“What if I am not ready?” she said quietly. “What if I have forgotten how to move in such circles? It has been five years since I was treated as anything other than… useful. What if I embarrass myself—embarrass him—simply by being what I am?”
Helena was silent for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she crossed the room and took Cecilia’s hands in her own.
“You will not embarrass yourself,” she said firmly. “You were raised a lady—trained for exactly these situations. Five years of grey dresses have not erased that training; they have merely buried it. When you walk into that ballroom, you will remember. Your body will remember, even if your mind still doubts.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because I have watched you these past days—the way you carry yourself, the way you speak, the precision of your manners even when you are anxious or uncertain.” Helena’s voice softened. “You are a lady, Miss Ashwood. You have always been a lady. The only difference between you and the others is that you have endured difficulties they have been spared.”
“That is not an advantage in society.”
“Perhaps not. But it is an advantage in life.” Helena gave her hands a gentle squeeze before releasing them. “Now—let us finish these alterations. The ball is tomorrow evening, and there is much to be done.”
***
They worked through the afternoon, Helena’s skilful fingers shaping the Dowager’s old gown to Cecilia’s smaller frame. The sleeves were adjusted, the bodice taken in slightly, the hem raised to the proper length. By the time evening fell, the dress was nearly complete.
“One more fitting in the morning,” Helena said, studying the gown critically. “To be certain everything lies as it should. Then your hair, your accessories—the thousand small particulars that distinguish a well-dressed woman from a merely dressed one.”
“I have only my mother’s pearls.”
“They will do very well. Pearls are always appropriate—and sentiment lends a value no jeweller can rival.” Helena began gathering her sewing things. “You must rest tonight. Tomorrow will be… demanding.”
“I do not think I can rest.”
“Try regardless. Fatigue makes everyone look worn—and you cannot afford to look anything less than your best.”
It was sensible advice, kindly meant. Cecilia nodded, though she knew sleep would not come easily.
“Miss Crane—Helena—may I ask you something?”
Helena paused. “You may ask.”
“In one of our recent conversations about the ball, you spoke of spending years wondering what might have happened if you had been brave enough to try—of regret, of choosing safety over risk.” Cecilia hesitated. “Was there someone? Someone you loved, and lost, because you could not find the courage to reach for what you wanted?”
The silence stretched so long that Cecilia began to regret the question. Helena’s expression had gone very still, her hands motionless upon the folded fabric.
“I apologise,” Cecilia said quickly. “I should not have asked; it was impertinent—”
“There was someone.” Helena’s voice was low, carefully composed. “There is someone. A man I have worked beside these two years—admired, and—” She broke off, shaking her head. “It matters very little.”
“Does he know? How you feel?”
“He cannot know. The situation is… constrained. He serves the Duke, as I serve the Dowager. We are both dependent upon our positions—both bound by circumstance. To speak of feelings would be to hazard everything we have built.”
“And so you say nothing.”
“And so I say nothing. I stand across rooms, exchange pleasantries when duty requires, and tell myself that safety is worth more than hope.” Helena gave a small, bitter laugh. “It is surprisingly easy to believe—when the alternative is terrifying.”
“But you regret it.”
“Every day. Every single day, I wonder what might happen if I simply spoke—if I told him the truth, and accepted whatever followed.” Helena met Cecilia’s eyes. “That is why I urged you to attend the ball. Why I asked you to be brave. Because I have not been—and I know the cost.”
Cecilia felt a swell of sympathy—a sense of kinship with this woman who also lived at the margins, who understood what it was to want what one ought not to want.
“It is not too late,” she said gently. “For you—to speak, to try, to discover whether—”
“Perhaps.” Helena’s expression closed, shutters drawn against further inquiry. “But this is not about me. It is about you—and the Duke—and the choice you are on the brink of making. Think of that. The rest may wait.”
