Chapter 1
Bitter Tea and Sweet Sighs
That spring morning, Marrie Harrington awoke to the sound of the chapel bells from the nearby village—not out of devotion, but out of habit. That was how her days began: with the soft sunlight filtering through the white linen curtains, birdsong framing the window, and a maid silently entering with a new dress draped over her arms.
“Good morning, miss,” murmured Edith, the eldest of the maids, as she carefully laid the dress over the chair. “The tea is ready. Chamomile, just as you like.”
Marrie replied with a slight nod and sat before the mirror. Her beauty seemed effortless—fair skin, calm eyes, perfect posture—but each day required at least an hour to be carefully polished. Hairstyles, lace, little brooches inherited from a distant aunt... every detail was chosen with care.
Not out of vanity, but for survival.
In noble society, where appearances spoke louder than words, Marrie had learned to dress like an impeccable lady—even if those around her considered her family a stain on the embroidery of the elite.
The name Harrington still secured invitations—but never sincere smiles. Her father was whispered about behind fans and teacups: dealings with people of “dubious standing,” quiet debts, and that arrogance that made him laugh loudly at dinners where no one dared raise their voice.
Her mother, though elegant, was even more feared. It was said she corrected other ladies’ grammar during afternoon tea—and looked at debutantes as if they were all fools. Beautiful, yes. But unbearable, they said.
“Will you go to the garden today, miss?” asked Edith, trying to make conversation as she followed Marrie through the halls of the grand house.
“Yes. Perhaps to read a little. Or draw,” Marrie answered softly.
The garden was her refuge. There, far from the poisonous words of society, Marrie could breathe. She didn’t care what they said—or at least she pretended well. There was a calm in her presence, something even the maids could not name.
She was a young lady on the edge of the court, with a valuable dowry, a fragile reputation, and eyes that always seemed to see more than they revealed.
That ordinary morning, like so many others, she walked among the roses and the boxwoods trimmed into delicate shapes. But deep down, something felt different. There was a strange silence in the air—as if the breeze whispered that the time of invisibility was nearing its end.
And Marrie, with a book in her hands and thorns in her heart, still didn’t know that soon, her name would echo through every hall.
The end of the morning came with a clear sky and a breeze that carried the light scent of wisteria. It was the kind of day when noble young ladies went out with parasols, discreet maids, and rehearsed smiles—all ready to be seen and, more importantly, to see.
Marrie Harrington walked silently through the paths of the central park, her steps graceful, her gaze attentive. Her light blue dress, simple yet elegant, swayed gently. It was a charming sight, but even the loveliest flowers are not protected from thorns.
“Look at that,” whispered a feminine voice—loud enough to be heard, low enough to feign discretion. “Miss Harrington has stepped out from the shadow of the cursed mansion.”
The stifled laughter of two ladies echoed like a false bell.
Marrie lifted her eyes lightly, not quickening her pace. She immediately recognized the group: daughters of traditional families, those who sat in the front row at concerts and had the best seats at the duchess’s dinners.
At their front, as always, was Clarissa Ashcrof, daughter of a respected count, a lady of refined manners and a tongue sharper than any dueling dagger.
“Marrie,” she called, with the sweet tone of someone about to serve poison in porcelain. “How is your mother? I heard she refused another invitation... or was it that she wasn’t invited?”
Some muffled laughter spread through the group.
Marrie stopped a few steps away, maintaining her composure.
“She’s well, thank you, Lady Ashcrof,” she replied politely. “She still prefers books to certain company.”
Clarissa raised an eyebrow, smiling.
“I imagine so. At least books don’t judge who reads them.”
“Nor do they spread lies,” Marrie added, without changing her tone.
The silence that followed was sharp.
Marrie’s maid, concerned, approached discreetly, but the young lady merely looked ahead, calm. Clarissa’s eyes gleamed with an unanswered challenge. The truth was simple: no matter how polite Marrie was, her name bore a burden, and all the elegance in the world couldn’t erase it—yet.
“Be careful, Miss Harrington,” Clarissa said as she turned away. “Some flowers aren’t made for public gardens.”
But Marrie kept walking, firm and silent. As if she already knew that one day, it would be the gardens themselves that would bow before her
I don't have much hope for this app because I don't speak English. I'm just translating with the GPT chat, but I hope it works.
I would like to say that my story is very detailed, there will be many scenes with triggers, erotic scenes, manipulation, abortion, depression, eating disorder, blasphemy, obsession, possessiveness, death. I will always warn you before starting the chapter..
Author's Note
This story was originally written by me, under my own creative imagination and authorship. With appreciation, Lady More
About the Author
Little is known about Lady More. Some say she writes by candlelight, in a room hidden among the shelves of an old library, while the wind whispers secrets from the past. Others claim she has walked through the same gardens as her characters, observing everything in silence, with a notebook in hand.
What is certain is that her stories are born from deep emotions, forgotten glances and notes among flowers. With a delicate pen, Lady More embroiders words that cross time — sweet, bitter, and always
true
.
Ins/wat: LadyMoreBr
