The morning after the flood, Rosalind woke before dawn. Her muscles ached from yesterday's bor, but her mind was alert, filled with pns and concerns for the families whose homes had been damaged. She dressed quickly in her sturdiest work clothes and headed out into the misty morning.

  The world had transformed overnight. Where once there had been neat fields and pathways, now there were muddy expanses and scattered debris. The main road to the vilge was partially washed out, forcing her to pick her way carefully along the edges. As she approached the low-lying western fields, she saw Mr. Finch already out surveying the damage, his tall figure distinctive against the hazy ndscape.

  "Miss Rose," he acknowledged her with a slight nod, his usual formality softened by the shared experience of yesterday's crisis. "You're out early."

  "I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "There's too much to be done."

  Mr. Finch studied her thoughtfully. "Indeed. The dam held better than expected because of those channels you identified, but the Millers' orchard is half underwater, and the Prestons' root celr has colpsed entirely."

  "What about old Jeremiah's pce?" she asked.

  "Minor flooding in his outbuildings, but the house itself is sound. Your intervention there likely saved his life." The estate manager paused. "Your grandmother would have handled this situation very simirly, I suspect."

  The comparison struck Rosalind deeply. Six months ago, she would have resented being compared to an old woman who had spent her life in rural obscurity. Now, she felt a flutter of pride.

  "I'd like to organize aid for the affected families," she said. "Not just repairs, but temporary housing, food stores to repce what was lost..."

  "That would be... most appropriate," Mr. Finch replied, and Rosalind detected a new note of respect in his voice. "I'll have the account books ready for your review by midmorning."

  "Thank you," she said. "I was also thinking we should call a meeting of all the tenants and nearby farmers. They'll know best what's needed in the immediate term."

  Mr. Finch raised an eyebrow. "That's not typically how these matters are handled. The estate usually determines allocations based on—"

  "Based on precedent and protocol," Rosalind finished for him. "But perhaps we might benefit from their practical knowledge. After all, they're the ones who'll be rebuilding."

  He considered this, then nodded slowly. "I'll send word for a gathering this afternoon." After a pause, he added, "Your father will want a full accounting of the damage and response. Will you be writing to the Duke yourself?"

  The question gave Rosalind pause. She had been so immersed in the immediate crisis that she hadn't considered how these events might affect her standing with her father. Would a well-managed disaster response improve her chances of returning to court sooner?

  Six months ago, that would have been her only consideration. Now, the thought felt strangely hollow compared to the immediate needs of the people around her.

  "Yes," she said finally. "I'll prepare a comprehensive report once we've fully assessed the situation."

  By midday, the great hall of Thornfield House had been transformed into a crisis center. Families streamed in, some still in the same muddy clothes they'd worn during yesterday's evacuation. Children clung to their parents' legs while adults spoke in hushed tones about damaged roofs and ruined stores.

  Rosalind had arranged for tables to be set up with hot food and tea. She had also organized a system whereby each family could register their immediate needs and damage assessment. Mrs. Hawthorn supervised this operation with her usual efficiency, while Maisie and Agnes distributed bnkets and dry clothing from the estate stores.

  "Miss Rose," Martha, the head dairywoman, approached her with a list in hand. "We've got seventeen families needing temporary lodging, nine reporting significant structural damage to their homes, and nearly everyone in the western valley has lost stored food."

  "Thank you, Martha," Rosalind said, taking the list. "Please ask Mrs. Bennett to increase bread production, and we'll distribute from the estate granary for the immediate term."

  As she surveyed the crowded hall, Rosalind caught sight of Thomas entering with his father. They had been checking on neighboring farms since dawn, and both men looked exhausted but determined. Her heart quickened at the sight of him, then steadied into a warm certainty. Of course he would be here, helping just as she was.

  Thomas spotted her and made his way through the crowd.

  "The Wilsons' north field is completely washed out," he reported without preamble. "And the bridge to the mill is damaged, though still standing."

  "We'll add them to the list," Rosalind said. "How is your family's farm?"

  "We were fortunate. The drainage systems my father installed st spring held well." Thomas ran a hand through his hair, which was still damp from his morning excursion. "But that's not why I came looking for you. I've been thinking about our agricultural school pns."

  Rosalind blinked at the apparent change of subject. "Surely that can wait until this crisis is resolved?"

  "That's just it," Thomas said, his eyes bright with purpose. "This flood has shown exactly why we need better education about nd management and water control systems. If more farmers understood the principles behind proper drainage and soil conservation, much of this damage could have been prevented."

  Rosalind considered this. "You're suggesting we incorporate water management into the curriculum?"

  "More than that. I'm suggesting we use this disaster as evidence in our proposal. Show how practical education could prevent future losses." Thomas hesitated, then added, "And I think we should present the proposal to your father directly, alongside your report on the flood response."

  The suggestion took Rosalind by surprise. She had been treating the agricultural school as a separate project from her retionship with her family, almost as if it belonged to a different life entirely.

  "My father may not be interested in agricultural education," she said carefully.

  "But he is interested in protecting his investments and increasing the productivity of his estates," Thomas countered. "Frame it as an economic benefit rather than a charitable endeavor."

  Before she could respond, Mr. Finch called for everyone's attention. The community meeting was beginning, and Rosalind moved to take her pce at the front of the hall.

  For the next hour, she listened as families reported damages and concerns. She was struck by their resilience—no one compined about fate or bad luck. Instead, they focused on practical solutions and offered to help their neighbors even when they had suffered losses themselves.

  When it came time for her to speak, Rosalind found herself abandoning the formal address she had prepared.

  "I've been at Thornfield for nearly six months now," she began, "and in that time, you have taught me more than I could have imagined about community and cooperation. Now I ask for your continued guidance as we rebuild together. This estate has resources that will be made avaible to all who need them, but I need your wisdom to ensure they're distributed where they'll do the most good."

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. This was not how the nobility typically addressed tenants and workers.

  Old Willem spoke up first. "The emergency grain stores should go first to families with young ones, then to those who need to repnt immediately."

  Others joined in, offering practical suggestions about work rotations for rebuilding, sharing tools, and prioritizing repairs. Rosalind listened carefully, taking notes and occasionally asking questions. By the end of the meeting, they had developed a comprehensive pn that incorporated everyone's input.

  As the crowd began to disperse, Jeremiah Rogers—the stubborn old farmer she had convinced to evacuate—approached her.

  "Never thought I'd see the day when a Harrington asked common folk for advice," he said gruffly. "Your grandmother did things her own way, she did, but even she gave orders rather than asking questions."

  Rosalind smiled. "I've found I learn more by listening than by speaking, Mr. Rogers."

  "Well," he huffed, "that's uncommon sense for one born to your station." With that backhanded compliment, he shuffled away.

  That evening, Rosalind retreated to her cottage with stacks of estate records. Mrs. Hawthorn had directed her to several leather-bound volumes documenting previous floods and the estate's responses. To her surprise, many contained her grandmother's precise handwriting, detailing expenses, repairs, and lessons learned.

  As she pored over these historical accounts by mplight, there was a knock at her door. Thomas stood outside, holding a wooden box.

  "I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said. "I've brought some materials that might help with your report."

  Rosalind invited him in, conscious of how natural it felt to have him in her space now, when months ago the very idea of entertaining a farmer's son would have been unthinkable.

  "What have you brought?" she asked as he set the box on her small table.

  "Maps of the surrounding area showing elevation changes, soil types, and water flow patterns," he expined, unrolling several detailed drawings. "My father and grandfather have been making these observations for decades. They might help expin why certain areas were more affected than others."

  Rosalind examined the maps with growing excitement. "These are remarkable, Thomas. Combined with my grandmother's records, we could create a comprehensive understanding of the estate's vulnerabilities."

  They worked side by side for hours, comparing notes, developing theories, and sketching improved drainage systems. At some point, Mrs. Hawthorn brought them tea and quietly withdrew, her expression unreadable.

  "I've been thinking," Rosalind said, as they organized their notes near midnight, "about your suggestion to include the agricultural school proposal with my flood report."

  Thomas looked up, his expression cautiously hopeful.

  "It makes sense," she continued. "The flood has demonstrated clear needs for education in nd management. And my father respects practical solutions, especially those that protect his investments."

  "Does this mean you'll write to him about it?"

  Rosalind hesitated. This would be her first direct communication with her father since her exile began. She had imagined that when she finally wrote to him, it would be to demonstrate her reformed character and request a return to court. Instead, she was considering advocating for a local project that would have meant nothing to her former self.

  "Yes," she said finally. "But I think it needs something more concrete than concepts and curricu. We need to show real benefits, perhaps with a small demonstration plot?"

  Thomas's face lit up. "The south field near the river would be perfect. It's been underperforming for years, but with the right techniques, we could transform it within a season."

  "We could document the changes and include the results in future reports," Rosalind added, warming to the idea. "A practical demonstration of what education can achieve."

  "It would need regur attention," Thomas said. "Daily observations, careful record-keeping..."

  The implication hung in the air between them: such a project would require her presence at Thornfield for months to come, well beyond what might be the intended duration of her exile.

  Rosalind found herself not minding this prospect as much as she once would have. "Well," she said with a small smile, "I seem to have developed quite an interest in agricultural innovation tely."

  Thomas returned her smile, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them—an acknowledgment of how their worlds had intertwined in ways neither could have anticipated.

  "It's te," he said finally, gathering his materials. "You must be exhausted after today."

  "Will you come tomorrow?" she asked. "To continue working on the proposal?"

  "Of course," he replied. "I'll bring some of my books on crop rotation systems. There are passages I think would strengthen our argument."

  After he left, Rosalind sat alone at her table, surrounded by maps, records, and pns. Six months ago, she had arrived at Thornfield feeling as though she'd been cast into exile, stripped of everything that mattered. Now, she found herself voluntarily pnning projects that would keep her here longer, working alongside people she had once considered beneath her notice.

  She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write: "Father, I write to you not only as your daughter but as the temporary steward of Thornfield's western properties, which have recently suffered significant flood damage..."

  The words flowed easily, confident and purposeful. This was not the letter of a penitent daughter begging for forgiveness, but of a capable woman reporting on matters of substance. As she wrote deep into the night, Rosalind realized with startling crity that she no longer measured her worth by her proximity to court or the opinions of people like Lady Beatrice and Lady Eleanor.

  For the first time since arriving at Thornfield, she did not end her day feeling like an exile. Instead, she fell asleep with the satisfaction of someone who had found, quite unexpectedly, a pce where she was needed.

  The next week passed in a blur of activity. Mornings were devoted to flood recovery—organizing work parties, distributing supplies, and checking on repairs. Afternoons often found Rosalind in the fields, watching and sometimes participating as farmers rebuilt stone walls and cleared debris from waterlogged soil.

  In the evenings, she and Thomas refined their proposal for the agricultural school, incorporating insights gathered from the flood response. They envisioned a curriculum that combined theoretical knowledge with practical application, taught by local experts as well as trained schors.

  "We should include a section on traditional knowledge," Rosalind suggested one evening as they worked in her cottage. "I've been amazed by how many farmers have techniques passed down through generations that science is only beginning to understand."

  Thomas looked up from the book he was consulting, his expression pleased. "From someone who once referred to country wisdom as 'quaint superstitions,' that's quite a turnaround."

  Rosalind felt her cheeks warm. "I've been humbled many times since arriving here. The least I can do is acknowledge it."

  "Your willingness to learn is what makes this proposal special," Thomas said earnestly. "Most educational initiatives from the nobility assume the knowledge should flow in only one direction—from the educated elite to the ignorant masses."

  "Whereas we propose an exchange," Rosalind finished. "Bringing formal scientific understanding together with generations of practical experience."

  They shared a smile of mutual understanding. Then Thomas cleared his throat and pulled out a folded document from his pocket.

  "I have something to show you," he said, his expression troubled. "I wasn't sure whether to bring it up, but given how our work is progressing..."

  He unfolded an official-looking paper and handed it to her. The imperial seal at the top caught her eye immediately.

  "A military census notice," he expined as she scanned the document. "All men between eighteen and thirty in the northern provinces are being counted. My father received one as well, though he's likely to be exempt due to his age and the importance of maintaining food production."

  Rosalind's hands tightened on the paper. "But this is just a census," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Not a conscription order."

  Thomas's face was grim. "The eastern border disputes have been worsening. Three young men from the next vilge have already been called up. This census is just the first step—the army is preparing for a rger mobilization."

  A cold fear settled in Rosalind's stomach. "Surely they wouldn't take farmers during pnting season? The realm needs food as much as it needs soldiers."

  "They make exceptions for essential agricultural workers, but..." Thomas hesitated. "My education works against me in this case. Because I can read and write, I'm considered more valuable as an officer than as a farmer."

  Rosalind felt the room tilt slightly. The thought of Thomas being sent to the borders, where skirmishes had become increasingly deadly according to the gossip at court, made her physically ill.

  "There must be something that can be done," she said, her mind racing. "My father has connections in the War Ministry. Perhaps if our agricultural school proposal is approved, you could be deemed essential to its implementation."

  Thomas looked at her with a mixture of warmth and resignation. "I wouldn't want an exemption obtained through privilege when other men must serve," he said quietly. "But I admit the timing couldn't be worse. Everything we're working toward here—" he gestured to their notes and pns, "—it matters. It could make a real difference to people's lives."

  "Then we'll work faster," Rosalind said with sudden determination. "We'll get the demonstration plot started immediately, even before we hear from my father. We'll document everything meticulously so that even if—" she couldn't bring herself to complete that thought, "—so that the work can continue regardless."

  Thomas reached across the table and briefly covered her hand with his. "Your passion for this project gives me hope," he said. "Whatever happens with the military situation, knowing that you'll carry this forward means everything."

  Rosalind nodded, not trusting herself to speak further on the matter. The thought of Thomas being sent to the front lines stirred emotions so powerful she wasn't prepared to examine them too closely.

  Instead, she redirected their attention to the draft proposal. "I think our section on water management needs strengthening," she said, and they returned to their work, the question of Thomas's future hanging unresolved between them.

  Three days ter, Rosalind stood in Mr. Finch's office, finalizing her report to her father. The document had grown to nearly twenty pages, including detailed accounts of the damage, the response efforts, and her recommendations for preventing simir disasters in the future.

  "This is... most comprehensive," Mr. Finch commented as he reviewed her work. "I've taken the liberty of attaching the expense ledgers and repair estimates."

  "Thank you," Rosalind said. She hesitated, then pulled out the separate folder containing the agricultural school proposal. "I'd also like to include this with my report."

  Mr. Finch raised an eyebrow as he took the additional documents. "A proposal for an agricultural school? This is... unexpected."

  "The flood demonstrated how better education in nd management could prevent future disasters," she expined. "Thomas Brookfield and I have developed a pn that would benefit the entire region while increasing productivity on estate nds."

  The estate manager's expression remained neutral as he skimmed the proposal. "Mr. Brookfield's ideas about crop rotation have merit," he acknowledged. "But do you think the Duke will support such an... unconventional enterprise?"

  "I believe he'll recognize its value," Rosalind replied with more confidence than she felt. "And I'm prepared to oversee its implementation personally."

  Mr. Finch looked at her sharply. "That would require extending your stay at Thornfield considerably."

  "I'm aware," she said simply.

  He studied her for a long moment. "When you first arrived, you counted the days until you might return to court. Now you propose projects that would keep you here indefinitely."

  "Things change," Rosalind said. "People change."

  Mr. Finch nodded thoughtfully, then said, "Speaking of change, I received troubling news this morning. The military census has begun in earnest throughout the northern provinces. Conscription orders will likely follow."

  Rosalind's heart constricted. "Have any been issued locally yet?"

  "Not yet, but it's only a matter of time. The eastern border situation is worse than the imperial bulletins admit." Mr. Finch hesitated. "Young Mr. Brookfield would be high on their list, I imagine. Educated men are quickly made into officers."

  "Could his work on the agricultural initiative exempt him?" Rosalind asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

  "Possibly, if it were already established and deemed essential to food production," Mr. Finch replied. "But a proposal alone... I'm afraid that wouldn't be sufficient."

  Rosalind straightened her shoulders, fighting to maintain her composure. "Then we have all the more reason to proceed quickly. My father's support could make all the difference."

  "Indeed they do, Miss Rose." For the first time since she'd known him, Mr. Finch offered her a genuine smile. "Your grandmother would be proud of the work you've done here. I'll make sure both documents reach the Duke with tomorrow's courier."

  As Rosalind left the main house, she found herself walking not back to her cottage but toward the south field that she and Thomas had identified as a potential demonstration plot. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the nd, and the air smelled of damp earth and new growth.

  She stood at the edge of the field, imagining how it might look transformed—not just by new farming techniques, but by the knowledge and cooperation of people working together across old boundaries of css and education.

  Three months ago, she had arrived at Thornfield feeling that she had been cast out of her real life into some form of purgatory. Now, standing ankle-deep in mud with callused hands and sun-browned skin, she realized that somewhere along the way, this pce had stopped feeling like exile and started feeling like possibility.

  Her report and proposal were on their way to her father. Soon she would have an answer about the agricultural school—and perhaps about her own future as well. The thought brought anxiety but also a strange sort of peace. Whatever came next, she was no longer the same Rosalind who had pushed Lady Sophia into a fountain in a fit of jealous rage.

  That Rosalind would never have understood the satisfaction of solving real problems, the dignity of physical work, or the worth of retionships built on genuine respect rather than advantage. That Rosalind would never have imagined that her six months of exile could become, in its way, a homecoming.

  As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Rosalind turned back toward her cottage, where she knew Agnes would be preparing a simple evening meal. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—more repairs to oversee, more families to assist, more pns to develop while waiting for her father's response.

  For the first time in her life, she found herself looking forward to the work. But as she walked, a group of imperial messengers rode past on the main road, their uniforms crisp and official. They were heading north, undoubtedly carrying more census notices and perhaps even the first conscription orders.

  Rosalind watched them until they disappeared around the bend, a knot of dread forming in her chest. The future she had just begun to imagine—one where she and Thomas built something meaningful together at Thornfield—suddenly seemed terribly fragile.

  "Please," she whispered to no one in particur, "let there be time enough."