The imperial letter arrived on a Tuesday morning. Rosalind was in the dairy, learning to assess cheese ripeness from Martha, when Maisie burst through the door, breathless and wide-eyed.

  "Miss Rose! They're here—the imperial messengers. Mr. Finch says you're needed at the main house right away."

  Rosalind's hands stilled on the cheese wheel. She had been expecting this, dreading it since the census notices had gone out, yet the reality of it struck like a physical blow. She wiped her hands carefully on her apron, removed it with measured movements, and followed Maisie into the bright spring sunshine.

  "Do you know where they've gone?" she asked, keeping her voice level despite the thundering of her heart.

  "They've split up," Maisie replied, hurrying to keep pace with Rosalind's determined stride. "Some rode toward the vilge, others to the outlying farms. They're delivering conscription orders, aren't they?"

  Rosalind nodded grimly. "How many were there?"

  "A dozen at least. All with the imperial insignia."

  A dozen messengers for their small region could only mean a rge-scale mobilization. The border conflict must have escated beyond what anyone had anticipated.

  As they approached Thornfield House, Rosalind spotted Mr. Finch standing on the front steps, his normally impassive face creased with concern. Beside him stood Giles, the guardsman who had accompanied her from court six months ago. It was easy to forget that Giles had military training; in the peaceful months at Thornfield, he had become simply another member of the estate staff.

  "Miss Rose," Mr. Finch greeted her. "I apologize for interrupting your duties, but I thought you should know—"

  "The conscription orders are being delivered," she finished for him. "How bad is it?"

  Mr. Finch and Giles exchanged a gnce. "Nearly all able men between eighteen and thirty," Giles said. "The situation at the eastern border has deteriorated severely. I've been recalled to service as well, as have the younger grooms and two of the field managers."

  Rosalind felt the world tilt beneath her feet. "And the Brookfield farm?"

  "A messenger was dispatched there about an hour ago," Mr. Finch confirmed quietly.

  Without another word, Rosalind turned and began walking swiftly toward the path that led to the Brookfields' property. She heard Mr. Finch call after her, but she didn't slow her pace. Protocol and propriety seemed meaningless against the weight of what was happening.

  The mile to the Brookfield farm had never felt so long. As she crested the final hill, she saw a figure on horseback disappearing down the far road—the imperial messenger, his duty discharged. Her breath caught painfully in her chest.

  In the farmyard, Mrs. Brookfield stood motionless, a piece of paper clutched in her hand. When she spotted Rosalind, her face crumpled momentarily before she composed herself with visible effort.

  "Miss Rose," she said, her voice strained but steady. "I imagine you've heard."

  "Where is he?" Rosalind asked simply.

  Mrs. Brookfield gestured toward the fields beyond the house. "He went to find his father. They'll need to... make arrangements."

  The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. Arrangements for someone who might not return.

  "When must he report?" Rosalind managed to ask.

  "Three days. They're to gather at the provincial capital for initial training," Mrs. Brookfield replied. She hesitated, then added softly, "He'll want to see you before he goes, I think."

  Something in the older woman's tone made Rosalind flush. Had her feelings for Thomas been so transparent? She'd barely acknowledged them to herself.

  "Of course," she said. "We have estate business to conclude."

  Mrs. Brookfield's gentle smile suggested she wasn't fooled by this pretense. "He said he'd be home by midday. Would you care to wait? I've just put on water for tea."

  The simple domesticity of the offer—tea while the world was falling apart—nearly broke Rosalind's composure. She nodded mutely and followed Mrs. Brookfield into the house she had first visited months ago, when she'd still been pying at being a country girl rather than becoming one.

  They sat at the kitchen table, the same pce where Rosalind had first seen glimpses of Thomas's true character through his books and his family's obvious pride in him. Now Mrs. Brookfield's hands trembled slightly as she poured the tea, though her voice remained steady as she spoke of practical concerns—how she and her husband would manage the farm, which crops they should prioritize with reduced bor.

  "Thomas has been teaching me some of his methods," Rosalind offered. "I could help, perhaps, with implementing his pns for the north field."

  Mrs. Brookfield looked at her with an expression of such raw gratitude that Rosalind had to look away.

  "That would mean a great deal to him," she said. "Knowing his work here continues."

  Before Rosalind could respond, the back door opened, and Thomas entered with his father. Both men's faces were grave, though they straightened upon seeing Rosalind at their table.

  "Miss Rose," Mr. Brookfield acknowledged her with a nod. "I suppose you've heard our news."

  Thomas's eyes found hers, and Rosalind saw in them a complicated mixture of resignation, determination, and something else she couldn't quite name.

  "I should leave you to your family discussions," she said, rising from her chair.

  "Actually," Thomas said, "I need to speak with you about the agricultural school proposal. Father, would you mind if we used the study?"

  Mr. Brookfield waved a hand in permission, his mind clearly on weightier matters. Thomas led Rosalind to the small room off the main sitting area, where bookshelves lined the walls and papers were neatly stacked on a worn desk. He closed the door behind them, then stood awkwardly in the center of the room.

  "I've been conscripted," he said unnecessarily.

  "I know." Rosalind's voice sounded strange to her own ears. "Three days."

  "Yes." He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture she had come to recognize as a sign of deep thought. "I've updated all my notes on the agricultural school. Everything is organized so you can continue with the proposal if... when I return."

  Rosalind nodded mechanically. "I've had no response from my father yet, but Mr. Finch thinks we should hear something within the week."

  "If he approves it, don't wait for me," Thomas said. "Begin implementing it immediately. The farmers will need new methods more than ever with so many men leaving."

  "Of course."

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them. There were so many practical matters to discuss—crop rotations, irrigation pns, teaching schedules—but they suddenly seemed trivial against the reality of what was happening.

  "Thomas," Rosalind began, not knowing what she intended to say.

  "I've been called to serve as an officer," he interrupted, his words coming quickly now. "My education means I'll likely be assigned to an engineering corps rather than the front lines. It's safer than what most men face."

  It was a kind attempt at reassurance, but they both knew the reality of war—no assignment was truly safe. Rosalind thought of the somber war memorials in the capital's grand squares, listing names of fallen officers alongside common soldiers.

  "I need to ask something of you," Thomas continued. "While I'm gone—"

  "I'll look after your parents," Rosalind promised immediately. "And ensure the farm has whatever bor can be spared from the estate."

  He smiled, his expression softening. "Thank you. But that's not what I was going to ask." He took a deep breath. "The agricultural school is more important now than ever. If my father agrees to provide the nd for the demonstration plots, will you see it through? Even if... even if I'm not here to help?"

  The implication—that he might not return—hung heavy between them.

  "Yes," she said firmly. "I promise."

  Thomas nodded, visibly relieved. "There's one more thing." He crossed to the desk and retrieved a leather-bound book. "My journal. It contains all my observations and theories about the local soil conditions, weather patterns, crop yields. Things I've been recording for years. It might be useful."

  As she took the journal from him, their fingers brushed, and Rosalind felt a jolt of awareness so acute it almost made her gasp. For months they had worked side by side, their hands occasionally touching as they passed tools or examined pnts together, yet now each contact felt freighted with significance.

  "I'll keep it safe until you return," she said.

  Thomas held her gaze. "And if I don't?"

  "Don't say that," she whispered.

  "I need to say it," he insisted quietly. "War is unpredictable. If I don't come back, I want you to use everything in that journal. My ideas weren't meant to die with me."

  The stark reality of his words broke something loose inside Rosalind. Six months ago, she would have hidden her emotions behind a mask of court manners. Now, she found herself unwilling to pretend.

  "You must come back," she said, her voice trembling despite her efforts to control it. "The school needs you. The community needs you."

  Thomas took a step closer. "And you, Rosalind?" he asked, using her full name for the first time since she'd arrived at Thornfield. "What do you need?"

  The question hung in the air between them, honest and unadorned. In that moment, Rosalind understood that whatever she said next would irrevocably change things between them. The careful friendship they had built, the professional partnership they had formed—it would all shift into something else entirely.

  "I need you to come back too," she admitted softly. "To me."

  Something in Thomas's expression cleared, as if a decision had been made. He closed the remaining distance between them and gently took her hands in his.

  "I've watched you change these past months," he said. "From the reluctant exile who compined about mud on her skirts to the woman who stood knee-deep in floodwater to save farmers' homes. You've become someone remarkable, Rosalind."

  "Because of you," she said. "You taught me to see differently."

  He shook his head. "No. The capacity was always there. You just needed the chance to discover it." His thumbs traced small circles on her palms, sending shivers up her arms. "I told myself it was foolish to feel this way. That you would eventually return to court, to your real life."

  "This is my real life now," Rosalind said with sudden certainty. "What I had before was the illusion."

  Thomas's smile was bittersweet. "And now that I've found you—truly found you—I have to leave."

  The unfairness of it struck them both at once. They had spent months working side by side, gradually building understanding and respect, only to have it all threatened just as they acknowledged what had grown between them.

  "How long have you known?" Rosalind asked. "How you felt about me?"

  "Since the Harvest Festival," he admitted. "When you danced with Old Fergus and made him feel like the most important man in the room, instead of treating him like the vilge curiosity. I watched your face—how genuinely you smiled, how intently you listened to his stories—and I knew."

  Rosalind remembered that night, how free she had felt, how connected to the community and to Thomas as they'd danced together. "For me it was during the flood," she said. "When everything was chaos, and you were so steady, so certain of what needed to be done. I realized I'd come to depend on your presence in ways I hadn't admitted to myself."

  Thomas lifted one hand to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. The gesture was tentative, asking permission. Rosalind leaned slightly into his touch, granting it.

  "I have three days," he said quietly. "Three days before I must report for duty."

  "Then we mustn't waste them," Rosalind replied. With careful deliberation, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  The kiss was brief but unmistakably significant—a promise, a decration. When they separated, Thomas's eyes were bright with emotion.

  "I should speak with my father about the agricultural school nd," he said. "And then perhaps we could walk by the river? There are several spots I'd like to show you, pces that might work well for the demonstration plots."

  Rosalind nodded, understanding his need to focus on practical matters, to leave something tangible behind before he departed. "Yes," she agreed. "Let's make pns."

  The next three days passed in a blur of activity. Thomas divided his time between preparing the farm for his absence and working with Rosalind to finalize their pns for the agricultural school. They visited potential demonstration sites, prepared detailed schedules for crop rotations, and compiled resource requirements.

  During stolen moments—a shared meal, a walk at sunset, a quiet conversation by mplight—they allowed themselves to acknowledge the feelings that had grown between them. There were more kisses, each one a little less hesitant than the st, and long talks about their vastly different childhoods and surprisingly simir hopes for the future.

  On the final evening before Thomas's departure, they sat together on a hilltop overlooking both Thornfield estate and the Brookfield farm. The spring twilight was soft around them, the air fragrant with blossoms from the nearby orchard.

  "I've written to you," Thomas said, handing her a small packet of sealed letters. "One for each month I'm expected to be gone. My mother thought it was foolish, since no one can predict where I'll be or what I'll experience, but I wanted you to have... something."

  Rosalind accepted the packet, deeply moved by the gesture. "When did you find time to write these?"

  "Late at night," he admitted with a small smile. "When I should have been sleeping."

  She carefully pced the letters in her pocket. "I'll write to you as well," she promised. "I'll tell you everything—how the crops are growing, what your parents are doing, how the agricultural school develops."

  "I'd like that." Thomas's voice was quiet in the gathering dusk. "It will remind me of what I'm fighting to return to."

  Rosalind studied his profile against the darkening sky. Six months ago, she would never have imagined sitting on a hillside with a farmer's son, her heart aching at the thought of his departure. How completely her world had transformed.

  "I need to ask you something," she said suddenly. "Something important."

  Thomas turned to face her fully. "Anything."

  "If—when you return," she corrected herself firmly, "what do you want? For us, I mean."

  It was a bold question, especially from a woman of her station, but Rosalind was beyond caring about such conventions. Too much hung in the bance to hide behind propriety.

  Thomas took her hands, his expression serious. "I want to build something sting with you," he said. "The agricultural school, yes, but more than that. A partnership. A life." He hesitated, then added, "I know it's complicated. You're still the daughter of a duke, whatever you might call yourself here."

  "I'm Rose now," she said simply. "And when you return, we'll find a way forward together."

  They sealed this promise with another kiss, longer and deeper than those that had come before. In it was everything they could not put into words—fear, hope, longing, and fierce determination.

  As darkness fell completely, they made their way down the hill toward the waiting ntern light of the Brookfield farm. Tomorrow would bring their parting, but tonight they still had hours to memorize each other's words, each other's touch.

  Neither spoke of what the coming months might hold—the letters that might become less frequent, the news that might arrive from the front, the uncertain waiting. Tonight was for certainty, for promises, for the acknowledgment of what they had found in each other against all expectations.

  Dawn broke clear and cool on the day of Thomas's departure. Rosalind arrived at the Brookfield farm as the first light touched the edges of the fields, finding the family already awake and making final preparations.

  Mrs. Brookfield greeted her with a quick embrace before returning to packing provisions for her son's journey. Mr. Brookfield was in the barn, saddling Thomas's horse with methodical care. Thomas himself stood in the doorway of the house, dressed in simple traveling clothes, his conscription papers and a small bag of personal items in hand.

  When he saw Rosalind, his face brightened momentarily before settling back into the solemn expression he had worn since receiving his orders.

  "You're here early," he said as she approached.

  "I wanted as much time as possible," she replied honestly.

  He nodded in understanding, then gestured toward the garden. "Walk with me? Just for a moment."

  They strolled together between rows of early vegetables, the morning dew soaking the hems of their clothes. Neither seemed to notice or care.

  "I spoke with Mr. Finch yesterday," Thomas said. "He's agreed to provide estate workers to help with the heaviest work here while I'm gone."

  "I'll make sure of it," Rosalind promised. "And I'll check on your parents regurly."

  Thomas stopped walking and turned to face her. "Thank you. For everything." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small object, pressing it into her palm. "I want you to have this."

  Rosalind opened her hand to find a simple wooden pendant strung on a leather cord. Carved into its surface was a delicate rendering of a thornbush in bloom.

  "I made it," Thomas expined, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. "I'm not much of an artist, but..."

  "It's beautiful," Rosalind whispered, immediately slipping the cord over her head. The pendant came to rest just over her heart. "I'll wear it until you return."

  From the farmyard, Mr. Brookfield called that the horse was ready. Their time was up.

  Thomas drew a shaky breath. "Rosalind, I—"

  "Come back to me," she interrupted, her voice fierce with emotion. "That's all. Just come back."

  He kissed her then, one hand cradling her face as if she were something infinitely precious. When they parted, his eyes were bright with unshed tears, but his voice was steady.

  "I will," he promised. "Wait for me."

  Together they walked back to the farmyard where final goodbyes were being exchanged. Mrs. Brookfield embraced her son tightly, whispering something in his ear that made him nod solemnly. Mr. Brookfield csped Thomas's hand, then pulled him into a brief, powerful hug.

  "Make us proud, son," he said gruffly.

  "I will, Father."

  With a final look at Rosalind, Thomas mounted his horse and took the reins. Around the farmyard, all was silent save for the morning birdsong and the soft whoosh of breath from the horse.

  "I'll send word when I can," he said, looking down at the three people standing together—his parents and the woman who had so unexpectedly become essential to his heart.

  And then he was riding away, a solitary figure growing smaller against the rising sun. Rosalind stood beside the Brookfields until he disappeared from view, her hand csped around the wooden pendant as if it were a talisman that could protect him.

  Only when he was completely gone did she allow herself to acknowledge the cold fear that had taken root inside her. War was unpredictable and often cruel. The promise of return was one that many men had made and been unable to keep.

  But as she walked back to Thornfield, Rosalind found herself thinking not of what might happen, but of what must be done. The fields needed tending. The agricultural school pns needed implementation. Thomas's parents needed support.

  And she needed to be strong enough to build the world he would return to—a world worthy of the sacrifice he was making, a world where what they had begun together could flourish.

  With the morning sun warming her shoulders, Rosalind quickened her pace. There was much to do, and she would not waste a single day of the time they had been given.