The house stirred earlier than usual that morning, as though the very walls anticipated her removal. Servants moved briskly through the corridors, carrying trunks and boxes, while her aunt supervised with relentless precision, issuing orders in tones sharp enough to cut the air. It was all conducted with the air of necessity, as though the girl herself were some delicate parcel to be conveyed elsewhere, safely out of reach of rumour and disgrace.
She stood at her window, hands clasped tightly upon the sill, gazing at the familiar garden that stretched before her. Every stone, every leaf seemed charged with memory—the path where she had once run as a child, the bench where she had sat with a book on summer days, the orchard beyond where joy had flowered into love. Soon all of it would be left behind, sealed away like a chapter in a book she was forbidden to reopen.
Her aunt entered without ceremony. "The carriage will be ready within the hour," she declared. "I trust you are prepared. Your uncle has been informed and expects you by evening. While you are there, I expect obedience and propriety. No letters, no wandering, no foolishness. Do I make myself plain?"
The girl inclined her head, offering no protest. To resist now would be to fuel her aunt's fury further, and besides, her heart was too heavy for words. She thought of the vow made by the river—that love would endure, that distance was but a shadow—and held fast to it as though it were the only rope keeping her from falling into despair.
---
Across the village, he too felt the sting of exile. His brother had risen at dawn, pressing coins into his hand and declaring that the arrangements were made. "You will leave tomorrow," the elder man said, his voice final. "The farm near Oakleigh has need of hands, and you will be of use there. Better that than idling here, feeding scandal with every breath."
He clenched the coins in his fist, his pride burning, his heart aching with the thought of being driven away like a wayward child. Yet he did not protest, for his vow to her gave him strength. He would endure exile if it meant preserving her honour, if it meant keeping alive even the smallest chance of reunion.
That evening he walked alone by the river where they had parted, watching the water flow with its calm indifference. The banks were empty now, the mist rising once more, but in his mind he saw her still—her tearful eyes, her trembling smile, the echo of her voice promising that love endures. He whispered her name into the dusk, as though the river might carry it to her across the miles that would soon divide them.
---
The carriage came at last. She was seated within, the door closed upon her, her aunt opposite her with a stern, unyielding face. The wheels turned, and with each jolt upon the stones, the world she had known receded further behind her.
She tried to keep her eyes upon the window, to fix in her memory the sights she might never see again—the church spire rising above the rooftops, the meadow where wildflowers had once brushed against her gown, the orchard just visible at the edge of the lane. When at last they passed beyond sight of the village, her tears fell silently, each one a prayer that she might return, that love might somehow bridge the distance now enforced.
Her aunt, perceiving the tears, spoke with unbending severity. "It is for your good, child. You will thank me one day, when folly has left you. Affections such as yours are dangerous—they blind, they corrupt. Better to endure a little sorrow now than a lifetime of disgrace."
The girl turned her face to the window, unwilling to answer. In her heart she whispered, Love is not folly. Love is the only truth I have ever known.
---
At her uncle's house she was received with courtesy, but also with the careful distance of those who knew more than they admitted. Her uncle, though kinder than her aunt, spoke often of discipline, of the need to preserve the family's reputation. Her cousins regarded her with curiosity, whispering when they thought she could not hear. She moved through the days as through a dream, her body present, her spirit elsewhere.
And yet, in the stillness of her chamber, hope flickered. For one evening, when her aunt had retired early and the household lay quiet, a knock came faintly at her door. A maid slipped inside, her eyes glancing nervously toward the hall. In her hand was a folded paper.
With trembling fingers, she opened it.
"Beloved, though they drive us from one another, yet know that distance cannot quench what is eternal. Write when you may, and I shall find a way to answer. The road is long, but my heart walks beside yours in every step. — Yours"
She pressed the letter to her lips, her tears falling upon the ink. The vow was alive. Across miles, across walls and watchful eyes, he had reached her. The silence of exile was broken, if only by a single scrap of paper.
---
And so began a new chapter of their love—no longer nourished by glances in orchards or whispered words by the river, but by letters, carried in secret, fragile as birds in flight. Each line became a lifeline, each word a bridge across the chasm of distance.
Though parted, they endured. For love, once rooted, does not yield so easily to the winds of circumstance.