But stories did not speak of the cost—of fear, of risk, of walking into a room that might reject you.
Stories did not speak of the single, small loss in the midst of triumph.
She touched her bare throat, aching for the familiar weight of the pearls.
I will find it,she promised herself.Tomorrow, I will find it.
At last, exhaustion claimed her, and she drifted into dreams—dreams of silver silk and grey eyes and a solitary pearl gleaming in starlight, waiting to be found.
Chapter Fourteen
Cecilia woke to unfamiliar surroundings.
For a long, disorienting moment, she did not know where she was. The ceiling above her was painted with delicate pastoral scenes—shepherdesses and lambs, improbable flowers in impossible colours. The bed beneath her was soft—far softer than anything she had slept on in years—and the sheets smelled of lavender and something else… something expensive.
Then memory returned, flooding through her like sunlight through a parted curtain.
The ball. The silver dress. Sebastian’s hand in hers. His voice asking her to dance. The announcement, the applause.
The lost pearl.
She sat up abruptly, her heart tightening with renewed anxiety. Her mother’s necklace lay on the dressing table, one pearl missing, the gap visible even from across the room.
She had to find it. She had to search the ballroom, the terrace, every inch of ground she had crossed. The pearl could not simply have vanished.
She threw back the covers and rose, ignoring the protests of muscles stiff from the previous night’s exertions. The clock on the mantel showed half past eight—later than she usually slept, though hardly unreasonable given the hour she had finally fallen into bed.
A day dress had been laid out for her—not grey, she noticed with a small shock. Soft blue, simply cut but well-made, clearly borrowed from someone’s wardrobe. Helena’s doing, no doubt. Helena thought of everything.
Cecilia dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling at the buttons in her haste. She did not trouble with elaborate arrangementsfor her hair—she merely pinned it back from her face in a practical style that would not hinder her search.
The pearl. She had to find the pearl.
She was reaching for the door when a knock sounded from the other side.
“Miss Ashwood?” Helena’s voice—calm, composed. “Are you awake?”
Cecilia opened the door to find her standing in the corridor, a tea tray balanced in her hands.
“I was about to go and search for the pearl,” Cecilia said at once.
“I thought you might be. That is why I brought tea.” Helena moved past her into the room and set the tray on a small table near the window. “You should eat first—and we should discuss our approach.”
“Approach?”
“The ballroom is being cleaned already. If the pearl fell there, a maid may have found it—or swept it away without noticing. We ought to speak to the housekeeper before you begin crawling about on the floor.”
It was sensible, practically delivered. Cecilia wanted to protest—wanted to rush downstairs and begin searching immediately—but she recognised the wisdom in Helena’s reasoning.
“Very well.” She sat, accepting the cup of tea Helena poured. “But quickly. I cannot bear waiting.”
“I understand.” Helena settled opposite her, cup in hand. “How do you feel—aside from your concern about the pearl?”
It was a question Cecilia had not permitted herself to consider. She had been too intent upon the necklace to examine anything else.
“I do not know,” she said at last. “None of it feels real. The ball, the engagement… the fact that I am sitting here in aborrowed dress, drinking tea in a guest room at Fairholme Park, instead of moving quietly about Thornfield, doing my duties and trying not to be noticed.”
“It is real. I assure you.”
