Under a Sky Full of Stars

News of Victor Thorne reached me through a letter from an old neighbor in Yorkshire.

Victor had shown his true colors only a few months after marrying Sylvia — drinking, gambling, and the beatings he gave her growing steadily worse.

This time, with no one to make him rich, that nature had surfaced right from the start.

One afternoon in late November, the butler came to tell me two visitors had arrived asking for me.

Mrs. Miller and Sylvia stood in the drawing room, their clothes dusty from travel, Sylvia’s head wrapped in a scarf that covered half her face — likely to hide a bruise.

“Eleanor,” Mrs. Miller said, her voice suddenly softened. “Lend your mother and sister some money. Victor’s gambled everything away, and we’re in debt all over.”

“I have no money to give,” I said. “I’m only a fiancée, not a lady of the house, and what I earn is from my own work — not for paying off anyone’s gambling debts.”

“How dare you say that!” Mrs. Miller gasped. “I’m your mother — how can you talk to me like this?”

“You burned my acceptance letter,” I answered. “I’ve already paid off that debt by taking care of myself. As of today, I owe you nothing more.”

Sylvia stepped forward, her scarf slipping slightly to reveal a bruise at her temple.

“How can you say that! If it weren’t for the match with Captain Sterling, you’d never have had the chance to go to Imperial in the first place!”

“True,” I said. “And you traded that chance for a marriage you thought would be worse off. Everything’s clear now — who chose right, and who chose wrong.”

Sylvia went pale, unable to answer.

“See them out,” I said. “And don’t come here again.”

Mrs. Miller burst into tears. “You’re an ungrateful daughter,” she said. “I raised you for eighteen years.”

“You raised me for eighteen years,” I answered, “and burned my future in a single second.”

I watched the two of them walk away down the cobbled street, their shapes shrinking until they disappeared around the corner.

For the first time in either life, I felt relief in cutting a family tie.

The old housekeeper came up beside me once the iron gate had shut.

“Miss Eleanor,” she said, “I’ve seen no shortage of young women in this house taken advantage of by their families. You’re the first I’ve seen brave enough to cut it off completely.”

“I learned that a little too late,” I answered. “But better late than never.”

A week before Lady Sterling’s fiftieth birthday party, the whole estate buzzed with preparation.

I was assigned to prepare part of the menu — as Isabella put it sweetly in front of everyone, “so Eleanor can show off her skills as a future wife.”

I knew it wasn’t a genuine compliment, but I didn’t refuse.

The afternoon before the party, I prepared a highland-style lamb stew, a dish I’d learned from my grandmother back in Yorkshire.

Oliver sat nearby, watching curiously as I seasoned the pot.

“Miss Eleanor, is it good?”

“Try a taste,” I said.

“It’s delicious!” Oliver exclaimed, then fell silent when he saw his mother standing in the doorway.

“Oliver, go play outside,” Isabella said.

The next evening, I set the dish of lamb chops on the banquet table, while Isabella looked at it with a flash of displeasure, then leaned in to whisper something to Oliver.

The dinner began.

But as the lamb was served, a piercing scream rang out from the far end of the table.

An elderly lady shot up from her chair, pointing at the dish — a cockroach lay belly-up beside the meat.

“Who prepared this?” the Earl demanded.

“It was Eleanor,” Oliver blurted, unexpectedly. “I saw her making it in the kitchen.”

I turned to look at the boy, then at Isabella standing behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder, her eyes lowered in false guilt.

“I didn’t cook this dish with a cockroach in it,” I said. “I checked it carefully before bringing it out.”

“Are you going to blame an eight-year-old child?” Richard stood up, his face flushed red. “Isabella already told me you’ve seemed jealous of her place in this family lately — now I understand you’d go this far.”

“I didn’t—”

“Enough,” he cut in. “A country girl from Yorkshire — no matter how much schooling she’s had — will never learn how to behave properly in a family like this.”

Those words cut deeper than the slap ever had.

And something in me, worn down over nearly four years, finally broke.