Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Matilda had made it a point to avoid the Duke of Harrow, and it seemed, to her relief, that he had resolved to do the same.
Since that vexing conversation upon the terrace, not a word had passed between them.
He spoke with others easily, laughed with the gentlemen, even condescended to amuse Cordelia with some outrageous tale, but he had not once sought her out.
She ought to have be pleased. And yet… his words lingered.
What was the last thing you did simply because you wanted to?
A foolish question, yes, but it had burrowed deep, as if some stubborn seed had been planted. Was she so closed off, so easily roused to anger, that she could not even think of an answer beyond embroidery? Had she allowed one man’s betrayal to steal her sense of self so thoroughly?
Of course she could laugh with Evelyn, and banter with Cordelia, and sit in calm conversation with Hazel. But even then, even in such safe company, there was always a part of her that remained guarded. A corner of her heart she no longer recognized, for it was walled up too high and too long.
And when she was alone, she felt it most keenly, that strange sensation that she was only living half her life, as if the other half had been lost somewhere she could never find it again.
Her eyes drifted to the garden below, where Evelyn and Robert strolled arm in arm. A lantern in Robert’s hand cast a warm glow over his wife’s face, and Evelyn’s laughter floated softly through the night air. Matilda leaned her forehead against the cool stone of the terrace wall.
They were happy. Truly, peacefully happy. The sound of it was unmistakable. Evelyn’s voice was full of warmth, and Robert’s reply was so gently spoken that even the night itself seemed to hush in respect.
Matilda’s heart squeezed. It was a joy to see her sister so cherished, to know she was loved beyond measure. It was a balm against all the wounds of their past, all the hurt that had come between them. Evelyn had not only forgiven. She had thrived.
Cordelia, too, brimmed with life and affection, ever bursting with mischief. Hazel, steady and wise, was mostly focused on her sisters as though she were the compass of his entire world. Everywhere Matilda turned, her friends carried love so openly, so easily.
She smiled faintly, her grey eyes still fixed on the happy pair below. And yet she could not help but wonder.
Was there happiness meant for her as well? Or was she forever to watch it from a distance, keeping her heart safe, guarded, and untouched, while others walked freely into joy?
A soft rustle of skirts drew Matilda from her reverie. She turned to find Hazel approaching, with her step unhurried as though she had been careful not to startle her.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Hazel asked almost in a whisper, as though the night itself listened.
Matilda gave a faint smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “Am I different now, Hazel? Since… everything. Since my marriage.”
Hazel tilted her head, her brows knitting gently. “Different how?”
“As if I have changed for the worse.” The words tumbled out before Matilda could soften them.
She clasped her hands before her, trying to hold them still.
“There are moments I scarcely recognize myself. I used to feel—” She faltered, searching for the right word.
“Free. Foolish perhaps, but free. Now I feel… smaller. As though a part of me has been shut away, never to be opened again.”
Hazel came to stand beside her at the balustrade. She did not look at Matilda at once, but out over the garden where Evelyn’s laughter still lingered in the air.
“That is not a failing, my dear. It is the mark of what you endured. Your late husband sought to bind you, to bend you to his will. How could you not feel less free after such treatment?”
Matilda swallowed, feeling her throat tight. “Then perhaps he has succeeded, even from the grave.”
Hazel’s hand, steady and warm, came to rest over hers. “No. He may have wounded you, but he has not won. Wounds need time, Matilda. Time to close, time to knit back together. You need not force yourself into joy before you are ready.”
Matilda kept her gaze fixed upon the shadows of the garden, afraid that if she looked at Hazel’s kind eyes, her composure would break. “Do you think they heal, truly? Or do we only learn to live with them?”
Hazel’s answer was quiet, but resolute. “Some do heal. Others remain, faint but present, reminders of where we have been. But even those scars need not lessen us. They may teach us how strong we are.”
Matilda let out a breath she had not known she held. The night air was cool, the scent of roses drifting faintly from below, and for a moment, one blissful moment, she felt something ease within her.
The following afternoon, the drawing room was full of laughter and the rustle of tissue paper as the long-awaited gowns were revealed. Boxes from Madame Fouché’s establishment lay open upon the tables and chairs, silks spilling forth like captured rainbows.
Cordelia was the first to squeal in delight. She held up a gown of brilliant turquoise, the skirts shimmering when she twirled them before the window.
“Oh, it is even lovelier than I imagined! Mason will not know where to look first.”
Hazel smiled at her exuberance, though her own choice was far more restrained: deep plum satin, dignified yet striking.
“You will have all eyes upon you, Cordelia. Try not to trip over yourself in your enthusiasm.”
“I will trip most gracefully, I assure you,” Cordelia returned, her eyes alight.
Evelyn, seated upon the sofa, lifted a gown of soft blush pink, the embroidery delicate as lace. She touched it reverently.
“It is perfect,” she whispered, while a dreamy smile softened her features. “Robert will laugh at me for fussing, but I want to feel my best.”
Their joy was uncontainable, bright as the silks they pressed to their cheeks.
Matilda unfolded her own gown last. A pale dove-grey muslin, modestly cut, with no daring embellishment save for a faint silver trimming at the hem.
Perfectly appropriate. Perfectly proper. Perfect for vanishing into the crowd.
Her friends exclaimed over their jewels: Evelyn’s pearls, Cordelia’s diamonds, Hazel’s amethyst pendant.
They all wished to gleam beneath the chandeliers of the coming ball that was to follow the baptism.
Matilda, meanwhile, smoothed the fabric across her lap and felt nothing stir within her but the familiar sense of distance.
There had been a time, in girlhood, when the arrival of a new gown filled her with anticipation.
But that delight seemed to belong to someone else now, someone she no longer was.
Her friends’ laughter rang about her, warm and unselfconscious.
They spoke of hair arrangements, of ribbons and gloves, of how their husbands’ faces would light with admiration.
Matilda listened, smiling faintly, but her heart was quiet.
Evelyn’s soft voice drew her back from her thoughts. “Do you like your gown, dearest?”
Matilda looked down at the dove-grey folds in her lap. “Yes,” she said carefully. “It is precisely what I expected of it.”
Cordelia tilted her head, her turquoise skirts gathered in her arms like waves of the sea. “And is it what you wished for, though? Or do you find yourself wanting something else now?”
Matilda gave a short laugh, though it held little humor. “I do not make a habit of changing my mind.”
Evelyn leaned forward, her green eyes shining with tenderness. “But changing your mind about a gown is not such a serious thing at all.”
It was such a simple remark. Yet something within Matilda cracked at those words, as though a small fissure had given way to reveal the storm beneath.
All this while, she had told herself she was content to fade quietly, to slip into her future with as little notice as possible.
But suddenly she thought: why not one last moment?
One final breathtaking glimmer before she stepped into the silence of the convent.
Her pulse quickened. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “perhaps I shall allow myself one indulgence before I join the nunnery.”
At once, Cordelia gasped and Evelyn clapped her hands together. Even Hazel, who was usually very composed, allowed herself a pleased smile.
“Marvelous!” Cordelia cried, nearly knocking over her box in her excitement.
“About time,” Hazel said warmly. “But you know, Matilda, it is far too late to order anything new. It will never arrive in time.”
“Then we must make something of what she already has,” Evelyn declared, her expression alight with purpose. “Tomorrow, we shall go into town. There are shops with beads, ribbons, even ready-made appliqués. We can transform this gown together.”
Matilda’s breath caught, and for the first time in years she felt a thrill rush through her at the thought of fabric beneath her fingers.
Her late husband had kept her to her embroidery frame as a prisoner might be kept to a cell, but in those endless hours she had perfected the art.
She knew every stitch, every flourish, every way to bring dull fabric to life.
The idea of turning this plain gown into something breathtaking made her chest swell with a strange, giddy anticipation. Her friends were chattering now, plotting colors and arrangements, exclaiming over the brilliance of Evelyn’s plan. Matilda smiled despite herself.
And in the privacy of her thoughts, she allowed another image to form. The smug, unshakable grin of the Duke of Harrow wiped away in a single instant, when he beheld her not as a shadow in dove-grey, but as something far more dazzling.
The notion pleased her immensely.