TWENTY-SIX #2
On the tenth day, the coachmen, at last, turned up the long lane to her uncle’s house.
The estate appeared just as she had left it six long years ago—three stories of honey-colored stone covered in climbing wisteria.
She had traveled almost the entire length of Great Britain, but home was the most welcome sight of all.
The butler had blinked in astonishment when Cecily stepped from the carriage.
And then her uncle and aunt were there—racing to the front door and wrapping Cecily in their arms. A tight embrace of love and acceptance.
“At last, my child,” her uncle murmured.
“You’ve come home,” said her aunt.
It required over an hour and several false starts peppered with tears before Cecily could stammer out the whole story.
She told them everything—beginning with Matthias’s arrival at Avoch, followed by Indira and the wonder of Cecily’s healing, and ending with the aborted wedding plans and Matthias’s promise to silence Drempton forever.
Uncle and Aunt made suitable noises of sorrow and sympathy, and rejoiced in her return to them.
By evening, Cecily was ensconced in her old bedroom, clothing hung in her same wardrobe, staring out at a view that hadn’t changed in all her years away—fields rolling across the downs to Wyre Forest in the distance.
The next day, Uncle put about that Cecily had come for an extended visit, as her year-long mourning for George had finally passed. Neighbors and acquaintances accepted the story.
And . . . that was that.
Aunt arranged invitations to dine with local society, introducing Cecily to one and all.
She considered it odd that, after six years of living as a housekeeper, it was surprisingly simple to don the correct clothing and say the correct things and act as if she hadn’t spent years working alongside those who now waited upon her.
Indira, at least, was something new. Every day, they galloped across fields and soared over fences.
Cecily even found the funds for a new habit, complete with a jaunty hat.
Each morning, Indira greeted her with a happy whicker, and then they were off, tearing across the countryside, wind tugging at Cecily’s hair.
In short, Cecily resumed the life she had led before her Season in London, before her marriage, before . . . everything. As if those years as a housekeeper had merely been a scandalous fever dream, and now she had reawakened. Just as Matthias had promised.
Only . . . Cecily herself was utterly altered.
Unlike that girl, she had known terror and pain and cruelty. She had experienced struggles and had fought for freedom every step along the way.
Who was the Cecily Moulton of now? Widow of George Miller and one-time housekeeper to Lord Matthias Kinsey? Lover of horses and survivor of brutality?
More to the point, what did the rest of her life hold when all her wanting was her own?
She did know one thing for sure—
Even though summer burst in abundance—and even though she talked with family and laughed with visitors and enjoyed every second of reclaiming a life from the shadow of fear—a vital part of her wept in sorrow.
How she missed Matthias!
She hated that he had been right to sever their relationship. If they had married, she—and perhaps Matthias, too—would always have wondered if she had chosen to marry him for himself or for the protection his name provided.
But now, far too late, she knew that it would have been for himself alone. And he would have known it, too, through her love for him.
She missed the rich timbre of his voice. His quiet observations as they rode across the braes. The rumble of his rare laughter. The worshipful intensity of his touch, how his hand would tremble as they kissed.
He did not write her. And she did not write him. It wasn’t outside of propriety for them to correspond—she was a widow, after all—but what was she to say? We chose the wrong path, and can we pretty please go back and take the other one?
That was the problem with life-altering decisions. One often didn’t realize which path was correct until after making the choice. When it came to men and matters of the heart, Cecily continually selected wrong.
Two weeks after her arrival home, an unexpected letter appeared from Lady Isla Balfour.
Her ladyship mentioned that she knew of Cecily’s history with Matthias and hoped that she and Cecily could be friends.
Cecily eagerly replied, and a correspondence began.
Lady Isla was kind and lively in her letters, confirming everything Matthias had claimed about his younger sister.
Unfortunately, speaking with Lady Isla only amplified Cecily’s grief over losing Matthias himself.
Her misery became so acute that she finally asked Lady Isla about him—Is Lord Matthias well?
How fare his horses? Cecily didn’t ask the question that most haunted her—did Matthias miss her as thoroughly as she missed him?
Lady Isla promptly replied, but her answers—Matthias is well. He is relinquishing his let on Avoch and hopes to purchase more horse stock for training along the Moray Coast.—only rendered Cecily more wretched.
True to Matthias’s word, not a peep had been heard from Lord Drempton since Cecily left Avoch. Whatever Grayburn had done . . . it had worked spectacularly.
The only clue as to Grayburn’s demands came on a cheery Tuesday, a month after Cecily’s safe arrival south. A carriage trundled up the drive carrying a trunk full of her possessions from the time of her marriage to George. Items that had to have come from Drempton’s keeping.
Cecily hovered as a groom and footman deposited the trunk in her bedchamber.
“Well,” Aunt said, “this is unexpected.”
“Indeed,” Cecily murmured.
She viewed the trunk warily. Opening it would, of a surety, release a whole host of memories. Most, she suspected, she would prefer to forget.
It took her nearly an entire day to bolster her courage and to open the trunk.
She waited until evening, when the summer sun hung low in the sky and candlelight flickered on the mantel.
She had a handkerchief at the ready, prepared for an onslaught of painful memories and the weeping that would follow.
But cracking the trunk, she was greeted by old friends—books, keepsakes, gowns, even her mother’s jewelry. Carefully, she lifted out each treasure, turning them over in her hands. Yes, she felt the pain held in these objects, but the dreadful memories didn’t assault her.
Instead, the entire experience felt like a wake—a funerary remembrance for the girl she had been, now being laid permanently to rest. Cecily was no longer the starry-eyed débutante or the cowering wife who had cherished these objects.
No, she was someone new. A woman who had risen from the ashes of that girl.
Catharsis arrived then . . . a wash of peace and calm and hope.
A tear splashed onto her cheek. Not one of sorrow, but of gratitude.
That she had surmounted the horrors of George and Drempton and, finally, relegated both men to her past. She knew she had Matthias to thank for her healing. Was there nothing the man couldn’t do?
Sniffling, she retrieved a sheet of foolscap.
With hasty strokes, she drew a fist—a rough facsimile of the one that had once haunted her nightmares.
Then, touching the paper to the candelabra on the mantel, she set it alight.
With steady eyes, she watched the flames crawl across the hand before tossing it into the empty hearth.
As she watched the paper burn to dust, Cecily realized she now had her answer.
Who was she?
She was a lady who had overcome a violent past. A lady who loved Lord Matthias Kinsey with all her heart and wished nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with him.