“Yes?”
“Perhaps you might simply think about what I’ve said. Not act on it, just… consider it.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving him alone with his tea and the uncomfortable realization that his new wife understood his daughters in ways he was only beginning to grasp.
Think about it.As if the solution to eighteen years of fatherhood could be solved by simply thinking differently.
But even as he dismissed her words, Hugo found himself wondering if perhaps—just perhaps—there might be wisdom in what she’d said.
Understanding and compromise.
The words echoed in his mind as he returned to his ledgers, though he was too proud and too set in his ways to admit she might be right.
Chapter Seventeen
The small brass bell above the apothecary’s door chimed as Sybil stepped into the dim interior, the familiar scents of dried herbs and medicinal compounds filling her senses like a homecoming.
“Good morning, Mrs. Patterson,” she called to the elderly woman behind the counter. “I require cold cream—beeswax, almond oil, and rosewater if you have it.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Patterson beamed with the satisfaction of serving nobility. “Your hands been troubling you? The weather’s been uncommonly dry this week.”
My hands.Sybil glanced down at her gloved fingers, remembering the rough texture hidden beneath the fine leather. Years of orphanage work had left their mark—small scars from kitchen accidents, calluses from scrubbing floors, the permanent roughness that no amount of cream could entirely smooth away.
“Something like that,” she murmured, accepting the small jar. “Thank you.”
The bell chimed again as she stepped back into the morning sunlight and immediately collided with someone hurrying in the opposite direction.
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry, I wasn’t—” T^he young woman stopped mid-apology, her face lighting up with recognition. “Miss Sybil! That is—Your Grace! Forgive me, I forgot?—”
“Margaret!” Sybil caught the girl’s hands, delighted to see one of her former students. At eighteen, Margaret was one of the older girls at the orphanage, always eager to help with lessons and care for the younger children. “How wonderful to see you. And please, just Sybil when we’re alone.”
“I can’t do that, Your Grace,” Margaret said with a grin that belied her proper words. “But oh, I’m so glad I ran into you! I was just coming from the Assembly rooms, and everything is going so well. You must come see!”
The Assembly rooms.Where Hugo had moved all her girls.
“I was actually headed there myself,” Sybil said, falling into step beside Margaret as they walked through the village. “How are you all settling in?”
“Oh, beautifully!” Margaret’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “The dormitories are so spacious, and we each have our ownproper bed with real linens. And the schoolroom—it’s twice the size of our old one with proper desks and all the books we could want.”
All the books we could want.At the orphanage, they’d made do with whatever donated texts they could find, often missing pages or falling apart at the binding.
“That sounds wonderful,” Sybil managed, though something twisted in her chest at the girl’s obvious happiness.
“And the kitchen! Trudy—she’s the cook His Grace hired to help Marge—lets us help with the baking, and yesterday she taught Annie how to make proper bread. Not the hard stuff we used to have, but soft, white bread that actually tastes good.”
Soft, white bread.The kind Sybil had never been able to afford for them.
“I’m so pleased to hear it,” she said and meant it. Truly, she did. These girls deserved every comfort Hugo was providing them.
“The best part is how we’ve all stepped up,” Margaret continued, her voice warm with pride. “Sarah’s been teaching the younger girls their letters, and Emma—you remember Emma, the quiet one?—she’s been helping with the arithmetic. We’re all taking turns with the little ones, making sure they’re settled and not homesick.”
They’re managing without me.The thought hit Sybil like a physical blow.They’re not just surviving—they’re thriving.
“We’ve organized everything into a proper system,” Margaret went on, oblivious to Sybil’s internal turmoil. “Lessons in the morning, household tasks in the afternoon, and study time in the evenings. Beverly and Marge oversee everything, of course, but we older girls are doing most of the actual teaching and supervising.”
They’d reached the Assembly rooms now, and through the large windows, Sybil could see exactly what Margaret meant. The space was bustling with organized activity—girls moving purposefully between tasks, younger children gathered around older ones for lessons, everything running with the smooth efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
My machine. The system I created. But they’re running it without me.
