It was cowardice wearing virtue’s mask.
Edmund rose. The movement felt significant. As though he were shedding ten years of careful isolation in a single gesture.
“Where is she?”
Tobias’s expression shifted. Hope flickering across features that had shown only disappointment moments before.
“Last I heard, she’s staying with Lady Charlotte Wyndham. Planning to depart for Southampton tomorrow morning. Packet ship sails for France in the afternoon.”
Tomorrow morning. Hours, not days.
If Edmund was going to act, it had to be now.
“I need a horse.”
“Take mine. He’s fast and doesn’t tire easily.” Tobias gripped Edmund’s shoulder. “And Edmund? Don’t let pride stop you. Don’t let fear win again. Just tell her the truth and pray it’s enough.”
Edmund nodded. Couldn’t speak past the tightness in his throat.
He’d spent ten years hiding from truth. From feeling. From the vulnerability that came with actually caring about someone.
Time to stop hiding.
Time to fight for what he’d nearly destroyed.
Edmund rode through the night.
London fell away behind him—gaslights and noise giving way to countryside draped in December darkness. His horse’s hooves struck frozen ground in steady rhythm that matched his racing heart.
Cold bit through his greatcoat. Made his face numb, his hands stiff on the reins. But Edmund barely noticed. He could only think of Isadora’s face when he’d called her nothing more than convenience. He could only hear her voice asking what she was to him.
He could only remember that he’d had the answer—"You are my wife. I love you."—but fear had choked the words until only cruelty remained.
The miles passed in blur of frost-covered fields and sleeping villages. Edmund pushed his horse harder than wise, driven by desperation and the terrible certainty that if he didn’t reach her in time, he’d lose her forever.
Dawn was breaking when he finally saw it.
The coaching inn. Modest establishment on the Southampton road where travelers stopped to change horses or take refreshment before continuing their journeys.
And in the courtyard?—
Isadora.
Even from a distance, even in the weak morning light, Edmund would have known her anywhere. The way she carried herself. The tilt of her head as she spoke to the innkeeper.
The trunk being loaded onto the carriage that would carry her away from him.
Edmund dismounted before his horse had fully stopped. Stumbled slightly—exhaustion and cold making his movements clumsy—but caught himself.
Crossed the courtyard while dawn broke over frosted fields and his heart hammered against his ribs.
“Isadora!”
His voice rang out across the courtyard. Loud. Desperate. Nothing like the careful control he’d maintained for ten years.
She turned.
And the look on her face—shock giving way to something harder, something that looked uncomfortably like anger—nearly stopped him where he stood.
