Chapter Nine #2
“She said my aunt means to send me home. Soon. And that she may dismiss me without a reference.”
The words struck like a blow. Without a reference. He understood precisely what that meant—the sentence it would pronounce upon her future.
“She cannot—”
“She can. And she will.” At last, Cecilia looked at him; her eyes were dry, but desolate. “I have nothing, Sebastian. No portion, no position, no family who would receive me. The Ashwoods are all that remains. If they turn me out—”
“I would not permit it.”
“And how would you prevent it? By marrying me?” A brittle sound escaped her—something too sharp to be laughter.
“That would require a proposal; a proposal would require explanation; explanation would require—” She shook her head.
“It would require a miracle. And I ceased to rely upon miracles a very long time ago.”
He wanted to protest—to swear that he would find a way, that obstacles might be overcome—but he did not trust the promise, and she would not trust it either.
“What is it you wish to do?” he asked instead.
“What I wish is of no consequence.”
“It is of consequence to me.”
She looked at him then—truly looked—and he saw, as plainly as if she had spoken it, all that she could not say: the long-buried longing, the fragile hope, the feeling she dared not name.
“I wish to stay,” she whispered. “I wish to stay—to see you—to—” Her voice faltered. “I wish for things I cannot possess. And to wish for them will be my undoing.”
He sat beside her upon the fallen stone, near enough that their shoulders almost touched, and together they faced the broken chapel, open to the sky.
“Then we are undone together,” he said quietly. “For I wish the same—and I have not learned how to cease.”
They sat in silence—among ancient stones and impossible circumstance—and the words they did not speak hovered between them.
They did not need to be spoken.
***
When they emerged from the ruins, Georgiana was waiting.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, her fair hair bright against the autumn hues, her expression composed to indifference.
Behind her, the picnic continued—laughter and talk drifting upon the breeze—but she had removed herself from it, placing herself where she might intercept them before they returned.
“Your Grace,” she said, perfectly civil. “My mother has been enquiring for you.”
Sebastian stiffened; Cecilia felt the gathering tension beside her—the readiness for another confrontation. She touched his arm lightly, a warning.
“Go,” she said under her breath. “Before worse is made of this.”
“I will not leave you to face—”
“You must.” She met his eyes, willing him to understand. “Pray—go. For both our sakes.”
He held her gaze a moment longer; frustration and concern battled in his expression. Then he inclined his head, turned, and walked toward the clearing—passing Georgiana without a word.
The cousins remained alone among the ruins.
“That was quite affecting,” Georgiana said. “The manner in which he looked at you. The touch upon his arm. Very affecting indeed.”
“Georgiana—”
“Oh, spare me explanations. I am not a fool, whatever you may suppose.” She stepped nearer; her blue eyes were bright and hard. “I know what I witnessed—and so will others, if you do not conduct yourself with greater prudence.”
“I am trying to be prudent.”
“Are you? It appears to me that you have contrived to meet the Duke privately, encouraged his interest, placed yourself—”
“I have done no such thing.”
“Have you not?” Her careful composure fractured, a hint of anger showing beneath. “Then why does he look at you as he does? Why did he defend you before everyone? Why did he follow you here—to this conveniently secluded corner?”
“I did not ask him to follow me. I did not ask for any of this.”
“And yet you have it—his attention, his protection, his—” She stopped, mastered herself. “It matters little how it came about. What matters is what is to follow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that my mother is resolved upon action. She believes you have been undermining my prospects. She believes you have—forgotten your place.”
“My place.” The familiar bitterness stirred—long suppressed, now dangerously near the surface.
“And what is my place, Georgiana? To linger at the edges of rooms with your shawl on my arm? To dress your hair, press your gowns, and be grateful for the privilege? To hope for nothing, to expect nothing, to be nothing?”
Georgiana hesitated, then lifted her chin. Her voice, when it came, was unyielding.
“That is the way of things,” she said. “In return, you have a roof, respectability, security. It is more than many in your situation may claim.”
“It is not enough.”
The words escaped before Cecilia could call them back. Georgiana’s expression altered—astonishment, then anger, then something perilously like fear.
“What did you say?”
“I said it is not enough.” Cecilia’s hands trembled; years of restraint frayed at last. “I am not a servant, Georgiana. I am your cousin. I was brought up as a lady, educated for a life that vanished because of a quirk of law—and I have spent five years making myself grateful for scraps where I once might have expected bread.”
“You are ungrateful—”
“I am tired,” Cecilia said—low, steady. “Tired of invisibility; tired of service disguised as benevolence; tired of performing gratitude for circumstances barely tolerable. I did not pursue the Duke. I did not invite his regard. But I did not shrink from it either—because, for the first time in years, someone looked at me as though I were still worth seeing. Can you truly not comprehend what that was to me?”
Georgiana was silent, her expression unreadable.
“Go back to the picnic,” Cecilia said at last. “Play your part, secure your future. I will not interfere. But do not ask me to pretend that I feel nothing. Do not ask me to be grateful for being unseen.”
She turned and walked away, deeper into the ruins where no one would seek her. She required solitude—time to rebuild the defences that had guarded her for so long.
To accept that the brief, impossible dream must end—whatever she might wish.
Yet even as she retreated, she knew something had altered beyond repair. The careful balance of the past five years was shattered—and she could not tell whether it might ever be restored.
Sebastian had seen to that.
And now she must face what followed.
***
The remainder of the picnic passed in a blur.
Cecilia remained hidden among the ruins until the sounds of departure reached her—carriages being loaded, voices calling, servants gathering baskets and shawls. She emerged only when she was certain she might slip unnoticed to the servants’ wagon.
She did not look for Sebastian. She did not allow herself to search the crowd for his tall figure, his dark hair, his grey eyes that saw too much. Looking would only make the parting harder.
The ride back to Fairholme was silent. Cecilia sat among the hampers and folded rugs, her grey gown dusted from stone and ivy, her mind deliberately stilled. Thinking would come later. For the present, she needed only to endure.
At the house, she went directly to her small room on the upper floor.
She did not wait for Georgiana, did not present herself for duty, did not perform any of the tasks that had shaped her existence these five years.
Let them find another pair of hands. Let them discover how much of the household has rested upon my unobtrusive labour.
She sat upon the narrow bed and fixed her gaze upon the wall, willing herself to feel nothing.
It was a futile effort.
The tears came at last—quiet tears, disciplined even in grief. She wept for the life she had lost, for the fragile hope she had permitted herself, for the man she could not have and the future that could never be hers.
When the tears were spent and no more would come, she sat dry-eyed, emptied—and began to think.
To plan.
***
Lady Ashwood summoned her the following morning.
Cecilia had expected it—if not sooner. She had spent the night steeling herself for whatever judgment her aunt intended to pronounce. She dressed in her neatest grey gown, arranged her hair with careful precision, and presented herself at the door with all the composure she could command.
“Come in.”
Lady Ashwood sat at the writing desk, back very straight, expression severe. Georgiana occupied a nearby chair, her face schooled into neutrality; Uncle Horace stood by the window, profoundly ill-at-ease.
“Cecilia.” Lady Ashwood did not invite her to sit. “I trust you know why you are here.”
“I believe so, Aunt.”
“The Duke of Ashworth.” The name emerged like a charge laid before a court. “You have contrived to meet him privately. You have encouraged his attentions.”
“I have not pursued anyone. Nor have I encouraged—”
“Do not attempt to mislead me.” Her aunt’s voice sharpened. “You were seen together in the library. You were seen walking in the gardens. You were seen emerging together from a secluded corner of the ruins after a length of time. The evidence admits of no alternative interpretation.”
Cecilia remained silent. Any defence would only inflame the matter.
“Have you the slightest notion of what you have done?” Lady Ashwood continued.
“Of the embarrassment you have brought upon this family? Georgiana was to secure the Duke’s notice—and instead—” Her composure wavered, then hardened.
“Instead, you have made us objects of derision. The poor relation scheming to rise above her station. The dependent girl setting her cap at a duke.”
“I was not scheming. I was not setting my cap at anyone.”
“Then what, pray, were you about?”
I was being seen, she thought—but she did not say it.
“I erred,” she said instead. “I ought not to have continued those conversations. I regret any embarrassment I have caused.”
Lady Ashwood studied her for a long moment.