"He's in love. That's different from changing." Helena's voice was patient, almost kind. "Infatuation makes us believe we can be anyone, become anything. But eventually, the infatuation fades. And when it does, we're left with who we actually are."
"You don't know him. Not really."
"I know the world he lives in. I know its rules; rules that have existed for centuries, that govern everything from who we marry to how we're buried." Helena's voice hardened. "Do you know what happens to a nobleman who marries beneath his station? Do you truly understand the consequences?"
"He's told me…"
"He has told you what he imagines, what he hopes. But he hasn't lived it, because it hasn't happened yet." Helena began to pace, her silk skirts rustling against the stone floor. "Let me paint you a picture, Miss Fletcher. A picture of the life you're contemplating."
"I don't need…"
"You do. Because I don't think you understand what you're asking for." Helena's eyes were fierce. "The wedding itself would be a scandal. Every paper in London would print the story; the Duke of Corvenwell, marrying a blacksmith's niece. They would find every unflattering detail of your life and publish it for entertainment. Your parents' deaths, your uncle's business, every customer who ever complained about a poorly made nail."
"I can endure gossip."
"Can you? What about your uncle? What happens to his business when the nobility decides he's not fit to serve? What happens to this forge when the manor stops ordering ironwork, and the local gentry follow suit because they don't want to offend a viscountess?"
Lydia felt her stomach clench. She hadn't thought about that. She hadn't considered that Helena's revenge might extend beyond her to Thomas, to the business that had supported them both for decades.
"You would do that?" she asked. "Destroy an innocent man's livelihood out of spite?"
"It's not spite. It's a consequence." Helena's voice was matter-of-fact. "In our world, actions have repercussions. Your uncle chose to support this......connection. He'll share in its costs."
"That's monstrous."
"That's reality. The reality of power and influence and the way society actually works." Helena stopped pacing and faced her directly. "But let's move past the immediate scandal. Let's talk about the years to come."
"I don't want to."
"You asked for honesty. I'm giving it to you." Helena's voice softened slightly. "The first year will be difficult but manageable. Frederick will be cut from guest lists, excluded from clubs,whispered about in drawing rooms. But he'll have you, and the novelty of rebellion will sustain him."
"It's not rebellion. It's love."
"The distinction is irrelevant to society. What matters is deviation from the norm. And deviation is punished." Helena continued her recitation with the air of someone describing a well-known historical event. "By the second year, the isolation will begin to wear. He'll miss the world he knew; not the superficiality of it, but the connections. The friendships he had with men of his class. The ability to accomplish things through networks of influence."
"He doesn't care about influence."
"He says he doesn't care. But he's never been without it. He doesn't know what it means to be truly powerless." Helena's voice was almost gentle now, almost pitying. "By the fifth year, he'll have children. Your children. And he'll watch them grow up in a world that refuses to accept them fully. Too noble for the village, too common for society. Belonging nowhere, welcome nowhere."
"You're describing a nightmare."
"I'm describing reality. A reality I've watched play out before." Helena's eyes were distant, remembering. "My grandfather married a woman of his own choice; a merchant's daughter, not as low as you but low enough. She was beautiful, clever, devoted to him. And he destroyed her."
"Destroyed her how?"
"By loving her. By bringing her into a world that would never accept her, that would always see her as an interloper. She spent thirty years trying to be good enough, proper enough, noble enough and she never was. She died exhausted, having worn herself out trying to be something she could never be."
Lydia felt the words land in her chest, heavy as stones.
"I'm not her," she said. "I wouldn't try to be something I'm not."
"Wouldn't you? Can you honestly tell me you'd be content to be the scandalous duchess, the constant source of whispers and smirks? That you wouldn't spend your life trying to prove yourself worthy of a position you never asked for?"
"I…" Lydia stopped. Because she didn't know. She had never considered what it would actually be like, day after day, year after year, to be the woman who didn't belong.
"You see?" Helena's voice was gentle now, without triumph. "You're beginning to understand."
"I understand that you're trying to frighten me."
