She stabbed the needle into the yarrow’s heart and left it there, trembling.
Her father watched her in silence, then reached across the narrow table and covered her hand with his own. His skin was papery, but his grip was fierce.
“I would like to see you happy,” he said quietly. “If that means letting Wylds go, so be it. But don’t let pride rob you of the chance to find out what could be salvaged.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He patted her hand, let go, and stood up. He paused at the door, as if searching for a final lesson to impart.
“I was never good at this,” he admitted. “But I know you, Celine. You are stronger than you think, and kinder than you let on. Don’t spend your life regretting the words you never said.”
He left, and Celine sat very still, feeling the warmth of his hand slowly bleed from her own. She stared at the garden until the sparrows flew off in different directions, defeated by their own endurance.
For a long time, the only sound was the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, counting out the seconds between decision and regret.
Celine lifted the embroidery hoop, found the thread snarled and useless, and let it fall to her lap.
She did not cry. She did not even close her eyes. She only sat, letting the silence draw itself tight around her, and wondered if this was how it began for her mother—if this was how the distance grew, fiber by fiber, until the only thing left was the memory of what might have been.
He was never going to love me.
Celine was lost in that thought when Mary entered, carrying a silver tray. There was a folded letter on it, sealed with blue wax.
Mary didn’t ask permission; she set the tray on the tea table. Then, with a glance at the empty cup, she poured Celine a fresh cup.
“It’s from His Grace,” she said, her eyes fixed on her work. “The boy at the gate says he’s been there since six.”
Celine stared at the letter. “Tell him I don’t want to read it.”
“Oh, but he had departed, Your Grace.” Mary’s mouth twitched. She set the teacup precisely in front of Celine, then gathered the tray and headed for the door. She turned and added, “Should I add this one to the rest?”
Celine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Mary left, and Celine sighed. A moment later, however, Mary returned with a stack of letters that she put on Celine’s lap.
“What is this?” Celine asked, startled.
“His Grace has written every day,” Mary said. “For each time he called and was refused.” She bent close, her voice soft. “I have an inkling that a certain stubborn duchess is denying herself what she truly wants.”
Celine blinked up at her.
Mary gave a small, conspiratorial smile. “You know I am often right.”
With that, she left.
Celine stared at the letters. Her fingers shook as she untied the knot and opened the first letter.
Celine,
I won’t waste words on apologies. I know I have done something to injure you, but I cannot fix it if you will not tell me what it is. I only wish to speak with you. Please, just five minutes. There are things I never explained about the night of the ball. About why I was late. It was not a slight, I swear it.
If you refuse me, I’ll come back tomorrow. I’m not above making a fool of myself in front of your father.
Rhys.
She reread it, her lips pressed tight, then set it aside and reached for the next.
Celine,
