He inhaled deeply, for he had a birthday gift of his own to give, and he needed to prepare it.
Chapter Seventeen
Cordelia stood in the center of her room, surrounded by packed trunks and the hollow silence that always came before a goodbye.
It was her birthday. It was also her freedom.
The word echoed strangely in her chest, as though it should have rung like bells but instead sounded more like the aching hush of a church after the hymns had stopped.
She turned toward the looking glass, her fingers fumbling with a ribbon that wouldn’t tie quite right in her hair. The mirror greeted her with the usual uncertainties: pale skin, wide blue eyes, black hair that refused to be tamed this early in the morning… or ever.
She tilted her head. No matter the angle, she still looked like herself, a little too much of herself. She was the same woman who once declared she would never wed, never tie her life to aman, never bend to a system that didn’t care for the shape of her heart or the swell of her dreams.
And yet, here she stood, with her eyes rimmed red from weeping at the thought of leaving behind a house that had come to feel like home and a man who never asked her to stay.
Cordelia sniffled and dragged the back of her sleeve across her nose before remembering she was no longer six. She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes instead though the tears were too quick for the linen to catch them all.
“Foolish,” she muttered to her reflection, half-heartedly scolding. “You wanted this. You planned for this. You said you’d dance in the street the day you were free.”
She didn’t feel much like dancing now.
She looked around her room one last time. There was the slightly crooked stack of novels beside her bed and the pillow she’d accidentally torn open in a midnight fit of re-fluffing. To her left was a half-finished sketch pinned to the wall—a tree she’d seen during a walk with Isabelle, the leaves slightly smudged because she’d leaned her elbow into the charcoal by mistake.
She thought of Mason, of his maddening half-smiles and biting remarks and the rare, quiet look in his eyes that made her heart forget how to keep a steady rhythm. He had protected her. He had stared at her like she was something rare and utterly bewildering, like he didn’t know whether to lock her away or set her free.
But he never asked her to stay, and so, she wouldn’t.
Cordelia drew in a sharp breath, blinked furiously, and said aloud to herself, “Very well, Miss Brookes. Chin up. Shoulders square. No falling down the stairs on your last day.”
With that, she spun on her heel, caught the hem of her gown on the edge of her trunk, stumbled, caught herself, and huffed indignantly as she steadied her skirts.
“Perfectly graceful,” she mumbled and marched out the door with as much dignity as a woman could muster when her heart was splitting into three different pieces and leaking out through her eyes.
The hall was quiet as she made her way to the dining room. Cordelia paused just outside the dining room door, pressed a hand to her chest, and whispered softly to herself, “Please don’t let me cry over toast. That would be so terribly embarrassing.”
She stepped into the dining room, bracing herself for the usual quiet clink of teacups and clatter of silverware.
Instead, she heard voices in unison.
“Surprise! Happy birthday!”
The sound of joyful shouting hit her like a gust of summer wind. Her eyes widened as her gaze swept across the room. Everyone was there.
Hazel waved a fork triumphantly from her seat. Matilda gave her a small, bright smile. Isabelle was practically bouncing in place, holding a bundle of wildflowers in her arms. Even the cook’s two daughters were peeking from behind a sideboard, beaming with pride. And there, at the head of the table, stood the Dowager Duchess, regal as ever, lifting a teacup as though toasting her very soul.
And Mason. Always Mason.
The long table had been transformed. Her favorite dish, rosemary pheasant with golden potatoes, sat steaming in its silver dish alongside little pastries shaped like woodland animals, likely made by very eager small hands. In the center, on a raised cake stand, sat the most peculiar cake she had ever seen.
It was slightly lopsided. The frosting had melted a little on one side. And on top of it were three blobby, vaguely rabbit-shaped creatures made of pink and white icing. Their ears sagged. One had a frosting eye falling off the side of its face. They were… perfect.
Cordelia pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Oh my…”
Her heart cracked clean in half and flooded her with warmth. She was very much in danger of sobbing in front of a room full of people and rabbits made of sugar.
“You all…” she began, but her voice caught. She blinked furiously and forced the corners of her mouth upward. “You all are ridiculous, and I love you.”
