Chapter Seventeen
The journey from Fairholme to Ashworth Hall seemed less a distance travelled than a crossing from one life into another.
Cecilia spent the hours watching the landscape change through the carriage window—the gentle hills of Lady Marchmont’s estate giving way to broader valleys, then to rolling parkland that seemed to stretch forever in every direction.
The Dowager dozed beside her, untroubled by the rocking of the carriage, while Helena sat opposite, quietly reviewing correspondence.
Sebastian rode alongside on horseback, occasionally drawing close enough to the window for Cecilia to see his smile. Each glimpse of him sent a flutter through her chest—part disbelief, part joy, part terror at the magnitude of what she had agreed to.
She was going to marry him. In three weeks, she would be his wife. The Duchess of Ashworth.
The title still felt like a costume she was trying on rather than an identity she would wear for the rest of her life.
“We are nearly there,” Helena said, glancing out the window. “You may see the gates ahead.”
Cecilia leaned forward, her breath catching as Ashworth Hall came into view.
Sebastian had said the house was large. He had undersold it considerably.
The building rose from the landscape like something out of a dream—or a fairy tale, though one far grander than anything she had imagined as a child.
The central structure was clearly ancient, all grey stone and Gothic arches, but wings had been added over the centuries in differing styles, creating a sprawling facade that seemed to go on forever.
Towers punctuated the roofline. Windows glittered in the afternoon sun.
Gardens unfurled before the house in elaborate, formal patterns, and beyond them, the parkland rolled toward distant woods.
“Goodness gracious,” Cecilia breathed.
The Dowager stirred, opening her eyes. “Ah. We have arrived.” She glanced at Cecilia’s expression and allowed herself a small smile. “It is rather overwhelming at first. One grows accustomed.”
“I am not certain I ever shall.”
“You will. It is a house, Miss Ashwood—larger than most, older than most, but a house nonetheless. It requires the same things any house requires: management, attention, care. You are more than equal to the task.”
The carriage rolled through the gates and up the long drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. Servants appeared as they approached—footmen to open the doors, maids to curtsey, a butler whose dignity might have rivalled any duke’s.
Sebastian dismounted and reached the carriage door before the footman, offering his hand to help Cecilia descend.
“Welcome to Ashworth Hall,” he said, and there was something in his voice—pride, certainly, but also a thread of vulnerability. He wanted her to love this place. He feared she might not.
“It is beautiful,” she said—and meant it.
“Wait until you see the inside. And the gardens. And the library—” He stopped himself, laughing softly. “I am getting ahead of myself. Let me show you to your rooms first. You must be exhausted from the journey.”
“I want to see everything.”
“And you shall. But perhaps not all in one afternoon.” He offered his arm. “Come. Allow me to introduce you to your new home.”
***
The interior of Ashworth Hall was, if anything, more impressive than the exterior.
Sebastian led her through a grand entrance hall dominated by a sweeping staircase and what appeared to be centuries of ancestral portraits.
The faces that looked down at her were uniformly severe—men in armour, men in wigs, men in the elaborate dress of various eras—and Cecilia felt acutely aware that she was being judged by the dead as well as the living.
“You will grow used to them,” Sebastian said, following her gaze. “I scarcely notice them now.”
“They look disapproving.”
“They always look disapproving. I think it was a requirement for portrait sittings. ‘Hold still and look as though someone has just insulted your horse.’”
He smiled at her surprised laugh. “Come. The family wing is this way.”
They walked through corridors lined with more paintings, past rooms that seemed to multiply the further they went.
Drawing rooms, sitting rooms, a music room with a magnificent pianoforte, a breakfast room bathed in morning light, a formal dining room that might have seated fifty with room to spare.
“The library is through there,” Sebastian said, nodding toward a pair of double doors. “I am saving it for last. I wish to see your face when you enter.”
“You are teasing me.”
“I am cultivating anticipation. There is a distinction.”
They climbed the grand staircase to the family wing, where the corridors grew narrower but no less elegant. Sebastian stopped before a door near the end of the hall.
“These will be your rooms until the wedding,” he said. “Afterwards, you will move to the duchess’s suite, which adjoins mine.” A faint flush rose in his cheeks. “But—that may be discussed later.”
He opened the door, and Cecilia stepped into a room that stole her breath.
It was not the grandeur that struck her—though the room was certainly grand, with high ceilings, tall windows, and furniture worth more than everything she had ever owned.
It was the warmth. A fire burned in the grate, filling the space with soft, flickering light.
Fresh flowers stood in a vase upon the dressing table.
The bed was made up in gentle colours, inviting rather than imposing.
Someone had wished her to feel welcome. Someone had made this room ready for her.
“Do you like it?” Sebastian asked, genuine anxiety in his voice.
“I love it.” She turned to him, tears pricking her eyes. “Sebastian, it is perfect.”
“There is a sitting room through that door, and a dressing room beyond. Helena will be close at hand if you require anything, and the servants have been instructed to attend to your wishes.” He paused.
“I want you to be comfortable here. I want this to feel like your home—not merely a place where you are staying.”
“It already feels more like home than Thornfield has felt in years.”
“Good.” He took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “Rest now. Recover from the journey. Tonight—after dinner—I will show you the library.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” His smile warmed. “Welcome home, Cecilia.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Cecilia stood in the centre of her beautiful room, surrounded by light and colour and the unmistakable marks of care, and allowed herself—at last—to believe that this was real.
She was home.
***
The first week at Ashworth passed in a blur of new experiences.
Cecilia learned the layout of the house—or began to learn it, at least. The place was so vast that she still lost her way from time to time, taking a wrong turning and finding herself in unfamiliar corridors.
The servants were patient with her confusion, gently redirecting her whenever she wandered astray.
She met the housekeeper, Mrs Bennett, a formidable woman who ruled the household with quiet, military precision.
She met the cook, the head gardener, the stable-master, the scores of maids and footmen and skilled staff who kept Ashworth functioning.
Each introduction came with a curtsey or a bow, a murmured “Miss Ashwood” that would, before long, become “Your Grace.”
It was overwhelming. It was wonderful. It was terrifying.
“You are doing well,” the Dowager observed on the fourth day, when she found Cecilia reviewing the household accounts with Mrs Bennett. “Better than I expected, frankly.”
“I managed accounts at Thornfield for years. The scale is different, but the principles are the same.”
“The scale is considerably different. Ashworth’s household budget could run a small country.” The Dowager settled into a nearby chair, watching as Cecilia made notes in the ledger. “But you are correct that the principles remain constant. Income, expenditure, balance. It is simply mathematics.”
“Mathematics I understand. It is the rest of it that confuses me.”
“The rest of it?”
Cecilia set down her quill, searching for the words. “The servants defer to me. They ask my opinion, wait upon my decisions. But I do not yet know what decisions to make. I do not know how things are done here—what traditions exist, what expectations I am meant to fulfil.”
“You are not meant to know. You have been here four days.” The Dowager’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “No one anticipates a perfect duchess overnight. There will be time to learn—years, in fact. For the present, observe. Ask questions. Make mistakes, and learn from them.”
“What if I make mistakes that cannot be undone?”
“Then you will manage the consequences, as one does with any mistake.” The Dowager leaned forward slightly.
“My dear. You have survived five years of being dismissed and overlooked, and treated as though you did not matter. That required intelligence, resilience, and an extraordinary capacity for adaptation. Those same qualities will serve you here.”
“But this is so different—”
“You know how to manage a household. You know how to navigate difficult personalities. You know how to solve problems and make decisions and carry on when things do not go as planned.” The Dowager paused.
“The only thing you do not know is how to believe in yourself. And that, I am afraid, is something no one can teach you. You must learn it on your own.”
Cecilia absorbed this in silence. The Dowager was right—she knew she was capable, had proved it countless times over the past five years. But knowing and believing were different things, and the latter remained stubbornly out of reach.
“I am trying,” she said at last.
“I know you are. And you are succeeding, whether you perceive it or not.” The Dowager rose, preparing to depart. “Continue with the accounts. Mrs Bennett speaks highly of your organisational abilities.”
“She does?”
“She told me this morning that you had identified three areas of unnecessary expenditure and proposed sensible corrections. She was impressed—and Mrs Bennett is not easily impressed.”
A warm glow of pride stirred in Cecilia’s chest. It was a small thing, perhaps—discovering inefficiencies in a household budget—but it was something she had done well. Something that had been valued.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
The Dowager’s lips twitched—almost a smile. “Carry on, Miss Ashwood. You are doing better than you know.”