She didn’t wait to see if he had anything more to say. Quickly, she rose to her feet and walked out of the room, hurt by the dismissal. As much as she understood where Valentine was coming from, she disliked the fact that he didn’t hear her side.
By the time she reached her chambers, she was panting, saddled with frustration. She muttered under her breath as she pulled her shawl off, tossed it across the foot of the bed, and made her way to the dressing table to take off her jewelry.
But then, just as she was about to sit, something caught her eye. A book lay atop her dressing table. Slim, bound in worn leather, with edges softened by age. She frowned, stepping forward to pick it up.
The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes.
Cecilia gasped and stared at it for a moment, confused, before the knock came at the door.
“Come in,” she called, distracted.
Gladis walked into the room, arms full of fresh linen. “Shall I help you prepare for bed, Your Grace?”
“No, not yet,” she mumbled, still holding the book. “Did someone bring this? Who put this here? Miss Flaxman?”
Gladis took a peek at the book in Cecilia’s hand and shook her head. “His Grace came by earlier. He left it there for you.”
Cecilia gasped again and turned back to look at the book. Her fingers traced the faded gilt title, the corner of her mouth lifting before she could stop it.
The sight of it tugged something deep within her. Something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long while. She remembered the first time she held a copy like it, years ago. How she had to hide to read it because it was not an authorized book by her governess. How her mother would search for her all over the estate, wondering where she had gone. It hadn’t been part of the library collection, just something forgotten and dog-eared, left behind by a maid. But she had loved it.
Tears welled in Cecilia’s eyes before she could blink them away. She pressed her fingers briefly to her mouth, laughing and crying at the same time.
He had no way of knowing, she thought. No way of knowing what this book meant to her. She was surprised – stunned, even – that he would do this. That Valentine, of all people, would search for and get her the book she was looking for. This was the same man who had railed against it, who had all but scoffed at her for suggesting it was worth Abigail’s time.
She wondered, with a thrum beneath her ribs, if perhaps she had weakened something in him, loosened the edges of those towering walls he always kept between them. The thought sent a strange little shiver up her spine.
Her fingers closed around the book at last, and she drew it to her chest. For some reason, she could not stop smiling. Perhaps, time was slowly easing the tension between them.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, the book still pressed against her chest, for a moment before she opened it. The pages were yellowed with time, the ink slightly faded, but the charm was intact.
Cecilia read it once, smiling at the parts she remembered. She went over it slowly, then lay down on the bed to read it all over again, even more slowly the second time, tracing each sentence as though she were reliving a memory. The story transported her, not just back to childhood, but to a time when she had no responsibilities other than to learn her musical instruments, learn etiquette, and dances.
By the time she looked up, the candle had burned low and the room was steeped in that hush of midnight stillness. Her eyes prickled with sleep, and yet her limbs wouldn’t obey the urge to rest. Not just yet. She was too excited to sleep.
She stood, clutching the book to her chest again as she made her way back out of her room, tiptoeing so she didn’t make too much noise.
She had stormed out of his study with wounded pride, but now, after Valentine’s thoughtful gift, it felt wrong to let the night end without saying something.
Without thanking him.
She slipped her shawl over her shoulders and stepped out into the dim corridor, the house quiet around her. The book may have been meant for Abigail, but it still felt good that he at least listened for once. Perhaps, he wasn’t as rigid as she thought he was.
She only hoped he was still awake.
Cecilia padded quietly toward Valentine’s chambers, the book held close in one hand, the other tugging her shawl tighter around her. She hesitated at the door, unsure if she should knock. It was late, and knocking might attract more attention than necessary. So instead, she checked to see if the door was open by twisting the knob, and when it gave way, she smiled and took a step inside. Her eyes caught the faint glow slipping through the crack she had opened. It was not light from the full moon. Given that there was no candlelight on, Cecilia guessed that Valentine was asleep.
Still, she tiptoed inside, just to be certain. At first glance, it seemed still, as though he had already gone to sleep. But as she stepped closer, she froze. There was a sound coming from him. A low murmur.
He lay on his side, covers half-twisted, his brow damp with sweat. His lips moved faintly, unintelligible words slipping from them as if caught in a fevered dream.
Alarmed, Cecilia crossed the room quickly, setting the book down without thought. She knelt beside the bed, leaning overhim. “Your Grace?” she whispered, reaching to press the back of her hand against his forehead.
“Good heavens,” she breathed, panic rising in her chest. “I thought you said you were tired? This is…you’re hot!”
She started to stand, meaning to call for help, but his hand shot up and grasped her wrist with surprising strength.
“Don’t,” he muttered hoarsely, eyes fluttering open. “Don’t leave.”
