“So you gave us laces and parlors, and in exchange, you took our dowries?”
Lord Gooldwer’s mouth twitched. “It wasn’t theft. I borrowed.”
“No, you pillaged. And when the wine dried up and Clara tired of your declarations, you came back. Hoping the Duchess might be your savior.”
Fanny recoiled slightly, eyes wide. “Is that true?”
Lord Gooldwer faltered. “I wanted to fix things.”
Blanche leaned forward. “Did you ever mean to write to me? Before Heath found you?”
He didn’t answer.
Her voice lowered. “I cried for you, in his arms. I mourned a man I thought had been forced to leave. And you—” Her voice cracked, then reformed, sharper. “You were drinking and living with another woman. You didn’t forget us. Youchosenot to remember.”
Lord Gooldwer looked away.
She continued, each word pressed like a petal into glass. “Heath held me like someone who wanted to carry the pain, not bury it. You never even asked.”
The fire snapped in the grate.
Her mother turned from the window, her voice crisp and clear. “Blanche is not a duchess because of you. She’s a duchessdespiteyou.”
Lord Gooldwer stood, his hands clenched. “You speak as though I never loved my family.”
Her mother lifted a brow. “Did you?”
Fanny looked down at her lap. Blanche stood slowly, her chin high, her gloves creaking faintly with the movement.
“You came back for the coin purse, not your daughters.”
Silence.
She didn’t feel like weeping—not anymore. She felt like someone waking after a fever. Clear-eyed. Hollowed.
She would not cry again—not for him.
Lord Gooldwer looked at her then, truly looked—as if for the first time he saw something he couldn’t touch, couldn’t undo. Her silence had shape now. It was not a pause, but a dismissal.
He reached for the back of the armchair, as if it might steady him, but found no balance there.
“Well,” he said finally, low and brittle. “I suppose I’ll take my leave.”
No one replied.
He looked to Fanny, but she didn’t lift her eyes.
He looked to his wife, but she had already turned toward the hearth, humming a tune too sharp to be gentle.
And then to Blanche, who stood motionless, not in anger, but in resolve.
Lord Gooldwer’s coat fell over his shoulder with a tired rustle. No goodbyes. No final flourish. Just the soft click of his shoes across polished floors, and the quiet shut of the front door behind him.
This time, the silence didn’t ache.
It was clean.
Twenty-Six
