Three days remained.
Only three.
The number pulsed in Sophia's mind like a tolling bell.
Three mornings to wake knowing he was still under this roof.
Three afternoons where she might glimpse him crossing the lawns.
Three evenings where his voice might drift faintly down corridors.
After that—
He would leave.
Laurence would return to university.
Florian would go with him.
And Maxim — dear, steady Maxim — would depart for boarding school as well.
The estate would empty a little bit more.
The embroidery had become urgent.
No longer careful leisure — but necessity.
For the final three nights she barely slept.
Candlelight flickered long after the household retired. Shadows stretched and collapsed against her chamber walls while she bent over the linen square.
Her fingers were no longer merely pricked — they were sore, tender from repetition. A faint ridge had formed where the needle pressed again and again.
The bear had been the hardest.
Why must it have been a bear? Why could it not have been something easier? Is this the pain every maiden in love had to go through to show her devotion?
While men clashed swords to show their power, strength and prestige. Women's devotion lay in the painstaking arts to showcase their attention to detail.
Capturing the bears strength without clumsiness, it's posture without stiffness, the spear aligned just so was a feat she was willing to overcome.
She had unpicked entire sections twice.
Thread wasted.
Time lost.
But she would not present something flawed.
Not to him.
The final night, she worked until the candle burned nearly to its base.
When she completed the last stitch — anchoring the wheat framing the crest — she leaned back and stared at it.
The Erskine bear stood upright, spear firm in its grasp, golden wheat arching gracefully around it.
It was not perfect.
But it was hers.
And it was for him.
She pressed it gently between her palms, as though sealing intention into the cloth while giving out a sigh of relief to have conquered the plains of the plain linen square.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would give it to him.
The morning of departure dawned too bright.
Sunlight spilled boldly across the estate, indifferent to heartbreak.
Sophia woke before the bell.
She dressed herself without calling for her maid at first — choosing her gown with deliberation. Soft ivory with subtle blue embroidery at the sleeves. A ribbon — pale blue — tied carefully into her hair which matched the ribbon on her white lace loves.
She studied herself in the mirror.
Composed.
Presentable.
Not childish. Not foolish.
She tucked the handkerchief carefully inside the inner pocket of her dress.
Her heart beat loudly all through breakfast.
The long table was fuller than usual — Laurence, Florian, the other guests, Maxim preparing for his own departure.
Sophia barely tasted her food.
She stole glances at Florian whenever she could.
He looked effortlessly composed as ever.
A dark coat that morning — charcoal grey.
A crisp white shirt.
His pocket watch chain glinting faintly when he shifted.
He laughed at something Arthur said.
She memorized the sound.
I must find the moment.
Not at table.
Not before everyone.
Alone.
She must give it to him alone.
The morning unraveled quickly.
Trunks were carried out.
Horses harnessed.
Attendants called instructions across the courtyard.
Laurence moved with quiet authority — overseeing arrangements with calm efficiency.
Maxim stood straighter than usual — trying to appear older than he felt.
Florian drifted easily between conversation and preparation — offering thanks to Charlotte, bidding staff who had looked after him farewell, adjusting gloves.
Sophia searched for him constantly.
But he was never alone.
If not beside Laurence, he stood with one of the other university men.
If not with them, an attendant hovered.
If not that, Arthur or Fredrick attached themselves.
Each time she approached, someone intervened.
Her chest tightened.
The handkerchief felt heavier with every passing minute.
He cannot leave without it.
He cannot.
Carriages were nearly ready.
The courtyard hummed with final movements.
Sophia felt panic creeping in.
I have waited all summer.
I cannot fail now.
And then—
At the great front doors—
She saw him.
Alone.
Or so she believed.
Florian stood just inside the open doorway, straightening his jacket, adjusting the time on his pocket watch, ensuring everything was precisely as it should before stepping out into the sun.
The light framed him from behind.
His profile sharp.
Composed.
Calm.
He would leave in moments.
Sophia's heart leapt into her throat.
This is it.
Without thinking—
Without planning—
She called out.
"Florian!"
The name burst from her lips.
It startled even her.
This was the first time she had ever spoken it aloud. The thought of his name escaped so easily in this moment of desperation.
Not "My lord." which was how she had addressed him the whole four weeks of his stay.
Just—
Florian.
He stopped immediately.
Turned.
Saw her standing halfway down the staircase, frozen.
She felt heat flood her face.
Improper.
Too forward.
Too desperate.
But he did not frown.
He smiled.
Softly.
Warmly.
He regarded her as he always had — gently, almost protectively, as one might regard a younger sister who had spoken impulsively.
"Miss Sophia," he said kindly. "Is something the matter?"
She descended the remaining steps slowly.
Each footfall felt amplified.
"I beg your pardon," she said quietly. "It was improper."
"That's quite alright," he assured her lightly, giving a gentle smile to ease her worries. "You may address me as you please."
Her heart fluttered painfully at that.
She stopped before him.
He thanked her first — sincere as ever.
"For your hospitality and the pleasure of your company this summer. I have enjoyed my stay immensely."
She swallowed. "You are most welcome." Her voice demure and measured.
He continued, smiling faintly.
"You shall make a splendid lady of the house one day. That much is certain."
The words struck her strangely.
A Lady. Of the House. His perhaps?
Hope rising before she realised.
Future tense.
Distant.
Not—
Not something nearer.
She forced herself not to falter.
Now.
Now.
Before courage deserts you.
She withdrew the handkerchief carefully from her pocket.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"I—I wished to give you something," she said softly. "It is not… perfect. But I thought—"
She unfolded it.
Revealing the embroidered crest.
The Erskine bear.
Framed by wheat.
For a moment—
Florian did not speak.
He was standing directly in the open doorway.
Behind him—
Outside—
Unbeknownst to Sophia—
Laurence stood near the carriages.
The other guests gathered.
Attendants waiting.
They had seen.
Everything.
One of the friends called out loudly—
"Florian! If you do not hurry, we are leaving without you!"
Another added with laughter—
"You may walk the hundred and fifty miles to university!"
Florian half-turned, amused.
"I shall be there!" he called back lightly. "It is not as though the horses will sprout wings and fly away!"
In that moment—
Sophia realized—
They were not alone.
She stood in the doorway.
Visible.
Exposed.
Another voice rang out from the courtyard—
"Stop collecting admirers wherever you go, Florian!"
Laughter followed.
Her face burned scarlet.
Admirers.
The word struck like ice.
She felt suddenly foolish.
Small.
Public.
Laurence had seen.
They all had.
Florian turned back to her immediately, expression softening.
"I am sorry," he said gently. "They are incorrigible."
He took the handkerchief carefully.
Examined it more closely now.
Sophia held her breath.
"You embroidered this?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," she whispered. "I know my skill is not… extraordinary. But I intend to improve."
He smiled.
It was genuine.
Warm.
"You have done wonderfully," he said kindly. "It is quite splendid."
Her chest swelled painfully with relief.
"And thoughtful," he added. "Very thoughtful."
He looked at her then — not romantically — but with sincere affection.
"Any gentleman would be fortunate to receive such devotion in the future."
The word devotion echoed in her ears.
He bent once more.
Kissed the back of her hand.
The contact felt like fire.
Before anyone could say another word—
Before laughter could resume—
Sophia did a quick curtsy and fled.
Up the staircase.
Down the corridor.
Out of sight.
Florian tucked the handkerchief carefully into his breast pocket.
The white linen visible.
The Erskine bear unmistakable.
His friends laughed as he joined them.
"What token have you secured now?"
"Be careful — don't go breaking young ladies hearts before they have even blossomed."
He laughed lightly.
But Laurence did not.
He had seen the crest.
He had recognized it instantly.
A lady does not embroider another house's crest lightly.
Certainly not one of lower rank.
A count's heir.
Below Sophia's station.
And yet—
She had labored.
Bled her fingers.
Missed teatimes.
For him.
Something boiled inside Laurence.
Not explosive.
Contained.
But fierce.
Possessive.
He climbed into his carriage without comment.
Florian entered another with a friend who was still trying to poke fun at him.
Maxim departed separately for boarding school — face set in brave composure.
Three carriages.
Different destinations.
Sophia stood the upstairs window of the manor which overlooked the entrance to the estate.
Her hand still tingling from his kiss.
Her heart aching.
She watched as the wheels rolled away.
As distance swallowed them.
She pressed her fingers to her lips.
Then to the back of her hand.
Next summer, she thought.
Next summer will come quickly.
And perhaps—
Perhaps she would be braver still.
Below, in the carriage heading toward university—
Laurence stared ahead.
Unsmiling.
The image of the white handkerchief burned in his mind.