Isadora did not answer immediately.
Because…
The thought began and failed to form, which was deeply inconvenient.
Because he—Because she is—Because?—
“She might like Violet,” Cecily added, breaking the silence.
Isadora blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Caroline.” Cecily turned slightly. “You said she was cold and she would treat Violet as an inconvenience. But you could be wrong about that.” She pressed her lips together. “Caroline Pembley might walk through the nursery door and immediately love thatchild. She might be genuinely wonderful with her. She might be exactly what Violet needs, and you would never know it from five polite conversations in various drawing rooms.”
She watched her carefully.
Isadora adjusted her shawl uncomfortably. “If that were true, if Caroline grew genuinely attached to Violet and Violet to her, then… my speaking at dinner was not a principled concern for the child.” She stopped. “It was simply—” She stopped again.
“It was simply what?” Cecily prompted softly.
“I do not know.” The admission came out quietly. “I thought I did. I thought it was about Violet, and I believe that sincerely, but you are asking me why itupsetsme, and I cannot answer you honestly and say it is only the child.” Isadora paused. “And that is precisely the problem.”
The words settled between them.
Cecily was quiet. The bird in the distance had gone silent now. The light on the horizon had deepened to amber.
“What is the difference between you and Caroline, in your mind?” Cecily asked eventually.
Isadora’s jaw tightened slightly. “What do you mean?”
“He asked you to marry him. You said no. He is now proposing to someone else.” Cecily tilted her head. “What is the difference between you and her, as far as this arrangement is concerned? If it is only practical—if there are truly no feelings in it—then one convenient wife is as good as another. You said no. You did not think about Violet. She will presumably say yes.” She met Isadora’s eyes. “So what is the difference?”
Isadora looked at the path.
What is the difference?
She turned the question over in her mind, looking for the thing underneath the thing.
“I know Violet,” she replied. “I know what she needs. I know how she sleeps and what settles her when nothing else will. I know which sounds frighten her and which do not.” She paused. “Caroline Pembley does not know any of that.”
“No,” Cecily agreed. “She does not.” A pause. “Is that the whole of it?”
“No,” Isadora sighed.
Cecily remained silent.
“I cannot tell you the whole of it,” Isadora said, “because I cannot tell it to myself yet. I only know that the thought of it—” She stopped and folded her hands tightly in her lap. “He told meit would not be romantic. He said it plainly. Any arrangement between us would be practical. Nothing more.”
“Yes,” Cecily said carefully. “That sounds like something he would say.”
“It was honest.”
“It was.”
“And I refused him on entirely reasonable grounds.” Isadora looked at her. “He is a rake. He is charming and careless with people’s hearts, and he has spent his entire adult life avoiding anything resembling real attachment. He only asked me to marry him because a solicitor told him he needed a duchess and I happened to be the most convenient candidate in the room.” She paused. “Those are not romantic grounds. Those are not any kind of grounds. I was right to say no based on what I wanted.”
“You were,” Cecily agreed.
“Then why—” Isadora broke off. “I do not understand why it matters,” she said more quietly. “I do not understand why the thought of him marrying Caroline Pembley…” She pressed her lips together. “I refused him. I should not care who he marries. I do not care.”
