She found the eviction letter beneath a loaf of bread, written in the hand of the man who had whispered love in her ear the night before. Eleanor Vance left carrying a child he would not know existed for six years — until the blight brought him to her door.

PART 2

I did not cry that first day. I worked.

I pulled on my gloves and walked to the greenhouse, spending hours repotting seedlings and pruning the roses. The physical labor helped. The familiar rhythm of it. The way my hands knew exactly what to do, even when my mind was spinning.

I had built that greenhouse with my own hands — using plans I had studied from botanical journals and materials I had saved for years to afford. Alexander had offered to fund it, but I had refused. I wanted something that was mine alone. Something no one could take away.

Now I understood why that instinct had been so important.

As the sun began to set, I made a decision. I would not fight the eviction. I would not beg for an extension. I would not go to him with tears and accusations, hoping to shame him into doing the right thing. I had watched other women in the village do that. Seen them reduced to shadows of themselves, clinging to men who had already let them go.

I would not become one of them.

But I would not disappear without a trace either. I would leave him something to remember me by. Something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

I walked to the garden and knelt among the roses. The first bloom of Alexander’s Pride was just opening, its crimson petals unfurling toward the evening sky. I reached out and plucked it, bringing it to my nose. The scent was sweet. Almost intoxicating. I had bred it for fragrance as well as beauty.

It would be the last thing he ever received from me.

That night, I packed what I could carry. My botanical journals. My collection of seeds, carefully wrapped in cloth and labeled in my neat handwriting. A few changes of clothes. The small sum of money I had saved, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the cottage’s single bedroom.

I did not own much. That was the strange thing about my three years with Alexander. He had given me the cottage, yes, and a small allowance that I had always felt uncomfortable accepting. But I had never asked for jewelry or gowns or the things other mistresses demanded. I had asked only for his time. His attention. The feeling of being seen and known and valued.

And now I understood that even those simple things had been loans. Not gifts. Loans that could be called in at any moment, leaving me with nothing but the memory of what I had briefly held.

When the cottage was empty and my bags were packed, I sat at the small writing desk and composed a letter. Not to Alexander. I owed him nothing now.

To the child I carried.

I told them the truth. That their father was a duke. That he was handsome and clever, and when he smiled it felt like the sun breaking through clouds. That I loved him very much. That I believed he loved me too, in his own way. But that love is not always enough. Sometimes people are too afraid to be brave. Sometimes they choose safety over truth, comfort over courage.

I told my child they were not a secret to be hidden. They were a gift to be celebrated. And I would spend every day of my life making sure they knew that.

I folded the letter and tucked it into my journal. Then I reached for the rose — the Alexander’s Pride blossom I had plucked earlier. It was already beginning to wilt, its petals curling at the edges.

This would be my final gift to him.

A single dying flower.

The symbol of everything we had shared.

And everything he had thrown away.