After having a heavy panic breakdown near a Lake reading those cruelties I wrote , writing back to me in a letter I am returning.
The carriage wheels hummed against the cobblestones as Lady Anne Whitford returned from the flower shop, the bouquet pressed close to her chest as if her arms themselves wished to protect her heart from what it carried. Hidden within, the cruel letter gnawed at her mind. Her eyes felt heavy, the sleeplessness of many nights painted beneath them in faint shadows.
The Whitford mansion stood proud against the fading light of dusk. Tall wrought-iron gates opened slowly, creaking as though even they shared her weariness. White stone walls caught the dying rays of the sun, while ivy curled lazily along the edges, wrapping the house in a timeless dignity. The grand fountains whispered softly, the sound like a lullaby she could not fall into.
As soon as Anne stepped through the carved oak doors, Clara, her maid, appeared, a sharp frown tugging her young features. Clara was barely nineteen, but her scolding often carried the tone of an elder sister. She caught Anne's pale face, the faint redness around her eyes, and the slight trembling of her hands.
"My lady!" Clara exclaimed, rushing to take the bouquet from her grasp. "What is this? Your cheeks are drained of colour again look at those eyes. You've worked yourself too much, haven't you?"
Anne forced a small smile, though her voice wavered with exhaustion. "I've only been teaching, Clara. Nothing more."
"Nothing more?!" Clara folded her arms across her apron, shaking her head. "Your nothing more has left you with shadows beneath your eyes and a face that looks as though it hasn't met a mirror in days. You've pushed yourself beyond sense." Her voice softened suddenly. "Please, my lady, at least let the world see you rest."
Anne lowered her gaze. Clara was right, though she dared not speak of the true reason for her weariness. Instead, she allowed herself to be guided gently upstairs.
In her chambers, the tall windows looked out to the gardens below where roses and lilies mingled in the dusk. A faint scent of lavender drifted from the polished floors, calming and familiar. The bath had been drawn, the marble tub glistening under candlelight. Steam curled in soft ribbons, beckoning her tired frame.
"Come," Clara said firmly, helping her loosen the ribbons of her gown. "A warm bath will draw the heaviness out of your bones. You must not sleep in this state, my lady."
Anne sighed softly, allowing herself to be led into the tub. The warm water embraced her, carrying her burdens away, if only for a breath. The heat lulled her, made her lashes heavy. Clara's voice faded into the distance, replaced by the trickle of water.
Her mind drifted
She found herself in a small garden, not her own but one of dream-like quality. The grass was impossibly green, and birdsong hung like music in the still air. A great oak stretched above her, its branches spreading wide as if to shelter her. Beneath it, she sat with a book upon her lap.
The title read: *Sense and Sensibility* by Jane Austen. The print was delicate, the paper worn with the affection of many hands. She turned a page and read aloud, the words melting into the air:
*"Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope."*
The sentence settled into her heart like balm. She smiled faintly and leaned back against the tree.
From somewhere beyond the garden path, footsteps approached. A boy's laughter low, warm, and unfamiliar echoed. She lifted her head, but his face remained veiled, blurred as though dream itself refused to grant her recognition.
"Anne… Anne," he called, the syllables ringing like a bell in the open air.
She blinked, confused yet drawn by the voice, but before she could rise, the vision slipped from her fingers like water.
Anne awoke with a soft gasp, water lapping gently against the porcelain edges of the tub. Clara's knock at the door stirred her fully.
"My lady, dinner is ready," Clara called, her voice gentle but firm.
Anne gathered herself, stepping from the bath with weariness still clinging to her. She dressed in a gown of deep blue silk and descended the grand staircase. The mansion glowed with golden lamps, portraits of ancestors watching silently from the walls. The great dining hall awaited her, polished oak table gleaming beneath a chandelier.
Her father, Duke Jacob Whitford, already sat at the head. Age had silvered his hair, but his bearing remained sharp, a man carved from dignity and responsibility. When Anne entered, he looked up, and the severity in his features softened.
"Anne," he greeted, standing briefly to kiss her temple. "At last. I was beginning to think you had lost yourself among your students again."
Anne managed a light smile as she sat beside him. "They do keep me… occupied."
The first courses were served roasted pheasant, spiced potatoes, and fresh bread. The silverware glinted in the light as father and daughter settled into quiet rhythm.
"How are your pupils?" the Duke asked after a pause. "Still as eager as the spring sparrows?"
Anne's eyes warmed despite her fatigue. "Yes, Father. They are full of questions about language, about history. One of them, little Margaret, insists she shall one day travel the world and send me letters from every shore."
The Duke chuckled softly. "That spirit I admire. Perhaps she will, indeed. And you how do you find yourself among them? Do they wear you down, or lift you?"
Anne hesitated, twirling the edge of her bread. "They… remind me that not all is dark. There is still innocence in the world, even if shadows creep close."
Her father's eyes lingered on her face, as though he saw the weariness she tried to hide. "You speak as one burdened, Anne. Tell me, is it merely teaching or something else?"
Anne lowered her gaze. "Only the usual weariness, Father. Nothing that need concern you."
The Duke sighed but did not press further. Instead, he shifted the subject, his tone thoughtful. "The kingdom prepares for the lanterns Festival. There will be carriages from all over London, Bath, even Edinburgh. I expect many houses will seek to display their strength and wealth. It may become… political, as such things do."
Anne looked up faintly. "And we must play our part."
"Indeed," the Duke said. His eyes softened again. "But I do not wish to see you sacrifice your peace for the sake of appearances. Your mother, were she here, would insist the same."
Anne's throat tightened, but she smiled gently. "I shall do my best, Father."
They dined in silence for a while, the warmth of the hall a fragile shield against the storm she carried within. Yet as Anne glanced toward the window, the garden beyond glimmered faintly in the moonlight, and she thought again of the faceless boy in her dream, calling her name beneath the oak. Richard
Perhaps, she thought with quiet unease, even dreams are trying to tell me something.