Eloise POV
The village of Ashford was a quaint place, nestled amid the lush green hills of Devon, where cobblestone streets wound their way past charming cottages adorned with climbing roses. As I strolled through the bustling market, the sun shone brightly, casting a golden hue over the stalls brimming with fresh produce, homemade goods, and the laughter of villagers enjoying a pleasant day.
It had been two years since I had left Sandringham, and in that time, I had transformed from the timid girl overshadowed by insecurity into a confident young woman. My long hair, once unkempt and wild, was now neatly tied back with a ribbon, and the frills of my gown accentuated my height rather than obscuring it. I felt at home in my own skin for the first time, a far cry from the girl who had wept beneath the great oak tree.
As I approached a stall laden with ripe strawberries, I caught the eye of Mrs. Whitaker, the baker's wife. "Good day, Eloise! You look lovely as ever. Have you been painting?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with warmth.
"Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker," I replied, smiling as I accepted a basket of plump strawberries. "I have indeed. The countryside has been a wonderful inspiration."
"Your mother tells me you're quite talented. You must come to the tea party at the manor next week. I hear the new vicar will be in attendance."
I felt a flutter of excitement mixed with apprehension. The manor, once a place of childhood dreams, now felt like a threshold to memories I had tried to forget. "I would be delighted," I said, though my heart raced at the thought of stepping into the social circles that had once brought me such joy and heartache.
"Splendid! I shall be sure to save you a seat next to me," Mrs. Whitaker said with a grin, turning her attention back to her stall.
As I turned to leave, a commotion caught my attention from across the square. A group of young gentlemen had gathered, their laughter ringing out like a joyous melody. I glanced over, and my breath hitched as I spotted a familiar figure among them—Alexander.
He stood tall, his dark hair tousled by the wind, and wore a deep blue coat that highlighted his broad shoulders. Even from a distance, I could see the ease with which he commanded attention, his laughter bright and infectious. My heart raced, memories flooding back—memories of a boy who had once filled my dreams and then shattered them.
Two years earlier, when I had first met him at Sandringham, he had been my hero. At sixteen, Alexander Louie George Marshall, heir to the Duchy of Sandringham, was a figure of intrigue for the entire village. His kindness had drawn me in; he had been the one to stand up for me when the local boys taunted me for my height and skinniness. With his charming smile and gentle ways, he had made me feel special, even cherished.
But the memory of overhearing his cruel words echoed painfully in my mind—the moment I had stumbled upon him speaking to his friends in the courtyard. "Eloise? Too ugly to be thought of with me," he had said, the laughter of his companions ringing in my ears. "Too tall, too skinny. The face is alright, but she's just a child." It had shattered my heart, leaving me feeling like a fool for ever dreaming he could feel the same.
I turned to flee, but my feet betrayed me, rooted to the cobblestones as I watched him interact with his friends. They were all so carefree, and a pang of nostalgia washed over me. I had once longed to be a part of their world, to feel the warmth of acceptance, but now I felt like an outsider peering in.
Just then, he caught my gaze. For a heartbeat, time stood still. His smile faded as recognition flickered in his eyes. A moment later, he excused himself from his companions and approached me, his expression shifting from surprise to something more contemplative.
