Her mother hesitated. “I believed it was.”
The distinction mattered. Anne could feel it.
“I never wished to remarry,” her mother continued. “Despite what others assume.”
Anne looked up, wondering if she was among those others.
Her mother met her gaze steadily. “I did not want another husband, but I saw no other way to protect what remained of our future.”
Anne looked away. For a moment, she felt the old anger rise again. Her mother had never once consulted her. If she needed help, she could have done so. Instead, she had made every decision for her and changed her life without asking for her permission.
Anne had been furious about it at the time, and part of her still was. But underneath it all, something else had begun to shift. Understanding did not erase the hurt; it only complicated it.
“I do not know what I am meant to do with this,” she said.
Her mother nodded faintly, as though she had expected that answer. “You do not have to decide anything today. I am only glad you came.”
Anne did not respond immediately because, despite everything she had felt walking into the room, despite everything that had once felt unbridgeable, she realized something uncomfortable had begun to change.
It was not forgiveness, not yet at least, but the beginning of seeing her mother as someone more complicated than the person she had resented for so long. And that, somehow, was harder than anger had ever been.
Later that afternoon, while the conversation still lingered between them, her mother finally let a flicker of something lighter enter her expression.
“You know,” she said, studying her with reluctant amusement, “for all the distance between us, you have managed something rather extraordinary.”
Anne frowned slightly. “I have?”
Her mother’s gaze softened as it moved briefly to the window, as if she were considering how best to phrase it without sounding sentimental. “You have married a duke.”
“That is not something I did alone.”
“No,” her mother agreed, a small smile forming on her lips. “But I suspect very few ladies marry a man who makes them so very happy. I can see it in you.”
Anne stiffened slightly. “That is an exaggeration.”
“It is an observation,” her mother replied simply. “And I was never particularly fond of romance, so you may trust that I am not indulging in it lightly.”
Anne looked down, unsure whether to dismiss it or examine it too closely.
“I do not know what exactly has changed in you since you left here,” her mother continued, “but I can see it. And I think you are not the only one who has been altered by it.”
The comment lingered too long for her liking.
Eventually, the conversation drifted to smaller things, more practical matters, as though both were careful not to press too hard on what had just been said.
It was only later that evening, after dinner, that Anne felt it begin.
At first, it was only fatigue, a heaviness behind her eyes she assumed came from travel and emotion and the long day itself, but as the evening wore on, the fatigue deepened into something less manageable, a faint heat beneath her skin and a weakness in her limbs that made even standing feel slightly wrong.
Her mother noticed it before she admitted anything.
“You are flushed,” she noted sharply, reaching for Anne’s wrist as they stood near the fireplace. “Have you been unwell?”
“I am fine,” Anne replied automatically, though even she heard the lack of conviction in her own voice.
“You rode in cold weather today,” her mother said. “You always did this when you were younger, pretending you were unaffected by the temperature until your body decided otherwise.”
Anne attempted a protest, but it came out weaker than she had intended, the sound dissolving into a breath she did not entirely trust. Her mother guided her gently but firmly toward the sofa.
