The fortnight of grace had passed like a shadow over their days, each sunrise heavy with dread, each night haunted by the knowledge that their small refuge would soon be theirs no longer. Though they clung to hope until the final hour, the appointed morning dawned with no reprieve, no messenger bearing pardon. Only the certainty of loss remained.
The girl rose early, the room dim in the first pale light. She moved quietly about the cottage, her hands brushing familiar objects as though to imprint them upon memory—the chair where he had read aloud by firelight, the window through which the sun once gilded her needlework, the hearth that had warmed them in both hunger and laughter. Her heart ached with each touch, yet she steeled herself with dignity. If the home must be surrendered, it should be surrendered with grace, not despair.
Her beloved watched her silently, his heart a storm of bitterness. To see her bent to such resignation pierced him more deeply than his own loss. He paced the narrow room like a caged beast, his fists clenched. "It is not right," he muttered. "This roof was ours by labour and by love. She—your aunt—may hold the deed, but she has no claim upon the life we built within these walls."
She turned to him, her eyes luminous with quiet strength. "No claim upon our love, no. But the world does not reckon in love; it reckons in law and power, and those she has in plenty. We must yield the cottage, but let us not yield our peace of heart."
Her calmness did not still his wrath, yet it steadied his resolve. Together they gathered what little they possessed—a few worn garments, her sewing-box, a Bible with pages softened by touch. These they bound in cloth and placed beside the door. Everything else, the modest furnishings and the small comforts they had carved out of poverty, must remain. The cottage, stripped of its soul, was no longer theirs.
---
By mid-morning, the bailiff arrived, a stout man with a face hardened by habit, accompanied by two labourers. His manner was civil but unmoved; he came not as enemy but as instrument.
"You understand, sir, madam," he said, "I have my orders. The property belongs to Lady Ashbourne. You are to quit the premises today. I am instructed to see it done."
Her beloved's eyes flashed with fire. "And if we refuse?"
The bailiff's expression did not alter. "Then I must summon the constable. But I would not wish it to come to that. Better to depart with dignity."
The girl stepped forward, laying a hand upon her beloved's arm before his anger could overflow. "We shall go," she said quietly, her voice steady though her lips trembled. "There is no need for strife. The world may turn us out, but it cannot rob us of what is within."
The bailiff inclined his head, half in respect, half in relief. The labourers moved to the door, waiting. With one last look at the dim room, the girl lifted her bundle. Her beloved seized theirs in silence, his face dark with suppressed fury. Together they crossed the threshold, the door shutting behind them with a hollow finality.
---
They walked down the narrow lane, the cottage receding behind them, its chimney smoke rising like a farewell. For a moment neither spoke. Then, unable to bear the silence, he turned sharply.
"Forgive me," he burst out. "Forgive me that I could not protect you from this indignity. I swore to keep you safe, to guard you from want, and now—now I lead you to nothing but hardship."
She stopped and faced him, her eyes clear, her voice firm though softened by love. "You lead me nowhere but where I choose to follow. Do you think I would exchange your love for any roof, however gilded? Do you think I would rather sit alone in comfort than walk beside you in want? No, my heart. This cottage was but timber and stone; you are my true home."
Her words broke through the bitterness that had consumed him. He drew her into his arms, holding her as though she were both his burden and his salvation.
---
They had not gone far when a few villagers gathered to watch their passing. Some looked on with pity, whispering at the cruelty of Lady Ashbourne's decree; others turned their faces away, fearful of being seen to sympathise. A woman pressed a small loaf into the girl's hands, murmuring, "For your journey." The gift brought tears to her eyes, though she smiled in gratitude.
The road stretched before them, uncertain and bare. With each step they left behind not only the cottage but the life they had sought to build within it. The hedgerows, the winding brook, the little garden patch where she had once grown herbs—all faded into memory.
As the day wore on, weariness pressed upon them, yet they pressed on. When at last the sun dipped low, they found shelter beneath an old oak at the edge of a field. There they spread their scant belongings and shared the villager's loaf, breaking it between them as though it were a feast.
He looked at her across the fading light, her face pale with fatigue yet radiant with steadfastness. "How do you bear it so lightly?" he asked. "How do you smile when all has been taken from us?"
She reached across the rough bread and touched his hand. "Because not all has been taken. So long as you are here, I possess more than wealth, more than comfort. What is a cottage to me, when your love is the truest roof above my head?"
---
That night, lying upon the grass beneath the open sky, he listened to her steady breathing as sleep claimed her. The stars shone cold and bright above, indifferent to human sorrow, yet to him they seemed like sentinels, bearing witness to both their suffering and their unbroken bond.
He swore silently that though fortune might strip them of all else, it would not strip them of hope. He would labour, he would strive, he would beg if need be, but he would not let her spirit sink beneath this trial.
And so, beneath the vast dome of heaven, the forsaken hearth behind them, the uncertain road before, they passed into the first night of their wandering—bereft of house, yet not of home.