He was the heir to House Ashford. He was the son destined to inherit their father’s title, lands, and responsibilities. He was meant to elevate the family name through his own achievements, while Cassandra ought to have remained a quiet supporting figure in the background.
Instead, she had surpassed expectations so completely that people often spoke of House Ashford because of her before they ever thought of its future lord.
The comparison was never spoken aloud within their household. It did not need to be.
Edmund heard it in every compliment paid to Cassandra, every approving glance she received, every conversation that drifted toward her accomplishments before eventually remembering to include him.
Not for much longer, he thought to himself.
This venture would change everything.
When its success became undeniable, his father would finally look upon him with the pride reserved for a worthy heir rather than a son still struggling to prove himself. House Ashford’s future would bear Edmund’s name, not Cassandra’s reputation.
That future felt close enough to grasp.
With renewed purpose, he turned and resumed his walk, wholly unaware that he was congratulating himself on a victory that had never truly been his to win.
***
The scandal surrounding Cassandra Ashford had begun, at long last, to lose some of its momentum.
Not because society had suddenly discovered a conscience. But gossip, by its very nature, possessed an insatiable appetite for novelty. No sooner had one scandal begun to grow stale than another emerged to replace it.
The newspaper’s public clarification had also helped.
Though it stopped well short of admitting outright falsehood, it nevertheless stated that its earlier publication had never been intended to cast aspersions upon any particular lady and urged its readers against drawing conclusions unsupported by fact.
It was hardly the apology Cassandra would have preferred but it was sufficient to change people’s opinions about her.
The newspaper clarification was only published days ago and already she had received invites to two musicales and an upcoming ball as people scrambled to get back into her good graces after how harshly they had scorned her.
Her attention had long since shifted elsewhere.
That morning found her standing within one of the textile workshops in the eastern side of Caldor, where nearly seventy women worked diligently beneath the high timbered ceiling.
The steady rhythm of spinning wheels and looms filled the spacious hall, accompanied by the soft murmur of conversation as nimble hands transformed fine wool and linen into fabrics destined for merchants, noble households, and occasionally even the Royal Palace itself.
The workshop had petitioned the Crown several months earlier for additional patronage.
Rather than approve such requests from behind the comfort of a writing desk, Cassandra preferred to see matters for herself.
Now she moved between the workstations, pausing often to examine finished bolts of cloth or speak with the women employed there. The questions came easily to her.
How many apprentices had joined since last spring?
Had production increased?
Were suppliers delivering materials on time?
Could the current building accommodate further expansion should royal patronage be granted?
The mistress of the workshop answered each inquiry with quiet confidence, producing ledgers whenever necessary to support her claims.
Cassandra listened attentively.
Her recommendations to the Queen had never been founded upon sentiment alone.
Good intentions were admirable but competence was indispensable.
Only institutions capable of sustaining themselves deserved continued investment.
By the time she concluded her inspection, the sun had climbed high overhead.
"I shall present my recommendation to Her Majesty," Cassandra said as she fastened her gloves. "Your accounts are in good order, and the quality of your work speaks for itself."
Relief spread visibly across the owner’s face. "You honour me, my lady."
"I merely honour good workmanship." Cassandra countered.
After exchanging a few final courtesies, Cassandra departed, leaving them to their work.
Her carriage carried her back to the palace through the bustling streets. Shopkeepers called out to passing customers while workers hurried between errands, weaving effortlessly through pedestrians crowding the pavements.
Ordinarily, Cassandra found comfort in the city’s familiarity.
Today, however, her thoughts lay elsewhere.
Sebastian Reaver had sent word the previous afternoon requesting another meeting.
His message had been frustratingly brief.
He had uncovered something. Not enough to commit to writing.
He wished to speak with her in person.
It was precisely the sort of message Sebastian would send only after verifying his information several times over.
Whatever he had discovered, it had warranted a bit of discretion.
By the time Cassandra reached the palace, she had already resolved to meet him first thing the following morning.
She had scarcely stepped inside her chambers when one of the palace footmen approached carrying a silver tray.
"A letter for you, my lady."
She accepted it absentmindedly.
The handwriting upon the envelope brought her steps to an immediate halt.
Her mother’s.
For several long moments she simply stared at it.
She had not expected any correspondence from Ashford House.
Not after the banquet from hell or everything that had followed.
She was inside her room alone when she slowly broke the seal.
The first thing she noticed was that the letter was brief.
Dear Cassandra,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
I have been rather unwell these past several days, and my physician insists that I remain abed until my strength returns. I confess that illness leaves one with an abundance of time for reflection, and my thoughts have wandered to you more often than I care to admit.
I know that much has passed between us, and I do not presume to believe that old wounds mend quickly. Nevertheless, if you should find yourself willing to spare an afternoon, I should be very glad to see you. Your company would bring me a comfort that I have found sorely lacking of late.
If you choose otherwise, I shall understand.
Your loving mother,
Lady Ashford
Cassandra lowered the letter.
An uncomfortable feeling settled over her, burrowing deep in her chest.
She wanted to believe it.
Some small, stubborn part of her still longed for the kind of mother she had spent years convincing herself existed.
The kind who would wrap her in warm, comforting embraces whenever her spirits were low, who showed more than a passing interest in her only daughter’s likes and passions. The kind of mother who would love her unconditionally and choose her above all else.
But longing and reality were seldom the same thing.
The wounds left by their last argument had not yet healed.
Trust, once fractured, was not restored by ink upon a piece of paper.
Without another word, she folded the letter carefully before opening the top drawer of her bedside table.
She placed it inside and closed the drawer.
For now... she would not be returning to Ashford House.