The morning after the Assembly dawned cold and grey, the frost still clinging stubbornly to the garden paths. Inside the house, however, the chill had nothing to do with the weather. His father's voice carried through the halls, sharp and thunderous, as though every stone in the manor might bear witness to his displeasure.
"You humiliated this family," his father roared across the breakfast table, his fist striking the oak surface so hard the silverware rattled. "Before half the county! To proclaim such folly — to choose disgrace over honour!"
He sat in silence, his cup of tea untouched, his eyes fixed steadily upon his father. His calm only enraged the older man further.
"Do you understand what you have done? The Wexfords will not forget this insult. Nor will the world forget that my son spurned duty for the sake of… of—"
His father's voice faltered, unwilling even to name her, as though her existence were too lowly for his lips.
"For the sake of love," he said quietly, his tone firm.
His mother flinched, tears brimming though she dared not speak. His sister looked on with open triumph, her smirk curving as though she had waited years for this very downfall.
"You are dismissed," his father spat at last. "From this house, from this family, from all claims to inheritance. Take your books, your poetry, your childish dreams — they shall not buy you bread when the world casts you aside."
He rose slowly, the chair scraping the polished floor. "Then so be it," he answered. "Better to starve with truth than feast upon lies."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving the echoes of fury to crash against the walls behind him.
---
News, as it so often does, travelled faster than letters. By the following evening, the whispers had already reached her quiet village, borne upon the wagging tongues of those who thrived upon scandal.
"They say he caused a scene at the Assembly," murmured Mrs. Hale, the baker's wife, as she leaned across the counter. "Declared himself for some nameless girl. Can you imagine? His poor family!"
Her heart had pounded as she pretended to inspect the loaves. A scene? Declared himself? The words set her blood racing, though she dared not let her face betray her. She hurried home, the bread forgotten in her satchel, and sat down hard at her little desk, trying to still her trembling hands.
He spoke. He defied them. He chose me.
Tears of relief pricked her eyes. The weight of rumours she had borne for weeks began to lift, replaced by a light that was both joy and dread. Joy — that he had kept his vow. Dread — at the cost of such defiance.
That night, she wrote with a fervour that poured straight from her heart.
Beloved,
The world carries tales of your bravery to ears unworthy of it, yet it is I who feel their weight most keenly. They say you spoke truth before all, that you cast aside what was expected to hold fast to what is ours. Oh, how proud I am, how fiercely grateful — yet how fearful, too. For I know the wrath such truth invites. Tell me you are safe. Tell me your heart is not crushed by the scorn they surely heap upon you. If you have lost all else, know you still have me, and I am enough.
She sealed the letter with trembling hands and prayed that the roads would carry it swiftly, though she knew each mile was another barrier between them.
---
Meanwhile, he had already felt the bite of exile. His chamber was stripped of its comforts, his name stricken from ledgers. Servants who once bowed now turned coldly away, as though obedience followed only the scent of power. His father's decree had spread through the household like wildfire: he was no longer heir, no longer son, no longer worthy of deference.
Yet in the silence of his stripped chamber, he felt an odd peace. His possessions had been taken, but not his words. His place had been denied, but not his love. In losing everything, he had kept the one thing that mattered most.
Still, he knew the path ahead was fraught with peril. Without family, without fortune, he would need to carve a life with his own hands, and the world was not gentle to dreamers. Yet when he thought of her — her eyes alight with faith, her hands folded around his letters — courage rose like fire in his chest.
That evening, by the dim light of a solitary candle, he took up his pen once more.
My dearest,
The Assembly is behind me, yet the storm it has loosed still rages. My father has cast me out; I am heir no longer, son no longer, nothing but a man with his own two hands and the heart that belongs to you. Do not fear for me. If I must labour, I will. If I must wander, I will. Every path, every hardship, I will bear gladly so long as it leads me to you. What is a name, a fortune, a house of stone, compared to the truth we share? Let them strip me bare; they cannot touch what is ours.
Hold fast. I am coming to you, though the road be long and bitter. Wait for me, as I wait for the day when no whisper, no chain, no distance may stand between us.
He set down the pen, his chest aching with the weight of resolve. Beyond the window, the night stretched vast and cold, yet in its stillness he felt her presence, as though the stars themselves carried her whispers back to him.
---
And so, two hearts waited — one in quiet exile, stripped of all but love; the other in anxious faith, clinging to the promise of his defiance. The world might sneer, families might scorn, but in the silence between them, love grew fiercer, forged by fire, unbreakable.
The cost of defiance was high. Yet neither doubted, not for a moment, that it was worth paying.