"I never read the letter," Helena said finally. "I knew it existed. Catherine told me she had written something in those last lucid hours. But I couldn't bring myself to find it. I was too afraid of what it might say."
"It said to choose love," Frederick said. "It said that giving up the man she loved was the worst mistake of her life. It said…" His voice cracked. "It said that she wished someone had foughtfor her. That she wished someone had believed her happiness was worth more than propriety."
"And no one did. Including me." Helena's shoulders sagged. "I was nineteen years old. I thought I understood the world. I thought I was protecting her from a terrible mistake."
"You were protecting yourself," Lydia said. "From scandal. From shame. From having to explain to society why your sister had run off with a penniless scholar."
"Yes." The admission seemed to cost Helena something. "Yes, I was. I was afraid of what people would say. Afraid of being the sister of the woman who had thrown everything away for love."
"And instead, you became the sister of the woman who died in misery. Wasn't that worse?"
Helena closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there were tears on her cheeks.
"It was worse. It was so much worse. And I've spent all those years pretending it wasn't." She took a deep breath, visibly gathering herself. "I came here to stop you. To remind you of your duty. To save you from a choice that will haunt you for the rest of your life."
"I know."
"I was wrong." The words seemed to cost her something. "I've been wrong for forty years. I told myself that I helped Catherine make the right choice. I told myself that duty mattered more than happiness. I told myself…" Her voice broke. "I told myself so many things, to keep from admitting that I destroyed my sister's life."
"Helena…"
"Let me finish." She took a deep breath, gathering herself. "I came to this village to stop you from making a mistake. But you're not making a mistake. I am. I have been, for longer than I care to admit."
She looked at Lydia—really looked at her, for the first time without contempt or calculation.
"You love him."
"More than anything."
"And you were willing to let him go because you thought it was best for him. Even though it was destroying you."
"Yes."
"That's..." Helena shook her head. "That's more than I ever did for Catherine. I told myself I was saving her, but I was just afraid. Afraid of what people would say. Afraid of scandal and shame and all the petty concerns that seem so important until you're standing at your sister's grave wishing you'd done everything differently."
She turned toFrederick.
"I can't undo what I did to your mother. I can't give her back the life she should have had. But I can…" She hesitated, as if the words were physically difficult to speak. "I can stop doing the same thing to you."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." Helena straightened her spine, visibly composing herself. "I'm saying that you have my blessing. For whatever that's worth. I'm saying that I won't fight you. I won't try to destroy your reputation or ruin your bride's family. I won't spend the rest of my days trying to convince everyone that you've made a terrible mistake."
Frederick stared at her. "You're serious."
"I'm tired, Frederick. I am tired of fighting, tired of pretending that I know what's best for everyone." Helena's voice was weary but sincere. "And tired of living with the guilt of what I did to Catherine. If letting you be happy is the only way I can make amends to her, then that is what I shall do."
The church was utterly silent. No one seemed to know how to react to this sudden reversal—the fearsome viscountess, surrendering in public.
"I don't know if I can forgive you," Frederick said finally. "For what you did to my mother. For what you tried to do to us."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm not sure I deserve it." Helena pulled her gloves back on, armour restored. "I'm simply telling you that the war is over. You have won. Both of you."
She turned to leave, then paused.
"For what it's worth," she said, "I think Catherine would have liked her. Your mother, I mean. She always had a weakness for people who refused to surrender."
She walked out of the church without looking back.
