Chapter 4
“You haven’t the faintest idea what you just destroyed,” I snapped, my voice tight with fury.
William sneered, flashed with rage. “Who cares? It’s just broken junk. You’re using it to lay claim to a hall that doesn’t belong to you.” With a shove, he sent me sprawling.
My palms scraped against the cobbles, sharp pain biting through the shock. Alice rushed to me at once. “Milady, are you hurt?”
I ignored the sting and pushed myself upright, eyes locked on my brother. “This is Hawthorne Manor. And I am the Lady of this house. Every stone beneath my feet, every loaf of bread at my table–that’s my birthright. Whether I share it is up to me. Not you.‘”
From the doorway, Beatrice’s voice drifted in like a breeze too sweet to be trusted. “It’s my fault, Eleanor. Please don’t blame
William.”
She stepped forward, skirts whispering across the flagstones, eyes resting on the red print I’d left on William’s cheek. “I’m fine in the east wing,” she added softly. “You didn’t have to fight for this place.”
William snapped back to life, seizing her wrist and lifting it. “You’re breaking out. Look at this–your skin can’t bear that wing. You shouldn’t be sleeping In such damp, drafty quarters!”
Alice helped me to my feet, muttering under her breath, “So delicate. Same roof, different room, and she’s already wilting?”
Beatrice turned her gaze away, her voice barely above a murmur. “I suppose I’m just too frail, Please don’t be angry with Williamn.”
William’s temper flared again. “You’re leaving for court any day now. Why strip her of everything before you go?”
I let out a low laugh, bitter as ash. “Oh? So now you remember I’m going to court?
Beatrice had everything–fur–lined cloaks in winter, chilled wine in summer had been handpicked by Mother.
And yet one tiny inconvenience, and the whole house would leap to soothe her, as it a draft in her room were a national crisis.
“You’re right, Eleanor,” Beatrice said gently, stepping closer. Her eyes shimmired with tears, but the glint beneath was unmistakable. “You’re helping me. It’s only fair you take back what’s yours.”
William trembled with rage. I hope you stay locked in that castle forever,
His words hit like a slap, not for their cruelty–but for how little they surprised me. Even knowing who they were, it still hurt to see it laid bare.
And Beatrice, ever attuned to weakness, moved closer as if to twist the knife,
I mouthed, low and sharp. “Back Off.”
She faltered, then staggered back dramatically–arms flailing Just enough to make it seem like I’d shoved her.
William caught her, tury burning in his eyes. “You pushed her!!
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairwell, followed by the sharp rustle of skirts, Mother swept into the room a moment later, her expression like thunder. “What’s all this noise? Is Beatrice hurt?”
Of course Straight to her.
“I’m tine, Aunt Margaret,” Beatrice said quickly. “Please don’t blame Eleanor.”
Mother’s glare snapped to me. “So now you think wearing court colors gives you the right to claim this hall and lay hands on your cousin?”
“Don’t fight over me,” Beatrice added sweetly. Her voice was honey, but when her gaze met mine, triumph gleamed cold behind it.
I stadied my breath, voice level. “Sometimes I wonder if I was ever truly your child–or just the price you paid for a debt.
She recoiled as if I’d struck her. “How dare you speak to me this way!”
#never once resented your neglect. I never once envied her. But now that I take back what was mine all along, suddenly I’m ungrateful? A threat?”
I lifted my chin. Those things were Father’s No one else has the right
Her hand cracked across my cheek, sharp and hot. My head snapped sideways.
“You forget your place,” she lilssed. “I rule Hawthorne Manor. You owe the Thomes a life debt–and you will repay it.”
Her voice trembled with fury. “Three days in the chapel,” she hissed. “No imeals. No fire. Let fasting and prayer remind you what it means to be humble.”
And then-
“What a delightful spectacle.”
A voice rang out, warm and amused, cutting through the storm like a blade of sunlight.
All heads turned. Sir Julian of Riverton stood just downstairs, his black doublet immaculate, one gloved hand holding a sealed–scroll. His expression was unreadable—but his gaze flicked to the red mark on my cheeks and narrowed ever so slightly.
Mother stepped back hastily, smoothing her skirts. “Sir Julian! What brings you to Hawthorne Manor? My daughter hasn’t… she hasn’t misstepped at court, has she?”
Julian smiled, that courtly mask never slipping. “Quite the opposite, my lady. I bear His Majesty’s decree
He looked to me and unfolded the scroll.
“By the King’s word, Lady Eleanor Hawthome is hereby appointed to royal service–as steward of the Western Marches and captain–in–training under His Majesty’s household guard,”
Silence dropped like a stone.
“Steward?” Beatrice gasped. “But… she only went to court for the audience!”
Julian’s smile turned razor thin. “His Majesty found her worthy, Honor, discretion, and unshakable resolve–rare qualities, I assure you. Would you care to question the King’s judgment?”
“No, never,” Mother said quickly, dropping into a stiff curtsy. William followed suit, and even Beatrice sank to her knees, eyes wide with disbelief.
Julian stepped forward and took my hand, lifting me with deliberate care, “Under royal law, to lay hand on a court official is to incur twenty lashes. I trust, Hawthorne Manor will remember that ”
The silence said everything.
