“It’s not just that,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Oh,” Helena whispered.
“He decided this before we got married, without telling me. He knew he’d never want children, and he didn’t… didn’t think to ask me what I wanted.”
She couldn’t stop her words from spilling out; they tumbled out faster than she could process them.
Her voice rose with a mix of hurt and frustration that had now birthed an emotion she had never felt before. “What if I wanted children? What if… I do?” Her voice faded into a whisper.
She lowered her eyes to the table, unwilling to meet their stares.
Helena reached for Celine’s hand, her touch warm, her voice gentle. “That’s… unfair of him,” she said softly and gave her hand a firm shake. “He shouldn’t have kept you in the dark or decided without you. But, Celine… Perhaps he has a good reason for not telling you?”
Her words were careful, like she didn’t fully believe them either.
Dahlia shook her head. “There’s no excuse; he should have told you.” The usual mischief in her eyes was gone, replaced with a sternness that Celine rarely saw. “A marriage, even one like yours, deserves honesty.”
“But you’re here now, Celine,” Helena insisted. “What do you want to do now?”
Her question was direct, inviting Celine to face her ache, though she stopped short of naming it.
Celine’s heart clenched, her eyes glistening, but she kept her gaze on the teacups on the mahogany table in front of her.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely audible. She brushed a stray curl from her face with trembling fingers. “I thought I wanted safety—no love, no risk. But now… I feel like I’ve lost something I didn’t even know I wanted.”
Her admission was raw. No more vagueness.
The memory of the foal’s survival, Rhys’s care, stirred a longing she couldn’t name.
Helena squeezed her hand and gave her a warm smile, slightly tinged with concern. “You don’t have to know yet,” she said softly, though her eyes were filled with determination. “As long as you know you’re not alone, Celine.”
“Yes,” Dahlia affirmed. “We’re here, and we’ll help you as best as we can. Just don’t let his choice define yours. You’re stronger than you think.”
Celine nodded, her smile shaky as she glanced out the window, the gardens’ wild roses visible through the glass, a reminder of Rhys’s absence, his vow, her ache.
Her friends’ presence was a balm to her soul. Their chatter filled the quiet that had dominated the room, but her distraction persisted. Rhys lingered on her mind.
Seeing his certainty, could she ever convince him if she decided that she wanted children?
Chapter Eighteen
Celine leaned over a peony blossom and sniffed it, then she shook her head, her brow furrowed. “I am not quite in the mood for peony today, and I doubt Dahlia and Helena are either.”
She straightened and continued down the cobbled path. With Dahlia and Helena sleeping off the excitement of their journey, she’d slipped outside in search of something that had yet to have a name.
It was a perfect day to find scents for them. She ran her hand over one of the blooms, and a thorn pricked her finger. With a gasp, she pulled her hand away quickly as a memory flashed through her mind—of Rhys bandaging her hand.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered. “I’m here to make scents for Dahlia, not moon about like a fool.”
She was in the act of plucking a particularly fragrant rose blossom when she caught movement ahead, just beyond the moss-choked fountain.
Rhys stood with his back to her. He didn’t move, and he looked as if he’d been standing there for hours.
For a moment, she considered sneaking away, but the sight of him—so still, so alone—rooted her to the spot. She wondered if he knew she was there.
“If you’re going to run, try not to get caught in the brambles. I would hate for you to ruin your shawl.”
Celine froze. He hadn’t turned around, but he knew she was there.
