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The room was small and dimly lit with a single window allowing slivers of light to pierce through the dust motes dancing in the air. The walls were lined with shelves filled with boxes, old trunks, and furniture covered in white sheets, creating an eerie, timeless atmosphere.

In one corner, an antique writing desk stood, cluttered with delicate trinkets and a small silver mirror. A large wooden chest sat beneath the window, its lid slightly ajar, revealing stacks of yellowed letters tied with ribbon. The room seemed to pulse with memories, the echoes of the past whispering through the stillness.

Rebecca moved toward the chest and gently lifted a bundle of letters. She handed them to Jonathan, who took them with a mixture of curiosity and hesitation.

“Read them,” she urged softly, “then it will all be much clearer.”

He untied the ribbon and began to read, the elegant handwriting of his mother drawing him into a world he had never known. The letters spoke of a passionate and loving relationship between his parents, a stark contrast to the coldness he had known all his life. His mother’s words were filled with warmth and affection, describing moments of joy, laughter, and tenderness. She wrote of their shared dreams, their plans for the future, and the deep bond they shared.

One letter, in particular, caught his attention. It was written shortly after his birth, and his mother poured her heart out, expressing her hopes and dreams for him. She spoke of her desire for him to grow up surrounded by love, to follow his passions, and to never let fear hold him back.

Jonathan turned to Rebecca, his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “How did you know about all of this?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

A secret room, he pondered. Right under his nose. He couldn’t believe that he had not found it himself after all the years of living in his house.

Rebecca sighed, her gaze softening as she looked at him. “Your father showed me this room before he died,” she admitted.

Jonathan’s confusion only deepened. “Why you?”

She gave him a sad smile. “He said that as a woman, I would understand better than you would. He wanted me to show you this room when the time was right.”

Jonathan’s mind whirled with emotions: sadness, hurt, anger, grief. He struggled to process the revelation. “Why didn’t he tell me himself? Why hide all of this from me?”

Rebecca placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I think he believed he was protecting you in his own way. Your father had his reasons, flawed as they might have been. But he wanted you to know the truth eventually, to see that your parents’ relationship was more than what you saw on the surface.”

Jonathan looked around the room again, taking in the personal effects and letters that painted a picture of a vibrant, loving woman he barely knew. His heart ached with the realization of how much he had missed, how much had been kept from him.

“He wanted you to understand that love and happiness are worth pursuing,” Rebecca continued. “That you don’t have to be afraid of following your heart, of embracing your emotions. Your mother wanted that for you, and I think, deep down, your father did too.”

Jonathan’s eyes filled with tears as he absorbed Rebecca’s words. He felt a wave of grief for the relationship he could have had with his parents, for the love and warmth that had been hidden from him. But amidst the sadness, there was also a glimmer of hope, a sense of possibility.

Rebecca looked at Jonathan with a mixture of compassion and resolve. “You need to break the cycle of your father’s coldness, Jonathan,” she urged. “Break free and be happy. When did you ever feel so happy with a woman before?”

He thought about it for a moment.

Jonathan nodded, his resolve hardening. He leaned in and kissed his cousin on the cheek. “Thank you, Rebecca. I know what to do now.”

She returned his smile. “Go to her, Jonathan. Make things right.”

He didn’t have any time for another expression of gratitude. He rushed downstairs, his heart pounding with urgency.

“Ready my horse, now!” he barked excitedly at a servant, who scurried off to fulfill the command. He paced the foyer, impatience gnawing at him until the stable hand returned, leading his saddled horse.

With a quick nod, Jonathan mounted and spurred his horse into a gallop. The wind whipped past him as he rode with determination, the landscape blurring in his peripheral vision. Every stride of his horse brought him closer to the Hartfield estate and to Ciara.

He spurred his horse faster, determined to right his wrongs and win back the woman he loved.

Ciara woke up to the harsh reality of the tiny, dark cell of the jail coach. Her body ached from the uncomfortable journey, andher throat was parched. They had been traveling for five days already, and the realization that they had another five days to go filled her with dread. The knowledge that St. Catherine’s was on the southern border of Scotland, far from any hope of rescue, made her situation feel even more hopeless.

The tiny cell was stifling, the air stale and suffocating. Every jolt of the carriage sent a shiver of pain through her. She could hear the muffled sounds of the outside world—the clatter of horses’ hooves, the murmurs between Mother Superior and the coachman, and the occasional shout.

Ciara’s stomach twisted with hunger, and her mouth was dry and cracked from lack of water. She had been given little to eat or drink since they had left, just enough to keep her alive but not enough to sustain her.

She thought of Jonathan, of the life she had left behind, and a wave of helplessness washed over her. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She couldn’t afford to show weakness. She had to stay strong to find a way out of this nightmare. But as the days stretched on and the carriage continued its relentless journey, her hope began to wane. How could she escape when she was so weak, so alone?

As the carriage jolted to a sudden halt, Ciara’s heart skipped a beat. She strained to hear the voices outside, her senses heightened by fear and desperation. The coachman’s voice, rough and weary, carried through the wooden walls.

“Mother Superior, we need to stop. The horses are tired, and so am I. We can’t go on like this.”