The air in the room felt softer now. Lighter, even.
Mary looked at Thomas, truly seeing him not as a figure in a stiff suit or a name tied to duty—but as a young man just as unsure of his place in the world as she was.
"Thank you," she said quietly, folding her hands in her lap. "For opening up to me. That… really means a lot."
Thomas gave her a crooked, boyish smile. "You don't have to thank me, Mary. I think we've both been needing to say things for a long time."
He stood then, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve, his posture a little more relaxed.
"I should go before your mother thinks I've proposed again," he teased lightly.
Mary let out a soft laugh. "Let her keep wondering."
He paused at the door, looking back one last time. "Take care of that ankle—and your heart, too."
"I'll try," she said with a warm smile.
And with that, he was gone.
Mary leaned back against the pillows, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.
He's not what I thought he was.
No pompous air, no coldness. Just a boy with kind eyes and invisible chains. Just like her.
She almost felt guilty… almost.
But not for long.
Later that evening, with a lantern lit low and the door carefully locked, Mary sat at her writing desk and began her next letter.
My beloved Lily,
Something strange happened today.
Thomas visited.
And no—don't panic. No marriage talk, no dramatic gestures. Just… honesty.
He sat by my bed and told me he didn't know if he even wanted to marry. He said he's been trained like a dog to fit a life he never chose.
I expected arrogance. What I found was something gentler. A quiet boy trapped in a man's role.
I think he's as lost as we are.
Is it strange that I didn't hate speaking to him?
I'm still yours. That hasn't changed. But it felt good to hear someone say out loud what I've been hiding inside for so long—that this life doesn't feel like mine.
Don't be jealous, darling.
He's a kind person… but he isn't the one who writes me under a false name.
He isn't the one who made my heart burn under a willow tree.
He isn't you.
Always,
Mary
P.S. I'll wear blue tonight, even if you can't see it.
London, the next night
Isabelle sat in the corner of her dressing room, Mary's letter in hand, the ink still fresh.
Her lips curved slightly at the endearing way Mary had described her honesty with Thomas. But there was a twitch in her brow. A strange warmth behind her ribs—not quite anger, but something sharp.
Jealousy. She hadn't expected it.
She folded the letter and pressed it to her chest.
"She's yours," Isabelle whispered aloud to herself.
But now, there was someone else nearby. Someone kind. Someone who could touch her hand and walk beside her without hiding.
And that… terrified her.