She ought to wait—ought to allow the servants to announce the visitor properly, and present herself with composure. That was what a lady would do.
But Cecilia had long since been reminded that she was no longer counted among them.
She left the morning room and walked toward the front door.
Whatever was coming, she would meet it head-on.
She was done being invisible.
***
She reached the entrance hall just as Mrs Patterson was opening the front door, her expression caught between curiosity and consternation. The housekeeper was not accustomed toreceiving callers without warning—least of all callers who arrived in carriages bearing a ducal crest.
“I am here to see Miss Cecilia Ashwood,” a voice declared from the threshold. “If you would be so good as to announce me.”
Cecilia recognised the voice before she saw the face. Helena Crane—the Dowager’s companion—stepped into the hall with an air of quiet authority wholly at odds with her subordinate position.
“Miss Crane.” Cecilia moved forward, acutely aware of Mrs Patterson observing the exchange with undisguised interest. “I did not expect— that is, I had no notion—”
“You had no notion because I did not send word.” Helena’s expression remained carefully neutral, though something in her eyes quickened Cecilia’s pulse. “I am travelling with the Dowager Duchess. She wishes to speak with you.”
“The Dowager Duchess—here? At Thornfield?”
“She remains in the carriage. She desired me to speak with you first— to ascertain whether you would be… receptive to a conversation.”
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt beneath Cecilia’s feet. The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth had come to Thornfield—had travelled here deliberately—had sent Helena ahead as an emissary—and wished to speak with Cecilia herself.
It could only be very good news—or very bad. She could not yet tell which.
“Mrs Patterson,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice, “pray have the morning-room prepared for a guest. Tea, if you please.”
“But, miss— I do not understand who—”
“The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth.” Cecilia met the housekeeper’s startled gaze. “And I would suggest you ensurethe tea is properly made. She is said to be exacting in her standards.”
Mrs Patterson opened and closed her mouth several times before producing a strangled, “Yes, miss,” and hurried away.
Cecilia turned back to Helena. “Receptive to a conversation about what, precisely?”
“I believe you can guess.”
“I believe I prefer not to do so.”
Helena studied her for a long moment. “The Dowager wishes to speak of her son. And of you. And of whether there might exist a path forward that does not end in disaster for everyone concerned.”
Cecilia’s heart stopped—then lurched painfully back into motion.
“I see,” she managed, though she did not see at all. “And what do you suppose she intends?”
“I suppose she intends to take your measure, Miss Ashwood. To determine whether you are worthy of the upheaval your presence has wrought in her son’s life.” Helena’s voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “I suppose she intends to decide whether you are a fortune-hunter to be discouraged—or something more.”
“And if she decides I am… something more?”
“Then I suspect our conversation will become considerably more interesting.”
Cecilia drew a breath. Then another. She thought of the past five days—the grey monotony, the weary attempts at distraction, the dawning certainty that she wanted more than mere survival.
She thought of Sebastian, restless at Fairholme because she had walked away.
