“It is precisely what occurred.” Her voice remained calm, but something long-suppressed stirred beneath it. “I dressed your daughter’s hair. I balanced your accounts. I instructed your children. I performed the work of three servants, unpaid, while being reminded, continually, that I ought to be grateful.”
“You had a roof over your head—”
“I had a small room on the upper floor, cold in winter and stifling in summer. I had cast-off gowns in unrelenting grey, lest I mistake myself for anything more than useful. I dined with the family only when it suited you—and with the servants when it did not.” She drew a steady breath. “I had invisibility, Aunt. Five years of it.”
Lady Ashwood’s mouth tightened. “You were provided for—”
“I was used,” Cecilia said—gently, but with unmistakable finality. “There is a difference.”
She rose, her hands trembling but her voice unwavering.
“I will not pretend gratitude for treatment I did not deserve. I will not apologise for accepting affection when it was offered—for allowing myself to be seen, when you preferred me unseen.”
Shock flickered across Lady Ashwood’s face. In five years, Cecilia had never spoken to her like this. Had never been permitted to.
“You forget yourself,” Lady Ashwood said—but the words lacked conviction. “You forget what you owe—”
“I owe you nothing,” Cecilia replied. “Whatever debt you believe existed has long since been repaid—in labour, silence, and dignity surrendered.”
She paused. Her voice gentled.
“I wish you and your family well. I hope Georgiana finds happiness. But I will not pretend my years under your governance were anything other than what they were.”
She turned to the Dowager. “If there is nothing further, Your Grace—I believe this conversation is concluded.”
The Dowager inclined her head, faint approval in her eyes. “Indeed. Lady Ashwood—your carriage awaits.”
Lady Ashwood rose, stiff with humiliation. She reached the door, then hesitated—looking back.
“You imagine you have won,” she said quietly. “But society remembers. They will never forget who you were—or where you came from. You will always be the poor relation who caught a duke.”
“Perhaps,” Cecilia replied calmly. “But I shall be content. Can you say the same?”
Lady Ashwood did not answer.
She left.
***
Georgiana was waiting in the entrance hall.
Cecilia had not expected to see her again. But there she stood—bonnet in hand, travel cloak fastened, eyes shadowed in a way Cecilia had never seen before.
“Cecilia,” she said. “May I speak with you? Alone.”
Helena, who lingered nearby, withdrew without a word.
“What is it?” Cecilia asked.
Georgiana was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was low, unsteady.
“I hated you last night,” she said. “When you walked into the ballroom—when everyone stared.” She gave a brittle laugh. “I hated you more than I have ever hated anyone.”
“I know,” Cecilia said softly.
“Do you?” Georgiana’s eyes flashed. “Do you know what it is to do everything right—to be everything you were taught to be—and discover it was never enough? That he did not want any of it?”
She swallowed.
