©, Lorein Vladyslava, 2025
“The Promise”
“As long as my heart beats, it holds you”
Bath, England, 1789
His presence here was a closely guarded secret. His name—a fabrication. No one at the boarding house had the slightest inkling of who he truly was. Only the tutor, assigned by his father, knew the full story.
Why? He could only guess. His father never deemed it necessary to explain anything.
The sharp edge of the window frame dug into his lean shoulder as the young man’s gaze remained fixed on the clouded glass, beyond which lay an empty street.
His reflection in the pane made it seem as though he had become part of the scene outside. At least in those blurred outlines, the unnatural pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes were hidden.
The door creaked softly.
Beatrice…
He recognized her by the sound of her steps.
A blue-eyed twelve-year-old girl he’d known for barely two weeks. So full of life, persistent, brave. With her, he could feel alive.
She stopped in the middle of the room. The ribbon in her light hair had slipped to one side, and she pressed her lips together tightly, fighting back tears. Though he could tell she’d already been crying. The sight of her misery cut straight through his young heart.
His fists clenched instinctively. If there was one thing he wouldn’t stand for, it was anyone hurting her.
“Who upset you?”
Her lower lip trembled. A moment later, she threw herself into his arms. He froze, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air.
“You…” Tears choked her words. “You have to get better.”
“She found out…” The bitter realization sent a chill down his spine. He hadn’t wanted this. He didn’t want to look weak or pitiful in her eyes.
His hand, suddenly feeling heavy, slowly rested on her shoulder, his gaze falling to the crooked blue bow in her hair.
The girl tightened her grip around his waist. Too tightly—like someone terrified of losing what they held. No one had ever clung to him with such desperation as this girl did now.
“Get better.” She lifted her tear-filled, pleading eyes to his, serious in a way that wasn’t childlike at all. “Get better so you can grow up and marry me. Promise.”
Marry… At fourteen, boys didn’t think about such things. Girls, though, were often raised for marriage practically from the cradle. He knew this, had seen it with his own eyes as his half-sister grew up.
Boys his age usually had other plans: Eton or Cambridge, a grand tour of Europe. Other boys—not him. Given the doctors’ grim predictions, his plans were unlikely to come to fruition.
But he could dream. He could imagine. And he could even promise… if only to stop her tears.
“I promise, Beatrice. If I grow up, I’ll marry you.”
— ୫ —
London, 1797
“You didn’t keep your promise. You didn’t…” She stood in the middle of the room in an elegant gown, staring at the locket in her palm as memories pulled her back to the past. To that day, forever etched in her mind as a precious gift—the day before their goodbye.
The blue brocade of her ruffle-laden dress fluttered in the breeze.
The pleasant scent of fresh baking from a nearby shop tickled her nostrils. The quiet murmur of voices was drowned out by the jingle of bells from a passing cab as it sped along the cobblestones. She had gazed into his eyes with naive hope, asking,
“You won’t forget me, will you?”
Edmund didn’t answer. Instead, he led her to a small park near the boarding house. In the shade of a towering oak, a thin man stood behind an easel. His curly hair was tousled by the wind, and with each confident stroke of his hand, the features of a woman’s face emerged on the paper.
Edmund whispered something to him, after which the man leaned down, peering intently into her eyes. That sharp gaze made her want to step back, but the artist broke off his scrutiny and nodded to the young man.
Later that evening, Edmund placed a silver locket in her hand.
“A portrait of an eye,” he explained, his gloom masking a hint of shyness. “I have yours, and you have mine.”
She wrinkled her nose in a funny way, studying the tiny watercolor.
“Prince George has one just like it,” he assured her seriously. “We’ll be like him.”
Beatrice shook her head, pulling herself out of the haze of memory.
It was strange to hold onto feelings for someone whose face had nearly faded from her mind. Her head told her one thing, but deep in her heart, she clung to the belief that their story wasn’t over. That he was her destiny. That any day now, he’d find her. They’d dance at her first ball under the envious stares of the other debutantes.
Of course, Edmund wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her, and even the shortest separation would feel like torture to them both. So, the very next morning, he’d ask her brother for her hand, because it had all been decided long ago, eight years back. Why wait? And then she’d be with him at the altar, and then in his home—as his wife.
She believed. Naively believed, right up until the moment she received the report. That single sheet of paper shattered her faith.
Her gaze involuntarily sought out the folded letter. Anne had brought it just minutes ago. It stated that Edmund had disappeared. Eight years ago, he’d been in Bath, but his trail ended there. Just like that, a person was gone. No trace. And that could only mean one thing.
“He’s no longer here,” her heart clenched once more.
If she hadn’t overheard that conversation about his serious illness all those years ago, she might have kept believing. She might have kept hoping in secret. On sleepless nights, she’d have invented reasons for his absence, fantasized about their future. Because gentlemen didn’t break their promises, and in her memory, he was a gentleman—a young gentleman.
But no matter how much she dreamed, those fantasies wouldn’t become reality.
“Lady Beatrice.” A knock at the door snapped her back to the present.
And the present was this: a ball awaited her—her debut in London’s marriage market, and the duty to wed. After all, she was the sister of a duke. She would marry; there was no other path.
“Goodbye,” she whispered softly as the locket sank to the bottom of the desk drawer.
Childhood was over.
It was time to grow up.
— ୫ —