Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“You speak as though you have personal knowledge of such situations,” Sybil observed.
“Our grandmother.” Rosalie’s expression grew thoughtful.
“Papa’s mother. She spent years complaining that we were too wild, too unruly, that we needed proper feminine guidance.
But the moment Mama died and Papa was left alone with three daughters, suddenly she was full of helpful suggestions about boarding schools and finishing academies. ”
“And what did your father say to these suggestions?”
“That she could take her opinions and—” Rosalie caught herself, grinning. “Well, let’s just say he was quite firm in his refusal. Papa doesn’t appreciate interference, even from family. Especially from family.”
A man who protects his daughters from meddling relatives. That’s… unexpected.
“He sounds like a devoted father,” Sybil said quietly.
“He is.” Rosalie’s voice carried absolute certainty. “Sometimes too devoted, actually. He worries constantly that we’ll become reckless like Mama was. Hence, his recent overreaction to…” Rosalie’s eyes went wide, as if she said something she didn’t mean to.
“Ah, yes, I heard about your little adventure at the lake. I hope your sister is well?”
Rosalie waved her good hand dismissively. “She is fine. A bit ruffled but not harmed. And yet, Papa acted as though we’d been attempting to scale Everest instead of jumping between a few rocks.”
A few rocks. In a lake. With a twelve-year-old who apparently can’t swim well.
“Perhaps your father’s concern was justified,” Sybil said carefully. “Water can be dangerous, especially for children.”
Something shifted in Rosalie’s expression—a flicker of defensiveness that reminded Sybil of every stubborn teenager she’d ever tried to counsel.
“We aren’t children. Well, Melanie is, but Leah and I certainly aren’t. And it wasn’t truly dangerous. I’ve done it dozens of times without incident, and I was there in case she needed me.”
Just because you’ve been lucky doesn’t mean the risk wasn’t real.
“Your father must have been terrified,” Sybil said instead of voicing her concerns.
“He was angry,” Rosalie corrected. “Shouting and lecturing about responsibility and proper behavior. Just like…” She trailed off, her expression growing distant.
“Just like what?”
“Nothing.” Rosalie shook her head, clearly regretting the near-confession. “Tell me about your sister instead. You mentioned her the day you treated my arm.”
The abrupt change of subject caught Sybil off guard. “My sister?”
“You said something about not being able to save her, about not wanting the same thing to happen to one of us. What happened to her?”
Emmie. Sweet, trusting, foolish Emmie.
Sybil’s hands stilled on the bedding as memories rushed back—Emmie’s laughter echoing through their childhood home, her excited chatter about balls and beaus, the way her face had lit up when she talked about the charming young man who’d captured her heart.
“She got ill,” Sybil said finally, the words feeling like broken glass in her throat. “Very ill. I… I wasn’t able to help her in time.”
Such a careful half-truth. She did get ill in the end. But it wasn’t illness that killed her.
“That’s why you know so much about medicine,” Rosalie said with sudden understanding. “You studied because of her.”
“Among other reasons, yes.” Sybil turned away, ostensibly to straighten another bed but really to hide the tears that threatened. “I never want to feel that helpless again. Never want to watch someone I care about suffer when there might be something I could do to help.”
“How old was she?”
“Nineteen.” The word came out as barely a whisper.
“Oh.” Rosalie was quiet for a long moment. “She was young. Not much older than I am now.”
Yes. Far too young to die alone and frightened, abandoned by everyone who should have protected her.
“Much too young,” Sybil agreed, blinking hard against the familiar grief.
“Is that why you’ve never married? Because you were taking care of her?”
The innocent question hit like a physical blow. If only it were that simple.
“Partly,” Sybil managed. “The circumstances of her illness… well… They made marriage seem less appealing.”
A complete understatement. Watching Emmie die from the consequences of believing a man’s false promises had made marriage seem like the height of foolishness.
“I’m sorry,” Rosalie said quietly. “That must have been terrible for you.”
“It was a long time ago.” Sybil forced herself to resume tidying, needing something to do with her hands. “But it taught me valuable lessons about the importance of caring for those who depend on us.”
“Is that what these girls are to you? Substitutes for the sister you lost?”
The perceptive question made Sybil’s chest tighten.
“They’re children who need guidance and protection,” she said carefully. “That’s enough reason to care about them.”
“But not enough reason to marry Papa?”
Sybil nearly dropped the pillow she was holding. “I beg your pardon?”
“Papa’s proposal,” Rosalie said with the directness that seemed to run in the family. “The servants are all talking about it though they think they’re being discreet. Is it true? Did he actually ask you to marry him?”
Of course, the servants know. Servants always know everything first.
“Your father made a very generous offer,” Sybil said diplomatically. “But I haven’t given him an answer yet.”
“Because you don’t want to marry him, or because you don’t think he really wants to marry you?”
The question was so astute it took Sybil’s breath away. How does an eighteen-year-old understand such complexities?
“It’s complicated,” she said finally.
“Most worthwhile things are.” Rosalie leaned forward in her chair, her expression earnest. “But may I ask what you’re afraid of? Because it’s obvious you’re afraid of something.”
Where do I even begin? I’m afraid of trusting a man who’s promised to help me. I’m afraid of betraying Emmie’s memory by accepting the very society that destroyed her. I’m afraid of caring about your family and having it all torn away when your father realizes what a mistake he’s made.
“I’m not afraid,” Sybil lied. “I’m simply being careful. Marriage is a serious commitment, not something to be entered into lightly.”
“But you could do so much good as a duchess,” Rosalie pressed. “Think of all the orphanages you could establish, all the children you could help. Surely that’s worth considering?”
It is. God help me, it is.
“The position comes with other responsibilities,” Sybil pointed out. “Guiding young ladies through society for instance. Managing social obligations. Things I’m not particularly qualified for.”
“Are you joking?” Rosalie’s eyes widened with surprise. “You’re exactly qualified for it. You understand what it’s like to be young and uncertain. You know how to listen without judging. You care more about our welfare than our reputations.”
She makes it sound so simple.
“Your father needs someone who can help you navigate society successfully,” Sybil said. “Someone who understands the rules and expectations.”
“The rules are stupid,” Rosalie declared with youthful fervor. “Half of them exist solely to keep women from doing anything interesting. What I need is someone who can teach me which rules actually matter and which ones are just society’s way of keeping us in line.”
Exactly what Hugo said. The girl has definitely inherited his intelligence.
“That’s a rather radical perspective for someone about to make her debut,” Sybil observed.
“I learned it from watching Papa,” Rosalie said with a grin. “He follows the rules that matter and ignores the ones that don’t. It’s worked well for him so far.”
A duke can afford to be selective about which rules he follows. His daughters won’t have the same luxury.
“Your father has advantages you won’t,” Sybil pointed out gently. “Society judges men and women differently.”
“Which is exactly why I need someone who understands that difference,” Rosalie countered. “Someone who’s navigated those challenges herself and can teach me to do the same.”
She’s not wrong. But she’s also not considering all the complications.
“Rosalie,” Sybil said carefully, “if I were to accept your father’s proposal, it would be for practical reasons. To help rebuild the orphanage and to assist with your guidance. It wouldn’t be a love match.”
“So?” Rosalie shrugged as though this were irrelevant.
“Mama and Papa didn’t love each other either, at least not at first. But they built something together.
Something that produced three daughters who adore their father and a household that functions beautifully despite our occasional dramatic tendencies. ”
They built something together. The phrase echoed in Sybil’s mind, carrying implications she wasn’t ready to examine.
“Your parents’ situation was different,” she said weakly.
“Was it? Papa needed a wife, Mama needed security. They made it work.” Rosalie paused, studying Sybil’s face with those too-intelligent eyes. “Unless… do you find him objectionable somehow? Because I promise he’s much nicer than he appears. He just has trouble expressing affection in words.”
Objectionable? If only it were that simple. If the Duke had been objectionable, this decision would be easy.
But the memory of his amber eyes burning with intensity, the way his voice had dropped to that intimate register when he’d kissed her gloves, the protective fury in his expression when he’d spoken of his daughters’ welfare…
No. Objectionable is the last word I’d use to describe him.
“Your father seems like a good man,” she said finally. “But marriage is about more than compatibility and mutual benefit.”
“Is it?” Rosalie’s expression grew thoughtful. “What else should it be about?”
Love. Trust. The kind of partnership that survives whatever life throws at you.
But those were fairy tale dreams, weren’t they? The kind of romantic nonsense that had gotten Emmie killed.
“I don’t know,” Sybil admitted. “I’ve never been married.”
“Neither have I,” Rosalie pointed out with impeccable logic. “But I do know Papa. And I know he doesn’t make offers like this lightly. If he asked you to marry him, it’s because he genuinely believes you’re what our family needs.”
What your family needs. But what about what I need?
The question hung in the air between them, unspoken but somehow present, nonetheless.
“It would be a pity if you said no,” Rosalie continued quietly. “I rather hoped… well… I’d like very much to have you as a stepmother. We all would.”
The simple honesty in her voice made Sybil’s chest tighten with unexpected emotion. This girl. This brave, intelligent, impossible girl.
“Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Because you look at us like we matter,” Rosalie said simply. “Not like problems to be solved or ornaments to be displayed but like actual people with thoughts and feelings worth considering. That’s rarer than you might think.”
“You do matter,” Sybil said firmly. “All of you. You’re remarkable young women with bright futures ahead of you.”
“See?” Rosalie’s smile was radiant. “That’s exactly what I mean. Papa sees it too, but he has trouble saying it. He shows his love through worry and protection and occasionally dramatic rescues from lakes.”
Despite everything, Sybil found herself smiling. “Dramatic rescues seem to be a family specialty.”
“Only when necessary,” Rosalie said with dignity then spoiled the effect by grinning. “Though I admit we do seem to require more rescuing than the average family.”
Because you’re all too brave for your own good. Just like your father.
“Perhaps that’s not entirely a bad thing,” Sybil said softly. “The world needs people who are willing to take risks for others.”
“Even when those risks involve jumping between rocks in lakes?”
“Perhaps smaller risks would be advisable until you’re older,” Sybil suggested diplomatically.
Rosalie laughed, the sound bright and infectious. “You really would make an excellent stepmother. Patient but firm, understanding but not naive. Papa chose well.”
Papa chose well. If only Sybil could be as certain of that as Rosalie seemed to be.
“I should get back to work,” she said, turning toward the remaining beds. “These won’t organize themselves.”
“Of course.” Rosalie rose from her chair, moving carefully to avoid jarring her injured arm. “But if I may be a bit bold? Don’t let fear decide for you. Sometimes the biggest risk is not taking any risk at all.”
Sometimes the biggest risk is not taking any risk at all.
As Rosalie left the room, her words echoed in Sybil’s mind with uncomfortable accuracy.
Because the truth was, she was afraid. Terrified, actually.
Afraid of trusting the Duke’s promises. Afraid of caring about his daughters and having that care thrown back in her face when his practical arrangement no longer suited him. Afraid of betraying Emmie’s memory by embracing the very society that had destroyed her.
But most of all, she was afraid of the way her heart raced when that man looked at her, the way her skin burned where he’d touched her, the way her treacherous mind kept imagining what it might be like to build something real with him.
Something that goes beyond practical arrangements and mutual benefit.
Because despite all her rational arguments and careful caution, despite every lesson Emmie’s tragedy had taught her about the dangers of trusting men, there was a part of her that wanted to say yes.
A part that whispered this might be her chance at something she’d never dared to dream of.
A real family. A real partnership. A real life.
Rosalie’s words hung in the air like a challenge, daring her to be the woman she’d once been before loss and betrayal had taught her to be careful.
The woman Emmie would have wanted her to be.