The journey north was punishment in itself. For three days, Rosalind endured the increasingly rough roads, the steadily declining quality of inns, and the distinct absence of the luxuries she'd never before traveled without. Her father, in his cold fury, had allowed her only one trunk of belongings and assigned just two servants to accompany her—her dy's maid Agnes and a stoic guardsman named Giles, who seemed entirely indifferent to her compints.

  When the carriage finally rumbled through the gates of the Thornfield estate, Rosalind gazed out the window with mounting horror. This was the most remote of her family's properties, acquired generations ago during some forgotten border dispute and maintained primarily for its timber production. The manor house itself was a squat, gray stone structure that cked the elegant proportions of their capital residences. The surrounding countryside was nothing but dense forests, rolling moors, and scattered peasant vilges.

  "This cannot be happening," she murmured as the carriage came to a stop before the manor's entrance.

  Agnes, who had wisely maintained a respectful silence throughout most of the journey, finally spoke. "It might not be so terrible, my dy. Country air is said to be restorative."

  "Restorative? Look at this pce!" Rosalind gestured wildly at the grim building. "It's practically medieval!"

  The carriage door opened, and rather than the expected line of servants welcoming her, there stood only an elderly woman with iron-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, dressed in a simple dark dress with a white apron. Despite the decades since Rosalind had st seen her, Mrs. Hawthorn remained instantly recognizable.

  "Lady Rosalind," the woman cursed, just deeply enough to satisfy propriety but not a fraction more. "Welcome to Thornfield."

  Rosalind did not immediately move to exit the carriage. "Mrs. Hawthorn. I'm surprised my father didn't provide a more suitable welcome for his only daughter."

  "Your father provided precisely the welcome he deemed appropriate under the circumstances," Mrs. Hawthorn replied evenly. "Now, shall we proceed inside before the afternoon rain begins? The weather here is less forgiving than in the capital."

  With no real alternative, Rosalind descended from the carriage, grimacing as her delicate slippers made contact with the rough gravel of the drive. She noticed immediately that no footman rushed forward to carry her trunk or offer an umbrel against the threatening sky.

  "Where are the servants?" she demanded.

  "The estate operates with minimal staff," Mrs. Hawthorn expined as she led the way toward the entrance. "A cook, two housemaids, a stable hand, and myself as housekeeper. Your father's instructions were quite specific about the arrangements."

  Rosalind followed, increasingly apprehensive. "And what exactly are these 'arrangements'?"

  Mrs. Hawthorn paused at the heavy wooden door, fixing Rosalind with a stern look that transported her instantly back to childhood scoldings. "Your father has entrusted me with overseeing your period of reflection. During your stay, you will not be 'Lady Rosalind' but simply 'Rose.' You will occupy the east cottage rather than the main house, and you will work alongside the estate staff to earn your keep."

  For a moment, Rosalind was too stunned to speak. When she finally found her voice, it emerged as a strangled cry. "Work? Like a servant? This is absurd! I am the daughter of Duke Harrington! I cannot be expected to—to scrub floors or whatever rustic torture my father has devised!"

  "Your father," Mrs. Hawthorn replied calmly, "believes you have forgotten the responsibilities that come with privilege. He hopes that by experiencing life without those privileges, you might develop the character and wisdom befitting your birth."

  "And how long is this farce to continue?"

  "That depends entirely on you," Mrs. Hawthorn said, opening the door and gesturing for Rosalind to enter. "Now come along. There's much to expin before you settle into the cottage."

  The east cottage proved to be a quaint but shockingly modest two-room structure that had once housed the estate gardener. While clean and weathertight, it offered none of the luxuries Rosalind took for granted. A simple bed with woolen bnkets, a rough wooden table with two chairs, a small firepce for cooking and heating, and a washstand with a ceramic basin comprised the main room's furnishings. The smaller second room contained only a narrow cot where Agnes would sleep.

  "This is impossible," Rosalind decred, standing in the center of the main room with her arms wrapped protectively around herself. "I cannot live like this. It's—it's barbaric!"

  Agnes busied herself unpacking the single trunk, carefully hanging Rosalind's dresses in the modest wardrobe. "It's not so bad, my dy—I mean, Miss Rose. With some small touches, it could be quite comfortable."

  "Comfortable?" Rosalind ughed bitterly. "Agnes, there's not even a proper bath! Am I expected to bathe in that tiny basin like some medieval peasant?"

  "There's a bathing room in the main house you may use once weekly," Mrs. Hawthorn, who had been observing from the doorway, informed her. "More frequently if your work duties merit it."

  "My work duties," Rosalind repeated ftly. "And what exactly will those entail?"

  Mrs. Hawthorn produced a folded paper from her apron pocket. "Your father provided specific instructions. You will assist with breakfast preparation each morning, learn basic household management, tend the kitchen garden, help with preserving the harvest, and assist in the dairy."

  "The dairy? With actual cows?" Rosalind felt faint.

  "Indeed. Thornfield maintains a small herd. The milk and cheese provide significant income for the estate." Mrs. Hawthorn's expression softened marginally. "Your schedule begins tomorrow at sunrise. Today, you may rest from your journey and acclimate to your new surroundings."

  With that small mercy offered, the older woman departed, leaving Rosalind to colpse onto one of the wooden chairs.

  "This is a nightmare," she whispered, fighting back tears of frustration. "Agnes, tell me honestly—how terrible do I look? The journey has been brutal on my complexion, I'm certain of it."

  Agnes paused in her unpacking. "You look... tired, Miss Rose. Perhaps some cool water on your face would help?"

  "There's no mirror," Rosalind realized with growing horror, gncing around the spartan room. "How am I to maintain any sembnce of my appearance without a proper mirror?"

  "There's a small hand mirror in your trunk," Agnes offered hesitantly. "And I've packed your creams and tonics as you requested."

  "Fat lot of good they'll do me here," Rosalind muttered, rising to pace the confined space. "How am I supposed to survive in this wilderness? What am I supposed to do when it rains? When winter comes? This isn't just punishment—it's exile!"

  Agnes watched her mistress's agitation with concern. "Perhaps it won't be for long? If you write to your mother—"

  "My mother made it abundantly clear where her loyalties lie," Rosalind cut in bitterly, recalling the Duchess's cold farewell. She had offered neither comfort nor promises of intervention, only a stern lecture about family honor and the consequences of impulsive behavior.

  A knock at the door interrupted her dark thoughts. A young woman in simple country dress stood outside, a basket covered with a checkered cloth in her hands.

  "Beggin' your pardon," she said with a curtsy that was functional rather than formal. "Mrs. Hawthorn sent me with some provisions for your supper. I'm Maisie, one of the housemaids up at the main house."

  Rosalind stared at the girl, momentarily speechless at the casual way she'd been addressed. In the capital, no servant would dare approach her so directly.

  Agnes stepped forward to accept the basket. "Thank you, Maisie. That's very kind."

  Maisie smiled brightly. "It's nothing fancy, mind you—just bread, cheese, some cold chicken, and a jar of preserves. Oh, and Mrs. Hawthorn said to tell you the well is just behind your cottage for fresh water, and she'll expect Miss Rose at the kitchen door tomorrow at first light."

  "First light?" Rosalind finally found her voice. "What time is that exactly?"

  Maisie looked surprised at the question. "Why, when the sun comes up, miss. Around five this time of year." She gnced around the cottage with obvious curiosity. "Is there anything else you might be needing?"

  "A carriage back to civilization would be nice," Rosalind muttered under her breath.

  "Sorry, miss?"

  "Nothing. Thank you for the... provisions."

  After the housemaid departed, Rosalind inspected the basket's contents with a critical eye. The bread was hearty and homemade rather than the delicate white loaves she was accustomed to. The cheese was a simple farmhouse variety, cking the refined fvors of the imported selections served at her father's table. As for the chicken, it appeared to be pin roasted without the complex sauces and garnishes her family's chef prided himself on.

  "This is what passes for food here," she said, poking at the bread with one finger. "I don't know whether to ugh or cry."

  "At least we won't go hungry," Agnes offered pragmatically. "And I can manage a small fire for tea."

  Rosalind sank back into the chair, the reality of her situation finally overwhelming her practiced composure. "How did this happen, Agnes? How did I go from being one of the most sought-after dies in the capital to... to this?" She gestured around at the humble cottage.

  Agnes busied herself with ying out the simple meal on the small table. "Perhaps it's best to think of it as temporary, miss. A test to be endured."

  "A test," Rosalind repeated, staring out the small window at the unfamiliar ndscape. The forest loomed dark and imposing at the edge of the cleared estate grounds, and beyond that, rolling moornd stretched toward distant mountains. This wild country couldn't have been more different from the manicured gardens and orderly streets of the capital. "How long before I'm forgotten entirely at court, do you think? Before Prince Adrian and that insipid Sophia don't even remember my name?"

  "I'm sure that won't happen," Agnes said without much conviction. "Your family's name carries too much weight."

  "My family," Rosalind scoffed. "My father who banished me, my mother who allowed it? Some protection their name offers now."

  As twilight deepened outside the cottage window, Rosalind picked at the simple food without appetite. Tomorrow would bring the first day of what her father called "character building" and what she viewed as nothing short of torture. The thought of rising at dawn to perform menial bor was so foreign, so absurd, that she still half-believed this might be an eborate hoax—a brief, harsh lesson before her real life resumed.

  But as she prepared for bed in the unfamiliar cottage, the hard reality of her circumstances began to sink in. The mattress was lumpy, the bnkets scratchy, and the night sounds of the countryside—hooting owls, rustling leaves, and the distant howl of what might have been a wolf—kept her awake long into the night.

  "I am still Rosalind Harrington," she whispered fiercely into the darkness. "And this will not break me. I will endure whatever primitive rituals they force upon me, and when I return to court—because I will return—everyone who ughed at my fall will regret it bitterly."

  With that promise to herself, she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, unaware that the countryside she so despised was about to reshape her in ways she could never have anticipated.

  The insistent crowing of a rooster jolted Rosalind from sleep what felt like moments after she'd closed her eyes. Disoriented, she blinked in the gray pre-dawn light filtering through the cottage's uncurtained window.

  "What ungodly hour is this?" she groaned, pulling the rough bnket over her head.

  "It's time to rise, Miss Rose," Agnes replied, already dressed and moving efficiently around the small room. "Mrs. Hawthorn will be expecting you at the kitchen shortly."

  "Let her expect," Rosalind muttered. "I require at least three more hours of sleep to function properly."

  "I've heated some water for washing," Agnes continued, diplomatically ignoring the protest. "And id out your pinest day dress—though I fear even that may be too fine for kitchen work."

  The mention of kitchen work cruelly reminded Rosalind of her new reality. With supreme effort, she dragged herself from the bed and shuffled to the washstand, grimacing at the small quantity of lukewarm water in the basin.

  "This isn't enough to wash properly," she compined.

  "I'm afraid we'll need to fetch more from the well for a proper bath," Agnes expined apologetically. "And there wasn't time this morning."

  Twenty minutes ter—a fraction of her usual morning routine—Rosalind found herself trudging up the path toward the manor house, dressed in her simplest day gown, which still featured delicate embroidery and fine fabric that marked it clearly as inappropriate for manual bor. Her hair, usually arranged in eborate curls and twists, had been hastily pinned into a simple knot. She'd forgone cosmetics entirely, both from ck of time and a spiteful desire to dispy the full impact of her suffering to Mrs. Hawthorn.

  The kitchen entrance was located at the rear of the manor, accessed via a stone path that wound past a well-tended kitchen garden. As Rosalind approached, savory smells of baking bread and frying bacon drifted through the open door, reminding her that despite her protestations, she was actually quite hungry after her restless night.

  She hesitated at the threshold, uncertain of the protocol. In her father's houses, she had rarely ventured into the kitchens, considering them the exclusive domain of servants.

  "Don't just stand there letting the heat out," called a brisk voice from inside. "Come in, come in!"

  Steeling herself, Rosalind entered to find a rge, warm kitchen dominated by a massive hearth where various pots bubbled. Mrs. Hawthorn stood at a worktable, vigorously kneading a mound of dough, while a plump, middle-aged woman tended to several pans on the stovetop.

  "You're te," Mrs. Hawthorn observed without pausing in her work. "Breakfast preparation begins at dawn, not after."

  "The rooster only just announced dawn," Rosalind protested.

  "That was the second crowing," Mrs. Hawthorn replied. "The first was some time ago. No matter—you're here now. This is Mrs. Bennett, our cook."

  The plump woman turned briefly from her stove to offer a friendly nod. "Welcome to my kitchen, miss. Don't mind Mrs. Hawthorn's strictness—she likes everything just so, but her bark is worse than her bite."

  "My 'strictness,' as you call it, is precisely why the Duke entrusted me with this task," Mrs. Hawthorn sniffed. Then, turning to Rosalind: "Wash your hands thoroughly at the basin, then come help with the bread."

  Rosalind moved to the indicated water basin, apprehensively eyeing the rough soap beside it. "What exactly am I expected to do with the bread?"

  "Knead it, shape it, and prepare it for baking," Mrs. Hawthorn replied, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Bread doesn't make itself."

  "I've never made bread before," Rosalind admitted, drying her hands on the offered towel.

  "I assumed as much. Hence why you're here to learn." Mrs. Hawthorn stepped aside, gesturing to the mound of dough. "Watch first, then try."

  What followed was a humiliating lesson in bread-making fundamentals. Rosalind's first attempt at kneading resulted in flour coating the front of her dress and dough stuck stubbornly to her fingers. Her efforts to shape a loaf produced something that Mrs. Bennett kindly described as "creative" but ultimately unusable.

  "It takes practice," Mrs. Hawthorn said, reforming Rosalind's misshapen lump into a proper loaf with quick, practiced movements. "By the end of the month, you'll manage something recognizable."

  "A month?" Rosalind bnched. "You expect me to make bread every day for a month?"

  "At minimum," Mrs. Hawthorn confirmed. "Now wash up again and help Mrs. Bennett with the eggs."

  By the time the estate workers arrived for breakfast, Rosalind had cracked (and partially shelled) a dozen eggs, burned a pan of bacon beyond recognition, and been relegated to the simple task of slicing already-baked bread—which she managed to do unevenly and with several near misses to her fingers.

  "You'll improve with practice," Mrs. Bennett assured her kindly as they served the surprisingly rge number of men who filed in from the fields and forests. Most were weather-beaten, rough-looking types who eyed Rosalind curiously but respectfully as she awkwardly distributed bread slices.

  "Who's the new ss?" one grizzled forester asked Mrs. Bennett.

  "This is Rose," the cook replied before Rosalind could correct her with her proper title. "She's staying at the east cottage and learning estate management."

  The man nodded, seeming to accept this vague expnation. "Welcome to Thornfield, ss. You've got delicate hands for farm work, but that'll change quick enough."

  Rosalind stared at her hands in horror, imagining them transformed into calloused, work-roughened appendages like those of the estate women. She nearly dropped the bread basket when one of the younger farm hands winked at her as she served him.

  "The impudence," she muttered under her breath.

  After the workers had eaten and departed for their daily tasks, Mrs. Hawthorn outlined the remainder of Rosalind's morning duties: helping to clear and wash the breakfast dishes, learning to churn butter, and then assisting in the garden with harvesting vegetables for the midday meal.

  "And this afternoon?" Rosalind asked wearily, her hands already red and tender from hot water and harsh soap.

  "This afternoon you'll help with preserving berries," Mrs. Hawthorn replied. "The brambleberries are at their peak, and we must put up as many jars as possible before they're past."

  By midday, Rosalind's arms ached from the unfamiliar motion of the butter churn, her back protested from bending in the garden, and her once-immacute dress was stained with dirt, butter fat, and berry juice. Worst of all was the state of her hands—reddened, slightly swollen, and developing what appeared to be the beginning of a blister on her right palm.

  "This is barbaric," she compined to Agnes during the brief respite she was allowed for the midday meal. "I've done more manual bor today than in my entire previous life combined."

  "It does seem rather harsh," Agnes agreed, applying a soothing salve to her mistress's hands. "But perhaps it will get easier as you adjust."

  "I don't want to adjust," Rosalind said bitterly. "I want to return to civilization where people of my station don't churn their own butter like medieval peasants."

  The afternoon brought no relief. Berry preserving proved messier and more tedious than any task yet. By the time the sun began to set, Rosalind was exhausted beyond measure, every muscle protesting movements she had never before been required to make.

  "You may return to your cottage now," Mrs. Hawthorn finally announced after inspecting the row of sealed preserves jars. "Take these with you for your supper." She handed over a basket containing bread, cheese, cold meat, and one of the fresh-sealed jars of berries.

  "Thank you," Rosalind replied automatically, too tired for her usual defiance.

  "You did better than I expected today," Mrs. Hawthorn added, her stern countenance softening fractionally. "Tomorrow will be easier."

  Rosalind doubted this very much, but cked the energy to argue. She trudged back to the cottage in the fading light, the basket heavy on her arm, her thoughts darker than the approaching night.

  Agnes had prepared the cottage as comfortably as possible in her absence, lighting candles and building a small fire against the evening chill. She hurried to take the basket and help Rosalind to a chair.

  "Oh, miss, you look absolutely done in," she clucked sympathetically. "Let me prepare a basin of hot water for your poor hands before we eat."

  As she soaked her abused hands in the blessedly warm water, Rosalind stared into the small fire, trying to reconcile the events of the past few days with the life she had known before. Just a week ago, she had been dressing for a court function, her greatest concern being whether her gown would outshine those of other noble dies. Now, she sat in a rustic cottage with aching muscles and reddened hands, dreading the rooster's crow that would signal another day of peasant bor.

  "This cannot be my life," she whispered, a single tear slipping down her cheek. "It simply cannot."

  But as she fell into an exhausted sleep that night, she had the terrible suspicion that this was indeed her life now—at least for the foreseeable future. And for the first time since her exile began, something other than anger and indignation took root in her heart: a small but undeniable seed of fear that she might not be strong enough to endure what y ahead.