“I hated you,” she repeated. “And yet… I understood. For the first time, I understood why he chose you.”
Cecilia said nothing.
“You are real,” Georgiana went on. “You don’t perform. You don’t arrange yourself into whatever shape will please the room. You argue. You refuse to flatter. You are—” she broke off, searching for the word, “—yourself.”
“I have never believed that to be an advantage in society.”
“It isn’t,” Georgiana said bleakly. “But for him—it was everything.”
Silence settled between them—fragile, not hostile.
“I came to say that I am sorry,” Georgiana said at last, her composure crumbling. “For the things I said. For pretending you did not exist unless I needed you. For helping Mama make you small.”
Cecilia stared at her, astonished.
“I do not expect forgiveness,” Georgiana continued. “But I wanted you to know that I see it now. What we did. What it cost you.”
“What changed?” Cecilia asked quietly.
“Losing,” Georgiana said, with a thin, watery smile. “Losing something I wanted, and realising I had never once stopped to wonder whether you wanted anything at all.”
She drew a breath.
“I hope… I hope he makes you happy.”
Cecilia’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”
A silence stretched between them—fragile, tentative. Then Cecilia spoke again.
“I forgive you.”
Georgiana blinked. “You do?”
“I do. Not because what happened was acceptable, but because holding on to anger will not help either of us.” Shetouched her cousin’s arm, light but deliberate. “I hope you find what you are looking for, Georgiana. I hope you find someone who sees you as clearly as Sebastian sees me.”
“I do not even know who I am when I am not performing.”
“Then perhaps,” Cecilia said gently, “that is where you should begin.”
For a heartbeat, Georgiana stood very still. Then, unexpectedly, she stepped forward and embraced her—a brief, awkward hug that ended as quickly as it began.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For not hating me.”
“I never hated you. I was angry—hurt—but I never hated you.”
“That is more than I deserve.”
“Perhaps. But it is what I offer.”
A tremulous smile touched Georgiana’s lips—the first real expression Cecilia had seen from her in years.
“Good-bye, Cecilia. Be happy with your duke.”
“Good-bye, Georgiana. Be happy with yourself.”
Her cousin turned and crossed the gravel sweep to the waiting carriage. Cecilia watched as it rolled down the drive, carrying the Ashwoods away from Fairholme—and from her—for the last time.
She felt no triumph. Only a quiet sense of completion, as though a door had closed and another stood waiting to be opened.
