Her mind wandered straight back to Sebastian.
What was he doing now, at this very moment? Sitting in the library, gazing at the chair where she had been accustomed to sit? Walking the gardens at Fairholme, recalling their conversation in the rain? Performing his ducal duties—speakingwith Georgiana and the other eligible young ladies—and slowly forgetting that she had ever existed?
The last thought was a knife to the heart. She knew it was irrational—knew his feelings had seemed genuine, his declaration marked by a raw vulnerability that could scarcely have been feigned. Yet she also knew that feelings changed; that time and distance could erode even the strongest attachment; that dukes, in the end, married suitable women and learned to be content.
He would forget her—if not today, nor tomorrow, then by and by. He would attend balls and house parties; he would meet women beautiful and accomplished and perfectly appropriate. He would dance, converse, and at length discover one whose company did not feel like a performance.
And Cecilia would still be here—airing linens, polishing silver, being useful.
She attacked the mattress with more force than was strictly necessary, beating out dust and vexation in equal measure.
***
By the third day, she had established a routine.
She rose early, before the household stirred; dressed in her grey muslin—always the grey; there was nothing else—and went down to the kitchen, where the cook shared tea and toast without demanding conversation.
Then the work began. Mrs Patterson, clearly resolved to profit by Cecilia’s return, assigned every task neglected during her absence. The silver must be polished, the china inventoried, the linen-press set to rights, the household accounts reviewed.
Cecilia performed each duty with mechanical precision, grateful for the distraction. So long as her hands were busy, her mind could not so easily wander to libraries and grey eyes and words she was striving to forget.
She burnished a candlestick until it gleamed like new, and tried not to dwell upon the possibility that he might truly have been willing to surrender everything for her sake.
***
The letter arrived on the fourth day.
Cecilia was in the stillroom, taking inventory of the preserved fruits and pickled vegetables that must see the household through winter, when a maid appeared in the doorway with a folded paper in her hand.
“Letter for you, miss. Came in the afternoon post.”
Cecilia’s heart stopped—then recommenced twice as fast. She accepted the letter with trembling fingers, studying the direction in desperate hope.
The hand was unfamiliar. Feminine. Not Sebastian’s.
The disappointment was so sharp she was obliged to grasp the edge of the shelf to steady herself. What had she expected? That he would write to her here, where Lady Ashwood might, by instruction, contrive to have the correspondence intercepted? That he would hazard scandal for the sake of a letter?
She had told him she needed time to think. He was respecting her wishes.
She should be grateful.
She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Dear Cousin Cecilia,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing in secret—Mama would be furious if she knew—but I felt I ought to tell you what has been happening since your departure.
The Duke of Ashworth has been most strange. He rarely joins the company anymore, preferring to spend his time in the library or walking the grounds alone. When he does appear, he is distracted and short-tempered. Lady Marchmont is quite vexed—she had cherished great hopes of a match between His Grace and one of the young ladies under her roof, and now he scarcely looks at any of them.
Georgiana is devastated, though she tries to hide it. She knows why he has changed, of course. We all do. The way he looked at you, that day at the musicale—no one has forgotten it.
I do not know what passed between you, but I thought you should know that whatever it was, it affected him deeply. He is not the same man he was before you left.
Please do not think too badly of me for writing. I know I should support Georgiana’s interests, and I know Mama would say I am being disloyal. But I have always thought you were treated unfairly, and I wanted you to know that you are not forgotten.
Your cousin,
Dorothea
