Page 36 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
When at last she looked up, her expression was composed, though something taut had drawn across her features, like glass stretched too thin.
“The magistrate’s office,” she said, voice steady, “has issued an order of suspension.”
She let the words settle. They did not fall—they landed.
“Seacliff Retreat is, for the present, no longer recognised as an active residential establishment. We are to cease all public operations until a full investigation has been conducted.”
No one spoke.
“Does it say how long?” Violet asked quietly.
Thalia shook her head. “No. Only that a review will begin ‘at the earliest administratively possible interval.’ Which, in my experience, may mean days—or months.”
Kit exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. Ivy, seated beside him, touched his arm and signed a rapid string of gestures. He looked to Thalia. “She asks if this means dispersal.”
“No,” Thalia said immediately. “Not yet, at least.”
Violet folded her hands. “But we are no longer under the protection of a recognised institution. That alters how we are seen. By neighbours, by patrons… even by the law.”
A pause.
“To some,” she added quietly, “that difference is enough to turn support into silence.”
Lady Thornfield, having studied the entire exchange with the sharp gaze of a hawk selecting its moment, snapped her fan shut.
“Well,” she said crisply, “that is a bore.”
A few faces turned toward her in surprise. She tilted her head.
She lifted her chin. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. Did we imagine they would appreciate fortitude? They’ve always mistaken it for insolence. And a household of curious minds living peacefully under one roof without patriarchal supervision? That’s not a retreat—it’s treason.”
There was a beat of silence—then, unexpectedly, Kit gave a breath of laughter, short and sharp like a gasp let go.
Even Thalia’s lips moved, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“Lady Thornfield,” she began, her voice low, “you needn’t—”
“I shall say what I please,” Aunt Iris cut in. “They cannot suspend my opinions—or yours.”
She crossed the room, took the letter from Thalia’s hand, and held it up as though appraising a counterfeit painting. “Oh, this is hardly terrifying. All very dry. The kind of bureaucratic blade meant to rattle the nerves. One wonders if they truly expect us to collapse from the phrasing alone.”
“Will we?” Violet asked, with a trace of arch defiance.
“Some of us,” Iris said, “might die of boredom before the ink dries.”
But Thalia’s voice, when she spoke next, was quiet. Flat.
“I had hoped to hold a little longer. To prove something.”
“You have,” said Miss Ashworth. “To us.”
“And yet—” Thalia stopped. Her gaze dropped to her hands, which had begun to tremble faintly. She clasped them behind her back. “They will not see that. They will only see us disbanded, our mission undone, our residents scattered.”
“They will see a pause,” Iris corrected. “Not a collapse. Suspension is not defeat, dear Thalia. You are not broken.”
“But we are very tired.”
“I know. That is what they count on.”
