The Dowager received their account with cool satisfaction, declaring the outcome “civilised, if rather more generous than deserved.” Mr Hartley was instructed to draft the terms of repayment; letters were dispatched to those who had heard Lady Ashwood’s falsehoods, anticipating her retractions and replacing rumour with truth.
And for the first time since the whispers had begun, Cecilia slept without dreams.
The days that followed passed in renewed tranquillity. Wedding preparations resumed—fittings, menus, flowers, a hundred small decisions that no longer felt oppressive. Withthe shadow lifted, Cecilia found she could take pleasure in the arrangements.
She was to be married. In less than a fortnight. To a man who loved her, in a house that was becoming home.
It still felt impossible. But she was learning to believe it.
***
Helena found her in the library three days before the wedding.
Cecilia had fled there for a brief respite from the pleasant chaos of final arrangements—the Dowager’s quiet authority, the servants’ bustling efficiency, the ceaseless procession of choices to be made. The library, as always, was peace.
“I thought I might discover you here,” Helena said, taking a nearby chair.
“I needed a moment of quiet. The house appears to have gone slightly mad.”
“Weddings have that effect. Even modest ones.” Helena hesitated, then drew a breath. “I wished to tell you something—before everything becomes too busy for privacy.”
“What is it?”
“I spoke to Daniel. To Mr Reeve.” Her voice was composed, but the emotion beneath it was unmistakable. “I told him the truth—everything I had been concealing for years.”
“Helena—what did he say?”
“He said—” Helena’s composure broke into a trembling smile. “He said he felt the same. He had been silent because he believed I would never consider a man in his position. He had resigned himself to admiring me from a distance.”
“Oh, Helena…”
“We have spoken with the Dowager. She has expressed—” Helena gave a small laugh—“no objection, which, as you know, is the nearest she comes to approbation. We are to be marriedonce your wedding is concluded and matters are settled. Quietly. Without display.”
Cecilia rose and embraced her—this woman who had become friend, ally, and mirror.
“I am so glad for you,” she said. “You deserve to be seen.”
“And so do you.” Helena wiped at her eyes. “You taught me that—by example. Watching you gather the courage to reach for happiness made me believe I might do the same.”
“I learned from you as well,” Cecilia replied. “For you treated my concerns as worthy of notice—worthy of the effort of aid.”
“We helped one another.” Helena smiled. “Perhaps that is what women in our position must do—lend each other a hand when few else will.”
***
The eve of the wedding dawned clear and cold.
Cecilia stood in her room—hers for one more night only, before she moved to the duchess’s suite—and tried to comprehend the change that tomorrow would bring.
Tomorrow, she would walk the aisle of the Ashworth chapel.
Tomorrow, she would speak vows that would bind her to Sebastian all her life.
Tomorrow, she would become a duchess.
Her wedding gown hung ready: ivory silk, simple and elegant, designed to honour rather than transform her. At the Dowager’s insistence, the finest modiste in London had crafted it; the result was dignity made visible.
Her mother’s pearls lay on the dressing table, newly restrung and whole, waiting to be worn again.
