***
The fifth day dawned grey and cold, like all the days before it.
Cecilia rose, dressed, and went to the kitchen for tea. She performed her morning tasks—the accounts, the correspondence, the endless small duties that justified her presence. She moved through the house like a ghost: present, yet insubstantial, going through motions that had long since ceased to hold meaning.
But something had shifted. Something had altered in the night.
She found herself regarding Thornfield with new eyes: the rooms in which she had lived all her life, the role she had fashioned—such as it was—from the wreckage of her former existence.
It was not a wretched life, she admitted. She had a roof above her, food to eat, work to occupy her hands and, at times, her mind. Many possessed far less. Many would have been grateful.
But she was not grateful. She was… resigned. She had accepted this half-life because she believed she had no other choice; yet acceptance was not happiness. Survival was not living.
You have been dying,she thought.Slowly, quietly, invisibly dying—and you did not perceive it, because you were so intent upon being useful.
She was in the morning-room—the room where her mother had once read, where Cecilia herself had learnt to manage accounts and correspondence—when the realisation crystallised at last.
She could not remain here.
Not because Thornfield was cruel, nor because the Ashwoods mistreated her. But because remaining meant surrender. Remaining meant accepting that this was all she might ever have, all she might ever be; it meant choosing safety over hope, mere existence over the perilous promise of joy.
She did not wish to stay.
She wished—fiercely—to reach for what she desired, and accept whatever consequences followed.
But how? The obstacles endured. Sebastian was at Fairholme, surrounded by eligible young ladies. And she was here—banished, forbidden to write. Even if she declared herself, even if she confessed her heart—what could possibly come of it?
She could not simply appear at Fairholme and declare herself. She had no social standing, no right to enter that world on her own terms. She was still a poor relation in a grey dress, and all the wanting in the world could not change that.
Unless someone changed it for her.
She thought of the Dowager Duchess—the formidable woman who had probably warned her son away from her. The Dowager possessed power, influence, the ability to open doors barred fast against Cecilia.
But the Dowager wished her son to make a suitable match—to wed someone acceptable, admired, above reproach.
The Dowager would never help her.
Would she?
Cecilia stood at the window, looking out at the bare autumn garden, and tried to imagine a path forward that did not exist.
And then, as though summoned by her thoughts, a carriage turned into the drive.
***
It was an elegant carriage—far finer than any that ordinarily visited Thornfield. The horses were matched bays, their coats gleaming despite the leaden weather; the coachman’s livery bespoke considerable consequence.
And upon the door, faint yet unmistakable, was a crest.
Cecilia’s heart began to hammer. She knew that crest—had seen it at Fairholme, on a couple of carriages and discreetly upon some footmen’s coats.
The Ashworth crest.
She watched, motionless, as the carriage drew to a halt before the door; watched as a footman descended to open it; watched as a figure emerged—a woman, elegantly attired, her face obscured by her bonnet.
Not Sebastian. Of course not Sebastian. He would not risk such a visit.
But someone from his household had come. Someone had travelled from Fairholme to Thornfield with a purpose Cecilia could not yet imagine.
