Duchess In Disguise

A Life of Struggles

The light of dawn crept slowly over the village of Bixley, casting a pale glow on the thatched rooftops and dirt paths winding through the small hamlet. It was the kind of place that had never known wealth or grandeur. Farmers and labourers filled the streets, their backs bent with the weight of unending toil, faces etched with lines of hardship. In one of the smaller cottages, far from the main road, a young girl stirred before the sun was fully up, her body aching from yet another restless night.

Amelia Collins had become accustomed to waking early, her muscles stiff from the cold seeping through the thin walls of their home. There had been a time when her mother, Catherine, had been strong enough to carry the load for both of them, but those days had long passed. Catherine had fallen ill over a year ago, and now, at sixteen, Amelia carried the burden alone.

Their small, drafty cottage sat on the outskirts of the village, where the wind howled mercilessly in the winter, and the summers were sweltering and unforgiving. Despite its humble state, it had once been a place filled with laughter. Her mother had always managed to make life bearable, filling the space with warmth through her stories and love. Now, the house felt empty, a reflection of the cruel, indifferent world they inhabited.

Amelia quickly rose from the small cot where she had spent the night and quietly pulled on her tattered dress. She knew she couldn't afford to linger in bed. The landlord had already threatened to evict them if the overdue rent wasn't paid by the end of the week, and she needed to find work fast.

Stepping out into the chilly morning air, Amelia paused momentarily and looked at the sky. The clouds were thick and grey, threatening rain. A fitting metaphor, she thought grimly, for her life thus far-always on the verge of something darker, heavier, ready to collapse on top of her.

She sighed, grabbed the basket she used to gather firewood and berries, and began the familiar walk toward the village market. As she crossed the distance from her cottage to the village centre, memories of her mother's once-vibrant health flashed in her mind. Catherine had been a maid once before sickness claimed her strength. Amelia never knew the details of her mother's past, only that she had been cast out of some grand house before Amelia's birth.

The other villagers were kind enough, offering sympathy where they could, but Amelia knew sympathy would not fill their bellies or pay their rent. The kindness of strangers had its limits, and she had learned that there was little room for charity when you were already poor.

Today was no different. As she passed the various stalls in the market, offering bread, eggs, and the occasional trinket, Amelia tried to avoid the pitying glances thrown her way. She approached Mrs. Bailey, the local baker's wife, who sometimes gave Amelia a loaf of bread in exchange for an afternoon of sweeping or tending the fire.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bailey," Amelia greeted, her voice hopeful but tired.

Mrs. Bailey, a stout woman with flour dusting her apron, looked at Amelia with an expression that said everything. "Good morning, lass. I'm afraid we've little need for help today. Times are hard for everyone, ye know."

Amelia's heart sank, though she tried to keep the disappointment from showing. She nodded, offering a small smile. "Of course. Perhaps another time, then."

"Take this, dear," Mrs. Bailey whispered, reaching under the counter to hand Amelia a small loaf of bread. "I know it's not much, but ye and yer mother need somethin' to eat."

Amelia accepted the gift with gratitude, though it only deepened her helplessness. "Thank you. It means more than you know."

The bread felt heavier in her hands than it should have, a weight that reminded her of her ever-growing debt to the kindness of others. She turned and left the market, her head held high, determined not to let her frustration show.

A sense of hopelessness settled over her as she made her way home. There was so little she could do to change their circumstances. The village offered only so many opportunities for a girl her age, and none promised anything more than survival.

When she arrived back at the cottage, Catherine was still in bed, her breathing shallow. Her mother had grown weaker by the day, and though Amelia tended to her as best she could, the village doctor had made it clear that there was little that could be done without proper medicine-medicine they couldn't afford.

"Mother, I've brought bread," Amelia said softly, sitting down beside the bed and tearing a small piece from the loaf.

Catherine stirred slightly, opening her eyes with effort. She looked frail, her once-bright eyes now clouded with fatigue and sickness. "You're too good to me, child," she murmured.

Amelia shook her head, fighting the lump rising in her throat. "Don't say that. You've done everything for me. It's my turn to look after you."

Catherine's hand reached out to grasp Amelia's, her grip weak but warm. "You remind me of him... your father," she said suddenly, her voice hoarse.

Amelia froze. They had never spoken about her father-not in any real detail. He had always been a ghostly figure, absent from their lives but never completely forgotten. Her mother had refused to say much, and Amelia had learned not to ask.

But now, as she looked into her mother's fading eyes, she knew that something had changed. Catherine seemed different as if the burden of her past had grown too heavy to bear in her final days.

"Tell me about him," Amelia whispered, her voice trembling.

Catherine's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and for a moment, she looked as though she might refuse again. But then she sighed, the weight of her secret too great.

"He was a man of high standing," Catherine began. "A duke. Your father was Duke Edward Ashford." She paused, letting the name sink in before continuing. "I was a maid in his household. He was... charming, persuasive. I was young, foolish enough to believe that love could bridge the gap between us."

Amelia felt her heart pounding in her chest, the revelation both shocking and strangely expected. She had always felt there was something more to her mother's past, but a duke? It was beyond anything she had imagined.

"When I became pregnant with you, he turned his back on me," Catherine said bitterly. "His mother, Duchess Louisa, had me cast out, sent away with nothing. They were ashamed of what I represented-a scandal that could have destroyed them."

Amelia's hands clenched in her lap, anger rising within her. Her father, a duke, had abandoned them. The very idea of it sickened her.

"But why didn't you tell me this sooner?" Amelia asked, her voice breaking. "I could have... I don't know. I could have done something."

Catherine smiled weakly. "What could you have done, my sweet girl? The world we live in is cruel, especially to those of us without power or wealth. I didn't want you to carry the weight of that shame. I wanted you to live your life free of it."

Amelia shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "We could have gone to them. They could have helped us-"

"They wouldn't have," Catherine interrupted gently. "Believe me, I knew them. They would have turned us away again, just as they did before."

Silence fell between them, thick with the unspoken pain of all that had been lost. Amelia felt her world shifting beneath her feet. The foundation of her life cracked open by the revelation of her father's identity.

Catherine's breathing grew laboured, and Amelia knew their conversation had taken a toll on her. She carefully laid her mother's hand back down and pulled the thin blanket up to her chin.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better life," Catherine whispered, her eyes fluttering shut. "But you must know that I loved you more than anything in this world."

"I know, Mother," Amelia whispered back, her voice choked with emotion. "I know."

*****

Two weeks later, Catherine passed away in her sleep, leaving Amelia truly alone in the world. A handful of villagers attended the small funeral, and as Amelia stood by her mother's grave, the weight of her newfound knowledge pressed heavily on her chest.

Duke Edward Ashford. The name echoed in her mind, a constant reminder of the man who had abandoned them. Though she had little hope of ever meeting him, the thought of the family she had been denied gnawed at her.

But Amelia was not one to dwell on what might have been. She was a survivor. And if her father's blood flowed in her veins, then she would use it to rise above the hand she had been dealt.

All she had was a cottage, a few meagre belongings, and the ghost of her mother's love. But she swore to herself that she would find a way to make her life her own, no matter what obstacles lay ahead.

Amelia Collins would not be forgotten