Cecelia woke at dawn with her head still throbbing, but when she got up to pour herself a glass of water she found she was steady on her feet, if unfathomably heart weary. She felt trapped in her parents' house and, besides, it came to her suddenly that it was time — it was the last week of April. They were sure to be there.

She dressed and let herself out the back door, then crossed the dew-covered grass that led to the gate to the park which was silent and foggy in the early morning, and empty but for herself. The noisy hurt inside her quietened at the stillness of it all until she felt quite calm — aching, but calm. She took the path towards the woods and wended through the trees until she came to the glade, and there they were: bluebells everywhere, dancing underfoot, silver-purple in the bright slants of early morning light through the trees, blanketing the ground where Sebastian had proposed.

And there, too, was Sebastian, sitting on a fallen log in his shabby greatcoat, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, so lost in thought that he apparently had not heard her approach. She froze under an oak tree. Had he been here all night? Impossible! He had changed his clothes. He wore a plain brown suit and muddy hessians under his greatcoat, not the black stockings and slippers of last night. He had gone and, for whatever reason, come back at almost dawn.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

He jumped, startled, then got to his feet and halfway closed the distance between them.

"I received word last night that you were taken ill. I was waiting until the house would be awake to ask for you." He looked uncertainly at her. "Are you alright?"

"I only fainted. I feel much better now." She took a step towards him and then stopped. "Sebastian. Last night. I'm sorry."

He kept her gaze, as though deciding if she meant it. "I've not had an affair," he said. "Especially not with Lady Shipman."

"I know that now. I knew that last night, by your reaction. But when I heard the gossip, I didn't know. And I was afraid. So when I saw you dancing with everyone else and ignoring me, I... I was jealous. Angry."

Sebastian nodded slowly. "I'm not clairvoyant, Cecelia. If you don't tell me how you feel, I might not understand."

"I couldn't even do that. I couldn't even speak to you."

"Not just last night. These past three weeks. At any time you could have told me how you felt."

"It goes both ways, Seb. You don't tell me how you feel either. You don't tell me anything."

He opened his mouth as if to protest then sighed instead. "What do you want to know? Anything you ask, I will answer."

Cecelia had not expected such a concession. She faltered, then steeled herself.

"I heard you were shot protecting the ambassador. I heard you almost died. Is it true?"

He winced. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

His face closed over. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Seb." She took another step closer. She could have reached out and touched him now, but she did not dare. "Seb, that's a lie."

The closed-over expression wobbled about the corners of his eyes and mouth. "Sir William wanted to send for you," he said reluctantly. "I told him not to. I didn't want you at my sickbed. Nor my deathbed, if it came to that."

She took a deep breath of chill morning air. She could understand, very well, really. She was no comfort to him. It would have been a wonder if after six years' absence she could have been. "And when you were better, why did you not say?"

"I'm not quite sure. Somehow, I just couldn't bear the idea of it."

She shook her head helplessly. "Seb, I need to know things like this. I want you to tell me. You can write." Her voice broke. "Please, write to me, once you return to Paris."

"Will you write back?"

"Yes. If you want me to."

He nodded, not looking at her. "I do."

It was something. If they wrote to each other, they might — eventually — be able to talk again, properly, without shutting each other out. She might be able to tell him that she understood now, that she was sorry that she had abandoned him. And he might be able to forgive her. Maybe. Eventually.

"I've a question too," Sebastian said quietly.

"I will answer it."

"What are you doing here at this time of morning?"

"I came to see the bluebells."

It was almost a smile on his face. "I wanted to see them too."

Her heart quickened. There had to be something, some little bit of fondness still remaining for her. He was here after all. He had come for her, and come to see the bluebells too. And she had to let him know that she, too, was still fond of him. Perhaps more than a little bit.

"I come every year," she said, uncertainty making her voice tremble. "Always in April, when they bloom."

"...You do?"

She could see he was trying to keep his expression closed. He was not — quite — succeeding.

"Every year since we married."

She had been very happy here that morning. She had known herself to be loved. And she had loved. It had not been a lie. She knew that now. No matter what her mother had said, what she had allowed herself to believe, Sebastian had loved her.

And because she suddenly wanted to hear him say it, just one more time, she asked, "Did you really love me, Seb?"

"I did."

She took in a sharp breath.

"I still do."

A rush of lightness swept over her and she took another step towards him. And, because he was Sebastian, of course he was saying nothing more. He was simply looking at her with a little, perplexed frown between his eyebrows. But it was not a cold frown and his face was not closed over. There was a hint of warmth in his eyes. He seemed to be making up his mind about something.

"I noticed you don't wear a ring," he said at last.

Cecelia looked down at her hands, white, and blue-nailed in the early morning chill. "You didn't have the money to buy me one."

"But you have your own rings, surely?"

It was frustratingly inconsequential. Cecelia had a dozen rings in a jewellery box in London, things she had inherited, mostly, all far too ostentatious and heavy for a young woman, even a married one, to wear without looking gaudy. She shrugged.

"If I bought you a ring—"

"—You don't have to, Seb. I don't need rings."

"But I did buy you a ring." He touched her hand lightly. "It took me nine months to save up for it. I've had it waiting for you for over five years now. Will you wear it?"

"Yes." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes I will. Where is it?"

He hesitated. "Actually, it's still in Paris. In a drawer of my dresser. I was thinking that... that I wouldn't get the chance to give it to you."

That she would not want it, she could tell by his face. She had made him think she did not love him at all. Guilt tore at her.

"I'll wait until next time you come back." She felt a weight come over her with the words. "You... you will come back? Soon?"

"Sir William won't be the ambassador forever. He has perhaps another two years. Perhaps a little more. He's thinking of taking a position in Court, and he wants to take me with him."

Two years, perhaps more. Cecelia's heart sunk. She looked at the ground, at the bluebells trampled and bruised underfoot. "But you're not leaving yet."

"I'll be in London for three more weeks."

Three more weeks and then two — maybe more — years of absence. It wasn't enough. They might forget to love each other in that time. She had forgotten, before he returned. That was why Major Godfrey had been able to have any hold on her at all.

"I can visit once or twice a year," Seb said flatly. "Do you want me to visit?"

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "I want more than that, Seb."

"I... I have to go back to Paris, Cece. I can't stay here. I will be someone one day, and I wasn't born someone, so the only way I can become someone is by working for it." There was a glint of determination in his eyes and voice. "Sir William is good to me."

She opened her mouth to try to convince him otherwise — she had wealth enough for both of them. He could take over the managing of it. That was purpose, occupation at least. But then she bit her lip. She wouldn't be giving him anything in that arrangement. She would be suffocating him. He had been forced to give up his ambitions once before. She would not ask him to sacrifice himself again, not even if he loved her. Not especially.

"What if I go too?" she blurted. "Can I come with you?"

Seb looked startled. "You want to go to Paris?"

"I don't care about Paris. I want to be with you." She clenched her fists. "I should never have let them send you away. I'm sorry. You were right: I abandoned you. I was cowardly, so I let you go. But... But, Seb, I still love you too."

His expression closed over entirely and Cecelia thought she had ruined everything again.

"Will you give me a chance to make amends for all I have done?" she asked plaintively. "Will you take me with you?"

A rupture appeared in the blankness, a twitching of the upper lip. Then another, at the corners of his eyes, and more, at the corners of his mouth, and then he was smiling, smiling properly the way he used to, the way he had when he asked her to marry him and she said yes.

"You can come," he said, taking her hands in his. "I want you with me too."

She moved closer until she could rest her forehead against the lapels of his coat. His hands moved slowly up her arms and then around her, pulling her in. He held her gently at first, as though he was afraid of breaking her, then very tightly, as though he could not bear to let her go.

"Seb," she said muffled into his collar.

"Yes?"

"Will you kiss me?"

He laughed then, his body shaking against hers. "I will. Don't worry. I will."

*