Not once. And yet, her insecurities lingered.
Fanny inhaled softly. “I saw the way he looked at you, Blanche. Not as a man who has already conquered, but as one who knows the battle is far from over. You mistake his patience for indifference, but I believe it is restraint.”
Blanche lowered her gaze. “You believe I have raised these walls in vain?”
Fanny tilted her head slightly. “I believe you should ask yourself if they are protecting you from harm—or merely keeping something good at bay.”
Blanche pressed her lips together, absorbing the weight of the words.
Fanny softened, reaching for her hand. “I know this is not what you expected, but expectations are not always superior to reality.”
Blanche glanced toward her sister, offering the faintest twitch of a smile.
“You sound remarkably wise for a woman who has never married.”
Fanny laughed. “Perhaps, but I suspect I shall be rather intolerable when I do.”
Blanche exhaled softly, letting the warmth of her sister’s presence settle her thoughts.
And yet—beneath all else, beneath the tangled emotions, the confusion, the tentative hope—one concern remained.
“Fanny… And what about Father? Has Mother heard anything about him?”
Fanny’s expression shifted, quieting, though not with the hesitance of an uncertain prognosis—rather, with the weight of lingering uncertainty.
She exhaled softly. “There has been no word.”
Blanche’s gaze dropped to their interlocked fingers, her grip tightening ever so slightly.
Fanny squeezed her hand in return. “You must stop believing that silence equates to misfortune, Blanche.”
“And you must stop believing that absence equals disappearance. He will return.”
Fanny inhaled, steadying herself. “Or he will not.”
Blanche frowned. “You do not truly believe that.”
Fanny exhaled sharply, turning her gaze toward the window. “What am I meant to believe? That he merely lost his way? That he has spent these months attempting to return to us?”
Blanche swallowed, steadying herself before replying. “I believe that people falter. And that Father…” She hesitated, then continued, “Is not the villain Mother wishes to paint him as.”
Fanny turned back to her, studying her closely. “Mother is not entirely wrong.”
Blanche stiffened. “He loved us.”
Fanny exhaled, shaking her head slightly. “And yet, he left us.”
Silence stretched between them—not heavy, but threaded with quiet, unspoken truths neither was prepared to confront entirely.
Blanche softened, reaching for her sister’s hand once more. “Whatever the truth is, do not carry the weight of it alone.”
Blanche inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
Perhaps, in time, she would know if she was ready to let that be true.
But before Fanny could press further, a sharp voice cut through their exchange. “Your Grace.”
The voice was smooth, measured, edged with an undertone of something uncomfortably dry.
