Chapter Nine #3
“Regret does not repair the damage. The Duke’s attention has been diverted; Georgiana’s prospects compromised; our reputation subjected to comment.”
“What would you have me do?”
“I would have you gone.” The words were cold and final.
“You will return to Thornfield tomorrow. You will remain there until this foolishness is forgotten. You will not attend assemblies, you will not write to any acquaintance made here, you will not, in any manner, remind the world of your presence.”
“And if I refuse?”
The question startled all present—Cecilia not least of all. She had not meant to speak it; yet something within her, long dormant, refused obedience.
Lady Ashwood’s eyes widened. “Refuse? You dare—”
“I ask what follows if I decline to go quietly back to Thornfield and vanish,” Cecilia said, her voice remarkably steady.
“For five years, I have served this family. I have managed your household, educated your children, and performed every duty asked of me without complaint. I have earned better than banishment.”
“Earned?” Lady Ashwood gave a short, incredulous laugh. “You have earned nothing. You have received charity—charity we were under no obligation to extend. And this is your recompense? To set yourself in your cousin’s path?”
“I did not set myself anywhere. He sought me out.”
“Because you made it convenient. Because you placed yourself to be noticed. Because you—”
“Because I was interesting,” Cecilia said—the words fierce despite their softness. “Because I spoke of matters that engaged him—matters beyond fashion and trifles. Because I am not merely ornamental, and he perceived as much.”
Georgiana caught her breath. Lady Ashwood’s face blanched, then flushed with anger.
“How dare you imply—”
“I imply nothing,” Cecilia replied. “I state only that the Duke valued my conversation. That is neither crime nor scandal. It is—simply—human.”
Silence fell. Sir Horace shifted miserably; Georgiana stared as though seeing her cousin anew. Lady Ashwood’s fury gathered with lethal focus.
“You will go,” she said at last, in a low, controlled voice. “You will go to Thornfield, and you will be thankful I do not cast you off entirely. Is that understood?”
Cecilia met her gaze. “And if the Duke asks for me? What will you say?”
“He will not.”
“But if he should?”
Lady Ashwood’s smile was thin and cold. “I shall inform him that you were called home by family necessity—that you regret your departure and could not remain. And then I shall ensure that Georgiana is afforded every opportunity to display her own… agreeable qualities.”
There was nothing left to contest. Cecilia inclined her head in a small, deliberate curtsey and turned to go.
“Cecilia.”
She paused.
“You will not write to him. You will not seek to maintain this… acquaintance. Should I learn that you have attempted anything of the kind, the consequences will be severe. Do you comprehend me?”
“I understand, Aunt.”
“Good. You may withdraw.”
Cecilia did exactly that.
***
She was packing her few possessions when the note arrived.
A maid brought it—one of Lady Marchmont’s, not a member of the Ashwood household. She delivered it with wide eyes and a hurried curtsey, as though aware she carried contraband, and fled before Cecilia could question her.
The note was brief. The hand was unmistakable.
Meet me in the library. One hour. Please.
S.
Cecilia stared until the letters blurred. One hour. She was to leave in the morning—to vanish from this house, from this week, from him.
One hour could never suffice.
But it was all they had.
She finished packing, folded her hands to keep them steady, and waited. When the hour was nearly gone, she slipped from her room and made her way to the library.
He was waiting for her.
Sebastian stood by the window, the fading light behind him, his posture tight with feeling barely mastered. When she entered by the servants’ door, he turned at once—and the look on his face made her heart ache.
“You are leaving.”
Not a question. Of course he knew—word travelled fast in houses like this, and his mother would have ensured he was informed of the Ashwood family’s decision.
“Tomorrow morning. I am to return to Thornfield.”
“I will not allow it.”
“You cannot prevent it.” She closed the door behind her, leaning against it as though it could support her. “Lady Ashwood has made her decision. I am to go quietly, to be forgotten, to resume my invisible existence as though none of this had ever been.”
“And you submit to that?”
“What choice remains to me?” The words came out more bitter than she intended. “I have no fortune, no position, no family who would take my side against hers. I am dependent on her goodwill, and her goodwill has been exhausted.”
“You could come with me.”
The words fell between them—dangerous, astonishing. She felt them like a touch.
“I cannot.”
“Why not? I could secure your comfort—your safety—I could—”
“Make me your… paramour?” She saw him flinch and softened, though she did not withdraw the truth. “Is that truly what you intend to offer?”
“No.” His voice was low, rough with feeling. “That is not what I am offering. I would never—” He raked a hand through his hair, struggling for composure. “I ask you to come so that I may seek a path that does not wrong you—a way for this to be… honourable.”
“There is no such path.”
“You cannot be certain.”
“I know the world we inhabit.” She moved nearer despite herself. “Dukes do not marry obscure cousins without portion. Society does not forget—nor forgive—such departures from expectation. You would suffer for it. Your family would suffer. Your children would begin life beneath a shadow—”
“I do not care.”
“You must care.” Her voice trembled. “You were born to responsibilities no inclination may set aside.”
He caught her hands—warm, unsteady. “There is one responsibility that weighs with me above all others—to speak the truth.” His breath shook. “I love you. However little time we have had—however absurd it may seem—I love you, and I cannot pretend otherwise.”
The words struck like lightning—terrifying, glorious.
“Sebastian—”
“I know it is too soon; I know it is madness; I know every rule stands against us,” he went on, helpless in his honesty. “But I have never before been so wholly understood—or so entirely myself—as I am with you.”
“That is not love,” she whispered. “It is—”
“Call it what you will. Only do not cast it aside.”
He lifted her hands and pressed his lips to them. She did not realise she was crying until a tear fell onto his sleeve.
“If I stay,” she said, scarcely audible, “if I allow myself to hope—it will break me when it ends.”
“What if it does not end?”
“It always does,” she said gently. “The world is seldom kind to women who forget their place.”
“Then let us challenge the world.”
“You cannot reshape it.”
He gave a faint, rueful smile. “So they tell me. Yet I would attempt it—for us.”
His hand rose to her cheek—reverent, trembling. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch for one stolen heartbeat.
“I cannot answer you now,” she said at last. “Not while everything is so uncertain. I must think—must understand what I am willing to hazard. Give me time.”
“I will give you whatever I may.”
“Time, then. And your direction. So that I can write to you—when I have resolved what must be done.”
He nodded, though fear flickered in his eyes—fear that time might mean silence.
“My feelings will not alter,” he said. “Whether you write soon or late—”
She touched his lips with her fingers. “Do not say it again. Not yet. If there is a way—a true way—I will find it.”
“And if there is none?”
“Then we will both have to learn to live with that.”
She kissed him then—a brief, desperate kiss that held both promise and farewell. His arms closed around her; for one impossible moment, she let herself imagine belonging.
Then she drew back.
“Farewell, Sebastian.”
“Not farewell,” he said hoarsely. “Only—until we meet again.”
“Perhaps.”
She reached the servants’ door, paused, and looked back.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For seeing me.”
“You were always worth seeing,” he replied. “It was the world that lacked the eyes, not you the worth.”
She slipped away, leaving him alone in the fading light—and neither of them knew whether what lay ahead was beginning or ending.