I rose te, lulled by the rare comfort of knowing I didn’t have to rush. Josephine brought in my tea, the aroma of Earl Grey mingling with the faint scent of the garden through the open window. I lingered in bed longer than usual, sipping slowly as sunlight crept across the room. The morning passed in quiet rhythm. Aunt Eliza and I sat together in the Drawing room, my Italian grammar book open between us. I read aloud, my accent still faulty, my verbs inconsistent, but she corrected me with a wry smile and the patience of someone who’d already mastered five nguages. Afterward, I spent time in the Morning room, skimming over a volume of poetry, but not really reading.

  By midday, I slipped out to the garden. The breeze was soft and warm, lifting the hems of my skirts and carrying the smell of earth and early blossoms. I wandered slowly, stopping here and there to touch the leaves or pause in a patch of sunlight. A few bees buzzed zily around the blooming flowers, and the quiet hum of the estate settled around me like a bnket.

  Luncheon was light—poached eggs, sad, and a soft wedge of cheese—served in the garden. Eliza joined me briefly, reading a letter and tapping one foot against the gravel. “We’ll need to leave by three,” she reminded me, not looking up. “It’s a full three hours by carriage.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I replied.

  Afterward, I retreated upstairs to write in my journal, the scratch of the nib steady against the paper as I tried to shape my scattered thoughts into something more solid. The hours passed gently, like water slipping through my fingers. As the sun began to lower in the sky, I rang for Josephine. “The white one. The fanciest.” I told her.

  She didn’t need crification. She fetched the gown at once—white organdy yered over silk. The neckline, low and folded to a point in the center, framed my colrbone. My sleeves—short, tight at the shoulder—gave way to a gathered puff that rested delicately above the elbow. Four flounces of Brussels ce graced the center of the skirt, ending just beneath the draped fullness which forms a tablier. It spilled downward like a waterfall, stopping only at the hem. It was my finest dress, worn only on occasions when presentation mattered more than comfort. Josephine worked quickly, pinning my hair into a neat bun and sliding in a pearl comb. She csped a string of pearls around my neck, then stepped back to check every line and fold.

  I turned toward the mirror. For a moment, I did not recognize myself. The young woman staring back at me looked composed, almost regal. But beneath the yers of silk and ce, I could still feel the quiet thrum of nerves in my chest. I smoothed the front of my gown, pressing my palms lightly against the fabric. I turned and stepped away from the mirror, the soft rustle of my skirts following me down the hall like a whisper.

  Aunt Eliza waited for me in the front hall. She looked stunning in a silk bodice trimmed in pale blue ce, the soft white muslin of her skirt printed with delicate blue spots. A white silk sash wrapped around her waist, the fringe brushing her hips. Her dark hair was pinned elegantly, and a small brooch glinted at her colr.

  “Ready?” she asked as I descended the staircase.

  I nodded. “Do you think they’ll all be there?”

  “Without question,” she replied. We shared a smile before stepping outside. The carriage was already waiting, the horses stood ready, coats gleaming in the soft afternoon light. Mr. Lockhart tipped his hat to us as we climbed in.

  The door shut, and with a lurch, we began the journey. The road ahead stretched through open countryside, the sky wide and pale above us. Eliza settled in with a small book, and I watched the world move past the window—trees, fences, and the occasional farmhouse. It would be evening by the time we arrived, but the day still felt full, and the air held a quiet hum. My thoughts wandered to the evening ahead—to the company, to the meal, to Father’s expression when I would speak of work.

  The countryside passed in long, unbroken stretches—fields dappled in sunlight, stone walls dividing the nd into quiet, orderly parcels. Cows grazed slowly near the hedgerows, and the occasional cottage sat tucked against the green, their chimneys trailing faint smoke. The trees thickened the farther we went, rising in dense clusters on either side of the road. Their branches reached overhead, forming a leafy tunnel that darkened and brightened with the shifting light.

  The air smelled of damp earth and spring blossoms, and somewhere in the distance, a brook burbled faintly beneath the hum of the wheels. Eliza remained quiet across from me, content in her book, the rustle of the pages just audible above the ctter of hooves. Eventually, I reached for my own volume which I had set to the side—a slender copy of Persuasion, worn soft at the edges, some corners still holding onto creases from the times my Father had read it. I read slowly at first, the rhythm of the carriage making the words sway on the page. But soon I found my footing in the story, the familiar comfort of Anne’s world drawing me in as the afternoon stretched on.

  The sun sank gradually behind the trees, spilling long shadows across the road. Light filtered through the branches in gold and rust, casting the interior of the carriage in soft, flickering hues. I read until the st sliver of light disappeared beyond the horizon, and only then did I close the book and rest it on my p.

  After what felt like ages, the carriage slowed. We turned onto a long, gravel path where a creaking iron gate slowly swung open to let us through. Thick, manicured bushes lined both sides of the drive, their shapes precise and a little severe in the half-light. Then the house appeared—grand and unchanged. Behind a magnificent marble fountain that gurgled quietly in the center of a circur driveway the Brough, née Griswold, estate stood as it always had: imposing and elegant. The great fa?ade was cut from pale stone, its tall windows catching the glow of nterns within. The hedges around the base were trimmed into perfect symmetry, and flowerbeds lined the steps leading up to the front.

  Eliza stepped out first, her skirt sweeping over the gravel. I followed, the sound of our footsteps hushed by the path beneath us. The great doors opened before we reached them, and a liveried footman bowed low. “Miss Geldart. Miss Elizabeth. Welcome.”

  He led us through the wide entrance hall, where everything looked just as I remembered—high, arching ceilings with gold trim, marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, and a grand staircase that climbed like a spine into the upper floors. The scent of beeswax and fresh-cut flowers clung to the air. “This way, if you please,” the footman said, turning down a side corridor.

  We followed him to the Drawing room, where the fire crackled gently and the evening was just beginning. Voices murmured and I could hear ughter and the clink of crystal beyond the closed doors. The footman opened the doors, and warm light spilled into the corridor like something alive. I stepped in slowly, the soft weight of my gown trailing behind me, and there they were—every single one of them.

  Theodore, my youngest cousin, was already halfway beneath a side table, whispering to a cat that had wedged itself behind the curtains. The rest of the cousins stood in a loose circle in the center of the room, ughing and talking over one another. Helena's hand gestures were wild and animated, while Madeline, ever the composed one, was trying and failing to keep her in check. Caroline caught my eye first and grinned, her whole face lighting up. She always looked as though she’d just heard a secret and couldn’t wait to share it.

  Anthony sat apart, as he often did, on the green sofa near the firepce. One leg crossed neatly over the other, a book in his p, though he wasn’t reading. He stared into the fire with that far-off look he gets—like he’s listening to something only he can hear.

  To the right, slightly set apart from the rest of us, stood my parents. Father, with his hands folded loosely behind his back, looked the way he always does at gatherings—slightly amused, faintly tired, perfectly composed. Mother stood beside him, speaking low, her voice dipping in and out beneath the sound of conversation. They looked comfortable there, close but not closed off, still near enough to keep half an ear on us.

  And the room—my god, the room glowed. Between the firelight, the chandelier, and all that blonde hair, it was almost absurd. Every one of Cameron and Genevieve’s children had inherited that same golden shine. It bounced off curls and braids and neatly parted crowns, making everything feel gilded, as though we were caught in the middle of a painting someone hadn’t finished yet.

  For a long moment, I just stood there. It felt like stepping into a memory I didn’t know I’d missed. The rhythm of familiar voices, the gentle clink of gss, the smell of wood smoke and perfume—it hit me all at once. Then Caroline broke away from the group and came toward me, reaching for my hand with a bright smile. “There you are,” she said, giving my fingers a quick squeeze before she closed her fingers around mine, warm and familiar. “Come on,” she said, eyes bright. “Everyone’s here—you’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  She wore a robe of pale pink silk that shimmered under the chandelier, the folds catching light with every step. Over it, she’d fastened an apron of pink brocade, the pattern delicate and precise. The dress dipped low at the neck, and the pointed bodice hugged her waist before fastening neatly in the back. Her sleeves were short, the skirt long and full, rustling gently as she walked. It was lined in muslin and white silk, and it moved with that quiet confidence Caroline carried into every room without trying.

  She led me toward the circle of cousins, their voices overpping like birdsong. As we neared, I spotted Madeline immediately. She wore white velvet—an unusually bold choice, but she could carry it. Her robe fell elegantly, the low corsage looped down at the center with a small gold ornament that caught the firelight. The corsage was trimmed in the pelerine style, a single row of fine ce softening the neckline. Her sleeves were formed of two modest bouffants, ending in ce ruffles looped with tiny gold csps matching the one at her breast. A deep ce flounce encircled the hem of her skirt, swaying slightly as she shifted her weight. Over it all, a ce apron in the same pattern sat perfectly in pce. Not a thread out of line.

  Next to her stood Helena—lighter in posture, her energy more restless than Madeline’s calm poise. She shifted from foot to foot, a teasing smile already pying at her lips. I’d forgotten how striking her eyes were. One was a rich brown, warm and deep. The other was a clear green that seemed to catch every glint of light in the room. Together, they gave her a mischievous, almost uncanny look, like a character from some half-remembered tale—the kind of girl who might charm secrets from crows or talk her way out of trouble with a ugh.

  Before I could speak, Caroline leaned in and said, not so quietly, “You’ll never believe it—both Madeline and Helena got engaged this year.”

  Madeline’s head snapped toward her. “Caroline,” she said, exasperated. “It’s not polite to announce other people’s business like that.”

  “But it’s true,” Caroline said, utterly unbothered. She looked at me, grinning. “Isn’t it delicious?”

  I turned to Madeline, raising an eyebrow. “Is it true?”

  She sighed but nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching upward despite herself. “Yes. To Lord Bassett.”

  “The Duke of Norfolk,” Caroline added as if I hadn’t known. “And Helena—”

  “Lord Yates,” Helena said proudly. “The Marquess of Winchester.”

  A small wave of warmth passed through me—surprise, joy, a bit of disbelief. We had once pyed house with dolls, and now here they were, speaking titles and marriages with the same casual ease.

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” I said honestly.

  “Neither were we,” Madeline muttered.

  Caroline ughed. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been expecting it since st year’s ball.”

  The doors behind us opened again. “Apologies, dear family,” came Genevieve’s voice smooth, as she swept into the Drawing room.

  She was dressed to be seen. Her satin robe, a deep rose noisette, caught the firelight with every movement. The corsage was Pompadour-cut, low and round, drawn tight to her figure and ending in a sharp point at the waist, where a thick, gleaming cord cinched everything into pce. The antique point ce trimming her neckline softened the sharp lines, but only just. Her sleeves—short and puffed into double bouffants—were tied with tassels and cords, ending in delicate ce cuffs. Even the skirt was loud in its way, three rows of intricate silk trim running along the hem like a signature.

  Beside her, Cameron stood tall and comfortable in the space he’d always belonged to. His golden curls were a little unruly, as usual, and his silver spectacles caught the light just enough to make him look a bit wiser than he probably was. From across the room, Father called out to him, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Cameron! You’re te to your own party. Bme your wife, I assume?”

  Cameron ughed. “It’s the dress, Ezra. It had opinions.”

  That drew a round of soft chuckles, Genevieve’s ugh among them—light and effortless, the kind that made everyone feel like they were in on something. She turned toward Cameron with a mock gre, still smiling, and shook her head as if to say, you’re impossible.

  Before they could step fully inside, chaos broke loose at their feet. Theodore darted forward first, colliding with Genevieve’s skirts, followed closely by Nathaniel and Charlotte. “Mama!” they all chorused in some version or another, limbs tangling around her like vines. Nathaniel wrapped himself around her waist, while Charlotte tugged insistently at her arm. Theodore buried his face in the folds of her gown as though she might disappear again. His little fingers clutched at the silk, not caring a bit about the embroidery.

  Genevieve crouched to gather them, ughing under her breath. “You monkeys,” she murmured. “I wasn't gone that long.”

  Mother moved like a breeze across a pond—silent, elegant, already reaching for Theodore. Her gown was barely blue, more like moonlight pressed into satin. The corsage sat low, softened by triple yers of Brussels ce, and one side of her skirt was scattered with tiny, intricate flowers, ribbon loops threading between them. When she scooped Theodore into her arms, the child melted into her shoulder like he’d belonged there all along.

  The room had warmed quickly—between the fire and the bodies and the thick fabrics, everything felt golden and close. A few feet away, Eliza gave me a small gnce that said, brace yourself, just as a servant stepped forward from the hall. “Dinner is served.”

  That phrase still had weight to it, even after all these years. It meant structure. Seating charts. A performance. We filed into the dining room, which had been set with its usual, ridiculous precision. The long table gleamed. Crystal glinted. The candebras bzed, casting halos over porcein and silver.

  Cameron took his pce at one end, with Father at the other. No surprise there. I slipped into my seat between Eliza and Mother. Caroline was just beside Mother, already chatting under her breath. Across from us sat the Brough children—Madeline and Helena in the middle, like a well-dressed storm waiting to happen. Theodore was closest to Genevieve, still holding tight to her hand under the table, his little face turned toward her in quiet worship. Anthony, of course, was next to Aunt Eliza, silent and steady, hands already folded over his napkin like he’d been there for hours.

  The first course arrived, announced by the soft clink of silver lids being lifted. Steam rose like mist. Around me, the conversation picked back up—low and threaded with old rhythms. Familiar voices, shared ughter, the easy glide of wine being poured and passed. I looked around the table. Nothing had really changed. And somehow, everything had.

  It took an unreasonably long time for Genevieve to ask about my work, for which I was quietly grateful. I had dreaded it—especially with Caroline nearby, who never missed an opportunity to draw blood with a smile. But eventually, Genevieve turned to me with soft-voiced curiosity. “And how have things been at King's, Elizabeth? I imagine you’ve been busy.”

  I set my fork down. “Yes. Quite. We had a patient recently—Emily. Severe anxiety. She was convinced she’d die in the hospital, and couldn't sleep more than an hour at a time. But she’s been discharged now and doing much better.” Genevieve nodded, her expression polite. “And Phillipa and Constance,” I added, “have been keeping me sane. They’re the best friends I could ask for. Constance is pure chaos and observes everything. Phillipa is very much like a big sister to me. We had tea the other week at Aunt Eliza and I's pce. It was perfect.”

  That’s when Caroline tilted her head, her voice sugar-sweet and sharp at the edges. “Has Benedict been over?” The question dropped like a stone into still water.

  I felt the heat rise in my chest. “Could we not bring him up, please?”

  Helena, ever the opportunist when it came to a bit of scandal, leaned forward. “Who is this Benedict? Someone from work?” Her tone was pyful, but I saw the spark of curiosity she didn’t bother to hide. “What’s he like? His family?”

  Father’s jaw tightened. I saw it before I saw him. The sudden stillness. The way his gaze dropped to his pte. Mother reached out gently, her fingers brushed his sleeve. The look she gave him said: please, not now.

  “We’re colleagues,” I said, carefully. “Nothing more.”

  Caroline let out a soft ugh and murmured just loud enough to be heard, “I don’t believe that.” The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been.

  “That’s quite enough,” Father said, his voice sharp and uncharacteristically cold. Conversation faltered. Forks paused mid-motion. “Darling, tell us about the bookshop you stopped at the other day,” he continued, already steering the conversation elsewhere. “You said they had a first edition of Oliver Twist?”

  Mother, calm as ever, picked it up without missing a beat. “Yes! Just sitting behind the gss like it wasn’t the rarest thing in the room. Bound in deep green cloth, faint embossing still visible on the spine. The pages were a little foxed, but the binding was intact—beautiful, really…”

  Talk resumed, slowly at first, then more easily. But I could still feel the heat clinging to my cheeks, and the tightness in my chest stayed with me long after the subject had changed. I didn’t look at Father again. He didn’t look at me. I wanted the dinner to end. Every course dragged like a bad dream, each bite more tasteless than the st. I barely heard the conversation around me. I nodded when I had to, forced a smile when someone addressed me, but otherwise kept my eyes on my pte and my thoughts somewhere far away.

  The moment Father’s voice had cut through the air—“That’s quite enough”—I hadn’t been able to shake it. Not the tone, not the coldness. It wasn’t just annoyance. It was rejection. I stopped pretending to eat. Let the rest of them ugh and clink gsses and talk about bookshops and ce, and upcoming weddings. I sat there in silence, fingers curled tight in my p, jaw stiff.

  When the servants cleared the final ptes and the family began to drift back into the drawing room, I stood without waiting for anyone else. I walked with them, but I didn’t hear them. Didn’t see the paintings or the candlelight or the ridiculous splendor of the house. All I saw was him near the hearth, speaking with Cameron like the world hadn’t shifted at all. He looked calm. Casual. Arms folded, head tilted in that mild, thoughtful way. I waited until Cameron turned away, then stepped forward. “Father,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Firm.

  He turned to me, “Yes, Elizabeth?”

  “A word,” I said. I didn’t ask.

  He hesitated just long enough to register, then nodded. “Of course.”

  We left the drawing room without a word, only a faint murmur of skirts and polished shoes against the wood. The house echoed around us—distant ughter, a door shutting somewhere, the low hum of life going on. In the library, he shut the door behind us with deliberate care. He didn’t sit. Neither did I. “What’s this about?” he asked, his voice even.

  “It’s the way you act,” I said. “When Benedict is mentioned.”

  His expression didn’t change. “We’ve talked about him.”

  “No,” I said. “You’ve dismissed him.”

  He looked away briefly, toward the far bookcase. “I told you. He’s not right for you.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “That’s not good enough,” I said, and there it was—the sharp edge in my voice I hadn’t meant to reveal. “You draw a line around what’s acceptable and stand behind it like that’s reason enough.”

  His brow creased, not in anger, but in something heavier. “Elizabeth.”

  “I’m not the one who keeps bringing him up,” I continued. “It’s Caroline. She tosses his name out like bait and waits to see who flinches.”

  “She shouldn’t,” he said. “But you should’ve shut it down. Not encouraged it.”

  “I have shut it down. Every time. But somehow, I still end up being the one scolded for it.” His silence stretched. “How can you dislike him when you’ve never even spoken to him?” I asked, quieter now.

  He exhaled slowly, then stepped forward and pced both hands on my shoulders. His thumbs rested lightly on my colrbones, and his gaze softened. “I would never say this in front of your brother,” he said. “But you’re my favorite.” It stunned me. I held my breath. “You always have been,” he continued. “You remind me so much of myself. Too much, maybe. That hunger for what’s just out of reach. The way you can’t seem to follow a rule unless it makes sense to you. You got that from me. Your mother gave you her gentleness and hair. But the rest? That’s mine.” His voice dropped lower. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

  I blinked. “You sent me out into society. You let me be presented. You allowed all the dances, all the suitors. What did you think would happen?”

  “I thought… I hoped…” he faltered, his grip loosening briefly, “that no one would take too much interest. Or that if they did, you wouldn’t return it. I didn’t want you to be alone, Elizabeth. But I didn’t want to watch you leave.”

  “That’s not fair,” I said. “You don’t get to open the door and then resent me for stepping through it.”

  “I know.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything,” I added. “We haven’t even—he hasn’t even asked me anything. But I like him. He listens. He cares. He treats me like I’m real. Not decorative. Not delicate.”

  “I believe you,” he said, after a long pause. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

  “So this isn’t about him, then.” He looked down. “It’s about me,” I said. “It’s about letting go.”

  He met my eyes then. “The thought of Caroline getting married? I hate it. But Caroline and I… we don’t understand each other. We never have. She was always going to go her own way, and I knew I’d have to watch it from a distance. But you? You and I have always been close. We talk in the same rhythm. We see the world tilted in the same direction.”

  “Then trust me.”

  “I do,” he said. “That’s why this is so difficult.”

  There was a long pause. He let go of my shoulders. “I’m still going to see him,” I said. “You can’t stop me.”

  “I know.”

  We stood there for another moment, the silence between us gentler now, but not quite resolved. Then I turned and left. I didn’t look back. In the Drawing room, the warmth hit me like a wall—voices, ughter, the soft clink of teacups and gss. I stood just beyond the doorway for a moment, gathering myself, smoothing down the line of my skirts like it might steady something inside me.

  Eliza caught my eye from across the room. She didn’t smile. She didn’t tilt her head or raise an eyebrow. She just saw me, the way only she ever had. I crossed to her, my steps quieter now. “I’m not feeling well,” I said, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Would you mind terribly if we left?”

  She studied my face—just a breath too long. I knew she could see right through the lie. My shoulders were still too tight. My voice too ft. But she didn’t call me on it. “Of course,” she said simply. “Let me fetch our things.”

  “No need. I’ll go with you.”

  She nodded once, then turned with the grace of someone who’d learned long ago how to slip out of a room without causing a ripple. We moved through the goodbyes quickly—polite, practiced. I kissed my mother’s cheek. Thanked Genevieve for the dinner. Let Caroline prattle something about not forgetting to write. My father didn’t meet my eyes. I didn’t try to meet his. By the time we reached the corridor, the weight had begun to shift off my chest—not gone, just… lighter.

  Outside, the air was sharp and clean. The sky hung low, painted in deep blue and soft violet, with stars dotting every inch. The footman opened the carriage door. Eliza waited until we were both seated before speaking. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  She nodded. “That’s fine.”

  The wheels creaked into motion, gravel hushing under us. The house fell away behind us like a memory closing a door. Eliza leaned her head against the side of the carriage and closed her eyes, not sleeping, just giving me room. I turned to the window. The night was quiet. Trees passed in long, reaching shadows. I thought of Benedict. Of the way he looked at me when I spoke—like my words mattered. Of my father, standing in the half-dark, holding my shoulders like I was already halfway gone. Of the ache in his voice when he said, I don't want to lose you.

  Eliza said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her silence was the kind that waited without pressing, without asking for anything in return. And in that silence, something in me settled. Not resolved. Not soothed. But steadier. Like a thread had snapped, and now I could finally start to tie it back together—on my own terms.