The carriage turned, and Fairholme Park came into view—blazing with light against the evening sky, every window bright, music drifting across the grounds like a promise.
Cecilia’s breath caught.
“Remember,” Helena murmured. “You are not invisible. You have never been invisible. You have merely been hidden. Tonight, you step out of the shadow.”
The carriage halted. A footman opened the door, offering his hand.
Cecilia drew a breath. Straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin.
Then she stepped toward the light.
***
The entrance hall of Fairholme Park was crowded with arriving guests—a swirl of silk and jewels and elaborately arranged hair. Footmen moved through the crush, collecting cloaks and directing visitors toward the ballroom. The air hummed with conversation and excitement, the vibrant stir of a gathering at its height.
Cecilia stood just inside the doorway, momentarily overwhelmed by the noise and colour and sheer number of people pressing around her. This was not how she had entered Fairholme before—invisible, unremarked. Now, she was amid the throng of fashionable guests, as one meant to be seen.
She felt like an imposter.
“Miss Ashwood.”
The Dowager Duchess materialised beside her, resplendent in deep purple silk, her expression unreadable. Helena hadmelted away somewhere, leaving Cecilia alone to face her benefactress—her examiner—her judge.
“Your Grace.”
“You look well.” The Dowager’s eyes swept over her, assessing every detail of dress and hair and posture. “The gown suits you.”
“Thank you. For the gown, and for... for everything.”
“Do not thank me yet. The evening has barely begun.” The Dowager took her arm with a familiarity that surprised Cecilia. “Come. We will enter the ballroom together.”
“Together?”
“I told you I meant to make a statement. Allow me to make it plain.” The Dowager’s grip tightened, firm and guiding. “Walk beside me, Miss Ashwood. Hold up your head. Whatever happens, do not show fear.”
They advanced through the entrance hall, the crowd parting before the Dowager like water before a prow. Cecilia felt eyes upon her—curious, assessing, incredulous—striving to place her, to understand why the Dowager Duchess should be escorting an unfamiliar woman with such deliberate intention.
The whispers began at once.
“Who is that with the Dowager?”
“I do not recognise her—”
“Is that the Ashwood cousin? The one who—”
“Impossible. She was sent away—”
“But look at her gown. That is no poor relation’s dress—”
The Dowager ignored them, sweeping forward with serene authority. Cecilia matched her stride as best she could, schooling her features, refusing to betray the terror churning within her.
They reached the entrance to the ballroom.
And there—standing just inside the doors—were the Ashwoods.
Lady Ashwood saw her first. Her face went pale—then flushed scarlet—then drained of colour again, a rapid succession of shock and fury that might almost have been comical in another setting.
“What—” she sputtered. “How dare you—you were instructed to remain at Thornfield—”
