Chapter 1
Lady Cecelia Flannery never believed she would find herself here at just eighteen years old. Dressed all in black, her head bowed low just as her mother had instructed her.
As her father’s body was committed to the ground, she held back the tears that she had been fighting for the last several days.
On either side of her, her mother and sisters wept openly, her mother sliding her handkerchief beneath her thick black veil now and then to wipe away a tear.
All around her were sombre faces, hundreds of faces, and she couldn't help wondering how many had actually known her father. How many had turned up simply to pay their respects because he was an earl?
It didn't matter really. No matter what she thought, she would remember her comportment lessons and remain respectful. On this day of all days, she did not wish for anything to go wrong.
Elegant, graceful, composed. That was what she allowed all to see. There was little left of the ‘feral’ child she had been several years ago thanks to all the tutors her parents had paid to instruct her how to be the perfect lady.
And today, she felt it utterly important to be that, for her father.
It was as the coffin made it into the grave that all those around her started to whisper.
At first, the whispers were inaudible, but soon they grew louder, loud enough for her to hear snippets.
“He's back,” one mourner gasped.
“He looks well considering,” another said.
“I wonder if he plans to remain a while.”
“Can it really be him?”
That final question was what made Cecelia look up.
Her gaze travelled over the turned heads on the opposite side of her father's grave, and her heart stopped.
There, standing atop a small hillock, beneath a blossom tree, was her oldest friend.
Or: the friend she had once had.
It had been years. In fact, she hadn't seen him since that fateful day in the gardens at her family home.
A stinging sensation jabbed her chest as she realized he was staring right at her.
The others might have been disbelieving of his presence, they might even believe they were mistaken in believing his identity, but Cecelia knew without doubt. It was him.
Even at this distance, she recognized him. Tall and imposing, breathtakingly handsome, his brown hair just long enough to give his mother cause for concern.
But it was those eyes she recognized, piercing blue eyes that pinned her where she stood, making it impossible even to blink.
They were still the same eyes she knew, the same cornflower blue eyes she had looked into a hundred times or more. Yet, there was coldness in them, a sadness that stung her heart and made her wish to look away.
It's a funeral, she reminded herself. He had every right to look that way. After all, he was the closest thing her father had ever had to a son. Their fathers had been friends for even longer than either of them had been born.
And yet, in that singular moment, Cecelia would have given anything to see a beam of happiness in his gaze.
It was the hand that landed on her forearm that finally made her blink.
“Cece?”
Catherine's voice caused her to jump, and she looked around to realize that the funeral was over.
Mourners had begun to slip away from the graveside, back to the churchyard, to wait to pay their respects to the earl’s grieving widow and children.
Cecelia gulped. Why must she be one of them?
“Are you coming?” Catherine asked, her mother and Mary had already headed towards the yard.
“Go ahead,” Cecelia said, “I'll follow on in a moment.”
Catherine did not question her. Instead, she dipped her head and followed on.
Cecelia turned back to her father's grave with every intention of saying one final, private farewell.
Yet, she could not help glancing at the blossom tree once more.
Her heart sank.
He was gone.
Had he even been there in the first place?
She started to question it. After all, why would he have shown his face after all this time? She hadn't seen or heard from him in several years. Nobody had.
The disappointment was there all the same. It crushed in on her chest and made her feel quite nauseous.
No, she told herself firmly. Today is about Daddy.
Lowering her gaze to his grave, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Goodbye, Daddy. I'll do my best to take care of everybody in your absence.”
Just the thought of doing so brought yet more tears to her eyes. She forced them back with a deep gulp and headed off to join her mother and sisters.
Already, people were paying their respects, a huge line of people that seemed to stretch on forever.
They would be here a while, and yet, all she wanted to do was go home and hide in her bedroom. She wished to let out her tears in private, never wishing for anyone else to see them.
Standing silently beside her sisters, she dipped her head in thanks to those who offered their condolences, uttering words only when absolutely required.
And for the most part, everyone seemed to have their attention upon her mother, offering their well wishes to the woman who had tragically lost her husband.
Just as the crowd started to thin out, Cecelia's heart stopped all over again.
There he was, coming to the front of the line, his blue gaze utterly unreadable.
And this time she could not deny it. There was no mistaking his being there, for he towered over her mother and sisters like a giant in one of the fairy tales Mary so loved to read.
He approached with a low and respectful bow before taking hold of her mother's hand.
“I am so sorry for your loss, My Lady,” he said, his head still bowed even as he held the countess’ hand in both of his. He glanced at her and her sisters, offering only a bow of his head before he turned his full attention back to their mother.
Cecelia's heart ached.
It had been so long. Just hearing his voice made her wish it was her he was talking to.
Maybe once he had finished speaking with her mother, she might be able to catch him alone.
Maybe they might discuss why he had never written her, though she had written several letters addressed to him over the years, in moments when she had been missing their close friendship and that of Walter, his best friend.
Had he ever received them? She had known it would be a long shot during the war. After all, there were so many men away overseas. It was possible her letters had never found him.
“Please, let me know if there is anything you need,” George insisted, his voice sincere.
Cecelia could not help noticing the darkness in his gaze, the lack of emotion where once there had been only a happy, carefree glint.
What must he have seen during his years away?
She had heard enough rumours from the other returning soldiers to know that it couldn't possibly have been anything good.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” her mother responded, removing her hand from his. She clasped her hands together and added, “I was sorry to hear of your father's passing.”
Of course, his own father had passed, leaving him the duke. No wonder there were so many whispers going about the churchyard.
One glance told Cecelia that there were already eager and ambitious mamas sizing him up for their daughters.
It sickened her to think their thoughts would go to such a place on a day like today.
The rebellious side of her wished to remind them all what day this was, that their father's coffin had barely been lowered into the earth, yet she remained silently supporting her mother and sisters, forcing herself to take the condolences of those who stepped up to meet her.
Still, she had one eye on the duke, hoping and praying that he would even glance in her direction again.
He didn't, and as she watched him say his farewells to her mother and take his leave, her stomach twisted so painfully that she believed she might vomit.
It took all her strength to hold it together, not to go rushing after him and demand to know why he had failed to talk to her.
It isn't personal, she tried to tell herself. He never spoke with Catherine or Mary either.
But it felt utterly personal. And the snub was almost too much for her to bear.
A hand slipped into hers, and she blinked, finally turning her gaze from where George had disappeared out of the churchyard.
“Are you well?”
Mary looked up at her with her big blue eyes, and Cecelia forced a smile.
“Yes, of course.”
She would not let her sister see her cry – not for her father – not for the childhood friend it seemed she had lost.
She forced herself through the motions, deciding it was best to take things one step at a time.
George was home. And that both scared her and made her hopeful in equal measure.
He was safe. He looked well, save for the dullness in his gaze. Perhaps one day she might finally be able to speak with him. And that was what really mattered to her.
She longed to ask him how he had been, how was Walter? Was France truly so terrible?
There were so many questions, some she dared not even admit to herself.
But today was not the day she would get her answers. And so, she resigned herself to being the perfect daughter and not to think of him. Though that was almost impossible now that she had laid eyes upon his face, and now that she had seen the pain behind his gaze.
What had he been through? What could she do to fix it?
Deep down, she knew the answer. Nothing.
She had lost the right to anything like that a long time ago.