The autumn wind whispered through the branches of the ancient oak tree where Margaret first met James, the humble nut merchant’s son. Her pale fingers traced the rough bark as she waited, her expensive silk dress rustling softly against the fallen leaves.

“Miss Margaret.” His voice, though quiet, carried across the garden. James emerged from the shadows, his work-worn hands clutching a small package of carefully selected nuts from his father’s shop.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Margaret whispered, but her eyes betrayed her joy. “Father has arranged everything with Lord Blackwood.”

“I know of your engagement.” James stepped closer, his dark eyes reflecting the pain that matched her own. “But tell me truthfully - does your heart not speak differently?”

Margaret turned away, her shoulders trembling. “What does it matter what my heart says? We live in a world where love alone cannot sustain us.”

“I may be just a merchant’s son,” James said firmly, “but my father’s business grows. The finest nuts in London, they say. Give me time, and I could-”

“Time is the one luxury I don’t have.” Margaret’s voice cracked. “Father’s debts grow worse each day. Lord Blackwood’s wealth is our salvation.”

James reached for her hand, his touch sending electricity through her veins. “Then let us run away. Tonight. We could start anew-”

“And live in shame? Have you learned nothing from Jane Eyre?” She withdrew her hand. “Society would never forgive us. We would be outcasts, and love… love would wither under such circumstances.”

“You speak like your father now,” James said bitterly. “All concerns of class and propriety. Where is the Margaret who once dreamed of freedom?”

“She grew up,” Margaret replied, tears streaming down her face. “She learned that dreams are luxuries that belong to the wealthy.”

The wind picked up, scattering the nuts from James’s forgotten package across the garden path. Like their hopes, they rolled away into the darkness.

“Then this is goodbye?” James’s voice was hollow.

Margaret nodded, unable to speak. She pressed a letter into his hands - her final words, her explanation, her apology.

Three months later, Margaret stood before the altar, her wedding dress as heavy as her heart. Lord Blackwood’s ring felt like a shackle on her finger. From the church window, she could see her father’s relieved smile as he spoke with his creditors.

She never saw James again, though she heard his father’s business had indeed prospered. Sometimes, on autumn evenings, she would sit in her grand parlor, eating the finest imported nuts, remembering the taste of freedom and first love.

Years later, they found Margaret’s diary, its pages filled with words of longing and regret. The last entry read: “We are all nuts in this world’s grand store - some placed high on gilded shelves, others hidden in humble boxes. But in the end, we are all equally hollow when we deny our hearts their truth.”

They buried her on a windy autumn day, beneath the oak tree where love had once bloomed and withered, like leaves in winter’s cruel embrace.