Thomas's Family Estate – Morning
Thomas adjusted the collar of his coat as he stood in the dim hallway of his home, facing his mother and father with a practiced expression.
"I'll be gone for a couple of nights," he said, voice calm, clipped. "There's a political gathering in London—an opportunity to make new acquaintances. I've already written to Uncle Harold. I'll be staying with him."
His mother looked up from her embroidery, brow raised slightly. "So sudden?"
Thomas smiled, carefully folding his gloves into his coat pocket. "London opportunities rarely knock twice, Mother."
His father grunted from his armchair, flipping a page in the newspaper. "Good. Meet the right people. You're not a boy anymore, Thomas. It's time we consider your public image."
Thomas bowed his head. "Yes, Father."
"And Mary?" his mother asked without looking up.
"She'll join for a dinner hosted by a friend's family. Lily. A noble family, quite refined. Mary has been invited as a guest. Her parents have given their blessing."
His mother's lips curved just slightly. "Good girl, that Mary."
Thomas nodded, then stepped out the front door with a sigh of relief escaping his chest.
The lie had landed.
And he had never been more relieved to tell one.
Later That Day – Whitmore Estate
The sun was gently lowering when Thomas's carriage arrived at the Whitmore gates. The golden light stretched across the gravel drive like ribbons.
Mary stood near the entry steps, her suitcase modest, her coat a soft ivory. A wide hat framed her face, but her eyes—her eyes were wide with something between panic and wonder.
She clutched her leather-bound journal close to her chest, fingers tapping nervously at its edge.
Thomas stepped out of the carriage, smiling.
"You ready, Mary?"
She nodded, stepping forward with purpose… and just a hint of trembling.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
He offered his arm. "Then let's run away—politely, of course."
Mary laughed softly, looping her hand through his. "Thank you, again, Thomas. I know you're risking a lot."
He looked down at her. "For someone else, I might not. But for you…"
He let the words trail off and opened the door for her.
They climbed into the carriage, and as the wheels began to roll forward toward London, Mary looked back just once—at the estate, the gardens, the perfectly trimmed hedges, the home that was never truly hers.
Then forward, toward what waited in the smoke and song of the city.
Towards Isabelle.