Cordelia allowed herself to be led indoors, their skirts brushing together as they passed through the cool stone hall toward the heart of the house. The kitchen was warm and fragrant because of a great copper pot which was simmering gently on the range.
The Dowager Duchess greeted the cook with affectionate familiarity before taking up a basket of herbs. “I was thinking,” she began, setting them on the broad wooden table, “cold roasted chicken with a lemon glaze, perhaps, and that cucumber salad you liked so well at luncheon last week. And for the sweet course, we could have syllabub served in little crystal glasses. What do you think, my dear?”
Cordelia smiled, the ease and kindness in the Dowager’s manner making her feel, just for a moment, as though she belonged here. “It sounds delightful,” she said honestly, reaching to help pluck sprigs of rosemary from their stems.
“Oh, we shall make it delightful,” the Dowager Duchess replied with a conspirator’s wink. “A wedding should always taste of joy.”
Cordelia’s hands stilled for a heartbeat at those words.Joy. She told herself again, and firmly so, that this was not a real wedding, that it was only a sensible arrangement, a shield against Vernon’s grasp. And yet, here in this warm kitchen with the scent of herbs clinging to her fingers and the Dowager’s cheerful voice beside her, she found herself enjoying every detail.
The choosing of dishes, the quiet laughter when the cook offered an over-generous spoonful of cream for tasting, the gentle bustle of planning something beautiful, it all wrapped around her like a comfort she had not known she wanted.
She was still smiling faintly when the Dowager pressed a small piece of sugared biscuit into her hand for energy and moved on to discussing the arrangement of the wedding table. Cordelia took a bite and allowed the sweetness to linger on her tongue.
She thought, against all reason, that if this were real, it might be something worth cherishing.
Chapter Twenty-One
Several mornings later, Cordelia sat quietly in the parlor, a book resting open on her lap. The past few days had been a whirlwind of decisions made and plans laid out, and now, the flurry of preparations was settling into a gentler rhythm.
The Dowager appeared in the doorway, her face bright with a secret delight. “Cordelia, my dear, come with me. I have a surprise for you.”
Cordelia glanced up, feeling her curiosity stirring. “A surprise? What kind of surprise?”
“Well, it would not be a very good surprise if I told you,” the Dowager replied with a twinkle. “Now come; no dawdling.”
Together, they crossed the hall and made their way to the west wing, which was a quieter part of the house, often left to shadows and dust. Cordelia followed, wondering all the while what awaited her.
The Dowager paused before a heavy door, its paint faded and edges worn. “This,” she said softly, “is where I keep things that belonged to my late husband. The things that remind me of him.”
Cordelia hesitated, uncertain what to say.
“In life,” the Dowager continued, “there are many ways to fight for happiness. Some wrestle with the past, some seek to forget it. But my happiness…” She smiled faintly, eyes shining. “It has always been Mason.”
The words settled between them, a quiet offering of trust and hope. Cordelia felt a warmth rise in her chest, touched by the strength beneath the softness.
The Dowager opened the door, revealing an old chamber cloaked in dust and silence. “Come,” she beckoned, “I want to share this with you.”
They stepped into the chamber together. It was dim, lit only by the soft morning light filtering through a high window, dust motes dancing in the beams. Cordelia’s eyes took in the scene which was a collection of treasures gathered with care and reverence. Sturdy trunks, their leather cracked and worn, were stacked neatly against the far wall. Delicate jewelry boxes, some open to reveal velvet-lined interiors, held glittering strands of pearls and intricate brooches that had surely once graced a lady’s gown.
Faded paintings leaned against the walls, faces gazing out with quiet dignity. An ornate writing desk bore letters tied with faded ribbons, their secrets long kept. There were silver candelabras, a finely carved clock whose hands had long ceased to move, and a collection of well-loved books bound in leather and gold leaf.
Cordelia moved slowly through the room, fingertips brushing lightly over a wooden box etched with floral designs. The treasures spoke of a life lived with care and passion yet shadowed by loss. She could almost hear the whispers of laughter and conversation that had once filled this space.
The Dowager watched her quietly, a gentle smile touching her lips. “Each of these holds a story,” she said softly. “Some happy, some painful, but all a part of the life I shared with him.”
Cordelia nodded, speechless. The room felt sacred, a sanctuary of memory and endurance. She felt honored to be invited into this hidden world, to share in the tenderness that still lingered here, despite everything.
The Dowager moved with a quiet purpose to an ancient trunk nestled in the corner of the chamber. The leather was cracked and softened by time, its brass clasps dull but sturdy. With gentle hands, she unlatched it and lifted the lid, revealing a treasure within.
Cordelia’s breath caught as the Dowager drew forth the most exquisite wedding gown she had ever seen. The fabric shimmered softly in the pale light, ivory silk embroidered with delicate silver threads that caught the eye like whispers ofmoonlight. The bodice was finely stitched, adorned with tiny pearls that seemed to dance with every fold. The skirt fell in graceful waves, light and flowing as if it might float on air.
“It belonged to me,” the Dowager told her in a voice that was tender yet steady. “I would like you to wear it for your wedding, to be happier in your marriage with Mason than I was with his father.”
A sudden rush of emotion overwhelmed Cordelia. She blinked back tears that pricked at her lashes, feeling the weight of the Dowager’s kindness and the sorrow beneath it. They began to roll freely down her cheeks.
The Dowager stepped closer, brushing a gentle hand against Cordelia’s arm. “No, no, no tears,” she said softly, “unless they are tears of joy.”
Cordelia lifted her gaze, meeting the warmth in the Dowager’s eyes. A small smile curved her lips. “They are.”
