The invitation was to a house-party: a fortnight at Fairholme Park, beginning in two weeks’ time. Hunting, dinners, evening amusements—and, mentioned with elaborate casualness, a Harvest Ball to conclude the festivities.
You may be interested to know, the letter continued,that among my guests will be several families of particular distinction. The Duke of Ashworth has consented to attend, as has his mother, the Dowager Duchess. I mention this only in passing, of course, as I know the younger Miss Ashwood is not yet out, but the elder Miss Ashwood has been presented, if I recall correctly, and might find the company... stimulating.
Cecilia read this passage twice. The Duke of Ashworth. She knew the name—everyone knew the name—but she could not immediately place the particulars.A young duke,she thought.Unmarried. Wealthy beyond imagination. Exactly the sort of prize that families like the Ashwoods spent their daughters’ entire lives preparing them to secure.
She could picture Lady Ashwood’s response with perfect clarity: the flutter of excitement concealed beneath a façade of dignified composure; the swift calculation of which gowns Georgiana would require, which jewels might be borrowed or purchased, which accomplishments must be displayed and which discreetly obscured. And, of course, the complete absence of any mention of Cecilia at all.
Cecilia set down the letter and allowed herself—just for a heartbeat—to imagine what it might be like to attend such a party. To wear a beautiful gown, to dance beneath chandeliers, to speak with people who might see her as something other than useful. To be, for a few fleeting hours, the girl she had been before everything changed.
The fantasy lasted precisely three seconds. Then she folded the letter, placed it upon her uncle’s desk where he would find it, and returned to her actual life.
There were flowers to arrange, tea services to polish, and drafts to investigate.
Wanting was dangerous.
***
Lady Ashwood’s reaction to the letter exceeded even Cecilia’s expectations.
“The Duke of Ashworth!” she exclaimed at dinner that evening, her earlier fatigue apparently forgotten. “My dear, do you comprehend what this signifies? The Duke of Ashworth will be present—at the very same gathering as our Georgiana!”
“I understood you the first three times, my dear,” Horace replied mildly.
“But you do not seem to grasp the importance. He is unmarried, you know. Thirty years old, and not a whisper of an engagement. They say he is particular—that he has refused dozens of perfectly suitable matches—but surely, when he sees Georgiana—”
“Mama,” Georgiana interposed, in a tone that suggested she was not entirely averse to such speculation, though she wished to appear so for modesty’s sake, “we do not know that the Duke will notice me at all.”
“Nonsense. You are beautiful, accomplished, and from an excellent family. Why should he not notice?”
“Because there will be dozens of other young ladies present, I imagine—each of them beautiful and accomplished as well.”
“Not equally. I am certain not equally.” Lady Ashwood turned to Cecilia, who had been quietly attending to her soup, hoping to remain invisible. “Cecilia, what do you know of the Duke of Ashworth?”
The question caught her off guard. She was seldom consulted on matters of social consequence; her opinions were rarely deemed relevant to decisions in which she played no part.
“Very little, I am afraid,” she said. “He inherited young, I believe—his father died some years past. Beyond that, I know only what everyone knows: that he is wealthy, titled, and has not yet chosen a bride.”
“Well, that much is in Lady Marchmont’s letter.” Lady Ashwood frowned, as though Cecilia had failed some private examination. “I had hoped you might recall something more specific. You used to read the society papers quite diligently, before—” She stopped, the sentence dissolving into awkward silence.
Before I became invisible, Cecilia finished silently.Before I ceased to matter enough to justify the price of a subscription.
“I am sorry to disappoint, Aunt.”
“No matter. The important thing is the opportunity. Georgiana, we must consider your wardrobe. The blue silk, of course, and the new sprigged muslin—though I wonder whether it will be warm enough for Kent in October. Perhaps we ought to have something made. A new ball gown, certainly. Something memorable.”
“What about me?” Dorothea asked, in the small, careful voice of a younger sister well acquainted with her place in the hierarchy of attention.
“You are too young for balls, dear. But you may come to observe—and perhaps join us in some of the daytime entertainments. It will be excellent practice for your own debut next year.”
“And Cecilia?”
The question came from Dorothea, and it fell into the conversation like a stone into still water. Cecilia looked up to find her younger cousin watching her with an expression that might have been concern—or merely curiosity.
Lady Ashwood’s expression flickered—surprise, perhaps, that Cecilia’s existence should be acknowledged at all—before settling into carefully composed indifference.
“Cecilia will remain here, of course. Someone must manage the household in our absence. The servants cannot be trusted to govern themselves for a full fortnight.”
“But surely—” Dorothea began.
