“And if I shame him? If I reach above my station and am rejected, before them all?”
“Then you will at least have tried. You will have risked. You will not spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been, had you been brave enough to act.”
Brave. The word echoed—Sebastian’s word, her own word, the word she had so long denied.
She thought of the grey days, the weary labour, the bleak realisation that survival was not the same as living.
She thought of Sebastian—waiting, suffering, hoping.
She thought of possibility.
“I need time to decide,” she said at last; the old habits of caution died hard. “I cannot answer you now.”
“Of course.” The Dowager rose. “Helena will remain, should you choose to accept. The carriage will return in two days— in time for the ball, if you wish to attend.”
“And if I choose not to attend?”
“Then you will have made your choice,” the Dowager said gently, “and we shall respect it.”
Chapter Eleven
“Hold still. I cannot pin the hem if you keep shifting.”
Cecilia forced herself to be still, though every nerve in her body seemed to vibrate with restless energy. She stood upon a low stool in the centre of her small room, the silver gown pooling at her feet, while Helena knelt on the floor with a mouthful of pins and an expression of focused concentration.
“Forgive me. I am not accustomed to being fitted for anything.”
“That much is evident.” Helena’s voice was dry, though not unkind. “When did you last have a new gown?”
“Before my father died. Five years ago.” Cecilia looked down at the silver silk, watching it catch the weak autumn light. “I had a wardrobe full of pretty things, once—morning dresses, evening gowns, a riding habit I was particularly fond of. All of them were parted with, in the end.”
“All of them?”
“All but one—a gown that belonged to my mother. I kept it, though it seemed wrong, somehow, to wear anything so beautiful when everything else was so…” She faltered, unable to find the word.
“Grey?” Helena suggested.
“Yes. Grey.”
Helena sat back on her heels, surveying her work with a critical eye. “The hem is nearly finished. We must adjust the sleeves—they are too long for your arms—but that will not take long. The waist sits well; the Dowager was quite slender in her youth.”
“It is strange, wearing something that belonged to her. To Sebastian’s mother.”
“Does it trouble you?”
Cecilia considered. “Not trouble, precisely. But it feels… significant. As though, in accepting her gown, I am accepting something more. Some manner of claim upon me.”
“Perhaps you are.” Helena rose, brushing dust from her skirts. “The Dowager does not bestow gifts without intention. By dressing you in her own gown, she makes a statement—declaring, in a language that society understands, that you have her approval.”
“Does she approve? Truly?”
“I believe she is prepared to approve—provided you conduct yourself well at the ball. Provided you prove yourself worthy of her investment.” Helena’s tone was even, almost judicial. “The Dowager is pragmatic, Miss Ashwood. She has accepted that her son’s heart is engaged, and she would rather manage the matter than oppose it. But her acceptance is conditional. It may be withdrawn if you give her cause.”
“What would constitute cause?”
“Scandal. Embarrassment. Any suggestion that you are not what you appear.” Helena paused. “She is testing you. The ball is your examination. Pass it, and doors may open. Fail it, and they will close—perhaps for good.”
Cecilia absorbed this in silence. She had known, dimly, that the Dowager’s offer was not purely generous—but hearing it so plainly expressed made the stakes feel suddenly, terrifyingly real.
