Page 45 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
“And because,” Sebastian added, the faintest hint of warmth beneath his usual reserve, “you finally stopped writing.”
A pause passed, not heavy, but full.
“Now,” he said, rising to his feet, “will you show us what you’ve been fighting for?”
***
The west parlour had been converted into an impromptu sorting room. Trunks stood open, half-packed. Sketches leaned precariously against chair legs; a crate of unframed canvases rested beside bundles of sheet music wrapped in twine. The quiet was broken only by the rustle of fabric, the occasional clatter of a book spine, and the measured breathing of women too proud to call their labour mourning.
Kit stood by the tall windows, his sleeves rolled to the forearm and a letter in his hand. He was reading nothing in particular, simply watching the road with the posture of a man preparing for exile.
“Thalia,” he said as she stepped into the room. “Tell me it’s a rescue and not a reckoning.”
She gave a faint smile. “That depends on your definition of either.”
Kit turned toward her, brows raised. “I recognise that tone. You’ve met with His Grace, then.”
“Yes,” she said. “And Lady Margaret.”
He let out a low whistle. “That explains the military silence downstairs. Hopkins looked positively fevered with discretion.”
Thalia crossed to the centre of the room, gaze sweeping the belongings strewn like aftermath. “They arrived at first light. No ceremony. No retinue. They’re here for answers. The ones Jasper has not given them.”
“And what is it they intend?” asked Violet from a low stool, where she was carefully arranging watercolour palettes into a lidded box.
“To observe. To evaluate.” Thalia hesitated. “To decide.”
“That sounds dreadfully calm,” Kit murmured. “And therefore vaguely threatening.”
“It is neither calm nor threatening,” said Thalia. “It is deliberate. The Vexleys do not rush, but they do not waste time either.”
From the doorway, Lady Thornfield spoke without preamble. “Which means you ought to be very careful with what time you give them.”
She stepped into the room, still holding a folded broadsheet in one hand, though her expression showed no sign of reading it. “I gather they’ve had littlecorrespondence from Jasper since the suspension order. I suppose their appearance was inevitable.”
“They’re not here as executioners,” Thalia said. “Nor as saviours.”
“And yet, they are here,” Kit noted. “And that alone might shift something.”
A pause.
Then Ivy signed from where she stood near the bookshelf, her gestures precise and steady:“We are not gone yet.”
“No,” Thalia agreed. “But neither are we whole.”
Silence met this.
And then Christopher spoke again—quieter this time. “When I first arrived here, I wasn’t sure if Seacliff would be shelter or theatre. Turns out, it’s been both. But even theatres close when no one’s left to clap.”
“We are not closing,” Thalia said, the words firm even as her hands curled slightly at her sides. “We are—under review.”
“By a family whose bloodline might either purchase this place,” Christopher said mildly, “or bury it in merciful obscurity.”
“Perhaps both,” Violet added. “First the purchase. Then the slow forgetting.”
“No one here,” Thalia said softly, “will be forgotten. Not if I have breath to stop it.”
That brought a silence deeper than before.
