Catherine –
Five years had ground away the sharp edges of their fall from grace, leaving only the smoothed bones of memory. The glittering haze of ballroom chandeliers, the polished scent of beeswax and roses, the sunlit sweep of the manor's drawing rooms—those belonged to another lifetime. Now, her days were measured in rows of mended seams, baskets of washed wool, and the relentless turning of seasons.
Winters here could bite straight through the thickest coat. Springs came with mud and lambing, summers with fields that shimmered under heat until the air wavered, and autumns with the tang of woodsmoke curling around bare branches. Life had a rhythm, but it was the rhythm of survival.
"Catherine!" Abigail's voice cut across the low creak of the wind against the shutters.
She looked up from the shirt she was darning, the needle poised between thumb and forefinger. Abigail stood in the doorway, her hair bound back in a loose knot, strands escaping like pale threads. There was strain in her voice, as there had been every day for the last five years—a tension forged from long hours and heavier burdens. Yet in her eyes, there was also the same stubborn glint Catherine had always known.
"Have you finished the mending?"
Almost. But Catherine's hands lingered on the fabric a moment longer, the worn cotton soft under her fingers, patched so many times it no longer resembled the original garment. "Nearly."
She rose, stretching her back, and glanced toward the window. Beyond the yard, past the line of weathered fence posts, the forest stood in silent attendance, the fog curling low through the undergrowth. A chill swept over her, though the fire still burned in the hearth. It was the same feeling she'd had on certain days—like something out there was aware of her, waiting.
Abigail swept into the room, the door rattling on its hinges. The small chamber, one of the farmhouse's two upper rooms, was already thick with the warmth of too many bodies and the faint tang of damp wool. Four narrow beds lined the walls, their patchwork quilts faded to the color of old leaves. Beneath the single small window, a draft curled around Catherine's ankles as she bent over her work.
"I've not yet finished," Catherine murmured without looking up, the needle sliding through the worn hem of Kitty's dress. The youngest sister sat cross-legged on her own bed, eyes wide, fingers worrying the frayed edge of her blanket.
"You must work faster," Abigail said, her voice tight, as if every word had to be forced past clenched teeth. "There's mending, laundry, floors to scrub. If you dawdle like this, we'll be drowning in work before the day's out."
Catherine bit back her reply. She could have pointed out that Abigail's hands were ringless and idle, that Emma was no stranger to idleness either. But she'd learned long ago that some truths—spoken aloud—did nothing but make the walls seem smaller.
"Has Catherine finished?" Emma's voice preceded her into the room. She carried her own gown like an offering, the pale fabric trailing over her arms.
"She has not," Abigail said flatly.
Emma sighed and dropped onto the narrow bed beside her sister, skirts billowing in the stale air. "You must learn efficiency, Catherine. We cannot do everything while you stitch at a snail's pace. Abigail, Kitty, and I—" she paused, adjusting the fall of her hair, "—we must keep ourselves ready for the day we return to town. Our friends will be expecting us. A marriage can't be made in rags."
Abigail gave a sharp nod, and Kitty's gaze slid toward Catherine, as though hoping she might turn the argument into laughter. Catherine only threaded her needle again, letting the sound of the wind pressing against the shutters answer for her.
Outside the window, the forest loomed, black-green in the fading light. It was a living wall, unbroken, its breath cold against the glass.
The kitchen smelled faintly of smoke and boiled potatoes, a poor supper left cooling on the scarred table. The lamplight wavered with the winter wind pressing against the farmhouse walls, throwing their father's shadow long and thin across the room.
"Sit down, all of you," he said, his voice carrying a weight that drew them from corners and upstairs rooms. Abigail came first, smoothing her hair as if expecting a guest. Emma followed with a quick rustle of skirts, her eyes flicking to her father's worn coat and scuffed boots. Catherine guided Kitty in by the hand, settling the child beside her before taking her own seat. The brothers lingered in the doorway, their faces unreadable.
"I've had a letter," their father began, the paper trembling faintly in his hand. The edges were softened with handling, as if he'd read it again and again before speaking. "An old acquaintance in town has approached me with an opportunity. A business venture that—" his eyes shone with a rare spark—"could bring us back from the brink. If it succeeds, we may reclaim what was lost… perhaps even return to the life your mother knew."
Abigail's lips parted in something close to a smile. "In town?" she asked, the hope in her tone barely tempered by caution.
"Yes. I must go at once," he said, his gaze sweeping over them. "It is a risk, but a worthy one. If I can secure this deal, it will mean an end to this… hardship." He glanced around at the patched curtains, the chipped plates stacked by the hearth. "You deserve better."
Emma leaned forward, her voice brightening. "And you'll bring us news when you return? Perhaps even something from the dressmaker?"
He smiled faintly, though there was no promise in it. "If fortune favors us, you may have more than ribbons."
Catherine said nothing. She studied the way his fingers tightened around the letter, how the lines at his mouth deepened—not with joy, but with strain. She had learned to read those signs.
Kitty's voice was small. "How long will you be gone?"
"Only a few days, little one," he murmured. "Keep the fire lit. And mind the forest—don't stray too far. The woods grow… restless in winter."
His words left a faint shiver in the air. Catherine saw the way her father's eyes lingered on the dark window, as though the night itself might be listening.