Tears pricked Cecilia’s eyes; she blinked them back. “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand. I felt the same. When I was with him… I felt like myself for the first time in five years. Like the woman I had been—before everything changed.”
“And who was that woman?”
“Someone with opinions. With ideas. With the expectation that her thoughts possessed value—that she was more than a function to be performed.” Her voice wavered. “Someone who had been so thoroughly buried that I had almost forgotten she existed.”
Silence settled between them. The Dowager’s expression had softened—just, perhaps, into sympathy.
“I came here prepared to threaten you,” she said quietly. “To warn you from my son—to protect him from what I assumed was a calculating adventuress who had recognised an opportunity and seized it.”
“And now?”
“Now,” the Dowager said slowly, rising to stand at the window, “I find myself… uncertain. You are not what I expected. You are not a schemer, nor a climber. You are simply a woman unfortunate enough to have fallen in love with my son—and more unfortunate still that he has fallen in love with you in return.”
“Is love a misfortune?”
“When it crosses the boundaries society erects—yes. Love does not conquer all, whatever the poets claim. It does not pay debts, nor satisfy obligations, nor shield one from consequence.” She turned back. “Were you and my son to marry—if such a thing were even possible—you would meet opposition at every turn. Society would whisper; doors would close; your children would forever feel the weight of your unequal match.”
“I know.”
“And yet you love him.”
“I cannot seem to stop.”
A long silence followed. Something in the Dowager’s posture eased; a decision, half-made, came to rest.
“I have something for you,” she said at last. “Something which may alter the nature of this conversation entirely.”
She stepped to the door, spoke softly to someone beyond, and returned with a wrapped bundle in her arms.
“This gown was mine,” she said, placing it in Cecilia’s lap. “From many years ago, when I was young—and foolish—and believed love might suffice. It is somewhat out of fashion, but the fabric is excellent, and the style may be brought up to the present.”
Cecilia unwrapped the bundle with trembling fingers. Silver silk spilled across her lap, glowing in the wan autumn light. It was beautiful—more beautiful than anything she had possessed since her father’s death.
“I do not understand.”
“The Harvest Ball is in three days. It is the culmination of Lady Marchmont’s house party. If you wish to attend—as a guest, not a servant—this gown may be altered to fit you. Helena is skilful with a needle.”
“You are offering me… a gown?”
“I am offering you a choice.” The Dowager met her gaze. “You may remain here, in your grey dresses and your grey life, and wait for my son to forget you. Or you may come to the ball—wearing this gown—and show him, and everyone, that you are not the invisible woman they have supposed.”
Cecilia stared at the silk, her thoughts reeling. “My aunt forbade me from attending. She sent me here expressly to keep me away.”
“Lady Ashwood does not give orders to duchesses. If I wish you to attend as my guest, she cannot prevent it.”
“But why? After everything you have said—why would you help me?”
“Because I love my son.” For the first time, the Dowager’s voice faltered. “Because I have watched him suffer for a long time, and I cannot bear it. Because I have spent my life caring what society thinks—and I begin to question whether its opinion is worth the happiness of those I love.”
She drew a breath.
“I am not giving you my blessing, Miss Ashwood. I am not declaring my approval, nor promising a happy ending. I am merely… opening a door. What you do with that door is yours to decide.”
Cecilia looked from the gown, to the Dowager’s austere face—beneath which hope flickered—and then to her own work-roughened hands upon the shining silk.
“If I attend the ball,” she said slowly, “and his feelings have changed—if he has accepted the impossibility—”
“Then you will know, and you may go forward.” The Dowager’s voice had softened. “But I do not believe his feelings have changed. I believe he loves you—deeply, and sincerely—much to the astonishment of everyone who knows him, myself included.”
