SWINDON, MARCH 19th, 1872
“Stop! Leave him alone!” I shout out to Mr. Walker, rushing towards him to prevent him from whipping Ezra again. He is just standing there with his hands outstretched obediently, silently enduring the hits. My hands are trembling in fear and cold, but at the same time they are all sweaty. I have never questioned a man’s judgement like this before, and I am terrified of the outcome. But I can’t keep silent. Not when Ezra is being whipped because of my recklessness.
“Milady, you fell off the horse because of this incompetent fool,” the man responds without even looking at me, clearly trying his best to keep his tone calm. “He needs to be taught a lesson,” he then continues, finally redirecting his gaze downwards to meet my eyes. His are gray and dull like
