Georgiana hesitated. Then, unexpectedly: “Cecilia? Do you ever think—do you ever wish that you could—”
She faltered, unable to finish. Cecilia did not supply the words.
“Never mind,” Georgiana said quickly. “It is nothing. I should sleep—Mama says shadows beneath the eyes are fatal to one’s complexion.”
She swept from the room, leaving Cecilia alone with her mending and her thoughts.
Do you ever wish...Cecilia wondered what Georgiana had meant to ask. Do you ever wish you could attend the party properly? Do you ever wish you could pursue a duke? Do you ever wish you were not trapped in this half-life—visible enough to serve, invisible enough to be ignored?
Yes. The answer was yes to all of it, had always been yes—no matter how fiercely she taught herself not to want.
She finished the mending, folded the dress, and went to bed.
Tomorrow they would leave for Kent. Whatever awaited her there could not possibly be worse than remaining behind.
At least, she hoped it could not.
***
The journey to Fairholme Park took two days, hampered by autumn rains that churned the roads to mud and by Dorothea’s unfortunate tendency toward carriage sickness.
Cecilia spent most of the journey attending to practicalities—making certain the trunks were properly secured at each posting stop, arranging adequate rooms at the inn where they spent the night, soothing Dorothea with ginger tea and cool cloths when the motion became too much for her delicate constitution.
Uncle Horace proved, as expected, entirely unhelpful. He retreated behind newspapers and silence, emerging only to complain about the wine at the inn or the deplorable state of the roads. Georgiana alternated between effusive chatter about the delights awaiting them and sulky silence when no one responded with sufficient enthusiasm.
It was, in short, an exhausting journey, and by the time the carriage turned into the long drive at Fairholme Park, Cecilia was too tired for proper appreciation.
But the house was magnificent.
It rose from manicured grounds like something from a painting—golden stone, elegant proportions, scores of windows catching the late-afternoon light. Gardens stretched in every direction, bright even this late in the season, and beyond them she glimpsed dark hedgerows carved into elaborate patterns.
“Oh,” Georgiana breathed, pressing her face to the glass. “It is beautiful.”
It was. Even Cecilia—determined to maintain her practical detachment—felt something stir at the sight. This was the world she had been raised to inhabit: gracious houses, ordered gardens, lives lived upon a cushion of comfort. She had glimpsed it in childhood—at her godmother’s estate, at the rare house parties her parents had attended—but five years of grey dresses and household accounts had dulled the memories.
Now here it was again. Close enough to touch—and forever out of reach.
You are here to work, she reminded herself firmly.You are not a guest. You have no right to beauty.
The carriage halted. Footmen appeared as if conjured to manage the luggage and assist the ladies down. Cecilia waited, allowing Georgiana and Dorothea to descend first, and when she finally stepped onto the gravel, she kept her gaze lowered and her posture modest.
Invisible. She must be invisible.
Lady Marchmont greeted them at the door—a sharp-featured woman in her fifties whose smile did not quite reach her eyes. She assessed each member of the party in turn: Uncle Horace with polite condescension, Georgiana with calculating interest, Dorothea with dismissive acknowledgement.
Her gaze slid over Cecilia without stopping.
It should not have stung. Cecilia had expected precisely that—but the completeness of the dismissal, the effortless erasure, cut more sharply than she had anticipated.
You are furniture, she told herself.Furniture is not introduced.
“Sir Horace, how delightful that you could join us. And Miss Ashwood—may I say, you are every bit as lovely as your mother promised. We must ensure you are introduced to all the right people.” Lady Marchmont’s smile sharpened. “The Duke of Ashworth has already arrived, together with the Dowager Duchess. They are resting before dinner, but introductions may easily be arranged.”
Georgiana flushed with mingled delight and anxiety. “How wonderful. I look forward to meeting everyone.”
“As you should, my dear. As you should.” Lady Marchmont turned to the hovering housekeeper. “Mrs Fenton will show you to your rooms. Dinner is at eight; the bell will ring at half past seven.”
They were conducted inside, up sweeping staircases and along elegant corridors. Cecilia followed at the rear, noting the layout—the servant stairs, the turning of passages—cataloguing every detail that might make her duties easier.
