Chapter 12 #2
They spoke of small things; the grounds, the weather, Philippa’s enthusiasm for hosting, anything but what lingered unspoken between them.
Her laughter was quiet, unguarded, and as they spoke he noticed what Philippa had said about the changes in him. They were undeniable, and though he could not say he disliked them, it did unsettle him to know they existed.
Across the table, Lady Sylvia watched them with thinly veiled displeasure. The Dowager’s gaze lingered as well, sharp and assessing. George did not acknowledge either. As the courses ended and the guests began to disperse, chairs scraping softly against the floor, Cassandra did not rise at once.
Neither did he.
The room emptied gradually, voices fading as people withdrew to the drawing rooms or retired for the night. At last, only a handful remained. George became acutely aware of the space between them, or rather, the lack of it.
“You did not leave,” Cassandra said softly.
“Nor did you.”
She glanced at him. “I thought you might wish to.”
“I find that I do not.”
The admission surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise her.
They sat in silence for a moment, not uncomfortable.
When at last they rose together, it felt less like coincidence than choice, and George, who prided himself on intention, could not quite decide whether that realization unsettled or steadied him.
They moved to the smaller sitting room, the space quiet. Lady Cassandra was the one to break the silence.
“Might I ask you something?”
“You need not ask me permission to do that.”
“You have spoken often of your sister,” she said. “But never of your grandmother.”
George did not answer at once.
“I never find that I have much to say of her,” he said finally. “She has morals that most ladies of her age share, and that is all there truly is to it.”
She nodded, then hesitated.
“Is she displeased with me, then?”
“With the engagement,” he said carefully, “she wants what she believes is best for me.”
“And what does that mean?”
The question was not accusatory, merely curious, which made it more difficult. He considered his words carefully, for the truth was, of course, that his grandmother was furious, but that was through no fault of his betrothed.
“She has expectations.”
“Such as?”
He listed them as one might recite facts rather than ideals.
“A duchess should be composed. Respected, beyond reproach. If I am to take a wife, she is to be the very image of what she thinks of. She should understand her duties, manage the household efficiently, entertain well, inspire confidence, and avoid scandal.”
He paused.
Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The light caught her face at an angle that revealed more than she likely intended. George saw it then. She was measuring herself against each word, and finding herself lacking.
“I see,” she said quietly.
He frowned. He had not expected her to take his words to heart, for she had seemed so certain of herself before.
“You need not–”
“I am none of those things,” she said simply.
He opened his mouth to contradict her, then stopped, because it was not entirely untrue. She was not steady in the way his grandmother admired, nor unremarkable enough to pass unnoticed. She challenged, she reacted, and she felt things openly. Philippa liked that a great deal, but his grandmother?
Lady Cassandra looked at him then, searching.
“And yet,” she added, “she wishes what is best for you.”
“Yes.”
Cassandra smiled faintly, though it did not reach her eyes.
“Then I hope I do not disappoint her too greatly.”
Something tightened in his chest as he found himself confronted with the quiet realization that Cassandra had already assumed blame she had never been given.
“I do not care what she thinks and that is all that matters,” he said firmly.
He had meant for it to help her, but it only seemed to confirm her fears.
George found Brandon in the billiard room, glass in hand, examining the table.
“You look like a man who has lost an argument,” Brandon said without looking up.
“I have not argued with anyone.”
“That is worse,” Brandon replied. “It means you argued with yourself.”
George took a glass from the sideboard and poured without ceremony.
“She asked about my grandmother.”
Brandon glanced over.
“Ah.”
“I answered honestly.”
“There is your first mistake.”
“I explained what is expected of a duchess.”
“And how did that go?”
“She assumed she had failed before being tested.”
Brandon winced. George set the glass down, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“My grandmother has always known what is best.”
“For your father, yes” Brandon said.
“And for myself. She believes stability is paramount.”
“And what do you believe?”
He did not answer, because he did not know as well as he had once thought he did. Brandon leaned against the table.
“You have lived your life responding to expectations. Your father’s, your grandmother’s, the title’s.”
“That is my responsibility.”
“That is obedience,” Brandon countered. “There is a difference.”
“I do not have the luxury of preference.”
“You do,” Brandon said. “You simply pretend that you do not so that you can claim things are not your fault.”
“What I want is irrelevant.”
Brandon studied him for a moment.
“Then why does it trouble you that she thinks she is not enough?”
The question caught him off guard.
“I do not know,” George admitted.
“Do you not?”
He did not answer. He did not need to.
“Perhaps,” Brandon suggested, ‘you should consider what you want, rather than what your grandmother wants.”
“And what if they are not the same?” George said quietly.
Brandon smiled, almost kindly.
“Then for once, you might be living your own life.”
George looked into his glass, knowing that his friend was right. For the first time, the possibility did not feel out of reach.
If anything, it felt necessary.