Chapter 31
Cecilia set the letter down, a complicated mixture of emotions stirring within her.
“Good news?” Helena asked.
“Dorothea is engaged. To a second son—not the grand match her mother wanted.” Cecilia smiled slightly. “She appears genuinely happy.”
“And Georgiana?”
“Also engaged. To a gentleman farmer, of all things.” Cecilia shook her head faintly. “A year ago, she would have found such a match unthinkable. Now she appears… content.”
“People change,” Helena said quietly. “Circumstances change them, whether they wish it or not.”
“Yes.” Cecilia smoothed the folded letter. “She hopes we will attend the wedding. I am uncertain how Sebastian will feel about it.”
“He will feel precisely as you wish him to feel. His Grace is accommodating in that respect.”
Cecilia laughed. “He is, is he not? I sometimes wonder whether I have acquired a husband who is entirely too agreeable.”
“There are worse fates.”
“Indeed.”
Helena settled into a chair opposite her, her expression sobering. “There is another matter I wished to raise, if you have time.”
“Of course.”
“Daniel and I have been discussing the future. What we wish our lives to be, now that everything has changed.” She hesitated.
“We would like to remain at Ashworth, if you will have us—Daniel as steward, and myself as… whatever capacity you might find useful. Our son was born here. It feels like home.”
Warmth spread through Cecilia. “There was never any question of your leaving. You are family—both of you. And little Thomas is the nearest thing to a nephew I am likely to have for some time.”
“You are very kind to say so.”
“I am truthful.” Cecilia reached across the table, taking Helena’s hand. “You helped make me who I am. Without your guidance, your support, your belief in me—I do not know if I would have had the courage to reach for what I wanted. Staying at Ashworth is the least I can offer in return.”
“I did very little—”
“You did everything. You treated me as though I mattered, long before I believed it myself.” Cecilia squeezed her hand. “That is not a small kindness. That is everything.”
They sat in companionable silence, two women who had journeyed from the margins to the centre, from obscurity to presence.
At last, Helena rose. “I should let you return to your correspondence. There are several other letters awaiting you—mostly invitations. You have become quite in demand this season.”
“Have I? I had not noticed.”
“You had not noticed because you have been hiding in the library. Again.” Helena smiled. “The Duchess of Ashworth is expected to make the occasional appearance.”
“The Duchess of Ashworth is expected to do many things,” Cecilia replied. “She cannot possibly manage them all.”
“She might manage the Midsummer Ball. People are expecting you.”
Cecilia sighed. “Very well.”
“That is all anyone asks.”
Helena departed, leaving Cecilia alone once more—with her letters, her thoughts, and the quiet certainty that she had come precisely where she was meant to be.
***
Sebastian found her there an hour later, still engaged with the correspondence.
“You have been industrious,” he observed, settling into a chair.
“Invitations,” she replied, setting aside her quill and rubbing at her tired eyes. “Apparently, we are expected to attend everything this season. When did we become so very popular?”
“When you became the most discussed duchess in a generation.” He smiled. “You should hear what is said of you.”
“I am not at all certain I wish to.”
“It is largely complimentary. They say you are intelligent, capable—quite unlike what they expected from a poor relation who married above her station.” His expression softened. “They say I am fortunate indeed.”
“And what do you say?”
“I say they are entirely correct.” He reached for her hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. A little overwhelmed. Slightly nauseated—though that may be the letters rather than the pregnancy.”
“We can decline them. Every one. Remain here, in our library, and disregard the world entirely.”
“Can we?” she asked lightly. “Is that permitted?”
“I am a duke. Everything is permitted.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “What do you want, Cecilia? Truly.”
She considered the question. Not so very long ago, she would have been unable to answer it at all. Wanting had once seemed perilous—an indulgence she had long since learned to deny herself.
Now, the answer came easily.
“I wish to attend Dorothea’s wedding,” she said. “She asked us to go, and I believe it would mean a great deal to her.”
“Then we shall attend.”
“And I wish to decline at least half of these invitations. I have neither the energy nor the inclination for a full season, and I refuse to pretend otherwise.”
“Consider them declined.”
“And I want—” She hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. “I want to write a book.”
Sebastian blinked. “A book?”
“On estate management. On the reforms we have undertaken here—the drainage improvements, tenant housing, crop rotation. I have been taking notes all year, and I think—” She broke off, shaking her head. “It is foolish. A duchess does not publish books on agriculture.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is not customary. Because people will find it odd. Because—”
“Because you have spent too many years being told what you cannot do,” he said gently, “and have forgotten what you can.” He met her gaze steadily.
“Write the book, Cecilia. I will help you find a publisher. And if society finds it strange that the Duchess of Ashworth holds informed opinions on crop rotation—then society must adjust.”
She stared at him, tears pricking her eyes. “You would truly support this?”
“I would support anything that gives you purpose and pleasure. That is rather the point of marrying you.” He rose, drawing her to her feet. “Come. You have been seated far too long. Let us walk in the gardens, and you may tell me more about this book.”
“Now?”
“Now. The correspondence will still be here when we return. The roses are at their peak, and I am told they are spectacular this year.”
She allowed him to lead her from the library, through corridors grown familiar, and out into sunlight that turned the gardens to gold.
He was not mistaken. The roses were magnificent.
They walked slowly among the paths, arm in arm, as Cecilia outlined her ideas.
Sebastian listened with careful attention, asking questions, offering thoughtful suggestions. He had always taken her intellect seriously—one of the many reasons she loved him. He never dismissed her interests as impractical or unseemly; he engaged with them as he would any worthy subject.
“You will require illustrations,” he said as they paused near a fountain. “Plans of the drainage, diagrams of the cottages. I can engage a draughtsman—”
“I had not yet thought so far ahead.”
“Of course not. You are still persuading yourself the book is possible.” He smiled. “But it is more than possible—it is useful. What we have accomplished here could benefit estates throughout England. Why should such knowledge remain confined?”
“Because knowledge is power,” she replied, “and those who possess it seldom wish to share.”
“A perceptive observation. But you are well placed to share it regardless.” He turned to her, serious now. “You have long believed your education wasted, have you not? That your learning served no purpose because the world refused you its use.”
“Yes.”
“This is your opportunity to contradict them. To show that a woman may contribute meaningfully—to thought, to progress, to practical reform.” He took her hands.
“Write the book, Cecilia. Not for my sake, but because it is who you are. You were never meant to pass your life in ballrooms alone. You were meant to think, to write, to effect change.”
Something loosened within her—some final remnant of the woman who had once believed she must not want too much.
She let it go.
“I will write it,” she said firmly. “I will publish it under my own name, and I will not apologise for having opinions on agriculture.”
“That is my duchess,” Sebastian said, smiling broadly. “Now—shall we continue? I believe there is a particularly fine stand of lavender awaiting your inspection.”
“Lavender has no relevance to estate reform.”
“No, but it smells agreeable, and I enjoy observing your appreciation of agreeable things.”
She laughed—a full, unguarded sound, one she had once nearly forgotten.
“You are incorrigible.”
“I am deeply in love. The distinction is a subtle one.”
They continued on, sunlight warm upon their faces, the future unfolding before them like a volume yet unread.
***
That evening, after dinner, Cecilia returned once more to the library.
It had become a habit—this quiet retreat while Sebastian attended to accounts or consulted with his steward. Here, among books and stillness, she allowed herself to simply be.
She stood at the window, watching the last light drain from the sky, her hand resting upon her stomach. In five months’ time, everything would change again. There would be a child—son or daughter—who would inherit all they had built.
She hoped, whatever the child’s sex, that they would inherit their father’s kindness. His integrity. His ability to see people as they truly were, rather than as society decreed they should be.
She hoped the child would possess Sebastian’s kindness, his integrity, his gift for seeing people as they truly were.
And she hoped—perhaps selfishly—that they would inherit her stubbornness and her hard-won refusal to accept limits.
“You are thinking rather loudly.”
Sebastian stood in the doorway, watching her with a softened expression.
“I am thinking of the future,” she said. “Of who our child may become.”
“A daunting prospect.”
“And a wonderful one.” She crossed to him, and he drew her into his arms. “Do you recall the first time you found me in a library?”
“I do. You were lovely.”
“I was embarrassed. I thought you were going to report me to Lady Marchmont for borrowing books without permission.”