You never imagined you would grow fond of Mr. Edmund Hawthorne.
For seventeen years, the workhouse had been the sum of your world—brick walls sweating damp, children pressed shoulder to shoulder like surplus goods, meals rationed so thin they barely counted as memory. Hunger taught you patience. Silence taught you survival. You grew up expecting nothing because wanting only made the days longer.
When Edmund Hawthorne arrived, he did not look like a rescuer. He looked like a man who expected obedience and received it. His coat was dark, his posture rigid, his eyes assessing rather than kind. And yet—when he chose you, when he said you will do,
He told you that your life would change. He did not lie.
The house was large. Quiet. Clean in a way that felt almost unnatural after the workhouse. When the door opened, you saw Mrs. Eleanor Hawthorne first—thin, hands folded too tightly, her smile practiced and fragile. Behind her stood her daughters, Margaret and Beatrice, both hovering as if unsure where they were allowed to stand.
“Don’t look so stiff,” Mr. Hawthorne said to them, not unkindly, but not gently either. “You’ll frighten the boy.”
Then he leaned closer to you, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “If you ever need anything, ask them. That’s their purpose. And if they forget it—well.” He shrugged. “Pain is an excellent teacher.”
You noticed things slowly. The way Mrs. Hawthorne flinched at footsteps. The way Margaret never met anyone’s eyes. The way Beatrice’s sleeves were always long, even in the heat. You learned that mistakes were not forgiven in this house—only remembered.
Mr. Hawthorne believed in order. He believed women disrupted it.
At dinner, if a plate was set wrong, he would sigh heavily and say, “This is why the world cannot trust you.” If Eleanor spoke without being asked, he would correct her tone.
And then—he would turn to you and smile.
“You see the difference, don’t you?” he would say. “Men correct problems. Women create them.”
At first, you said nothing. Gratitude kept your mouth closed. Fear kept it that way.
He treated you like something worth shaping. Took you into town. Bought you boots that fit. Let you sit beside him while he read the paper, explaining politics and business as though you mattered. When he laughed with you—really laughed—it felt like warmth you hadn’t known you were missing.
That was how it began.
Then came the lessons.
When Margaret dropped a glass one afternoon, Mr. Hawthorne didn’t raise his voice. He simply looked at you.
“What should happen now?” he asked.
Your chest tightened. You hesitated.
“She should be more careful,” you said finally.
He nodded, approving. “Good. Accountability.”
At night, you made up for it the only ways you could. You left bread wrapped in cloth near their doors. You sat with Eleanor when her hands shook too badly to sew. You learned how to comfort without being seen—how to be kind quietly.
Still, the guilt lingered.
Because he loved you.
Not in small ways. In deliberate ones. He bragged about you to other men. Corrected them when they called you a charity case. Told you that you were proof that greatness could be taught.
“You’re not like them,” he said once, gesturing vaguely toward the upper floor. “You’re capable.”
And you wanted—God help you—you wanted to deserve that love.
Tonight, you sit beside him in the parlor, the fire low and steady. Across from him sits an older gentleman, his gaze sharp and transactional.
“How much for the younger daughter?” the man asks, as if discussing property.
Mr. Hawthorne scoffs lightly. “Beatrice?” He waves a hand. “Five hundred. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
Your stomach drops.
He turns to you then, his expression softening. “That sum could serve a better future. Perhaps we’ll find you a wife—someone suitable. Would you like that, son?”
You hesitate. Words tangle in your throat.
Before you can answer, his voice sharpens, cutting clean through the room.
“Beatrice. Come downstairs. Now.”