Chapter 29 #2
Patricia adjusted Liliana on her hip, her face the picture of absolute, innocent surprise. "She certainly did, Miss Preston. She woke up bright and early, demanding her supper. I simply brought her outside for some fresh evening air."
Thelma knew with absolute certainty that Patricia had deliberately woken the sleeping infant just so she could have an excuse to be waiting on the back steps when they returned.
Before Thelma could formulate a proper response, the heavy oak door leading into the main study corridor swung open.
Orson Mercer stood in the doorway. He was holding a heavy crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid.
Standing directly beside him was Nicolette Upperton.
She wore a stunning, deeply cut dress of emerald-green silk, her dark hair pinned up in an elaborate style.
Nicolette had one hand resting casually, yet incredibly possessively, on the sleeve of Lord Ashmore’s coat.
He looked completely different than the cynical, detached Viscount who had audited the estate ledgers a month ago. He looked like a man who had recently lost a very intense argument and who had thoroughly enjoyed every single minute of his defeat.
Lord Ashmore looked at Roman’s face. He looked at Thelma’s flushed cheeks. He looked at their joined hands.
"Finally," he announced, his voice projecting loudly enough to carry across the entire courtyard.
Then, Lord Ashmore simply brought the crystal tumbler to his lips, took a slow drink, and immediately turned his attention back to Nicolette, acting exactly as though he had not spoken a single word.
Patricia shook her head, her thick curls bouncing. She looked at the viscount and mouthed the word, Ridiculous.
But the smile breaking across the cook’s face was absolutely blinding. It was the widest, most genuine smile Thelma had ever seen Patricia wear, and that specifically included the afternoon Liliana had managed to eat an entire piece of sweet lemon cake by herself.
Roman chuckled, a deep, rich sound that vibrated through his chest. He guided Thelma up the stone steps, past the cook and the baby, and into the warmth of the main hallway.
As they stepped onto the polished floorboards, the dowager emerged from the drawing room.
She wore a simple black evening gown. She walked slowly, her cane tapping a quiet rhythm against the wood. In her free hand, she carried a small, dark velvet box.
She stopped in front of Thelma. She did not look at Roman. Her gray eyes remained entirely fixed on Thelma’s face.
Roman’s mother opened the small velvet box. Resting on a bed of faded white satin was a ring. It was an antique piece, featuring a massive, square-cut sapphire surrounded by a halo of small, glittering diamonds, set in heavy gold.
"This belonged to my mother," she said. Her voice held completely steady, projecting the calm, aristocratic dignity she had practiced her entire life.
But her hands did not match her voice. Her hands were shaking violently, causing the velvet box to tremble.
"I would very much like you to have it," she continued, her eyes searching Thelma’s face. "If you want it."
Thelma looked at the ring. She looked at the woman who had caused her family so much pain, but who was actively, painfully trying to build a bridge across the wreckage.
Thelma reached out. She did not just take the ring from the satin cushion. She placed her own hands over the older woman’s trembling fingers, steadying the velvet box. She picked up the heavy gold band.
"Thank you," Thelma said softly.
The dowager did not immediately pull her hands away.
She gripped Thelma’s fingers tightly, holding on for three full seconds longer than the simple exchange required.
It was a silent, desperate plea for grace.
Thelma did not pull away. She stood in the hallway and let the older woman hold her hands, accepting the unspoken apology woven into the touch.
Much later that night, after the house had finally settled into total silence, Thelma sat alone at the small writing desk in the corner of the nursery.
The single candle burned low, casting long, wavering shadows against the walls. Liliana was sleeping deeply in the crib, completely exhausted by her evening excursion to the kitchen steps.
Thelma opened the top drawer of the desk.
She pulled out the folded letter she had written to Yvette days ago, the one she had left sitting on the table for Roman to find.
She placed the paper flat on the wooden surface.
She picked up the thin wooden pen and dipped the metal nib into the glass inkwell.
She moved to the very bottom of the page, below her original signature.
I said yes, Yvette, Thelma wrote, the dark ink flowing smoothly across the heavy parchment. He asked me in a stone chapel with colored light spilling all over the floor. My voice broke. I had to say it twice.
Thelma set the pen down. She stared at the drying ink, the heavy gold and sapphire ring glittering brightly on her left hand in the candlelight.
She thought about her sister. She thought about the bright, laughing girl who had braided flowers in her hair in Somerset. Yvette would have found this entire situation absolutely impossible, and thoroughly, wonderfully romantic.
Yvette would have laughed until she cried at the sheer absurdity of it all. She would have laughed at the fake name of Eliza Hartley. She would have laughed at Thelma sneaking through the service gate like a thief in the night.
She would have found endless amusement in the memory of Thelma packing her small canvas bag four separate times, terrified to leave, and ultimately carrying that bag absolutely nowhere.
But more than anything else in the world, Thelma knew exactly what Yvette would have loved the most.
Thelma turned her head, looking at the sturdy wooden crib in the center of the room. She listened to the soft, rhythmic sound of her niece breathing in the dark.
Yvette would have loved that Liliana was sleeping in the very center of a grand estate, surrounded by a cook who guarded her with a fierce, motherly pride, an uncle who had torn down his own walls to claim her, and an aunt who had walked through fire to keep her safe.
Yvette would have loved, above everything else, that her daughter was entirely, fiercely loved by a group of people who had almost found each other entirely too late.
Thelma blew out the candle, the thin trail of white smoke rising into the dark room. She walked over to the crib, resting her hand on the wooden railing one final time, completely ready to begin the rest of her life.