Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Amelia stood before Valerie’s bedroom door for a moment longer than necessary, her hand hovering near the polished brass handle. Amelia exhaled once, steadying herself, then knocked gently.
“Come in,” Valerie called from within, her voice slightly muffled by the rustle of fabric and the soft scrape of a hairbrush.
Amelia entered to find Valerie standing in front of the mirror in a half-fastened evening gown of deep emerald silk.
The color brought out the warmth in her complexion, and the delicate embroidery along the bodice shimmered faintly as she turned.
Trixie knelt behind her, pinning up the final sections of her hair.
“I hope I am not intruding,” Amelia said with a small smile, stepping further inside and folding her hands before her.
Valerie met her eyes in the mirror and smiled faintly. “You are never intruding. Not anymore.”
There was something softer in her tone than Amelia had heard weeks ago, something less guarded. It made her chest tighten unexpectedly.
“I wanted to see how you were faring after the shock of last night. I know it must be hard,” Amelia said, moving to stand beside her. “Dinner will be soon, and I know Lady Provie has an alarming ability to appear at precisely the worst possible moment, so I wanted to check on you in private.”
Valerie let out a short laugh. “Aunt is like a thunderstorm that learns to speak.”
Amelia chuckled despite herself. “A very accurate description.”
Trixie finished fastening the final pin and curtsied herself out of the room, leaving them in a brief pocket of privacy. Valerie turned fully now, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled only slightly, but Amelia noticed.
“You are anxious,” Amelia observed gently.
Valerie hesitated, then nodded once. “About everything.”
Amelia tilted her head. “Everything is rather a large subject.”
“Yes, it is a lot to understand. To have a mother return from the dead. I wish I could love as a daughter should, but she has wounded me too greatly. I fear the detachment has only grown stronger. She is bad for David and me. I do not wish harm on her, but I do not wish her to be in our lives,” Valerie said softly.
“I think I am beginning to understand it all.” She paused, eyes dropping for a moment.
“It takes great courage to admit such things and come to terms with them. You are wise beyond your years,” Amelia said.
“Thank you. And… I wanted to thank you for something else,” Valerie said.
Amelia blinked. “For what?”
“For not treating me like a child when I behaved like one,” Valerie replied, her voice steadier now. “For correcting me without making me feel small. For… not giving up on me.”
A silence settled between them, warm rather than awkward. Amelia felt something tighten pleasantly in her throat. She had not expected gratitude to be so difficult to receive.
“I did not always make it easy to be helped,” Valerie added with a faint, self-aware smile, “but I can see now how it has shaped me.”
Amelia stepped closer, her expression softening. “You did not need shaping, Valerie. Only space to become who you already were.”
Valerie stepped forward impulsively, wrapping her arms around Amelia in a quick, sincere embrace.
Amelia hesitated only a moment before returning it, her hands resting gently at Valerie’s back.
It felt surprisingly natural, as though something that had been uncertain between them had finally settled into place.
“Thank you,” Valerie murmured again, quieter now.
Amelia closed her eyes briefly. “I am proud of you,” she said simply. “More than you know.”
When they finally separated, Valerie straightened her posture again, though her expression was lighter. “Now go,” she said briskly, reclaiming her composure with admirable speed. “Before you start making me sentimental again. I have a reputation to maintain.”
Amelia smiled. “A terrifying one, I am sure.”
“Absolutely.” Valerie turned back toward the mirror. “And I intend to ruin it entirely by behaving properly at dinner.”
Amelia left the room with a soft laugh, the sound lingering behind her as she stepped into the corridor. For a moment, she simply stood there, letting the quiet settle around her. Then, almost without thinking, she made her way to her own room.
Inside, she sat at the small writing desk near the window and pulled out paper and ink.
The familiar motion steadied her. For a brief moment, she thought of Bethany, her sister’s quick wit, her relentless honesty, the way she always seemed to see straight through pretense.
A pang of homesickness struck unexpectedly sharply.
Dear Bethany, she began carefully.
She paused, pen hovering. What could she safely say? Too much truth would raise questions she could not answer. Too little would feel like a betrayal. In the end, she chose something between the two.
Things here have become rather strange, she wrote slowly. I am well, and I believe I will be able to visit with you sooner than expected if all goes as it should.
She hesitated again, then added nothing further. No mention of names. No mention of Anderton Manor. No mention of the storm of people and secrets she now stood within. Folding the letter carefully, she sealed it with wax and set it aside, feeling both lighter and more constrained at once.
When she changed into her evening gown for dinner, she moved almost automatically.
The fabric was modest but elegant, a soft shade that suited candlelight more than daylight.
As she fastened the final hook, she caught her reflection and paused.
She hardly recognized the woman staring back—composed, careful, and no longer quite as lost as she had been weeks before.
Dinner was still some time away, and she found herself drawn into the corridor instead of remaining still.
Anderton Manor stretched around her in polished wood and flickering light, its grand rooms quiet and comforting.
She walked slowly, her fingers brushing lightly along carved banisters, glancing into drawing rooms where chandeliers glittered like captured stars.
It struck her suddenly how far she had come.
From the day she had fled the Duke of Mansfield’s house in desperation, believing she had nowhere left to go, to standing here now among people who had become, against all expectation, something close to family.
Gabriel had brought her here, and in doing so, he had changed everything, though she was no longer certain whether she was more changed by him or by the life he had surrounded her with.
A faint unease followed the thought.
Change always carries a cost.
Her mind, as it so often did when left unguarded, drifted toward Gabriel.
The memory of his presence was never far these days: the quiet certainty of him, the way his gaze seemed to see more than she intended to show. And now, with Helen’s return still hanging like an unspoken threat over the house, she could not help imagining every possible ending.
What if he lost this battle? What if Helen succeeded in forcing her way back into their lives, into the children’s lives, into his?
A sharp, unwelcome image formed in her mind: Gabriel bound to Helen through obligation, reputation, or worse, blackmail. A marriage not built on choice but necessity. And her own place within this house was erased as if it had never existed.
The thought made her feel distinctly unwell.
By the time she reached the window overlooking the front drive, dusk had begun to settle over the estate. She stood there for several long moments, watching the empty gravel path stretch toward the gates.
No carriage. No horse. No sign of return.
She finally turned away and found Mrs. Jacobs in the corridor near the servants’ passage, arms neatly folded, expression as composed as ever.
“Mrs. Jacobs,” Amelia said, trying to keep her tone even. “Has there been any word from His Grace?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “None at all, Miss Shirley.”
Amelia nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Jacobs hesitated for the briefest moment, then added, “He will return when he is able. He always does.”
Amelia offered a small, appreciative smile, though it did little to settle the unease coiling in her chest.
“I hope you are right,” she murmured.
And as she turned back toward the staircase, she could not quite decide whether she meant it for Gabriel’s sake or for her own.
The village inn sat at the edge of the road like a tired old sentinel, its timber beams leaning slightly as though burdened by too many years of overheard secrets.
Lantern light spilled from its windows onto the muddy street, casting wavering gold across puddles disturbed by passing carts.
Inside, the main tavern room was warm in a way that felt almost deceptive, the heat from the hearth doing little to soften the tension that coiled in Gabriel’s chest as he stepped through the door.
Helen Warring stood immediately upon seeing him. She looked composed, almost refined, in a dark traveling dress that suggested she had planned this encounter carefully. Her smile was polite, measured, and entirely without warmth.
Gabriel forced his expression into something resembling cordiality and crossed the room, extending his arms in what might have passed for an embrace. He felt her stiffness as they touched and released her almost instantly.
Helen tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with relief. “You have come at last,” she said, her voice smooth as polished glass. “I was beginning to wonder whether you would show at all, Gabriel.”
Gabriel drew back just enough to look at her properly, his tone calm, almost gentle. “I must confess,” he replied, “it took a very long time to think things over. But afterward, I realized how right you are.”
Helen’s brows lifted faintly as she lowered herself into the chair he pulled out for her. “Oh?” she said, clearly pleased by his tone.