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“Agnes!” Mary exclaimed, her voice a frantic mixture of fear, anger, and frustration. “Where have you been? I’ve been searching all over for you! I was so worried. What are you doing outside at this ungodly hour?” Her words were a cascade, punctuated by the anxiety etched on her face.

Agnes, drained of both energy and spirit, could only muster a lifeless response. “Nothing, Mother,” she whispered, a hollow admission of the emptiness that enveloped her.

Her mother’s tirade continued, fueled by concern and an almost irrational underlying fear. “You have snuck out of the house to see that wretched man, have you not? You have always been such a good child, but now you are sneaking out to meet men?! All because of the Duke of Huntington? You sneak out and return by ungodly hours! Have you ruined yourself so much, Agnes?”

The accusations cut deep, the disapproval evident in every word.

Agnes just stood there, the weight of her mother’s disappointment pressing down on her, like the heavy drapes of the manor closing in.

“I won’t have this disgrace in my family again, Agnes!” her mother exclaimed, shaking her shoulder in an attempt to punctuate her words. “You’ll not follow in your sister’s footsteps!”

Agnes turned her gaze toward her mother, the weariness in her eyes meeting the storm of emotions that flickered across her mother’s face. A subtle apology lingered in her gaze, not for her actions but for the distress she had caused.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, her voice soft but laced with a certain finality. “You have nothing to worry about. I have nothing to do with the Duke of Huntington.”

And then, with the grace of a defeated spirit, Agnes walked past her mother, leaving her standing there, stunned by the abruptness of it all.

The manor doors loomed ahead, a sanctuary from the interrogation. As she entered, the grand doors closed behind her, shutting out the night and the echoing questions of her mother.

The cold embrace of the manor enveloped her once more, and she climbed up the staircase with a heavy heart, each step a testament to the heavy burden she now carried.

The dim glow of candlelight flickered in the hall as she ascended the staircase, each step a weary climb toward the solitude of her room. Peggy, loyal and vigilant, waited anxiously by the door.

As Agnes approached, Peggy’s concerned eyes met hers, and she rushed over to Agnes.

“Are you all right, Miss Agnes?” Peggy inquired, worry etched on her face.

Agnes offered a half-hearted nod, assuring her that all was supposedly well.

What else could she say? Or do?

Peggy pressed further, “Did your mother scold you too much?”

Agnes, drained from the emotional tumult, and simply unable to talk, nodded in acknowledgment.

Together, they entered her room, the door closing behind them like a barrier against the outside world. Agnes, seeking solace in the sanctuary of her private space, moved toward the mirror and took a seat.

As she gazed at her reflection, the harsh reality of the night unfolded before her eyes. Her once elegant features now appeared distorted—her eyes swollen and red from the tears, her cheeks marked by the lingering puffiness of distress, and her hair, once carefully arranged, now tangled and disheveled.

Peggy, still lingering with genuine concern, couldn’t suppress her curiosity. “How did your meeting with the Duke go, Miss Agnes?” she inquired, her voice laced with a hint of trepidation.

The question acted as a cruel reminder, and the emotional dam that Agnes had so carefully constructed began to crumble. A torrent of tears broke free, the silent sobs racking her frame. Peggy’s eyes widened, witnessing the vulnerability of her mistress.

Agnes tried to compose herself, fighting back the waves of grief that threatened to drown her. “It didn’t go well,” she admitted, her voice quivering. “I had to… end it.”

Peggy’s expression shifted from concern to sorrow and empathy. “Oh, Miss Agnes,” she murmured, aching for the pain her mistress endured.

She fetched a handkerchief and handed it to Agnes, who accepted it with a grateful nod.

As Agnes dabbed at her tears, Peggy hovered nearby. “I’m sorry… I don’t meaning to cry… I just—”

Again, tears welled up anew, cascading down Agnes’s cheeks. The weight of the evening, the rejection, and the pain unfurled with each silent sob.

Peggy, quick to respond, closed the distance between them and enveloped her in a comforting embrace.

In the dim glow of the room, Agnes found solace in the warmth of Peggy’s hug. Peggy, without uttering a word, offered the solace of silent companionship.

* * *