Chapter Three
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
Lady Ashwood’s voice had reached that particular pitch which indicated she was, in fact, entirely serious—and deeply offended that anyone might suggest otherwise. Cecilia, who had been summoned to the drawing room in the middle of the afternoon without explanation, stood very still and attempted to look appropriately attentive.
“I am perfectly serious, Horace. My sister may be dying. I cannot ignore such a summons merely for the sake of a house party.”
Horace Ashwood, who had been attempting to read his newspaper in peace, lowered it with the air of a man long resigned to domestic upheaval. “No one is suggesting you ignore your sister, my dear. I am merely observing that the timing is… inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient! My sister is ill—possibly fatally—and you speak of inconvenience!”
“You said she had a fever. A fever is not necessarily fatal.”
“Her letter said she fears she may not recover. Those were her exact words. ‘I fear I may not recover.’ What would you have me do—ignore such a plea? Abandon my only sister in her hour of need?”
Cecilia had read the letter herself, having collected it from the post. Mrs Thornton’s missive had indeed mentioned illness and had indeed expressed concern about recovery, but the general tone had suggested melodrama rather than mortality. Mrs Thornton was, by all accounts, very much her sister’s equal in the art of theatrical suffering.
Even so, affection was affection, and beneath the performance, Lady Ashwood’s anxiety appeared genuine. Shedid love her sister, Cecilia conceded—albeit chiefly through competitive comparisons of their respective ailments.
“What do you propose, then?” Horace asked, with the weary patience of a man who already knew he had lost whatever argument was to follow.
“I must go to Bath immediately. Tomorrow, if possible. But Georgiana cannot miss Lady Marchmont’s party—not with the Duke of Ashworth in attendance. The opportunity is too important.”
“Then take her with you to Bath.”
“To a sickroom? With my sister potentially contagious? Do not be absurd.”
“Then what—”
“You must take the girls to Kent yourself. You are perfectly capable of chaperoning, Horace, despite your apparent belief to the contrary. I shall join you as soon as my sister’s condition permits.” Lady Ashwood paused, her eyes narrowing in sudden calculation. “Although…”
Cecilia felt her spine stiffen. She knew that expression. It never heralded anything good.
“Although what, my dear?”
“You are not, strictly speaking, adept at managing the girls’ social presentation. Georgiana will require assistance with her hair, her gowns, and her general comportment. Someone must ensure she makes the proper impression. And Dorothea, though not yet out, must still be supervised. You cannot be expected to manage all that while maintaining suitable conversation with the other gentlemen.”
“Then we shall bring a lady’s maid.”
“A lady’s maid is not sufficient. Georgiana requires someone who can advise her on matters of etiquette—someone who understands society’s expectations.” Lady Ashwood’s gazeswung to Cecilia like a cannon settling upon its target. “Cecilia will accompany you.”
The words fell into the quiet room with the force of a thunderclap. Cecilia felt the colour drain from her face, only to return in a confusing rush of—what? Startlement? Apprehension? A flicker of impossible, treacherous anticipation?
“Me?” she managed.
“Yes, you. You were raised properly, whatever your present circumstances. You understand how to behave in polite company. You may ensure Georgiana’s gowns are pressed, her hair suitably arranged, and her conduct does not stray into anything unsuitable.”
“But—”
“You will remain in the background, of course. You are not there to participate in the social events; you are there to assist. Think of yourself as… an elevated lady’s maid, if that helps. Your presence should be invisible, but useful.”
Invisible but useful.The phrase was so perfectly descriptive of Cecilia’s entire existence that she very nearly laughed. Nearly.
“I have nothing appropriate to wear,” she said instead—because it was a practical objection, and practical objections were safer than emotional ones.
“You are not there to be seen, so what you wear is irrelevant. Your grey muslin will do very well for daytime duties. For the evenings, you will remain in your room. Georgiana will not require you once she is dressed for dinner.”
“And who will manage the household here? You said yourself—”
