Dorothea embraced her quickly, then hurried away to find Mr Wilton.
Cecilia watched her go, a mingling of emotions tightening in her chest—joy for Dorothea, who had found her own path; sorrow for the years that had preceded this moment; and, unexpectedly, hope. Hope for the future—for all of them, even those who had once caused her harm.
Sebastian appeared at her side and offered his arm.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Almost. I should like another moment.”
“Take as many as you need.”
They stood together, watching the simple merriment unfold—laughter, dancing, the uncomplicated joy of people who had found their way to happiness.
“Do you regret any of it?” Sebastian asked quietly. “The road that brought you here?”
Cecilia considered carefully.
“No,” she said at last. “It was painful. There were years I would not wish upon anyone. But it led me to you, and to the life we have made—and to—” Her hand rested on her abdomen. “To all that is still to come. How could I regret that?”
“You could not,” he said. “And yet I sometimes regret it for you—the suffering you endured before we met.”
“It made me who I am,” she replied. “It taught me endurance—how to stand, how to survive when survival seemed impossible.” She turned to face him. “I would not change it, Sebastian. Not any of it. Because to change it might be to lose you.”
He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles—an affectionate gesture, proper even in company, and full of feeling.
“Let us go home,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Let us go home.”
They made their farewells and departed, leaving the celebration behind. The carriage rolled through the autumn countryside, carrying them back toward Ashworth Hall—toward the life they had built, and the future waiting for them.
***
The child arrived in December, on a night when snow fell softly over Ashworth Hall.
It was a girl.
Cecilia held her daughter for the first time, marvelling at the tiny fingers, the rosebud mouth, the eyes that might one day be her father’s grey—or her own brown. She was perfect: impossibly, overwhelmingly perfect.
“Eleanor,” Cecilia whispered. “Her name is Eleanor.”
Sebastian sat beside the bed, his face wet with tears he did not attempt to hide. “After your mother.”
“Yes. So she will know where she came from—so she will carry that love with her, though they never met.”
“Eleanor Harcourt.” Sebastian touched his daughter’s cheek with one careful finger.
Cecilia looked at him, exhausted but happy. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Both of you.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Cecilia’s forehead, then to Eleanor’s. “Thank you. For this. For everything.”
“Thankme?” Cecilia’s eyes stung. “You are the one who saw me when I was invisible. You believed in me before I could believe in myself.”
“We saw each other,” Sebastian corrected softly. “We believed in each other. That is what made any of this possible.”
He was right. It had never been one-sided—this love, this partnership, this life. They had built it together, each strengthening the other.
“We ought to let the Dowager meet her,” Cecilia said. “She has been waiting anxiously.”
