The world would return soon enough. There would be duties and decisions, households and estates to manage, society to face and futures to shape.
But for now, there was only this: two people who had chosen one another, holding fast to what they had found.
It was, Cecilia thought, more than enough.
It was everything.
Later that day, she would write a letter.
Not to Lady Ashwood—that chapter was closed, the settlement concluded, the retractions issued. Not to Georgiana, though she hoped that time might one day soften what had been broken.
This letter was for someone else entirely.
Dear Dorothea,
I write to thank you for the kindness you showed me during a difficult period. Your letter, sent after my return to Thornfield, meant more than I can adequately express. At a moment when I felt quite alone, it reminded me that I had not been wholly forgotten.
I am married now. The ceremony took place yesterday at the chapel at Ashworth Hall. It was small, but very beautiful, and Sebastian and I are exceedingly happy, despite all that preceded our union.
I wish you to know that I bear no ill will toward you or your sister. Whatever mistakes your mother has made, they are not yours. Should you ever require assistance—or should you simply wish to renew our acquaintance—I hope you will not hesitate to write.
With affection,
Cecilia Ashworth
Epilogue
One Year and Some Months Later
The library at Ashworth Hall was, in Cecilia’s considered opinion, the finest room in the entire estate.
It was not the largest—that distinction belonged to the great hall, with its soaring ceilings and ancient tapestries. Nor was it the most elegant; the formal drawing room, with its gilded mirrors and silk-hung walls, could claim that honour. But it was the place in which Cecilia felt most entirely herself, surrounded by shelves of books that represented centuries of thought, inquiry, and accumulated knowledge.
Over the past year, she had made changes. Small ones, for the most part: a more comfortable chair by the window, improved lighting for the darker corners, a system of organisation that suited her own mind rather than the obscure logic that had governed the shelves before. Sebastian had teased her about the rearrangement, claiming he could no longer locate anything at all—though she had more than once caught him smiling when he believed himself unobserved.
He was proud of her. She knew that now, in a way she had not quite trusted herself to believe at first. Proud of how she had taken hold of her new role and shaped it to fit her, rather than bending herself to meet its expectations. Proud of the duchess she had become.
It had not been easy. The early months had been a continual struggle against old instincts—the urge to defer, to diminish herself, to apologise for occupying space. Years of invisibility left their marks, and unlearning those habits required deliberate, daily effort.
But she had done it. Or was still doing it, at least—the work was never truly complete. She no longer flinched when servantsaddressed her asYour Grace. No longer felt like an imposter when she made decisions for the household or the estate. No longer waited for someone to discover the error and send her back to her former, grey existence.
She belonged here. This was her home—her life, her place in the world.
And in approximately five months’ time, she would bring a new life into it.
Her hand drifted to her abdomen, still flat beneath the soft muslin of her morning dress. It was far too early for outward signs, too early for anyone to know save Sebastian and the physician who had confirmed her suspicions. Yet she had known—had known for weeks, even before the confirmation. Her body had begun its quiet work, preparing itself for what lay ahead.
She was frightened. She was joyful. She was a complicated mingling of both, her emotions shifting with unsettling unpredictability.
Sebastian had wept when she told him. True tears, sliding unchecked down his face as he held her and murmured words she could scarcely make out. He had tried so carefully never to make her feel that her worth lay in producing an heir, and she had loved him all the more for that.
Now they would have one. And perhaps, in time, more. A family of their own, founded upon affection rather than obligation.
It was more than she had ever dared to hope for.
A knock at the library door broke her reverie.
“Come in,” she called, straightening in her chair.
