Cecilia paused by the threshold and dipped a slight, proper curtsy. “Good afternoon, Aunt.”
Marianne set her cup down with a quiet clink. “Is it?” she asked coolly, then lifted one perfectly arched brow. “You’ve brought carriages and crests and fine Ashbourne manners to remind me that you married well, I see.”
Cecilia stepped further in, ignoring the bait. “I had hoped to see Lucy,” she said simply. “The maid said she wasn’t in.”
Marianne’s eyes gleamed faintly, not with warmth. “Lucy has better sense than to loiter about for those who discarded her like so much tissue.” She reached again for her tea. “Though I daresay her absence is doing you a kindness. It’s always awkward when the usurper tries to play at sisterly affection.”
Cecilia blinked, though she did not flinch. Her spine straightened, and she folded her hands gently before her. “I came to speak with you civilly. For the sake of peace.”
“Peace?” Marianne chuckled. “My dear, I had no idea we were at war.”
Cecilia didn’t sit. She remained just a few steps from the hearth, where the flicker of firelight could not soften the sharpness in her eyes.
“I know about the rumors,” she said plainly.
Marianne’s fingers paused against the rim of her teacup. “Rumors?” she repeated with a smile that never touched her eyes. “My dear, you’ll need to be far more specific. London thrives on them.”
“I’m speaking of the ones that paint the Duke of Ashbourne as a man who might have had something to do with his late wife’s death.” Cecilia’s chin lifted. “The ones that began not long after Lucy’s engagement with him ended, and curiously, only began to circulate about me after I married him instead.”
Marianne leaned back into her chair, the edge of her mouth lifting just slightly. “You think I had something to do with that?”
“I know you did, Aunty.” Cecilia’s voice didn’t waver. “You’re too smart not to have known what words would spread, and where they would settle. You wanted Lucy’s rejection of the duke to seem...just. You wanted the story rewritten so people would say that Lucy spared herself, and that I, foolishly, walked into danger.”
Marianne let out a soft, dismissive laugh, setting her teacup down with a more deliberate clink. “You give me too much credit. Or perhaps, you simply regret the marriage more than you expected.”
“I don’t regret it,” Cecilia said swiftly. “But I do regret the hurt you’ve caused. Not to me…I’ve endured that since childhood. But to him. To Abigail, his daughter. To a man who has done nothing but try to live quietly after a loss. You weaponized grief, Aunt. That’s not clever. That’s cruel.”
A glint of something cold flashed in Marianne’s gaze, but she said nothing. The silence was louder than words.
Cecilia breathed in slowly. “The reason I came here today was not to fight with you, or try to make sense of all the things you have done, and all the worry you have caused. We are hosting a dinner at the Ashbourne manor. For family. You are invited.”
Marianne blinked, obviously not expecting an invite.
“I will not beg,” Cecilia added. “Nor pretend this is easy for either of us. But you will come. For Lucy’s sake, if not your own. For once, I ask that you bring only civility to the table. Leave the knives in the kitchen. I am not saying you don’t have the right to be upset. You do. I will not take that away from you. But what can we do about all that has happened now? It’s already happened!”
Marianne sat stiffly, her fingers tightening around the arms of her chair, her lips pressed into a line. Her gaze trailed after Cecilia as she moved toward the door, and for a moment, it seemed she would let her go without another word. But pride, or perhaps something bitterer, rose first.
“You think this makes you noble,” she said. “But all it makes you is foolish.”
Cecilia stifled a frustrated sigh. “Are you going to attend, or not, Aunt Marianne?”
“I will come,” Marianne added, grudgingly. “How could I possibly turn down an invitation from the Duchess of all of Ashbourne?”
“That is good to hear. His Grace expects you,” she said, ignoring Marianne's snide remark. “Where did Lucy go, if I may ask?” she questioned softly. “I had hoped to see her today.”
Marianne exhaled through her nose and rose to her feet. “She’s unwell,” she said at last. “So, I sent her over to a relative’s. I figured a change of scenery would be good for her. Her dearest cousin betrayed her in that very room she sleeps.”
Cecilia ignored the pang in her heart. “She’s unwell?”
Marianne’s voice sharpened. “Ever since that night, she’s been joyless. Dull-eyed. She smiles when I press her, but only out of politeness. So if you were hoping to find her triumphant and untouched by all this, you’ll be disappointed. She’s been miserable.”
Cecilia’s breath caught. She had not expected that. Yet, the moment the words left her aunt’s mouth, a fresh ache bloomed in her chest. It was as if every hurt from that dreadful night hadreturned in full force, pressing against her ribs with renewed purpose.
Lucy, quiet and joyless? She couldn’t even imagine it.
“Will she be back by tomorrow?” Cecilia asked quietly.
“Perhaps,” Marianne answered, strolling out of the room. “Perhaps not.”
