Cecilia swallowed hard, her throat thick. She waited until Marianne was out of the room before she slumped on the chair. The image of Lucy, once so bright and full of light, now reduced to a shadow, stirred a pang of grief so deep it stunned her. She had thought the worst of it was behind them. But hearing it aloud, hearing how Lucy suffered, still made it all feel freshly broken.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Cecilia, are you sure you are all right?”
The dining room was quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that settled in the corners and clung to the silverware, even as the footmen moved discreetly between them. Valentine sat at the head of the table, his gaze fixed on Cecilia, who sat to his right with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her eyes fixed on a plate she barely touched.
Abigail, seated on Cecilia’s other side, had noticed too. The little girl kept glancing up at her with knitted brows and a slight frown, chewing slowly as though uncertain of what had changed.
He had known the moment she stepped down from the carriage that something was wrong. She had greeted them politely, smiled even, but it had not touched her eyes. It was as if she had returned bearing the same name, the same lovely face, but some essential part of her had been dulled.
She blinked as if startled out of her thoughts. Then, with a slow inhale, she lifted her head to meet his eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said softly, giving him a faint smile. “Just a bit tired from the ride, Your Grace.”
“Do you want to go to bed?” Abigail asked. “Sleeping might help.”
“It might.” Cecilia smiled at her. “Thank you, my love. I’m sorry I’m no fun tonight.”
“You look sad,” the girl said plainly. “What happened?”
“Abigail,” Valentine warned gently, but Cecilia shook her head.
“No, it’s all right,” she said, reaching to softly pinch Abigail’s chin. “I suppose I’m just feeling a bit nostalgic.”
Whatever happened to Cecilia at her aunt’s house had hollowed her out. It was in the way her shoulders curved inward more than usual, in how she hadn’t once corrected Abigail’s posture on the table, and in how she wouldn’t meet his eyes for longer than a heartbeat.
Valentine sat back in his chair, feeling utterly annoyed. He should never have let her go. He had thought she could handle it. Handle herself. But that wasn’t the case. He hated seeing her like this. Hated more that he had stood aside and allowed it.
He leaned slightly to the side and caught the eye of Miss Flaxman, who was lingering just inside the doorway. “Miss Flaxman,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to take Abigail up and help her prepare for bed?”
The older woman gave a slight curtsy. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Abigail opened her mouth to protest, but Cecilia leaned over and whispered something in her ear that made her nod solemnly and rise without a fuss. She hugged Cecilia tightly before slipping her little hand into Miss Flaxman’s, and in another few seconds, the room fell quiet again.
It was just the two of them now.
Valentine remained still for a beat. “What happened at your aunt’s house, Cecilia?” he asked finally.
She looked up at him, startled. Her lips parted as though she meant to say something, but then she closed them again. Her shoulders drew inward, and that elegant spine of hers, usually held so straight, seemed to bow ever so slightly.
“I…” Her voice faltered. “I’d rather not talk about it. Not tonight.”
He exhaled slowly. “Cecilia–”
“Please,” she whispered, and the way her eyes dropped to the table, so full of weariness and sorrow, twisted something in hischest. “Can we—can we talk about it in the morning? I just want to be alone right now.”
He didn’t like it. Every instinct in him wanted to push, to draw her out, to chase the shadows away if he could. But she looked so tired. Not just from the journey, but from trying to hold herself together.
He hesitated. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. “All right. In the morning, then.”
She stood, nodded once in thanks, and walked away with quiet steps. Valentine remained at the table long after she had gone, staring at the empty spot she had left behind and wondering what exactly her aunt had done to bring that look back into Cecilia’s eyes.
He remained seated for several minutes, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The fire crackled in the grate. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
But Cecilia’s silence lingered louder than anything else in that moment, more deafening than any cry could’ve been. Although he had agreed to give her space. But now he regretted it. For some reason, it did not feel right to leave her alone.
