“I am.” Ophelia felt the confidence waver in her own voice as she stood outside of the London home Gertrude was living in, where she still resided with her sister, Lady Chester. The sun was beginning to peek out from the clouds, shining down on them as she held onto Elliot’s arm beside her.
The two of them had gone for an early morning ride when Ophelia had spied the house between the open trees of Hyde Park. She figured it was about time she saw Gertrude again, to try to draw a line under what had happened between them.
“Well, I shall wait for you with the horses,” Elliot said quietly at her side. “Tonight, too, we can distract you from such thoughts of your stepmother. I have promised Harrison we will go to his home for the evening. He has invited your friend, Miss Blake, as well.”
“That sounds lovely.” Ophelia tried to stand tall as she continued to stare at the house. “It is strange, Elliot. I have always prided myself on not being nervous of things. Yet, now I find myself nervous to face my own stepmother again. Why is that?”
“Perhaps because more time has passed between you now,” Elliot offered. “Were you two ever close?”
“There was respect there, kindness too,” Ophelia explained. “It all feels so bitter now.”
“Then perhaps your nerves are merely regretting what it has come to. I know that feeling.” He nodded slowly. “The last time I saw my father, I realised we had little to say to each other. Whatever affection he ever had for me didn’t seem to exist anymore.”
Ophelia moved her hand across his arm, listening to these words. The more she heard about Elliot’s parents and what he felt toward them, the more she realised how much capacity he had for love. He often talked about the kindness his grandmother showed him and his sister, which betrayed the lack of love they had received from their parents.
“We are alike,” she told him softly. “We bemoan what could have been, and now will never be.”
“Just so.” He moved toward her, lifting his top hat enough to kiss her on the cheek. “Go to your stepmother. Say what you wish to. I will wait in the park for you.”
“Thank you, Elliot.” She squeezed his hand and walked up to the house, glancing back long enough to see him cross the road toward the horses they had tacked up to the railing around the park. Gently, she tapped on the door, waiting for it to open.
When the butler emerged, he smiled at once.
“Miss—I mean,” he caught himself then bowed deeply, “Your Grace.”
“You’re too kind,” she said, stepping inside as he encouraged her in. “I am still me. You do not need to adopt airs with me.” He smiled rather kindly at her words. “I have come to see my stepmother. Is she in?”
“She is, Your Grace. Let me take you to her.”
He led the way toward the withdrawing room. Ophelia approached slowly, looking around her to check for any signs that Lord Chester could be there. No top hat or frock coat rested on the coat stand, which was a good sign.
The door to the withdrawing room opened and the butler stepped inside, announcing her presence.
“The Duchess of Northmore, my ladies.”
Ophelia heard a teacup break just as she stepped around the butler.
“I’ll fetch a new cup.” The butler took it as his cue to hurry off, leaving Ophelia standing in the open doorway, staring at her stepmother and Lady Chester beside her. Both were sat on a rococo settee. Lady Chester had a teacup and saucer in her lap, and Gertrude had dropped her teacup to the floor in her surprise, the bone china smashed into pieces.
“Why are you here?” Gertrude’s voice was sharp.
For a second, Ophelia didn’t answer. Her lips parted and her breath came sharply as she looked between Gertrude and Lady Chester.
“Good day to you, too,” she managed eventually. “It is good to see you after so long. I trust you are well?”
“What is this?” Gertrude waved a dismissive hand in her direction.
“They are options. Kind things to say when seeing your stepdaughter, perhaps. Choose from them if you wish to.”
“Oh, insolence.” Gertrude shook her head and sat back on the settee before appealing to her sister beside her. “I told you, did I not? Of her insolence. Her rudeness.”
“It is candour,” Ophelia corrected her. “Please, Gertrude, I have not come to argue with you, not today.”
At her words, Gertrude stood to her feet, shaking so much that her sister reached forward and took the saucer from her hand, clearly worried it would go the same way as the teacup.
“Then why have you come?” Gertrude asked, her voice deep and tremulous.
“I have come to make peace.” Ophelia stepped forward, praying that her stepmother would listen to reason. “You and I were friends for many years, were we not? You helped to raise me.”