Chapter 5: When the World Walks Out

But then disaster struck the Whitmore family—he was falsely accused and thrown in jail, sentenced to die.

The news hit the estate like a thunderclap. Rumors flew. Servants packed their bags. The halls echoed with uncertainty.

Overnight, everyone scattered. All the servants ran away.

They left in the dead of night, their footsteps fading down the gravel drive. The house felt emptier with each passing day, the silence growing heavier.

Including those who had dreamed of marrying up.

The grandest dreams are often the first to die. Sometimes, I thought, it’s better not to dream at all. The girls who’d once vied for his attention were gone without a word, their rooms stripped bare.

Only Miss Eunice, Mrs. Whitmore’s old friend, and I stayed.

Miss Eunice was a sturdy woman, her hair always pulled back tight, her voice no-nonsense. She and I shared a quiet understanding, the kind that comes from weathering storms together.

Mrs. Whitmore, weeping, held my wrist and called me a good girl. "In times like these, you find out who’s loyal and who’s not."

Her grip was desperate, her tears real. I patted her hand, wishing I could do more. Loyalty was all I had to offer.

All her old pride and arrogance were gone.

She moved through the house like a shadow, her voice softer, her posture less rigid. The world had humbled her, and in that, we found common ground.

The estate was seized, all property confiscated. I took the money I’d saved over five years and rented a tiny house on the edge of town with only one bed, giving it to Mrs. Whitmore while I dozed on a long bench.

The house was small, barely more than a shack, but it was warm and dry. I hung lace curtains in the window, hoping to make it feel like home. Mrs. Whitmore slept fitfully, her dreams haunted by loss.

I didn’t think much of it.

To me, it was just the right thing to do. Kindness given, kindness returned. That’s how my mother raised me.

I only thought, my mother was buried thanks to the money Mr. Whitmore gave. Now that he was in trouble, I’d care for his mother to the end.

I remembered the weight of those bills on the riverboat deck, the way Mr. Whitmore’s eyes had met mine. I owed him that much.

To repay kindness with kindness—that’s how a person should be.

I believed it, deep down. Even when the world was cruel, a person’s word should mean something.