his throat. “Bess, there’s something I need to ask you.”

​​‍​I looked up at him.

​​‍​“Charlotte’s business in town is taking longer than expected. She needs somewhere to stay for a few days.” He paused. “I told her she could stay here. Could you prepare the best room in the house for her?

​​‍​Somewhere comfortable.”

​​‍​The best room. We only had the one bedroom. The one with our bed, with Edward’s shirts hanging on pegs, with my mending basket in the corner.

​​‍​Before I could answer, I heard light footsteps behind me.

​​‍​I turned. Charlotte was coming up the path, picking her way carefully in her fine leather boots. She was dressed in traveling clothes—deep blue with jet buttons that caught the afternoon light. She was smiling.

​​‍​“There you are, Edward,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wait too long.”

​​‍​She’d been waiting. Outside. While Edward talked to me.

​​‍​She reached us, gave me a brief nod. “Bess. How lovely to see you again.”

​​‍​I clutched the bun in my hands, a weight settling in my chest.

​​‍​The sweetness was still on my tongue, but it had turned cloying, almost bitter. I swallowed hard, then nodded.

​​‍​“I’ll show you to the room,” I said.

​​‍​“That would be lovely.” Charlotte smiled politely, something sharp and knowing flickering in her eyes.

​​‍​I led her inside, Edward following behind us. As we passed through the main room, I wiped my hands on my apron, cleaning off the sticky sugar glaze.

​​‍​In the bedroom, I stood for a moment, looking around. The bed with its worn quilt that I’d carefully made this morning. The small window that let in the morning sun. Edward’s shirts hanging on pegs. My mending basket in the corner. The wooden box where we kept our money, sitting on the shelf Edward had built into the wall.

​​‍​This was my room. Our room.

​​‍​I started stripping the bed.

​​‍​Charlotte stood in the doorway, watching. Her keen eyes took in every detail of the room. Her gaze stopped on the pegs where Edward’s shirts hung.

​​‍​Something flickered across her face—just for an instant. A tightening around her eyes. Her mouth pressed thin.

​​‍​Then it was gone, replaced by that pleasant smile.

​​‍​She stepped further into the room. “It’s quite… cozy.”

​​‍​I pulled the quilt off the bed, started folding it.

​​‍​Charlotte moved to the window, looked out at the yard. “This must be quite a change for you,” she said. “Having a guest.”

​​‍​“We don’t get many visitors,” I said.

​​‍​“No, I imagine you don’t.” She turned to face me. “Edward speaks very highly of you, you know. He says you saved his life.”

​​‍​I didn’t answer. Just pulled off the top sheet, shook it out.

​​‍​“He’s very grateful,” she continued, watching me work. “I can see why. You’ve clearly taken such good care of him.” She paused.

​​‍​He’s grateful? Why was she the one telling me my husband was grateful?

​​‍​I stopped, the sheet bunched in my hands.

​​‍​“Like a very devoted servant would.” She smiled, a small twist of her lips. “I mean that as a compliment, of course. It’s quite admirable, really. How well you’ve looked after him all this time.”

​​‍​I finished folding the sheet. “I’ll wash these and bring you fresh ones.”

​​‍​“How thoughtful.” She glanced around the room once more. Her eyes lingered on Edward’s shirts again. On the small shelf with our things.

​​‍​On the bed I was stripping bare for her.

​​‍​Then she turned toward the door where Edward was standing, watching us.

​​‍​She asked suddenly, “I just noticed—there are no other rooms? If I take this one, where will you sleep?”

​​‍​I clutched the bedding, my words coming slowly. “The work shed—”

​​‍​She turned to Edward. “Edward, really. I understand you want to be kind to me, but you can’t possibly make Bess sleep in the work shed.” Her tone was gently chiding, almost playful.

​​‍​“That won’t do at all.” She shook her head, looking concerned. “I think I’ll stay at the inn in town instead.”

​​‍​Edward paused. “Are you sure? A young woman alone at an inn—I don’t feel comfortable with that.”

​​‍​He didn’t feel comfortable. But last night, the night before—me alone in this cottage with its broken lock, its door anyone could push open—that hadn’t worried him at all.

​​‍​“It’s fine. I know you’re concerned for me.” She glanced back at me, just briefly, something unreadable in her eyes.

​​‍​“Very well,” Charlotte said, already moving toward the door. “But you should hurry, you know.” Her voice dropped lower, but still clear enough for me to hear. “Get things sorted out properly. Time is rather important now.”

​​‍​Edward glanced at me, then back at Charlotte. “I understand.”

​​‍​“Good.” She touched his arm lightly. “I’ll see myself out. You stay and… explain things to Bess.”

​​‍​She left. I heard her footsteps crossing the main room, then the sound of the door.

​​‍​Edward stood in the doorway, looking at me. I stood there holding the bundled sheets, looking at the half-stripped bed.

​​‍​“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have asked you first. Before telling her she could stay.”

​​‍​I didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say.

​​‍​“I’ll help you put the bed back together,” he said.

​​‍​“It’s fine,” I said. “I can do it.”

​​‍​“Bess—”

​​‍​“What did she mean?” I asked. “Get things sorted out properly. What things?”

​​‍​He was quiet for a moment. “Just… the business matters. In town.”

​​‍​“The business matters,” I repeated.

​​‍​“Yes.” He stepped into the room. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

​​‍​I looked at him. At his tired face, his dusty coat, his careful expression. At the way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.

​​‍​“All right,” I said.

​​‍​I started putting the bed back together. Edward stood there for a moment longer, then left.

​​‍​Through the window, I could see him walking back down the path, heading toward town. Toward Charlotte.

​​‍​I sat down on the edge of the bed I’d just remade.

​​‍​The cottage was very quiet.

​​‍​All that work for nothing, I thought. Maybe she’d never meant to stay.

​​‍​Or maybe she’d just wanted to see—wanted to watch me scramble to prepare a room for her. Wanted to see where Edward slept, what he had, who he lived with.

​​‍​Wanted to make me feel small.

​​‍​And it had worked.

​​‍​I didn’t sleep that night.

​​‍​Edward came back after dark. He ate the supper I’d left out—cold by then—said nothing. When he came to bed, his back was to me.

​​‍​I listened to his breathing. In, out, in, out. It steadied quickly.

​​‍​Asleep, or pretending to be.

​​‍​Wind rattled the window frame. I stared at the ceiling in the darkness, thinking about the afternoon. Charlotte standing in the bedroom doorway.

​​‍​The way her mouth had tightened when her eyes stopped on Edward’s shirts. Her smile when she’d said “like a devoted servant.”

​​‍​I turned over. The quilt rustled in the dark.

​​‍​Later I must have slept, because when I woke the space beside me was empty.

​​‍​I sat up, reached across. The sheet where he’d lain was still warm.

​​‍​Sounds from the main room. Footsteps, light, then the door opening.

​​‍​I got up, went to the window. In the moonlight, Edward was walking down the path. Not toward the privy.

​​‍​He had no coat.

​​‍​Cold night like this.

​​‍​I grabbed his coat from the peg, wrapped my shawl around my shoulders.

​​‍​The leather of my boots was ice against my fingers.

​​‍​Outside, the wind was sharper than I’d expected. I could see my breath in white clouds. Edward had reached the end of the path already, turning toward the road.

​​‍​I followed, keeping to the tree shadows. Gravel crunched under my boots.

​​‍​I tried to step lighter.

​​‍​Then I saw her.

​​‍​Charlotte, standing where the path met the road. Moonlight outlined her shape. When Edward approached, she stepped forward.

​​‍​I stopped, drew back behind a tree. They were speaking, voices low.

​​‍​I crept closer, keeping to the shadows. There was a low stone wall at the edge of the neighbor’s property. I ducked behind it.

​​‍​Now I could hear.

​​‍​“—can’t keep putting this off.” Charlotte’s voice, cold. “Your brother’s wedding is in three weeks. Three weeks, Edward. Once he marries, it’s over.”

​​‍​Brother. Wedding.

​​‍​I gripped the coat tighter.

​​‍​“I know,” Edward said, quiet.

​​‍​“Do you? Then why are you still here?” A pause. “Your father is dead.

​​‍​Your brother took everything that should have been yours—the title, the estates, all of it. He’s consolidating now. If you don’t come back, you never will.”

​​‍​Title.

​​‍​Estates.

​​‍​I leaned against the wall. The cold, maybe, or something else—my body was shaking.

​​‍​“I need time to explain to her,” Edward said.

​​‍​“Explain what? That you’re not who she thinks you are? That you’re the eldest son of the Earl of Hartwood, not some vagrant she found bleeding by the road?” Charlotte’s voice went colder. “That you’ve been hiding here for three years because your brother tried to kill you?”

​​‍​The coat slipped from my hands. I caught it before it fell.

​​‍​Earl of Hartwood.

​​‍​Eldest son.

​​‍​“Charlotte—”

​​‍​“Enough, Edward. My father is dying. He wants to see us married before he goes. Your title, your inheritance—it all depends on you coming back now. Before your brother’s wedding, before the Lords confirm him.

​​‍​Every day you wait, he grows stronger.”

​​‍​“I know.”

​​‍​“Then why hesitate? Because of her?” A pause. “She’s a kind girl, I’m sure. But she’s not your wife, Edward. We’re the ones with the marriage contract.”

​​‍​Silence.

​​‍​The wind moved through the trees, rustling.

​​‍​“I’ll tell her,” Edward said finally. “Soon.”

​​‍​“Good. I’ll come back in a few days. Then we leave.”Charlotte’s tone softened slightly. “I know this isn’t easy. But you have responsibilities—your family, your name, your title. You can’t just throw them away.”

​​‍​“I’m not throwing them away,” Edward said. “I’m well aware.”

​​‍​“You’re three years late.” She cut across him. “Settle things with the girl. Give her money if it helps your conscience. But tomorrow we leave.”

​​‍​Footsteps. Charlotte walking toward the road. Edward standing there, then turning back after a moment.

​​‍​I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just crouched behind the wall, the coat clutched in my hands.

​​‍​Earl of Hartwood’s eldest son.

​​‍​Charlotte is his wife. Or will be.

​​‍​Three years. I’d saved his life, kept him, clothed him, slept beside him. Three years.

​​‍​He’d never said a word.

​​‍​I heard the door close.

​​‍​I still didn’t move. Just crouched there behind the wall, the coat in my hands. The wind pulled at my shawl, cold air creeping under my nightdress, into my bones.

​​‍​Finally I moved. I had to get back before him.

​​‍​I kept to the shadows, moving quickly. Around the side of the cottage.

​​‍​He was taking the front path—I went through the window.

​​‍​Quiet. So quiet.

​​‍​I got into bed, lay still. I could hear my pulse in my ears. I closed my eyes, tried to even my breathing.

​​‍​The door opened. I heard Edward come in, his footsteps crossing the room. He came to the bed, then stopped.

​​‍​He stood there. Minutes passed. I kept my eyes closed, kept my breathing steady.

​​‍​Then I felt his hand. Reaching toward me, stopping just above my shoulder. Hovering there in the dark. His fingers trembled.

​​‍​Then he pulled back.

​​‍​The bed shifted. He got in.

​​‍​For a moment, nothing. Just the two of us lying there in the darkness, not touching.

​​‍​Then his arm came around me. Pulled me against him. Held me tight.

​​‍​I didn’t resist. Didn’t move. Just let him hold me.

​​‍​His face pressed against my hair. His breathing uneven.

​​‍​We lay like that. I don’t know how long. His arm around me, holding on like I might disappear if he let go.

​​‍​After a while, his breathing steadied. His grip loosened slightly, but didn’t let go.

​​‍​I lay there in his arms, eyes open in the dark, staring at nothing.

​​‍​Tomorrow he’d leave.

​​‍​And I’d be alone again. Like before. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what alone felt like—after Mother died, I’d lived by myself for years. I knew. But I’d gotten used to Edward. Used to another person in the house, someone to make supper for, someone’s weight beside me in the bed. Used to not being the only one.

​​‍​Now I’d have to learn it all over again.

​​‍​His breathing had evened out now. Asleep, or pretending to be. His arm still around me.

​​‍​I closed my eyes.

​​‍​All night we lay like that.

​​‍​And in the morning, we’d pretend this hadn’t happened.

​​‍​The next day, I kept working.

​​‍​The brewing didn’t stop. Barrels to check, chickens to feed, the usual.

​​‍​I did what I always did.

​​‍​But that evening, I started something new.

​​‍​I’d been saving wool for over a year. Good wool, the kind that cost more than I wanted to spend. I’d been thinking maybe next winter I’d make Edward a proper sweater.

​​‍​Now I started knitting it.

​​‍​If I worked fast, pushed through the nights, I could finish it in a few days.

​​‍​After supper, I sat by the fire with my needles. The yarn grew slowly into sleeves, into a body. Something warm for when it got cold.

​​‍​Edward came in from helping at the neighbor’s farm, saw me there by the fire, and stopped.

​​‍​Just stood there looking. His expression shifted—loss? Regret? It was gone before I could name it.

​​‍​But he didn’t ask what I was making. Didn’t say anything.

​​‍​I cooked more too.