Chapter Forty Five

The heavy door of the drawing room slammed shut behind Anne, but she didn't flinch. She continued her slow, deliberate march down the grand staircase, the half-empty bottle of wine clutched in her hand like a weapon. Each step was a defiance against her mother, against her fate.

"Anne!"

She heard George's voice call her name from the entrance hall where he must have been lingering, but she didn't stop. She didn't even turn around. He was the cause of all this, a weak, useless man whose indecision had cost her everything. She walked right past him, pushed open the French doors, and stepped out into the cool, dark garden.

He followed her, his footsteps hesitant on the stone path. She led him to a small, white pavilion nestled amongst the rose bushes, a delicate, latticework structure where her mother often held tea parties with other noblewomen. In the moonlight, it looked like a beautiful, ghostly cage.