Giving her one last pat on the back, Emma turned and left the room. Once alone, Cecilia threw herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She tried as much as possible to gather her scattered thoughts, but nothing was working, so instead, she rose to her feet to get prepared for the day. Emma was right. Thinking about the situation over and over again did nothing to help.
It took her longer than usual to get ready for the day, but when she was finally dressed, in a deep purple straight gown that complemented the soft waves of her chestnut hair, she made her way downstairs to the morning room.
Just as Cecilia entered the morning room, the heavy silence was broken by Marianne’s voice. “Well, I cannot say I’m glad you came to visit, Howard,” she stated. “That would be a lie, and I may be many things, but a liar I am not.”
Cecilia hesitated for a moment, contemplating if it was best to go anywhere near Marianne at that time. But she had not heard anything about Lucy since the night before, and she needed to know. So, summoning the little courage she had, she stepped forward until she was just within earshot.
“Aunt Marianne,” she began softly. “Has Lucy come down yet this morning?”
Marianne’s eyes flicked past Cecilia, as if she hadn’t heard the question at all. Instead, she turned her attention to Howard again and straightened her already stiff shoulders.
“You mustn’t expect me at the wedding, Howard,” she said crisply, her chin rising ever so slightly. “I daresay my absence should be expected, for obvious reasons.”
“Aunt Marianne, surely, you still don’t think we orchestrated the entire thing?” Cecilia tried again, stepping forward, her voice gentler now, almost pleading.
Marianne did not spare her even a glance.
“Congratulations on your condition, Emma,” Marianne said, turning toward Emma instead. A tight smile formed on her lips as she stared at Emma’s stomach. “The first child is always the most bewildering, I find. I had Lucy and promptly decided I had done enough for the Crampton line.”
Emma, caught off guard, placed a hand on her small but discernible bump. “Oh, thank you,” she said carefully. “But this is actually our second.”
Marianne paused, and her smile vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. “Ah,” she said, in a tone so clipped it may as well have been a dismissal. “Well. Farewell, then.”
With that, she turned on her heel and strutted out of the room, leaving the scent of rosewater and awkward silence in her wake.
“You don’t reckon I could go upstairs quickly and try to talk to Lucy?” Cecilia asked Emma.
Emma looked at her with sympathy written across her face, then slowly shook her head. “No, my dear. Best give her time, Cecilia. Anything said now will only be like salt in a wound that hasn’t even begun to scab over.”
“We need to leave,” he said briskly. “Frankly, I cannot bear to see Marianne’s face one more time, and if we’re to reach London before dark, we must be on the road within the hour.”
“Of course,” Cecilia murmured, even as the words felt foreign on her tongue.
“Also, Cecilia,” he added, turning to face her squarely. “You and I will have a long conversation about all that transpired here. Your recklessness and stubbornness. I expected better from you.Knowing how fragile the relationship we have with your aunt is, you should have been extraordinarily careful.”
“Of course, Papa,” she repeated.
She followed Emma and Howard out of the room with slumped shoulders. Everything felt too sudden, as though she were caught in someone else’s dream. Only yesterday, she’d been a guest at Lucy’s wedding. Now, she was the bride-to-be, returning to London not for respite, but to prepare for a future she hadn’t asked for and wasn’t certain she was ready to embrace.
The carriage ride home passed in a haze.
Cecilia sat pressed against the window, her hands resting limply in her lap and her gaze fixed on the ever-changing blur of the countryside. She did not speak. Neither did her father. Even Emma, who usually had something warm to offer, kept to herself, perhaps sensing her need for silence more than solace.
Fields turned to hedgerows, hedgerows to town roads. Trees fell away into cobblestones, and the rhythm of the countryside gave way to the sharper sounds of London. Carriage wheels clattering, street vendors calling, and the distant clang of church bells. But it all passed by Cecilia in fragments. She was too far inside her own head, tangled in thoughts that looped endlessly, asking questions that had no answers.
How had it all unraveled so quickly?
The sun was already dipping low when they reached home. The coach slowed before the family's house, and a footman rushed forward to lower the step and open the door.
Before her father could turn to say anything to her, Cecilia leapt from the carriage. “Good night,” she muttered quickly, and hurried up the steps with her skirts gathered in her hands. She moved as fast as she could and didn’t stop until she reached her bedchamber.
The moment her head touched the pillow, the tears came, silent at first, then fierce and unrelenting. Here, in the solitude of her own room, she could cry. At last. There was no one watching, no one urging her to be reasonable. It was just the sound of her own ragged breath and the throb of a heart that hadn’t quite settled since yesternight.
She could mourn what she had ruined and what had been taken from her. She could rage at the unfairness of it all, at herself, at the duke, at everyone. Tonight, she could weep to her heart’s content.
Because when tomorrow came, she would have to yield. She would have to oblige the people who spoke with experience, those who claimed to know better, and perhaps they did.
Perhaps, it was time to yield.
