Whitmore Estate – Afternoon
The painting sat on the windowsill now, catching sunlight through lace curtains. Isabelle's face looked almost alive beneath the golden glow—soft shadows cast by her painted cheekbones, a quiet fire in her eyes, captured perfectly in oils and longing.
Mary traced the edge of the canvas with her thumb, heart heavy.
She thought about writing again.
Her fingers hovered over parchment. She had already picked the pen. Already turned the key in her desk drawer where she hid the last letter tied in blue ribbon.
But something held her back.
Too many letters in too short a time—her mother might grow suspicious. The maid might start to wonder. The wrong envelope might land in the wrong hands.
She clenched her jaw and slowly, regretfully, closed the drawer again.
It's just for a few days, she told herself.
She'll understand. I'll write again soon.
But in the corner of her heart, doubt whispered.
What if she doesn't?
Mary picked up the brush once more, adding a single stroke to Isabelle's painted lips.
It was almost as if the canvas was waiting for her to speak.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
London – Six Days Later
The stage lights were dimmer tonight, or maybe Isabelle's eyes just couldn't adjust anymore.
The applause was slower. The men clapped more for the curve of her waist than for the voice that cracked once near the final note.
But none of it mattered.
Because she wasn't singing for them tonight.
She hadn't been for a while.
Every lyric was a prayer thrown toward a girl in a faraway estate.
Every breath between verses begged for a letter that still hadn't come.
Six days.
Not a word.
No folded page. No ribbon. No playful sarcasm. No scent of lavender or scribbled sketches in the margins.
Nothing.
Isabelle sat at the back of the dressing room, her makeup half removed, her coat hanging limply over the chair. Her throat ached. Her chest ached more.
She ran her fingers through her curls and whispered into the mirror:
"She's slipping."
The words felt like glass in her mouth.
"She's slipping through my fingers… and I won't even know why."
She gripped the edge of the vanity, knuckles white.
Maybe her parents found the letters.
Maybe she's changed her mind.
Maybe Thomas is comforting her right now with that gentle voice and safe smile.
Maybe she realized she wants a life that doesn't need hiding.
Maybe I was always just a phase—something wild she needed before the wedding.
The thoughts dug deep, sharp and real.
She lowered her head into her hands and let out a shuddering breath. For the first time in weeks, her strong façade cracked.
"Please," she whispered, "just one letter. Just tell me you still feel it."
The silence answered.
And that was worse than any rejection.