Page 37 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
She paused then—uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. Her gaze swept the room, measuring it, before returning to Thalia.
“You know,” she said, her tone a touch drier, “several people of my acquaintance persist in calling meLady Thornfield—as propriety would have it. But those who know me better tend to use something a little less formal—a littlemore… personal. Not out of whim, but because I’ve asked them to. I’ve even insisted that the staff back home address me asLady Iris.”
She lifted one shoulder in a gesture both unbothered and deliberate.
“And no—it isn’t eccentricity, though I’m sure some would like to think so. It is not a lack of regard for my late husband, either—I loved him dearly. But I have changed my name three times, and not once has it ever truly felt like mine.”
She turned slightly, as if considering the weight of each word.
“Each name brought advantages—social standing, security. But they were names meant for the men who gave them, not for the woman who wore them. I carried them like fine cloaks—respectable, impressive—and in time, I found they also obscured me.”
She looked steadily at Thalia. “I am not merely someone’s wife or someone’s daughter. I amIris. First, and last. And it took me far too many years to stop apologising for that.”
A beat.
“Society will always attempt to name you before it knows you. But it cannot tell you who you are, unless you let it. You’ll weather this storm—and every storm to come—if you remember that.”
The room remained still, the gravity of her words settling with surprising gentleness.
Across the room, Ivy rose to her feet. She crossed to Thalia with silent grace and laid a hand gently on her forearm. Then she signed two careful words.
Thalia nodded, her voice quieter still. “Yes. We stay steady.”
The moment held.
Then, one by one, the others began to rise. Not hurriedly, but with the kind of grace that comes only from hard-won dignity. There were no complaints. No tears. No collapsing into armchairs.
Violet moved to the door, head high. “If I’m to be evicted eventually,” she said, “I shall pack my books alphabetically. It will delay the inevitable and irritate those who deserve it.”
Ivy gave a dry, breathless smile. Kit helped her gather her sketch portfolio.
Lady Thornfield remained still, her gaze on Thalia. When the room had cleared and only Jasper lingered behind her, she stepped forward and, for once, spoke gently.
“My dear. This may be the end of one chapter. But it is not the last page.”
Thalia looked up.
“Let your brother think he has succeeded. Let him gloat. Let him write reports with ink still warm from his petty victory. We are not finished.”
She turned and swept from the room with Cassandra still perched on her shoulder, as though she’d just delivered a matinee performance of satisfactory calibre.
Jasper crossed to Thalia. She did not look at him. Not yet.
His voice was low. “We’ll weather this. One way or another.”
“I suppose,” she murmured, “we are about to find out who we become when the walls begin to fall.”
He offered his arm.
She took it without hesitation.
Together, they left the morning room—leaving behind the slanting sunlight and the quiet stir of a house not yet surrendered.
***
The hush of late afternoon lay soft over Seacliff Retreat, as if the house itself had exhaled after the day’s hard reckonings. In the gardens, the hedgerows had begun to silver with the first suggestion of dew. It was a moment suspended between light and shadow, when everything appeared briefly touched by mercy.
Lord Jasper stepped onto the gravel path just as Sir Edmund emerged from the side lawn, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression thoughtful. Neither man spoke at once. Instead, they fell into step with a quiet familiarity, the kind that grows not from intimacy but from shared strain.
