Chapter Three
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
Lady Ashwood’s voice had reached that particular pitch which indicated she was, in fact, entirely serious—and deeply offended that anyone might suggest otherwise.
Cecilia, who had been summoned to the drawing room in the middle of the afternoon without explanation, stood very still and attempted to look appropriately attentive.
“I am perfectly serious, Horace. My sister may be dying. I cannot ignore such a summons merely for the sake of a house party.”
Horace Ashwood, who had been attempting to read his newspaper in peace, lowered it with the air of a man long resigned to domestic upheaval. “No one is suggesting you ignore your sister, my dear. I am merely observing that the timing is… inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient! My sister is ill—possibly fatally—and you speak of inconvenience!”
“You said she had a fever. A fever is not necessarily fatal.”
“Her letter said she fears she may not recover. Those were her exact words. ‘I fear I may not recover.’ What would you have me do—ignore such a plea? Abandon my only sister in her hour of need?”
Cecilia had read the letter herself, having collected it from the post. Mrs Thornton’s missive had indeed mentioned illness and had indeed expressed concern about recovery, but the general tone had suggested melodrama rather than mortality.
Mrs Thornton was, by all accounts, very much her sister’s equal in the art of theatrical suffering.
Even so, affection was affection, and beneath the performance, Lady Ashwood’s anxiety appeared genuine. She did love her sister, Cecilia conceded—albeit chiefly through competitive comparisons of their respective ailments.
“What do you propose, then?” Horace asked, with the weary patience of a man who already knew he had lost whatever argument was to follow.
“I must go to Bath immediately. Tomorrow, if possible. But Georgiana cannot miss Lady Marchmont’s party—not with the Duke of Ashworth in attendance. The opportunity is too important.”
“Then take her with you to Bath.”
“To a sickroom? With my sister potentially contagious? Do not be absurd.”
“Then what—”
“You must take the girls to Kent yourself. You are perfectly capable of chaperoning, Horace, despite your apparent belief to the contrary. I shall join you as soon as my sister’s condition permits.” Lady Ashwood paused, her eyes narrowing in sudden calculation. “Although…”
Cecilia felt her spine stiffen. She knew that expression. It never heralded anything good.
“Although what, my dear?”
“You are not, strictly speaking, adept at managing the girls’ social presentation.
Georgiana will require assistance with her hair, her gowns, and her general comportment.
Someone must ensure she makes the proper impression.
And Dorothea, though not yet out, must still be supervised.
You cannot be expected to manage all that while maintaining suitable conversation with the other gentlemen. ”
“Then we shall bring a lady’s maid.”
“A lady’s maid is not sufficient. Georgiana requires someone who can advise her on matters of etiquette—someone who understands society’s expectations.” Lady Ashwood’s gaze swung to Cecilia like a cannon settling upon its target. “Cecilia will accompany you.”
The words fell into the quiet room with the force of a thunderclap. Cecilia felt the colour drain from her face, only to return in a confusing rush of—what? Startlement? Apprehension? A flicker of impossible, treacherous anticipation?
“Me?” she managed.
“Yes, you. You were raised properly, whatever your present circumstances. You understand how to behave in polite company. You may ensure Georgiana’s gowns are pressed, her hair suitably arranged, and her conduct does not stray into anything unsuitable.”
“But—”
“You will remain in the background, of course. You are not there to participate in the social events; you are there to assist. Think of yourself as… an elevated lady’s maid, if that helps. Your presence should be invisible, but useful.”
Invisible but useful. The phrase was so perfectly descriptive of Cecilia’s entire existence that she very nearly laughed. Nearly.
“I have nothing appropriate to wear,” she said instead—because it was a practical objection, and practical objections were safer than emotional ones.
“You are not there to be seen, so what you wear is irrelevant. Your grey muslin will do very well for daytime duties. For the evenings, you will remain in your room. Georgiana will not require you once she is dressed for dinner.”
“And who will manage the household here? You said yourself—”
“Mrs Patterson is entirely capable of following the instructions I shall leave. The household will survive a fortnight without your constant oversight, Cecilia, however much you may prefer to believe otherwise.”
The words stung more than they should have. Cecilia had not claimed to be indispensable; she had merely pointed out that she was usually told she was necessary for exactly this kind of management. The contradiction was apparently invisible to Lady Ashwood.
“Well?” Lady Ashwood’s impatience sharpened. “Have you any further objections, or may we consider the matter settled?”
Cecilia could think of a dozen objections—but none that could be spoken aloud.
That she would be humiliated, attending a grand house party as a servant in all but name.
That watching Georgiana pursue a duke while she pressed ribbons and arranged hairpins would be a quiet, exquisite torture.
That invisibility was bearable here only because she did not have to witness the life she had lost—but to be invisible amidst splendour she could not touch would be far worse.
None of that could be said. None of it would change anything.
“I have no objections, Aunt. I am grateful for the opportunity to be of service.”
It was the expected response. Lady Ashwood accepted it with a satisfied nod, already leaping ahead to her next arrangement.
“Excellent. You will begin packing immediately—your things and Georgiana’s as well. We must be prepared to depart in three days. Horace, you must write to Lady Marchmont to explain my delay. Cecilia can draft the letter; your handwriting is—”
“Yes, yes, I know. My handwriting.”
Cecilia slipped from the room while her aunt and uncle continued their planning, her thoughts circling in bewildering, impossible patterns.
She was going to Kent. To a house party. Where a duke would be in attendance, along with dozens of people belonging to the world she had once belonged to.
She would be invisible, of course. Working. Serving. Reminding herself at every moment that she was not a guest—that she had no right to pleasure—that her sole purpose was to secure Georgiana’s success, not to dream of any future of her own.
But still… she was going.
Beneath the practical concerns, beneath the armour of caution, beneath the years of training herself not to want, something small and perilous flickered to life.
Something that felt very much like hope.
***
The next three days passed in a blur of activity.
Cecilia packed Georgiana’s trunks with almost military precision, arranging gowns by occasion and colour, ensuring that every ribbon, glove, and hairpin was accounted for.
She consulted with the housekeeper regarding the family’s absence, wrote detailed instructions for the cook, and drafted three separate letters on her uncle’s behalf.
Her own packing required considerably less time.
She possessed two presentable day dresses—the grey muslin Lady Ashwood had mentioned, and a slightly newer brown cambric—together with the modest necessities of a woman who did not expect to be noticed.
She did not pack an evening gown; she did not own one.
The prettiest dress she possessed was a lavender silk that had belonged to her mother—carefully preserved, hopelessly outdated—and she had not attempted to wear it in years.
She packed her mother’s pearls, however.
She could not have said why—there would be no occasion on which she might wear them—but leaving them behind felt wrong.
They were the only beautiful thing she owned, the only tangible link to the life she had lost, and she found she could not bear to be parted from them, even for a fortnight.
Georgiana was by turns exhilarated and anxious.
“What if he does not notice me?” she fretted on the second evening, while Cecilia repaired a torn flounce on her favourite morning dress.
“What if there are girls more beautiful, and he prefers them instead? Mama says I am the prettiest, but Mama is biased, and besides, there are so many girls in society—”
“You are very pretty,” Cecilia said—because it was true, and because contradiction would only prolong the discussion. “And you have been well prepared. You need only be yourself.”
“But what if myself is not enough?”
It was, Cecilia thought, a surprisingly honest question from Georgiana, who was not usually inclined to doubt herself. She looked up from her mending and found her cousin watching her with something very like vulnerability.
“You cannot control whether someone notices you,” she said carefully.
“You can only control how you present yourself. Be gracious. Take an interest in others, not merely in securing their interest in you. Listen more than you speak—and when you do speak, say something genuine, rather than what you imagine they wish to hear.”
Georgiana frowned. “That sounds like an unreasonable amount of effort.”
“Connection usually is.”
“But I do not want connection. I want to marry a duke.”
Cecilia bent again to her stitching, concealing the expression that rose, unbidden, to her face. “Then perhaps you do not require my advice after all.”
Georgiana hesitated. Then, unexpectedly: “Cecilia? Do you ever think—do you ever wish that you could—”
She faltered, unable to finish. Cecilia did not supply the words.