She finished packing her sewing things and moved toward the door.
“Helena?”
The older woman paused, looking back.
“Thank you. For everything. For the alterations, for the counsel, for…” Cecilia searched for words. “For treating me as though I matter.”
Helena’s expression softened. “You do matter, Miss Ashwood. Remember that when you walk into that ballroom tomorrow, you matter not because of circumstance or connection, but because of who you are. The Duke sees it. The Dowager sees it. Tomorrow, you must help everyone else see it too.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Cecilia stood alone in her small room, surrounded by pins and thread and the silver gown that embodied everything she was about to risk.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, she would learn whether courage was enough.
***
The morning of the ball dawned clear and cold, with a sky so blue it seemed almost unreal.
Cecilia woke before dawn, her sleep as fitful as she had expected. She lay in the darkness, listening to the old house settle around her, and tried to marshal her thoughts into some semblance of order.
Today. It was today.
In but a few hours, she would be at Fairholme Park—in the ballroom, wearing silver silk and her mother’s pearls, surrounded by people who had once dismissed her as nothing.
She would see Sebastian.
The thought sent a thrill through her—half anticipation, half fear. She had tried not to think of him, and had failed entirely. Now, she would see him again; would stand before him in a beautiful gown; would learn whether his feelings had survived their separation.
What if they had not? What if the Dowager was mistaken, and his distraction was no more than the passing melancholy of a man deprived of a temporary interest? What if he saw her at the ball and felt nothing but embarrassment at her presumption?
Stop,she told herself firmly.You have made your choice. Doubt will not assist you.
She rose, washed, and dressed in her grey morning gown. The silver dress hung in her wardrobe like a promise, or a threat, waiting for the evening.
Helena arrived shortly after breakfast, and the preparations began in earnest.
The final fitting was quickly accomplished; the gown fit perfectly, thanks to Helena’s skilled alterations. Then came the question of hair—which, Helena insisted, must be arrangedsimply yet elegantly, without the elaborate curls and decorations favoured by the younger ladies.
“You are not attempting to compete with them,” Helena said, experimenting with pins and combs. “You are seeking to distinguish yourself. Simplicity will serve you better than ostentation.”
“Will it not seem plain? Beside the others?”
“It will seem confident—as though you have no need of ornament to draw the eye.” Helena met her gaze in the small mirror. “Remember, Miss Ashwood—every woman at that ball will be performing. They will strive to appear effortlessly charming, gracefully accomplished, perfectly suited to the role of duchess. You will not perform. You will simply be yourself. That is your advantage.”
“Being myself has not been much of an advantage of late.”
“Because you were yourself in circumstances designed to diminish you. Tonight, you will be yourself in circumstances meant to illuminate you. There is a difference.”
The hours crept by. Helena left to see to several matters, with the assurance that she would be back before they were due to depart. Cecilia found herself alone, with nothing to do but wait—and think.
She tried to read, but the words blurred. She tried to walk in the garden, but the cold sent her back indoors. She tried to eat the luncheon sent up to her room, but her stomach refused it.
At last, she simply sat by the window and watched the day wear on, her fate drawing ever nearer.
When Helena returned at last, she spoke only a few words.
