Episode 13
971 Words
The Weight of a Name
The turquoise paint sat untouched on Hyacinth’s desk. Its colour was gentle—almost innocent. Like hope trapped in a jar.
But Hyacinth didn’t feel hopeful.
Not yet.
She paced her chambers, the echo of Adelaide’s voice looping in her mind.
“I built my power. You inherited yours.”
But even inherited power came with responsibility. She was the Duchess of Hemsworth now. And what she did next… mattered.
The truth she had uncovered could ruin Adelaide. Could destroy her schemes and drag her name through the noble circles like mud on white silk.
But it could also tarnish Edger. Tie his name forever to a scandal involving deception, betrayal, and ambition. And after everything he had survived… he didn’t deserve that.
But does he deserve my silence?
A soft knock stirred her from her thoughts.
She turned to the door just as Edger entered—no jacket, sleeves rolled up, hair damp as if he had just washed his face. There were dark circles beneath his eyes.
“Hey,” he said quietly, studying her expression.
“Hey,” she replied, voice unreadable.
He looked at the unopened paint jar. “I thought… maybe the colour could cheer you.”
Hyacinth gave a small smile, but didn’t move toward him.
“You didn’t sleep, did you?” he asked gently.
“No,” she admitted. “You?”
“No.”
A pause stretched between them.
Finally, she stepped forward. “I spoke to Adelaide.”
His jaw tensed.
“She told me everything,” Hyacinth said. “Why she came back. What she wanted. What you… might never have known.”
His eyes searched hers, but he didn’t speak.
“She used you,” she said bluntly. “You were her shortcut to power.”
Edger didn’t look surprised. Only tired. Like hearing it aloud had cost him something.
“She never loved you,” Hyacinth said.
“I know,” he whispered.
Those two words twisted something in her chest.
He sat on the edge of the chaise, shoulders hunched. “I suspected… even when we were together. But I was young and desperate for someone to want me. She was confident. Beautiful. She made me believe I was finally enough.”
Hyacinth moved slowly to sit beside him.
“Then she left,” he continued. “No word. No letter. I thought maybe I wasn’t good enough again.”
“You were never the problem,” she said softly.
He looked at her, as if seeing her clearly for the first time.
“I didn’t want to love again,” he said. “Until you.”
Hyacinth’s breath hitched.
“I don’t know how to be good at this,” Edger whispered. “But I know how to be honest. And I know I want you beside me.”
“I want that too,” she said.
But something still sat between them. Heavy. Waiting.
“I can ruin her,” Hyacinth said suddenly.
Edger blinked. “What?”
“I can tell the queen. The court. I can expose what Adelaide did—how she schemed to marry into nobility only to discard you.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I’ve gathered information,” she said. “From the bar. From David. I know how far her plans went. I can end her.”
Edger’s silence thickened.
“But if I do,” Hyacinth continued, “it drags your name through it. People will question your judgment. They’ll laugh at you. Maybe even pity you.”
He looked away.
“And if I stay silent,” she said, voice trembling, “then she wins again. She walks free. Still smiling.”
She turned to him. “So tell me what to do.”
But Edger shook his head. “No. This choice isn’t mine.”
Hyacinth’s throat tightened. “You’re the one who was hurt.”
“And you’re the one she tried to replace,” he said quietly. “She saw your fire and wanted to extinguish it. This is your fight as much as mine.”
She stared at him—at the man who had once been a broken boy. Beaten. Abandoned. Betrayed.
And now, asking her to choose the battleground.
That night, Hyacinth sat by candlelight, writing a letter she never expected to write.
Not to the Queen. Not to the court.
But to Adelaide.
She wrote plainly. Carefully. Every word chosen like a weapon.
She told her the truth was known.
She told her if she dared to show her face in noble company again, if she ever used Edger’s name to gain access, wealth, or influence, she would release the full truth—to every ear that mattered.
And not even the Americas would be far enough to hide her disgrace.
When she finished, she folded it, sealed it with wax, and handed it to Patricia in the morning.
“No one must know who wrote this,” she instructed.
Patricia only nodded and curtsied.
Later that evening, Edger stood at the doorway of her room, holding a glass of wine.
“You chose silence,” he said quietly.
“No,” she replied. “I chose protection.”
He walked in, slow and careful, like she was still deciding whether he belonged in her world.
She reached out and took the glass from him.
“I will never let her hurt you again,” she said.
“And I will never let you fight alone,” he promised.
That night, they sat together beneath the covers, no longer tangled in anger or tension—but in a quiet, healing silence. He kissed her hand. Her shoulder. Her cheek.
And for the first time in a long time, Edger Thompson slept through the night.
- Writer
