“I am glad you are finally considering it.”
Still, a nagging feeling remained at the back of her head, making her wonder if she had made a mistake—that what was going on in the West Tower was bigger than what she could imagine.
Chapter 19
The grand dining hall had never felt quite so large before.
The vaulted ceilings felt higher, and the mahogany table seemed to stretch, pushing the hosts’ seats farther apart. It was almost as if Juliana were feeling what Marta might be feeling. She had gained a different insight into life by spending time with her sister-in-law in her private space.
She smoothed her skirts and tried to calm the anxious flutter in her chest. She thought she would not feel this way, but she was anxious for two reasons. First, she wanted Marta to see the value of being downstairs. Second, she wondered what Cassian would think when he found out.
I am sure he would be proud to see his sister so happy and improved.
“You look like you are about to choke on air, dear,” the Dowager Duchess cheerfully commented.
Anabelle Cavendish sat as straight as ever at the far end of the table. She held her spectacles to help her inspect her grandson’s wife.
Could that be pity in her eyes, slightly disguised by the reflection in her spectacles?
“I am merely expectant, Your Grace,” Juliana replied, her eyes on the doorway.
“You sure are.” Anabelle Cavendish set down her spectacles and reached for her wine. “So was I, the first time I attempted to persuade Marta to leave that tower. I was expectant for approximately four months before I accepted that the girl would come down in her own time.” She paused. “Or not at all.”
“She will come,” Juliana said, with more certainty than she felt.
The Dowager said nothing, which was, Juliana had learned, her particular manner of expressing doubt.
Juliana thought of Marta upstairs, standing in front of her mirror in the purple silk gown they had chosen together that afternoon, breathing carefully the way Juliana had shown her, counting to four on the inhale and four on the exhale.
She thought of the past week; of the garden excursions taken in the early-morning quiet, of Marta’s face turned toward the pale winter sun, of how she had grown a little more solid with each passing day.
The servants were requested to stay in their quarters for at least a couple of hours while the family dined with Marta. Juliana did not want prying eyes on her sister-in-law’s first attempts at reintegrating with the family.
Then, they heard a soft shuffling in the hall.
Both women looked up.
Marta appeared in the doorway in her purple silk, and for a moment she simply stood there, taking in the candlelit room, the table, and the two faces turned toward her. Juliana watched her chest rise and fall with a breath that was slightly too deliberate. Marta’s chin was up, but her eyes moved carefully around the room, as if assessing the distance to the nearest exit.
“I am here,” she whispered. “I have managednotto transform into salt.”
“I can see that,” Juliana teased. A prickling feeling lingered. “If that had happened, we would have had to hide you from Cook.”
“Yes. I would be undoubtedly useful in the kitchens in that scenario.”
Marta laughed appreciatively as she glided toward them. Juliana noticed the change in pace. She realized that Cassian’s sister was more graceful than she would have anyone know, but her fear of going beyond the West Tower had repressed other facets of her. Outside her hiding place, she was a duke’s sister through and through. A lady.
“You are so beautiful,” Juliana gushed, her emotions brimming. She felt proud of her sister-in-law for fighting her fears. She was proud of her own part in it, being able to coax a young woman out of years of hiding.
“Thank you,” Marta said softly, a grin forming on her face.
The dowager said nothing at all, but her eyes were bright, and she applied herself to her wine with somewhat more attention than the vintage warranted.
For the first hour, everything was better than Juliana had dared hope.
Marta ate with appetite, laughed at Juliana’s account of her first attempts at shooting a pistol, and even contributed a story of her own about Cassian at fifteen, which had both women in stitches and the dowager pressing her lips together against a smile she clearly felt was beneath her dignity. The color in Marta’s cheeks deepened. Her shoulders dropped a fraction from their careful set.
She was so absorbed in watching Marta that she almost missed the sound of a cane tapping the floor.
