“She has paced the corridor for hours. I believe she has worn a path into the carpet.”
“Then send her in. Eleanor should meet her grandmother.”
Sebastian rose to fetch his mother, and Cecilia looked down at the tiny girl in her arms.
“Hello, Eleanor,” she whispered. “I am your mother. I shall teach you everything I know—of books and ideas and agriculture and never allowing anyone to make you feel small. You are going to be remarkable. I already know it.”
Eleanor yawned, wholly unimpressed.
Cecilia laughed softly, joy rising in her like champagne.
She had been invisible once—overlooked, dismissed, forgotten.
Now she was a mother. A duchess. A woman who had refused the limits the world tried to set upon her.
And her daughter would have even more.
***
The Dowager entered the room with uncharacteristic hesitation, her customary composure softened by emotion.
“A girl,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“A girl.” Cecilia adjusted Eleanor in her arms, turning slightly so the Dowager might see her more clearly. “Her name is Eleanor. After my mother.”
“Eleanor.” The Dowager extended a tentative hand. “May I?”
Cecilia transferred the child with care into the Dowager Duchess’s arms. The Dowager held her with the instinctiveassurance of a woman who had once done this many times before, long ago.
“She is beautiful,” she said quietly. “She has your nose, Cecilia.”
“And Sebastian’s obstinacy, I suspect. She declined to arrive according to schedule.”
The Dowager gave a small, knowing smile. “That is a Harcourt trait, I fear. They are a stubborn race, one and all.” Her eyes shone. “I am glad you are here, Cecilia. I am glad my son found you.”
“So am I,” she said. “We have both found more than we expected. I went to Fairholme hoping only to assist. I found a family instead.”
“And we found you.” The Dowager looked down at Eleanor, who had fallen asleep in her arms. “This one will be trouble. I can already tell.”
“I sincerely hope so. The most remarkable women usually are.”
The Dowager laughed—an unguarded, genuine sound. “I suppose you would be well placed to judge.”
They sat together in companionable silence—three generations of Ashworth women—as the snow continued to fall beyond the windows.
***
Spring arrived slowly at Ashworth Hall.
Cecilia watched its progress from the library window, Eleanor drowsing in her arms. The gardens stirred to life—daffodils pushing through the soil, trees budding with quiet promise. Soon the grounds would be awash with colour, and Eleanor would be old enough to be carried outdoors, to feel sunlight on her face and grass beneath her small hands.
Soon, too, the book would be finished.
Cecilia had worked steadily throughout her pregnancy and the early months of motherhood, stealing hours whenever Eleanor slept. The manuscript now neared completion—nearly two hundred pages on agricultural reform, tenant welfare, and the obligations of landowners to the people who depended upon them.
Sebastian had read every page, offering counsel and encouragement. He had engaged a draughtsman for the illustrations. He had opened correspondence with publishers in London, quietly preparing the ground.
And he had insisted—over her every protest—that her name appear upon the title page.
