She was home.
***
The first week at Ashworth passed in a blur of new experiences.
Cecilia learned the layout of the house—or began to learn it, at least. The place was so vast that she still lost her way from time to time, taking a wrong turning and finding herself in unfamiliar corridors. The servants were patient with her confusion, gently redirecting her whenever she wandered astray.
She met the housekeeper, Mrs Bennett, a formidable woman who ruled the household with quiet, military precision. She met the cook, the head gardener, the stable-master, the scores of maids and footmen and skilled staff who kept Ashworth functioning. Each introduction came with a curtsey or a bow, a murmured “Miss Ashwood” that would, before long, become “Your Grace.”
It was overwhelming. It was wonderful. It was terrifying.
“You are doing well,” the Dowager observed on the fourth day, when she found Cecilia reviewing the household accounts with Mrs Bennett. “Better than I expected, frankly.”
“I managed accounts at Thornfield for years. The scale is different, but the principles are the same.”
“The scale is considerably different. Ashworth’s household budget could run a small country.” The Dowager settled into a nearby chair, watching as Cecilia made notes in the ledger. “But you are correct that the principles remain constant. Income, expenditure, balance. It is simply mathematics.”
“Mathematics I understand. It is the rest of it that confuses me.”
“The rest of it?”
Cecilia set down her quill, searching for the words. “The servants defer to me. They ask my opinion, wait upon my decisions. But I do not yet know what decisions to make. I do not know how things are done here—what traditions exist, what expectations I am meant to fulfil.”
“You are not meant to know. You have been here four days.” The Dowager’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “No one anticipates a perfect duchess overnight. There will be time to learn—years, in fact. For the present, observe. Ask questions. Make mistakes, and learn from them.”
“What if I make mistakes that cannot be undone?”
“Then you will manage the consequences, as one does with any mistake.” The Dowager leaned forward slightly. “My dear. You have survived five years of being dismissed and overlooked, and treated as though you did not matter. That required intelligence, resilience, and an extraordinary capacity for adaptation. Those same qualities will serve you here.”
“But this is so different—”
“You know how to manage a household. You know how to navigate difficult personalities. You know how to solve problems and make decisions and carry on when things do not go as planned.” The Dowager paused. “The only thing you do not know is how to believe in yourself. And that, I am afraid, is something no one can teach you. You must learn it on your own.”
Cecilia absorbed this in silence. The Dowager was right—she knew she was capable, had proved it countless times over the past five years. But knowing and believing were different things, and the latter remained stubbornly out of reach.
“I am trying,” she said at last.
“I know you are. And you are succeeding, whether you perceive it or not.” The Dowager rose, preparing to depart.“Continue with the accounts. Mrs Bennett speaks highly of your organisational abilities.”
“She does?”
“She told me this morning that you had identified three areas of unnecessary expenditure and proposed sensible corrections. She was impressed—and Mrs Bennett is not easily impressed.”
A warm glow of pride stirred in Cecilia’s chest. It was a small thing, perhaps—discovering inefficiencies in a household budget—but it was something she had done well. Something that had been valued.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
The Dowager’s lips twitched—almost a smile. “Carry on, Miss Ashwood. You are doing better than you know.”
Chapter Eighteen
The rumours reached Ashworth on the seventh day.
Cecilia was in the morning room, writing letters—correspondence that still felt strange, as though she were borrowing a life that did not yet belong to her—when Sebastian appeared in the doorway, his expression thunderous.
“What is it?” she asked, setting down her pen.
He crossed the room and held out a letter. “This came from London. From Lord Jones—an old friend of my father’s, and a man whose opinion carries regrettable influence.”
