"Thank you," he said. "That's... kind of you to say."
"I'm not kind. I'm merely stating a fact."
"Of course. Forgive me for suggesting otherwise."
The carriage hit a particularly deep rut, jolting them both. Harriet reached out instinctively to steady herself and found her hand closing around the edge of the seat, inches from Sebastian's knee.
She pulled back quickly. Too quickly, perhaps Sebastian's eyebrow rose slightly, though he said nothing.
"Tell me about your mother," he said, breaking the awkward moment. "You said she was unwell. What exactly did her letter say?"
Harriet hesitated. It felt strange to share her worry with Sebastian, of all people. But the alternative was returning to silence, and she found she didn't want that.
"She said she was 'somewhat unwell,'" Harriet said. "Which, knowing my mother, could mean anything from a mild cold to a serious illness. She has a tendency to understate her difficulties."
"A family trait, I suspect."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Merely that the Fordshire women are not known for admitting weakness. I remember your mother once hosting a dinner party with a broken wrist, because she refused to cancel and inconvenience her guests."
"That was years ago. How do you remember that?"
"I remember many things." Sebastian's voice was neutral, but something in his eyes made Harriet's breath catch. "Your family was... important to me. To Richard. By extension, to me as well."
By extension. Such a careful phrase. Such a deliberate distancing.
"You speak as though you've lost us," Harriet said. "As though Richard's death severed some connection."
"Didn't it?"
"My mother writes to you. You said so yourself."
"Your mother is gracious. But I am under no illusions about my standing with the rest of the family." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was quieter. "I know you blame me, Lady Harriet. For various things. Some of them perhaps justified, others..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The point is, I would not presume to consider myself part of your family's circle. Not anymore."
"I don't…" Harriet stopped, unsure what she meant to say.I don't blame you? But she did, didn't she? She had for years. Thepoetry, the laugh, the humiliation, it was all still there, a weight she carried without thinking about it.
Except now she was thinking about it. Now she was looking at Sebastian Vane and seeing not the villain of her imagination but a man who had lost his closest friend and been pushed away by that friend's family. A man who still carried grief like a stone in his chest, who couldn't sleep at night, who spoke of regrets in the darkness and then pretended in the morning that nothing had been said.
"Perhaps," she said slowly, "I have been too quick to judge."
Sebastian's expression flickered surprise, quickly masked. "Have you?"
"I'm not certain. But I'm... willing to consider the possibility."
It was not an apology. It was not forgiveness. But it was something…a crack in the wall she had built, letting in the smallest sliver of light.
Sebastian studied her for a long moment, as though trying to determine whether she was sincere. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to satisfy him.
"That's more than I expected," he said quietly. "Thank you."
They rode on in silence, but it was a different silence now less hostile, more thoughtful. Harriet watched the countryside pass and wondered what she had just set in motion.
They arrived at Fordshire Park shortly before noon.
The house rose up from its surrounding gardens like an old friend, its familiar red brick and white trim a sight that never failed to make Harriet's heart lift. She had grown up here, played in these gardens, hidden in the library alcove to read when she should have been practicing her needlework. Whatever had changed in her life, and much had changed,Fordshire Park remained constant.
But as the carriage rolled up the drive, Harriet noticed something strange. There were no servants visible in the grounds, no signs of the usual bustle that accompanied daily life on a country estate. The house looked... quiet. Too quiet.
