Mother

She could only serve her more carefully, preparing delicious food in various ways, telling her in a soft voice about trivial matters in the manor, or simply staying by her side silently.

She prayed day and night, beseeching the gods to bless her daughter with a safe delivery, and praying that time, the most merciless healer, would slowly, ever soothe this deep-seated wound.

In Martha's simple yet profound understanding, as long as her mistress is alive and well, and the child in her womb is born safely, perhaps that is the best outcome she can hope for in this desperate situation.

That afternoon, the winter sun, unusually, pierced through the thick clouds and the oak forest, casting several slanted, warm spots of light on the rough stone floor of the stone house.

Charlotte sat in the rocking chair by the window as usual, covered with that familiar wool blanket.

A book of poems with a leather cover lay open on her lap, a gift from her Henry from Prye City long ago, but she didn't look at it, simply letting the pages turn gently in the breeze.

Her gaze passed through the window frame and landed on the bare oak branches edged with gold by the sunlight. Her eyes remained vacant, as if she were staring, yet also as if she saw nothing at all.

Tap, tap, tap.

A soft, clear, yet polite knock suddenly broke the long-standing, reassuring silence inside the house.

Martha paused in her needlework, a look of surprise and wariness flashing across her face.

The seclusion of this residence is beyond doubt. On ordinary days, apart from the two reliable maids who regularly bring water and daily necessities and appear silently at certain times to put down the things and leave quickly, no outsiders will ever come to disturb it.

The Count strictly forbade anyone from visiting, and even the manor's butler had never set foot deep within this oak forest.

She glanced at Charlotte instinctively. Charlotte seemed to be pulled back from her distant thoughts by the unexpected knock on the door. She turned her head slightly and looked towards the doorway. Her face remained expressionless, but a very faint ripple seemed to pass through her eyes.

Martha put down the small clothes she was holding, stood up, and gestured for Charlotte not to move. She then tiptoed quickly to the heavy oak door.

She didn't open the door immediately, but instead pressed her ear close to the door panel to listen. All she could hear outside was the sound of the wind and the rustling of leaves.

She composed herself, lowered her voice, and asked in as calm a tone as possible, "Who's outside?"

There was a moment or two of silence outside the door. Just as Martha's heart was pounding and she was even considering whether to retrieve the dagger hidden in the secret compartment behind the door, a gentle, elegant female voice, tinged with the slight weariness of a long journey, yet strangely familiar and surprising to Martha, clearly rang out:

"Martha, it's me, Isabella."

Mrs. Lady Isabella, Charlotte's mother!

Martha's heart skipped a beat, and she almost cried out in surprise, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

She remembered that before the Count left, he had said that he would send someone to inform the lady, who was in the Royal Capital with her eldest son Henry, of the situation.

But she never expected the lady to arrive so quickly! The journey from the Royal Capital to Hewenham Territory, even with the most comfortable carriage and the best roads, was a long and arduous one, especially during the transition from winter to spring when the roads could be muddy and difficult to travel.

"Madam! You... you've come!" Martha's voice trembled with surprise. Without further hesitation, she quickly turned the heavy brass latch, and with a creak, opened the door a crack.

Standing outside the door was a middle-aged noblewoman dressed in a well-tailored, travel-appropriate dark purple velvet dress, covered by a thick cloak of the same color.

She looked travel-worn, her face showing obvious signs of fatigue from the long journey, and her carefully styled hair was a little loose, with a few strands of golden hair falling from her forehead.

But none of this can completely overshadow her innate elegance and well-maintained appearance. Time has left its mark on her face, but it has only added to her serenity and charm.

It was Charlotte's birth mother, Isabella, the wife of the Earl Rochefort.

"Madam, please come in!" Martha quickly stepped aside to make way, her tone filled with respect and a hint of excitement at finally seeing her pillar of support.

Lady Isabella did not answer immediately, nor did she even look at Martha.

The moment the door opened, her gaze swept past Martha's slightly hunched shoulders, like two eager searchlights, directly towards the figure in the rocking chair by the window deep inside the room—her daughter, Charlotte.

When her gaze fell upon her daughter's pale, bloodless face, her thin cheekbones protruding, her eyes vacant as if devoid of a soul, and the clearly visible outline of her protruding belly even through her loose dress.

Lady Isabella felt as if an invisible hand was gripping her heart tightly, the pain making it almost impossible for her to breathe.

All the worries I had suppressed along the way, and the countless terrible scenarios I had imagined, seemed so pale in the face of the reality I saw with my own eyes.

Her eyes instantly reddened, and warm tears quickly filled her eyes.

She could no longer suppress the overwhelming sorrow, heartache, guilt, and affection churning within her. Without even taking off her mud-stained cloak, she hurried into the house, almost staggering, and went straight to Charlotte.

"Charlotte ...my child...my poor child..." Lady Isabella's voice trembled, thick with nasal tone. Her outstretched arms paused slightly in the air, as if she wanted to immediately embrace her daughter tightly, but was afraid that her abruptness would disturb her daughter or harm the fetus in her womb.

Charlotte stared blankly at her mother, who had suddenly appeared before her. Her bright blue eyes were first filled with disbelief and surprise, and then the thick, icy shell that she had been forcibly maintaining for so long seemed to shatter instantly with her mother's warm and familiar presence!

She suddenly stood up from the rocking chair, the movement slightly unsteady due to the weight of her abdomen and the prolonged sitting, but she paid no heed. Acting on instinct, like an injured fledgling that had finally found its nest, she opened her arms and rushed into her mother's embrace, which, though dusty from the journey, was still incredibly familiar and warm.

Her hands gripped the soft velvet fabric of her mother's back tightly, as if she wanted to surrender all her weight and helplessness to this embrace, as if as long as she held on, she would never be abandoned again, never fall into that boundless darkness and cold.

She buried her face in her mother's shoulder, which carried the chill of the outdoors and the faint scent of lavender, and her body trembled violently.

"Mommy... Mommy..." she finally uttered a long-suppressed sob, like a wounded animal crying out in despair, "Why did you take so long... Why did you take so long... Mommy... I was so scared... I'm in so much pain..."