Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
The small brass bell above the apothecary’s door chimed as Sybil stepped into the dim interior, the familiar scents of dried herbs and medicinal compounds filling her senses like a homecoming.
“Good morning, Mrs. Patterson,” she called to the elderly woman behind the counter. “I require cold cream—beeswax, almond oil, and rosewater if you have it.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Patterson beamed with the satisfaction of serving nobility. “Your hands been troubling you? The weather’s been uncommonly dry this week.”
My hands. Sybil glanced down at her gloved fingers, remembering the rough texture hidden beneath the fine leather.
Years of orphanage work had left their mark—small scars from kitchen accidents, calluses from scrubbing floors, the permanent roughness that no amount of cream could entirely smooth away.
“Something like that,” she murmured, accepting the small jar. “Thank you.”
The bell chimed again as she stepped back into the morning sunlight and immediately collided with someone hurrying in the opposite direction.
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry, I wasn’t—” T^he young woman stopped mid-apology, her face lighting up with recognition. “Miss Sybil! That is—Your Grace! Forgive me, I forgot—”
“Margaret!” Sybil caught the girl’s hands, delighted to see one of her former students. At eighteen, Margaret was one of the older girls at the orphanage, always eager to help with lessons and care for the younger children. “How wonderful to see you. And please, just Sybil when we’re alone.”
“I can’t do that, Your Grace,” Margaret said with a grin that belied her proper words. “But oh, I’m so glad I ran into you! I was just coming from the Assembly rooms, and everything is going so well. You must come see!”
The Assembly rooms. Where Hugo had moved all her girls.
“I was actually headed there myself,” Sybil said, falling into step beside Margaret as they walked through the village. “How are you all settling in?”
“Oh, beautifully!” Margaret’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “The dormitories are so spacious, and we each have our own proper bed with real linens. And the schoolroom—it’s twice the size of our old one with proper desks and all the books we could want.”
All the books we could want. At the orphanage, they’d made do with whatever donated texts they could find, often missing pages or falling apart at the binding.
“That sounds wonderful,” Sybil managed, though something twisted in her chest at the girl’s obvious happiness.
“And the kitchen! Trudy—she’s the cook His Grace hired to help Marge—lets us help with the baking, and yesterday she taught Annie how to make proper bread. Not the hard stuff we used to have, but soft, white bread that actually tastes good.”
Soft, white bread. The kind Sybil had never been able to afford for them.
“I’m so pleased to hear it,” she said and meant it. Truly, she did. These girls deserved every comfort Hugo was providing them.
“The best part is how we’ve all stepped up,” Margaret continued, her voice warm with pride.
“Sarah’s been teaching the younger girls their letters, and Emma—you remember Emma, the quiet one?
—she’s been helping with the arithmetic.
We’re all taking turns with the little ones, making sure they’re settled and not homesick. ”
They’re managing without me. The thought hit Sybil like a physical blow. They’re not just surviving—they’re thriving.
“We’ve organized everything into a proper system,” Margaret went on, oblivious to Sybil’s internal turmoil.
“Lessons in the morning, household tasks in the afternoon, and study time in the evenings. Beverly and Marge oversee everything, of course, but we older girls are doing most of the actual teaching and supervising.”
They’d reached the Assembly rooms now, and through the large windows, Sybil could see exactly what Margaret meant.
The space was bustling with organized activity—girls moving purposefully between tasks, younger children gathered around older ones for lessons, everything running with the smooth efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
My machine. The system I created. But they’re running it without me.
“See?” Margaret beamed, gesturing toward the scene inside. “We’re doing everything just the way you taught us. You should be so proud!”
Proud. Yes, she was proud. Incredibly, overwhelmingly proud of how well they’d adapted, how capably they’d taken charge of their own lives.
So why did it feel like someone had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until it stopped beating?
“They look very happy,” she said quietly.
“Oh, we are!” Margaret squeezed her arm affectionately. “And it’s all thanks to you. Everything you taught us about responsibility and caring for each other—we’re using all of it. You gave us the tools to take care of ourselves, and now, we can.”
Without her. They could manage perfectly well without her.
“I should let you get on with your day,” Sybil said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure you have lessons to attend to.”
“Actually, I’m helping with the morning meals. We take turns now, so everyone learns proper domestic skills.” Margaret hesitated. “Would you like to come in? Everyone would be so excited to see you.”
Would they? Or would they be politely pleased while secretly thinking how unnecessary my visit was?
“Perhaps another time,” Sybil said gently. “I have some errands to finish in the village.”
Margaret nodded understandingly and hurried inside, leaving Sybil standing alone on the cobblestones, staring through the windows at the life that had once revolved around her and now seemed to manage quite well in her absence.
This is what you wanted, she told herself firmly. For them to be independent, capable, and able to thrive on their own. This is success, not failure.
But it felt like failure. It felt like the hollow ache of being suddenly, completely unnecessary.
Hugo found her in the morning room an hour later, staring out the window with unseeing eyes. She held an open book in her lap, but he could tell from her stillness that she hadn’t turned a page in some time.
The same chapter as yesterday. I thought as much.
He’d been working in his study when he’d seen her return from the village, her shoulders set with the kind of careful composure that usually meant she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.
His first instinct had been to give her privacy, to let her work through whatever was troubling her on her own.
The sensible thing. The practical thing. What any reasonable husband would do.
But something about the defeated slump of her shoulders had made it impossible for him to concentrate on estate business. He’d found himself listening for sounds from the morning room, wondering what had put that lost expression on her face.
You should go back to your work. She’s made it clear she values her independence.
Instead, he found himself pushing the door open.
“Good morning,” he said carefully.
She startled slightly, turning from the window with an almost guilty expression. “Oh. Hugo. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Deep in your reading, I see.” He nodded toward the book in her lap.
A flush crept up her neck. “Yes, well. It’s quite… absorbing.”
Quite absorbing. The same page she was on yesterday morning.
“I’m sure it is.” He moved closer, noting the shadows under her eyes and the way her fingers gripped the book’s edges too tightly. “How was your visit to the village?”
“Fine. Perfectly fine.” The words came out too quickly, too bright. “I stopped by the apothecary and ran into one of the girls from the orphanage. Everyone’s settling in beautifully at the Assembly rooms.”
Ah. That explains the look.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said quietly.
“Yes. Very glad.” She turned back to the window, her voice carefully neutral. “They’ve organized themselves into quite an efficient system. Teaching schedules, household duties, everything is running smoothly. Margaret was telling me how well they’ve all adapted.”
And how little they need you anymore.
Hugo studied her profile, taking in the forced brightness of her tone, the rigid set of her shoulders. He recognized the signs—he’d felt them himself often enough.
The particular ache that came with realizing you were no longer indispensable to the people you’d devoted your life to protecting.
You should leave her alone. Let her work through this herself.
Instead, he heard himself asking, “Do you have anything pressing to attend to today?”
She blinked at the unexpected question. “I beg your pardon?”
“Plans. Correspondence. Pressing social obligations.” He moved closer, close enough to see the confusion in her blue eyes. “Anything that can’t be postponed?”
“I… no, I don’t think so. Why?”
Because you look like you need a distraction from whatever’s eating at you. Because I can’t seem to walk away when you’re hurting.
“Get ready,” he said instead.
“Ready for what?”
“We’re going out.” He was already moving toward the door, driven by an impulse he didn’t entirely understand.
“Going where?” She set down her book and stood, following him with obvious bewilderment.
“You’ll see.”
“Hugo, if you don’t tell me where we’re going, how am I supposed to know what to wear?”
He paused at the door, turning back with a smile that felt surprisingly genuine. “And ruin the surprise?”
Her mouth opened as though to argue then closed again. For a moment, she simply stared at him, and he could see her weighing her options—demand an explanation, refuse to go, insist on maintaining the careful boundaries they’d established.
Come on, Sybil. Trust me on this once.
“Give me twenty minutes,” she said finally.
The village plant nursery was a modest establishment tucked behind the blacksmith’s shop, its glasshouses catching the morning sun like jeweled windows. Hugo had discovered it years ago during one of his rides around the estate though he’d never had reason to visit until now.