Epilogue
One Year and Some Months Later
The library at Ashworth Hall was, in Cecilia’s considered opinion, the finest room in the entire estate.
It was not the largest—that distinction belonged to the great hall, with its soaring ceilings and ancient tapestries.
Nor was it the most elegant; the formal drawing room, with its gilded mirrors and silk-hung walls, could claim that honour.
But it was the place in which Cecilia felt most entirely herself, surrounded by shelves of books that represented centuries of thought, inquiry, and accumulated knowledge.
Over the past year, she had made changes.
Small ones, for the most part: a more comfortable chair by the window, improved lighting for the darker corners, a system of organisation that suited her own mind rather than the obscure logic that had governed the shelves before.
Sebastian had teased her about the rearrangement, claiming he could no longer locate anything at all—though she had more than once caught him smiling when he believed himself unobserved.
He was proud of her. She knew that now, in a way she had not quite trusted herself to believe at first. Proud of how she had taken hold of her new role and shaped it to fit her, rather than bending herself to meet its expectations. Proud of the duchess she had become.
It had not been easy. The early months had been a continual struggle against old instincts—the urge to defer, to diminish herself, to apologise for occupying space. Years of invisibility left their marks, and unlearning those habits required deliberate, daily effort.
But she had done it. Or was still doing it, at least—the work was never truly complete.
She no longer flinched when servants addressed her as Your Grace.
No longer felt like an imposter when she made decisions for the household or the estate.
No longer waited for someone to discover the error and send her back to her former, grey existence.
She belonged here. This was her home—her life, her place in the world.
And in approximately five months’ time, she would bring a new life into it.
Her hand drifted to her abdomen, still flat beneath the soft muslin of her morning dress.
It was far too early for outward signs, too early for anyone to know save Sebastian and the physician who had confirmed her suspicions.
Yet she had known—had known for weeks, even before the confirmation.
Her body had begun its quiet work, preparing itself for what lay ahead.
She was frightened. She was joyful. She was a complicated mingling of both, her emotions shifting with unsettling unpredictability.
Sebastian had wept when she told him. True tears, sliding unchecked down his face as he held her and murmured words she could scarcely make out. He had tried so carefully never to make her feel that her worth lay in producing an heir, and she had loved him all the more for that.
Now they would have one. And perhaps, in time, more. A family of their own, founded upon affection rather than obligation.
It was more than she had ever dared to hope for.
A knock at the library door broke her reverie.
“Come in,” she called, straightening in her chair.
Helena entered, looking remarkably well for a woman who had given birth only two months earlier. Marriage and motherhood suited her; she possessed a quiet radiance Cecilia had never before seen.
“The post has arrived,” Helena said, crossing the room. “There are several letters requiring your attention—and one I thought you might wish to see at once.”
She extended an envelope. Cecilia recognised the hand immediately.
“Dorothea,” she said, taking it. “It has been months since I last heard from her.”
“I thought you might prefer to read it privately. I can return later—”
“No, please stay.” Cecilia broke the seal and unfolded the letter, scanning it quickly.