Daniel had nothing on his mind during the duration of their journey to Coulway. Nothing but the urge to stop and turn back.

And go back to Abberton.

And forget this nonsense.

Why would he even do this? He was a duke. He did nothing wrong.

That's what his father said. That's what he had tried to tell himself. And as his sisters said, that was his second mistake. First, he ran. Second, he lied. Mostly to himself more than anyone else.

Emmeline wanted to be with him, but he told her he had to do it alone. And alone he waited inside his carriage across the street from the Craig residence while she stayed in his villa in Picadilly Street. It felt familiar because he had been here before. He had waited for hours, just sitting and watching the villa, jumping in his seat whenever the doors opened. He would slide lower in his seat like a coward.

But today, he felt something he had never felt in his previous attempts. He felt tired. Of the fear and guilt. A man could only carry something like this for too long, after all. And he had been with this burden far longer than he had lived his dreams. And he just wanted to go back to the time before it all changed. He wanted to be free.

He was not ready now. Not ever, he thought as he forced himself to open the carriage door. He would never be ready if his fears would have the last say.

And so, with shaking limbs, and heart pounding hard up his throat, he crossed the street and walked up the doors. It was red, like its neighbors. A decent home for Mrs. Craig and her two remaining unmarried daughters.

He knocked, stepped back, and waited with hands clasped behind him. He knocked again when no one answered. At that point, his mind almost managed to convince him that no one was home and that he should just return some other day. But he knew he would not return if he left now. He was about to knock again when he heard faint footsteps behind the door. He jumped back, his feet almost ready to turn and run away. He stopped and forced himself to stay.

Mrs. Craig had graying hair at both temples, her face bright with a lingering smile from a conversation she must have left behind to answer the door. And her eyes were kind as she took sight of him. "How may I help you, Sir?" she asked.

It was a surprise that he even managed to find his voice. "Mrs. Craig," he said, clearing his throat. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," she replied, curiously looking at him.

"My name is Daniel Cavendish." He stepped forward. "I once worked with your husband."

It was quite obvious she did not know him. But at the mention of her husband, Mrs. Craig's face brightened and, without further question, welcomed him into her home. He looked beyond the threshold when she stepped aside, thinking he did not deserve to step into her home.

"Please do come in, Mr. Cavendish," she said. "My daughter, Isabel just made fresh biscuits and tea."

The first ounce of relief came to him when he took the first step, then the next. He finally did it. He managed to go farther than across the street. His eyes roamed around the tiny villa, at the narrow corridors and the bright parlor. It was not lavish, but it was welcoming and clean and...innocent.

The portraits on the wall were not painted by great and expensive artists, but they nonetheless pictured the kind of family the Craigs had. There were children smiling with their pets, women and men sitting side by side. But no Ellis Craig. His portrait was framed alone at the center of the others.

"I hope you can tell me more about him," said Mrs. Craig moments later when she and her daughter, Isabel, entered the room with a tray of biscuits and fresh tea. Isabel greeted him shyly after Mrs. Craig introduced her as her youngest daughter. She left to join her two other sisters in the nearby fair. "He did not tell us much about his time in the theater."

Daniel just nodded and accepted the teacup she offered. He took a sip, then placed it on the table. As he was doing so, he felt her gaze on him. "I hope I'm not keeping you away from the fair. You must have been planning to go with your daughters."

"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "I have no energy for such." Her smile slowly died as she continued to look at him. "I guess you are not one of the carpenters. You don't look like the kind to be doing such a menial job."

He forced a smile. "I was one of the actors."

Interest flashed on her face. "Oh." Then confusion.

Before she could ask her question, Daniel spoke and said, "I'm not here because I was his friend." He swallowed the lump in his throat and clasped his hands tightly together. "I'm here because I wish to tell you what happened that day he had his accident."

Mrs. Craig's bright face froze. Then a frown followed. "Whatever do you mean?"

Daniel closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. "It was my fault."

"What do you mean? He fell because he suffered a bad heart. That's what the people in Sinclair said."

He nodded, opening his eyes to meet hers. "Yes, that's what happened. But..." he looked away to the window, mastering himself with a few breaths. Facing the confused woman, he almost broke down. Behind her was the wall of portraits of her husband and their family. "That day... That day he wanted to go home and rest. He..." Daniel's eyes blinked a few times so his tears would not blur the image of the woman who would soon hate him. "He was not feeling well." A shiver ran through him as her face slowly cleared and gave way to pain. "But I was desperate to make the play perfect. I threatened the director that if Ellis could not finish his job, I would not go on the stage." The pain slowly and very clearly changed into anger. Her lips clamped shut, her eyes shook. "The director told him he'd lose his job if he...if he did not finish his task."

Now that he was here, and now that he started talking, he could not stop himself. Nor could he control the moisture in his eyes. He clumsily came to his knees, head bowed. A tear fell straight on his hand. "It was my fault."

The room was still, the silence deafening, drowning the sound of passing carriages outside as Daniel continued to stare at the carpet, his hands balled on his thighs.

"Was it you?" The gentle and laughing voice was gone, replaced by something cold. "All those money. Were they from you?"

He nodded, another tear falling on the carpet. "I..." He wanted to tell her he tried to come to them for years, but what good would that do? He had no right to give reasons. In front of her, he was no one. He was just a man who did something wrong, stripped of his rights and privileges. That's how she should see him. "I'm not asking that you forgive me."

"If you let him go home that night, it would not have happened. He could have lived another day. Another week. A year. If you had let him go home that night, he would have died in bed, in his home—with us."

His shoulders bunched, as if preparing for a strike, but it did not come. Yet the anguish in her voice was just as powerful and painful as any physical harm. It clenched at his chest, it pressed at his lungs.

"Leave."

The word vibrated in his entire being.

"I said I want you to leave, Mr. Cavendish."

He looked up and saw her tear-stained face. The years of raising her children alone were suddenly visible through the lines around her eyes. Those years she suffered without her husband reflected in the pain and anger in her eyes.

She stood and looked down at him. "Please see yourself to the door. I need to be alone for now."

He nodded and slowly rose to his feet.

***

Emmeline had been waiting for him in the villa and was fast to give him comfort when he arrived, looking like a worn-out soldier. She asked nothing, just sat there as he stared blankly at the fire. They had supper, and she tried to entertain him with stories of her day: She delivered letters sent by Simone and Lydia to their friends and told him how surprising it was to discover they had a lot of friends. "I know I should not be surprised," she said, laughing, "but I am." Her smile slowly gentled as she stared at him. "How do you feel?"

He sighed, leaning back against his chair, his food half-empty. "Relieved," he said. "But it's not the end."

"Of course, it isn't. You should return."

He nodded. "I intend to."

Emmeline's smile reached him across the table. "It takes time, Daniel."

He nodded, then took a deep breath. Then he groaned. "I should have done this a long time ago."

"A long time ago, you were scared. Then you grew comfortable with the guilt. It was only until you spent time in Abberton that you realized you will never enjoy anything unless you're free of the past."

He bit his lower lip and nodded. "Perhaps."

"Not that I'm saying it's all because of her, of course," her sister said with a teasing wave of her hand.

"Of course."

"But I'm certain that seeing her again made you realize that your decisions also caused pain to others you did not realize, including her."

He scoffed, shaking his head at his sister. "I hate that you're right."

Emmeline laughed. "I am."

When supper was over and Emmeline retired to her room, Daniel climbed up to his and was greeted by the familiar smell. Along with it was a pang of pain. In this room, he had imagined and lived his dreams. He had friends and lovers here. And in those moments, he forgot who and what he was. Here, he was just Daniel Cavendish, the actor.

His eyes wandered to the window. He opened it and looked out at the window across from him. It was shut, the curtains drawn. Then he remembered how he first met her. She was so young then. He chuckled at the memory of her first ever letter. Her innocence and grace had amused him.

He reached inside his coat pocket and took out the letter she gave him before he climbed the carriage out of Abberton days ago. He had not read it because she made him promise he only would after his visit to the Craigs.

Hitching one leg on the windowsill, he opened Simone's letter.

Dearest Daniel,

I can only imagine what it must feel like, but I hope you are feeling well. It must be hard and I wish I can be there with you to offer you comfort. Will you write to me how it went? If you cannot for some reason, I understand. However, I would still appreciate if you write. Simply tell me about your day.

Whatever you are feeling now, however challenging it may be, I want you to know that you shall survive it. If you have survived through the guilt, surely you can survive through the redemption, for that is what you are doing now, Daniel. You are fighting for redemption.

And now that you have taken the first step, I hope that you can start showing more of yourself. You may feel lost after this because that often comes after a battle. You would ask yourself where to go next or what to do after.

If you think you need more time to find yourself, then I hope you succeed. One day, I want to meet Daniel Cavendish again. To hear his stories. Not just about the theater, but about the silly ones such as his boring life as a duke, his challenges, his little mishaps.

I shall not make this letter long. Always know that you can write to Abberton if you think the battle is not yet over, or if it's too tough, or even if it's surprisingly easy. If you want to run away again. Or rest.

Very truly yours,

Simone

Finishing her letter, Daniel realized he was crying. He blinked it away to stare out the window. It had been so long ago since she stood at the other side, afraid to die from a nosebleed.

His respect for her grew more as he re-read her letter. This woman, who was younger than him, who only knew the small world she had in Abberton, possessed more wisdom than most women he met. She was kind and caring, understanding and brave. But he also knew that she slew monsters behind her smiles. She, too, had been through a far greater grief than most at a young age. Yet she survived because she had something he did not have. She may hide things from others, but one thing Daniel knew about Simone was that she was honest with herself. About her feelings, her thoughts, and her opinions.

With a shaky breath, he walked to his desk and pulled at the drawer. He picked up the silver hairpin he stole from her seven years ago. He did not know why he only returned the pearl and not this.

A bitter smile crossed his lips. If the accident did not happen, she would have this pin now. He would have returned it with a jewel as beautiful as she was that last afternoon they saw each other.

He drew in a long breath as he tucked her letter into the pin and pocketed them.

He shall return to Mrs. Craig tomorrow. And then the day after.

He would not be begging for her forgiveness.

He just wanted to get the fury he deserved.

And then perhaps he could start forgiving himself.