She thought of possibility.
“Pray inform the Dowager that I should be honoured to receive her,” she said. “And, Miss Crane—whatever herintentions, I am grateful that someone came. That someone believed I was worth the journey.”
Something—perhaps respect—flickered across Helena’s expression. “I will convey your message.”
She turned and walked back toward the carriage, leaving Cecilia alone in the entrance hall with her racing heart, her trembling hands, and the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that everything was about to change.
For better or for worse, the grey days were ending.
Whatever came next, she would meet it on her feet.
***
But before she could face the Dowager, she must first face herself.
Cecilia withdrew to the morning-room while Helena went to fetch her employer, and in those few minutes of solitude, she compelled herself to think clearly.
The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth had travelled from Fairholme to Thornfield. The fact alone was extraordinary—duchesses did not visit poor relations in modest country houses; they did not interrupt their engagements to seek out young women so far beneath their sphere.
Something had altered. Something had shifted in the Dowager’s calculations.
Sebastian. It must be Sebastian. Even though he had never taken particular pleasure in such society, his deepened reserve and withdrawal must have been impossible to overlook. It must have persuaded his mother that his attachment was neither fleeting nor superficial, but something far more serious.
But what did that signify for Cecilia? What did the Dowager want?
She might have come to threaten—to insist, in the plainest terms, that Cecilia must never attempt to see Sebastian again.
She might have come to bargain—offering comfort or money in exchange for Cecilia’s permanent disappearance from his life.
Or— and this was the hope Cecilia scarcely dared admit— she might have come to help, to propose some path Cecilia herself had not yet imagined.
Why would the Dowager help her? What reason could a duchess possibly have to assist a penniless dependent in winning her son’s heart?
Because she loves him,a quiet voice whispered.Because she desires his happiness. Because she has watched him suffer for so long and can endure it no longer.
It was a fragile hope—foolish, perhaps—but it would not quite be extinguished.
She smoothed the grey folds of her gown, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and prepared to meet her fate.
***
The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth did not enter rooms. She arrived in them like a force of nature that could not be ignored or resisted.
She was smaller than Cecilia had expected—in person, without the distance of a crowded ballroom, she was merely a well-dressed woman of middle years. But her presence was enormous. Her sharp eyes swept the morning room, cataloguing every detail, every shabbiness, every evidence of the reduced circumstances in which Cecilia lived.
Cecilia felt that gaze settle upon her like a physical weight.
“Miss Ashwood.” The Dowager’s voice was cool, measured. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“The honour is mine, Your Grace. Pray, be seated.”
They sat opposite one another beside the cold fireplace—the same hearth where Cecilia had once sat with her father,discussing books and ideas. The memory rose sharply; she forced it aside.
“I imagine you are wondering why I have come,” the Dowager said.
“The question had occurred to me.”
“I am not accustomed to explaining myself—particularly not to young women whose situations might, with charity, be termed precarious.” The Dowager’s gaze was unflinching. “Yet I find myself in an unusual position—one which demands candour.”
