Late July, 1912. In the tranquil solitude of the conservatory, Lady Bergamot and Yates Everett find themselves on the precipice of something unspoken. Yates admits a longing neither of them can act on, forcing Lady Bergamot to confront emotions she’s tried to suppress. The weight of his confession hangs in the air, leaving her with an ache that refuses to be ignored. Will they be able to keep their desires at bay, or is everything about to change?

At a summer gathering, Lady Bergamot hears a widow’s confession—and wonders how long a quiet affection can hide before someone sees its glow.

At a society wedding, Lady Bergamot is quietly unraveled by a question she wasn’t expecting. Yates Everett risks just enough to make it unforgettable.

Lady Bergamot pulls away from Yates Everett, trying to forget the violet, the book, and how it felt to be truly seen. But ache has its own memory.

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He called me a useful little thing. The laughter was polite. The wound was private. And he saw it. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t speak. He only watched.

We spoke only once—but it carried more weight than any confession. A luncheon, a glance, a silence that said far too much. I felt undone in yellow gloves.

We spoke of nothing. But the rain knew. A shared pause at the garden gate, and the storm that followed — not in the sky, but within.

We barely spoke. But I remember everything. A journal entry of glances, almosts, and the gentle ache of wanting something not meant to be touched.

A quiet, romantic letter to a love that never became. A poetic reflection on timing, silence, and the ache of what could have been.