That night, the lights at the Beechwood House stayed on late.
George Panning had been in the barn until well past dark, fixing the handle of a broken farm tool. Rubbing his chilled hands together, he made his way back toward the house. Spring nights in the northeastern hills were still cold.
He stepped inside through the kitchen door, shut it behind him, and bolted it securely. Then, going around the room, he shut every window that let in the biting breeze.
From the parlor—doubling as both a living room and drawing room—came the flicker of firelight and the muffled noise of raised voices, spilling into the kitchen.
George poured himself a whiskey, diluted with warm water, and walked in.
The large shadow that had followed him in quietly melted into the light of the room. And so did the cause of the ruckus—his third son, Chris—whose whining grew louder.
“Mom, you’re a liar!”
“I’m sorry, Chris. But I already explained, didn’t I? Rose tore her dress while playing, and now she has nothing to wear to church tomorrow. I have to sew her a new one tonight.”
“I don’t care! You said once you finished their clothes, you’d start mine!”
Seated by the hearth, Aileen kept her tone even as she worked busily with needle and cloth. Her son’s tantrum didn’t rattle her.
Leaning against the wall, George watched his boy yelling at his mother, making no move to intervene—just observing, as if to see how far it would go.
Across from them, Charles and Felix had been quietly poking at the fire with iron tongs. But when they noticed their father’s grim expression, they rose without a word.
“You too, come on.”
They dragged their cheerful little sister away from where she’d been sitting by their mother, playing with scraps of fabric. Together, they headed upstairs.
Unaware of his father’s presence, Chris only got worse.
“I’ll make yours right after I finish Rose’s dress. I promise.”
“No! Make mine first! Why do you always care more about the boys and Rose than me!”
He flung himself to the floor in a full-blown fit.
Of the four children, Chris was the most demanding—perhaps because he felt caught in the middle. But even so, George Panning never tolerated this sort of behavior.
“Chris. Get. Up. Now.”
The command came in a thunderous shout.
After the storm passed and the boy stomped upstairs, only the soft crackle of firewood remained in the room.
Simple furniture lined the wall. A faded rug lay on the polished wooden floor, and warm red firelight spilled across it like a blanket.
George stretched out his long legs from the armchair and sipped his whiskey, watching his wife from across the room.
Her fingers moved quickly, stitching away—determined to finish Rose’s dress so she could move on to Chris’s.
The blue cotton fabric had already begun taking the shape of a little girl’s dress under Aileen’s skilled hands. It was the color of a summer sky.
Seeing that color brought back a memory: his first love, dancing with her rose-gold hair flying in the breeze, wearing a blue dress just like that one. It had suited her perfectly.
Now a wife and mother of four, Aileen was still beautiful, but she no longer wore bold, bright colors. Those were reserved for her daughter.
Her own dress was dark blue, plain and modest, buttoned to the neck.
“You should’ve picked out a bolt of fabric for yourself too,” George said.
Aileen shrugged. “I still have my best dress.”
“You don’t need to wear things till they fall apart anymore.”
When she looked up and smiled at him, there was a flicker of guilt in his expression.
Just months ago, the Panning family had been in serious financial trouble. As a farmer, George’s livelihood depended on his crops—and the past three years had brought nothing but drought and failure.
They were never a rich household, but they’d always been able to pay their hired hands and live steadily. That had changed last year.
In fact, it had gotten so bad that George and Aileen had considered selling their land and livestock and moving west.
Then, from the most unexpected place, salvation arrived.
A few months ago, the town of Rodertown had succeeded in securing a railway station. And by sheer fortune, the new tracks were laid across the very wasteland on the town’s edge—land that had belonged to the Panning family for years.
For the longest time, they couldn’t sell it. But now, the government and the railroad company had paid a hefty compensation for it.
And just like that, the Pannings no longer needed to leave Aylesford, George’s hometown.
“It’s all thanks to your friend. I still thank Carl in my prayers,” Aileen said sincerely.
George nodded, sipping his drink. “So do I.”
His friend Carl Shore had invested heavily in the Malthus Railroad Company, which connected to Rodertown.
George was certain Carl had used his influence to make sure the tracks were routed through their land. Otherwise, there was no reason for the line to avoid the town’s local estates and instead run through a barren patch owned by the Pannings.
Carl, of course, denied it completely.
Aileen, attaching a loop for a button, glanced at her husband thoughtfully.
“I’ve heard a lot about Carl, but I don’t think you’ve ever told me much about how your family and his first became close. You mentioned it went all the way back to your great-grandfathers?”
“That’s right. They met on a ship sailing from Queensland to the New World, carrying emigrants.”
George spoke with a kind of reverence, thinking of those ancestors crossing stormy seas to an unknown continent.
“They settled here, had sons, and those sons fought side by side in the war—saved each other’s lives. The bond between our grandfathers was so strong that our fathers grew up like brothers. And Carl and I were the same. We always said: if we both have sons, they’ll be best friends like us. If one of us has a daughter—then we’ll marry them off.”
The firelight glowed against George’s brown hair and blue eyes.
He held that generational friendship in deep respect and was proud that it had continued through their families.
He and Carl had long hoped that their children would carry that legacy into an even deeper relationship.
“So that’s the story behind the engagement,” Aileen said with admiration—though her next words came more hesitantly, her concern showing through.
“I hope it works out the way you and Carl dream it will. But I worry… Edmund doesn’t seem to like Rose.”
George, however, didn’t take the worry seriously.
“Don’t fret. When my father told me I had to marry a woman I’d never even met—you think I liked it? Carl was the same. His old man sent him to Queensland to marry Anna, and he resisted with everything he had. But now look at him. He’s the most devoted husband I know. Boys are always like that. They say no to their parents—until they grow up.”
Parents don’t trust their children’s judgment in love. That’s why they step in, drawing on experience and insight to choose a spouse for them.
Those who found great happiness through arranged marriages often believed even more firmly in this tradition. The Pannings and Shores were no different.
“The Shores are good people. The men in that family are known for their integrity. Sure, they’re stubborn—but they started with nothing and built it all themselves. They’ve earned their success. I trust that family. If they were anything like the Surandons, I wouldn’t even consider marrying my daughter off to them.”
George’s voice turned sharp with the mention of that name. Aileen frowned slightly.
He drained his glass, clearly exasperated.
“That snub-nosed bastard. Heard he’s trying to convince folks to invest in Southern slave-state bonds now.”
Thomas Surandon was the wealthiest man in Aylesford—but the list of shady, unethical things his family had done to gain their wealth was longer than anyone cared to count.
They were the sort of people who would do anything for profit. And Thomas never even pretended to be ashamed of it.
Once, in public, he’d gone on about how proud he was of his parents for making a fortune swindling people during wartime.
George, disgusted, had confronted him right then and there.
After that, the Surandon couple took to publicly mocking the Pannings whenever they had the chance.
“What a shame about those poor children—getting that vulgar red hair from their mother.”
On the surface, it sounded like a jab at flashy hair color. But beneath it lay a thinly veiled slur—aimed at Aileen’s people.
She was from Iren, a nation long oppressed by Queensland. And even in Westmyth, where most settlers were from Queensland, there were those—like the Surandons—who still looked down on Iren-born immigrants.
When George first heard that insult, he was so furious he nearly grabbed a gun. Aileen had to calm him down.
She herself had never once spoken ill of anyone—not even the people who insulted her. That was simply who she was.
And now, looking into her gentle green eyes—still as calm as a quiet lake—George finally let go of the anger.
Then he returned to the heart of the matter, speaking with finality.
“In any case, Rose should marry into a family we know and trust. That’s the Shores. Edmund may be throwing tantrums now, but just wait. One day he’ll be the one begging us to let him marry her.”
George was confident—utterly so.
