“Mrs Patterson is entirely capable of following the instructions I shall leave. The household will survive a fortnight without your constant oversight, Cecilia, however much you may prefer to believe otherwise.”
The words stung more than they should have. Cecilia had not claimed to be indispensable; she had merely pointed out that she was usually told she was necessary for exactly this kind of management. The contradiction was apparently invisible to Lady Ashwood.
“Well?” Lady Ashwood’s impatience sharpened. “Have you any further objections, or may we consider the matter settled?”
Cecilia could think of a dozen objections—but none that could be spoken aloud. That she would be humiliated, attending a grand house party as a servant in all but name. That watching Georgiana pursue a duke while she pressed ribbons and arranged hairpins would be a quiet, exquisite torture. That invisibility was bearable here only because she did not have to witness the life she had lost—but to be invisible amidst splendour she could not touch would be far worse.
None of that could be said. None of it would change anything.
“I have no objections, Aunt. I am grateful for the opportunity to be of service.”
It was the expected response. Lady Ashwood accepted it with a satisfied nod, already leaping ahead to her next arrangement.
“Excellent. You will begin packing immediately—your things and Georgiana’s as well. We must be prepared to depart in three days. Horace, you must write to Lady Marchmont to explain my delay. Cecilia can draft the letter; your handwriting is—”
“Yes, yes, I know. My handwriting.”
Cecilia slipped from the room while her aunt and uncle continued their planning, her thoughts circling in bewildering, impossible patterns.
She was going to Kent. To a house party. Where a duke would be in attendance, along with dozens of people belonging to the world she had once belonged to.
She would be invisible, of course. Working. Serving. Reminding herself at every moment that she was not a guest—that she had no right to pleasure—that her sole purpose was to secure Georgiana’s success, not to dream of any future of her own.
But still… she was going.
Beneath the practical concerns, beneath the armour of caution, beneath the years of training herself not to want, something small and perilous flickered to life.
Something that felt very much like hope.
***
The next three days passed in a blur of activity.
Cecilia packed Georgiana’s trunks with almost military precision, arranging gowns by occasion and colour, ensuring that every ribbon, glove, and hairpin was accounted for. She consulted with the housekeeper regarding the family’s absence, wrote detailed instructions for the cook, and drafted three separate letters on her uncle’s behalf.
Her own packing required considerably less time. She possessed two presentable day dresses—the grey muslin Lady Ashwood had mentioned, and a slightly newer brown cambric—together with the modest necessities of a woman who did not expect to be noticed. She did not pack an evening gown; she did not own one. The prettiest dress she possessed was a lavender silk that had belonged to her mother—carefully preserved, hopelessly outdated—and she had not attempted to wear it in years.
She packed her mother’s pearls, however. She could not have said why—there would be no occasion on which she might wear them—but leaving them behind felt wrong. They were the only beautiful thing she owned, the only tangible link to the lifeshe had lost, and she found she could not bear to be parted from them, even for a fortnight.
Georgiana was by turns exhilarated and anxious.
“What if he does not notice me?” she fretted on the second evening, while Cecilia repaired a torn flounce on her favourite morning dress. “What if there are girls more beautiful, and he prefers them instead? Mama says I am the prettiest, but Mama is biased, and besides, there are so many girls in society—”
“You are very pretty,” Cecilia said—because it was true, and because contradiction would only prolong the discussion. “And you have been well prepared. You need only be yourself.”
“But what if myself is not enough?”
It was, Cecilia thought, a surprisingly honest question from Georgiana, who was not usually inclined to doubt herself. She looked up from her mending and found her cousin watching her with something very like vulnerability.
“You cannot control whether someone notices you,” she said carefully. “You can only control how you present yourself. Be gracious. Take an interest in others, not merely in securing their interest in you. Listen more than you speak—and when you do speak, say something genuine, rather than what you imagine they wish to hear.”
Georgiana frowned. “That sounds like an unreasonable amount of effort.”
“Connection usually is.”
“But I do not want connection. I want to marry a duke.”
Cecilia bent again to her stitching, concealing the expression that rose, unbidden, to her face. “Then perhaps you do not require my advice after all.”
