Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Cassandra had only been looking for the library.
She knew she should have asked a servant, but the house had been unusually quiet since the afternoon’s excitement, and she preferred not to draw further attention to herself.
The corridors were warm from the fires, and she followed what she assumed must be the right direction with more confidence than accuracy.
But the door she opened was not the library. She realized it the moment she stepped inside. This room was smaller, more private. Papers were arranged neatly on a broad desk. A fire burned steadily in the hearth, casting a golden light over leather-bound books and dark wood.
George stood near the desk, coat unbuttoned, his attention still turned toward the door his visitor had just left through. Cassandra froze.
“I am so sorry,” she said at once. “I was looking for the library. I did not mean to intrude.”
She reached for the door, intent on escaping before the situation could deepen.
“You may stay,” he said.
She paused, looking at him in surprise for she was quite convinced that she was the last person he wished to see.
“If you wish,” he added, more lightly than she had ever heard him speak.
“I thought you were occupied.”
“I was,” he said. “I am not anymore, not if you do not want me to be.”
There was something different about him. His posture was less rigid. The tension she had grown used to seeing in his shoulders seemed absent, replaced by a calm she did not recognize. She hesitated, then stepped fully back into the room.
“I truly did not mean to interrupt,” she said again.
“You did not,” he replied. “Well, I suppose that you did, but I am glad of the interruption.”
That surprised her. She glanced around the study, then back at him.
“You are in a good mood.”
“I have reason to be.”
She smiled faintly. She did not know quite what had brought it about, but she was pleased regardless.
“Do you disapprove of my good humor?” he asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “I simply did not expect it.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite the desk.
“You may sit, if you like.”
She did. The fire crackled softly between them, and for once the silence did not feel heavy. Cassandra studied him without meaning to, noting the ease in his expression, the way he seemed almost approachable.
She found herself liking this version of him, and that realization unsettled her.
“You look less inclined to lecture me now,” she said cautiously.
“Do not tempt fate.”
Her smile widened despite herself. For a moment, she forgot why she had come down the corridor at all. The silence was companionable, and part of Cassandra did not want to break it, but she could not help herself.
“It is strange,” Cassandra said, tracing the edge of the chair with her fingers, “how much is expected of women without anyone ever asking what we might want.”
George looked at her, attentive.
“We are meant to be agreeable,” she went on. “To adapt, to fit ourselves into whatever role is deemed most useful. There is very little room for hesitation, or doubt, or choosing differently. If we do, we lose our place in society entirely.”
“Do you believe men are afforded that freedom?” he asked.
“Some are,” she replied. “At the very least, they are not judged for having ambition. They are celebrated for it, in fact.”
He considered this.
“Responsibility is not absent from their lives, though.”
“Is it comparable?”
“In some cases,” he said, “it is even heavier.”
She frowned slightly but did not interrupt.
“The higher the title,” George continued, “the greater the burden attached to it. And titles rarely arrive clean. They come with histories, debts, expectations. With mistakes.”
He paused, gaze unfocused now, directed somewhere beyond the walls of the study.
“One man inherits the name,” he said quietly, “and is expected to repair everything that was broken long before him.”
Cassandra felt something shift. She had never heard him speak like this.
“You mean your father,” she said gently.
His expression closed almost at once.
“It is not important.”
“It is to you,” she replied. “I can tell.”
He straightened, the ease she had admired moments ago receding.
“You asked about duty. That is the answer.”
She hesitated, then pressed on.
“Is that why you work so much? Is that why you never seem to rest? Why you carry everything alone?”
He met her gaze, something guarded returning to his eyes.
“This is not a conversation you need to concern yourself with.”
“I want to,” she said.
The words surprised them both. She leaned forward slightly, hoping that he would tell her more about himself.
“You ask me to behave as though we are partners, to trust you. It is only fair that you allow the same in return.”
His jaw tightened.
“There are limits,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because some responsibilities are not shared,” he replied. “They are borne.”
The warmth in the room dimmed. Cassandra sat back, disappointment flickering through her. She had thought, just for a moment, that he might let her see beyond the careful restraint he wore so naturally.
“I see,” she said quietly.
He looked away, shielding himself once more.
“You should find the library before you become lost again.”
The dismissal was gentle, but unmistakable.
Cassandra rose, smoothing her skirts. As she turned toward the door, she glanced back at him once more.
She had glimpsed something real, and she suspected that whatever he was protecting himself from, it was not nearly as distant as he wished her to believe. If he wanted to hide from her, she knew that there was nothing that she could do, but she wanted to try.
“You speak of responsibility,” she said at last, carefully, “as though it were something inherited rather than chosen.”
“In my case, it was both,” George replied. “I could have chosen to abandon it, so in a sense it is my own fault too.”
She considered that.
“And yet you never speak of what you want.”
“A want is a luxury, one that I cannot afford.”
“That is what they tell women as well,” she said. “That wanting is indulgent. That contentment should be enough.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Society is not kind to those who step outside their assigned roles.”
“No,” she agreed. “I know that better than most.”
That earned the faintest hint of a smile, though it vanished almost at once. Cassandra leaned back in her chair, folding her hands together.
“You know, when I was younger, I believed that if I behaved well enough, if I proved myself capable, someone would eventually ask me what I hoped for.”
“And did they?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “They informed me instead.”
He nodded, as though this confirmed something he already suspected.
“You speak as though men are spared this,” he said. “But there are expectations placed upon us as well. They are simply framed as obligations rather than limitations.”
“Is that how you see yours?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “An obligation does not ask whether one desires it.”
“And if it breaks you in the process?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately. She wondered if he would at all, given that he had already tried to dismiss her once.
“The higher the title,” he said finally, “the fewer choices one is permitted. People assume privilege equates to freedom. It does not. It only raises the stakes of every action taken.”
“You speak as though you are correcting something.”
“I am,” he said. “Constantly.”
She leaned forward again, curiosity overcoming caution.
“What was broken?”
His gaze sharpened.
“That is not–”
“You said titles come with mistakes,” she pressed. “Mistakes of those who held them before. Yours did not begin with you.”
“One man inherits a name,” George said slowly, “and with it a reputation, a ledger, a set of expectations he had no hand in shaping. He is judged not on who he is, but on whether he can repair what others damaged, and whether or not he can hand down something better.”
“That sounds lonely.”
Her voice had softened. Something in his expression flickered. Surprise, perhaps, or recognition. Regardless, she knew that he could see through her words and knew her intentions perfectly well.
“You wish to understand me,” he said. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” Cassandra replied simply.
“And why is that?”
She hesitated, then chose honesty.
“Because I am tired of assuming the worst. And because I think there is more to you than you allow anyone to see.”
For a moment, she thought he might say something real. Something unguarded. Instead, he straightened.
“You do not need to understand me,” he said. “Understanding does not change our obligation.”
“It might change how one bears it,” she countered.
“This is not a conversation you need to involve yourself in.”
The words were not sharp, but they landed heavily.
“I thought you wanted me to come to you,” she said quietly. “You said as much.”
“Within reason.”
“And this exceeds it?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said, though she did not, not entirely.
The distance returned all at once, measured and deliberate. Cassandra felt it keenly. She rose slowly, smoothing her skirts, giving him the space he so clearly required. At the door, she paused.
“You carry more than you admit,” she said. “And you expect yourself to carry it alone. That may be duty, but it is not strength.”
He did not turn. Cassandra walked away with the unsettling certainty that whatever George was guarding so fiercely, it was not indifference, but something far more vulnerable.
The following morning unfolded with careful efficiency.
Breakfast passed under the watchful eye of the Dowager, servants moving briskly as guests prepared for the excursion into the nearby village. There was an air of anticipation about the day, a sense that this outing was meant to encourage goodwill.