“Because love doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.” Isadora said after a hesitant silence. “Sometimes love is hidden beneath fear.”
She sighed deeply. “Your uncle lost his mother when he was barely older than you are now. Then he lost his father. Then his dearest friend died in his arms, leaving him with a promise he had no idea how to keep. Is it any wonder he’s terrified of losing you too? Of failing in his duty to James?”
“So I’m supposed to forgive him for treating me like a problem?” Lillian’s voice carried an edge now—not defiance exactly, but the beginning of anger that had been too long suppressed. “Accept that being locked away and ignored is somehow proof of his affection?”
“No.” The word came out firm and clear. “You’re not supposed to forgive anything. You’re allowed to be angry, Lillian. Furious, even. You’ve been given inadequate care disguised as protection, and that’s not acceptable regardless of Edmund’s motivations.”
Isadora took both of Lillian’s hands now, holding them firmly. “But I also think you deserve to understand why he’s failing you so spectacularly. Not to excuse his behavior, but to see him clearly. He’s not a villain deliberately causing you pain. He’s a terrified man doing the best he can with tools he doesn’t possess.”
“And you think you can change him?” Skepticism colored every word. “Make him suddenly capable of warmth and affection and all the things he’s never demonstrated?”
“I think,” Isadora said carefully, “that we can help him remember who he was before grief armored his heart. I think we can show him that allowing himself to care won’t destroy what remains of his defenses.” She smiled despite the weight in her chest. “And I think you, Lillian Gray, are worth fighting for. Worth the risk of failure. Worth every uncomfortable confrontation and difficult conversation that transformation will require.”
Tears spilled down Lillian’s cheeks now, though she made no sound. They traced silver paths through the cold that had settled on her skin, marking her face with evidence of emotion too long denied.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “Tired of being careful. Tired of swallowing my thoughts because they might displease someone. Tired of pretending I’m content when I feel like I’m suffocating in this beautiful house with its beautiful things and absolutely no room for me to simply exist.”
“Then stop pretending.” Isadora brushed tears from pale cheeks with gentle fingers. “Stop making yourself smaller to fit into spaces that were never designed to hold you properly. Be angry. Be difficult. Be exactly as complicated and brilliant and impossible as you actually are.”
“But Mrs. Hale…”
“Can learn to accommodate a student who actually thinks rather than simply parrots approved responses.” Isadora’s voicehardened with determination. “And if she can’t, then we’ll find someone who can.”
“Uncle Edmund will never agree to dismissing her.”
“Then we’ll convince him otherwise, if need be.” Isadora stood, pulling Lillian up with her. “Come. You’re frozen through, and I suspect Mrs. Crawford has hot chocolate waiting. We can continue this discussion somewhere warmer.”
But Lillian didn’t move immediately. She merely clung to Isadora’s hand, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
“Thank you,” she said fat last. “For seeing me. For not treating me like some shameful secret that must be managed until I can be safely married off to whoever will overlook the circumstances of my birth.”
“You are magnificent,” Isadora said fiercely, pulling the girl into a proper embrace. “Brilliant and brave and absolutely worthy of celebration. And if this household doesn’t recognize that, then we shall simply have to educate them.”
They walked together toward the Abbey, leaving two sets of footprints in fresh snow—evidence of connection forged in a ruined garden where nothing should have been able to grow. Behind them, winter continued its patient work of covering the world’s sharp edges, but Isadora felt warmth blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with returning to the house’s fires.
She had found her purpose at Rothwell Abbey. And heaven help anyone—including her stubborn, terrified, impossible husband—who tried to prevent her from fulfilling it.
CHAPTER 15
The crystal tumbler shattered against the hearth with satisfying violence.
Edmund stared at the glittering shards scattered across his study floor, whiskey spreading dark as blood across Persian carpet that had witnessed three generations of Ravensleigh tempers. The servants would find it in the morning—would exchange those knowing glances that suggested the Dangerous Duke had finally lost whatever tenuous grip he maintained on his composure.
Let them whisper. They were going to whisper regardless.
Outside his windows, snow fell thick as wool over Yorkshire landscape already buried beneath a week’s worth of December storms. The village lights had long since been extinguished, leaving only darkness and the relentless accumulation of white that threatened to cut Rothwell Abbey off from civilization entirely. Christmas was three days away, and the household had decorated with the grim efficiency that characterized everythingunder his authority—holly arranged with mathematical precision, evergreen garlands wound through banisters at exactly measured intervals, candles placed according to a system that prioritized safety over warmth.
No joy. No spontaneity. Nothing that might suggest celebration rather than mere obligation fulfilled.
Rather like his marriage, Edmund thought bitterly.
He’d returned from London two days ago to find his wife teaching his ward Milton in a frozen garden, the two of them huddled together like conspirators planning revolution. The image had struck him with unexpected force—Isadora’s burgundy skirts stark against snow, Lillian leaning into her embrace with the desperate trust of someone starved for affection.
His ward had never leaned into him like that. Had never sought comfort from the man who was supposed to provide it.
The realization had settled in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold and impossible to ignore. He’d stood in that garden archway watching his wife offer Lillian everything he’d failed to give her—warmth, acceptance, the simple human kindness that required no effort for most people but seemed beyond his capabilities entirely.
She called me afraid, he thought, fingers tightening around empty air where the tumbler had been. And she was absolutely right.
