The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 197

The scent of beeswax polish and freshly starched linen was a stark contrast to the ancient, earthy aroma of dust, old roses, and forgotten things that had permeated Freya’s existence at the Valerius estate. 

Here, in her sunlit chambers under the benevolent, if somewhat exacting, guidance of the Dowager Countess Albright, the world felt… new. The capital buzzed with a life she had only read about in Mr. Abernathy’s drier tomes. It had been several weeks since she’d waved a tearful goodbye to her parents from the carriage window, Amelia’s final, enigmatic words still echoing faintly in her mind.

“Miss Valerius,” the Countess had said that very first week, her voice like the rustle of silk taffeta, “a young lady of your lineage must be presented. Not merely presented, my dear, but shine. We shall attend Lady Winslow’s ball next Thursday, and your manners, your conversation, your very curtsy, must be impeccable.”

And so, Freya’s days were filled. Mornings were for the esteemed Madame Dubois’ Academy for Young Ladies, where the curriculum was a delicate dance of accomplishments. Harp lessons continued under a new, stern but brilliant maestro, who often declared her touch “full of a surprising, melancholic depth, for one so young.” 

Dancing masters taught her the elegant steps and graceful figures required for society balls. Literature lessons delved into romantic poets and classical playwrights, their passionate declarations a world away from the hushed anxieties of her home. Even Latin, once a dry collection of declensions with Mr. Abernathy, took on a new life when deciphering ancient tales of transformation.

This afternoon, however, was her own. The window of her sitting room was thrown wide, a gentle spring breeze, carrying the distant chime of church bells and the faint scent of city gardens, ruffling the lace curtains and cooling Freya’s cheeks. She had been practicing a particularly intricate passage on her harp, the melody still humming in her ears. Now, she sat at her small mahogany writing desk, an untouched sheet of creamy parchment before her, quill poised.

She closed her eyes, the breeze a soft caress, and let her thoughts drift back. Home. The vast, somber table in their private dining room. Her father, his face usually etched with a quiet worry, sometimes breaking into a rare, genuine smile when she recounted a particularly silly anecdote. Her mother, her beautiful, gentle mother, whose laughter had become a more frequent, precious sound in those last few years. Freya missed them with a dull ache that never quite subsided.

And Amelia.

Her mind conjured the image of the West Wing study, the towering shelves, the single candelabrum casting its lonely glow. Freya sighed, a soft, wistful sound. “Dearest Sister Amelia,” she murmured, her voice barely a breath. “The sun feels like a gift today, a moment of pure joy. I imagine a time when we might share this, you and I, side by side, letting its light warm us both without a shadow of pain.”

Her gaze drifted to the window box outside her room, tended by the Countess’s diligent gardener. It was filled with roses, vibrant crimson blooms that unfurled their velvet petals to the sun. Not the stern, almost black-red of the Valerius estate, but a brighter, more joyful hue. Yet, roses nonetheless.

“Thank you,” Freya whispered to the empty room, addressing an unseen presence. “Thank you for… for those last years. For allowing the house to feel happy, in the end. A happy one.” A small, genuine smile touched her lips. “You seemed to open up, you let yourself be happy. With me. And with Mother and Father. They laughed so much more, once you… once you decided to join us.”

She leaned her head against the cool wood of the desk, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders. The guilt, a familiar companion since her departure, pricked at her. “I am so sorry, Sister Amelia,” she continued, her voice a low, confessional murmur. “Truly, I am. I never intended to keep it a secret, that I knew. Not… not as a deception against you.”

She remembered the shift, the subtle change in the estate’s atmosphere. “It was just… I noticed, you see. When you were… displeased, when the air around you felt like winter ice, the whole house held its breath. Father would grow quiet, Mother would look so pale. Even the servants would whisper, their footsteps like mice in the walls. Mr. Finch… he seemed carved from stone.”

A hesitant pause. “But then… when you smiled, when you laughed at one of my silly jokes, or listened so patiently to my harp… it was as if the sun itself had decided to visit. Mother’s eyes would sparkle again. Father would look… lighter, almost young. The whole house would breathe. And I… I wanted that, Sister Amelia. I wanted that happiness for them. For all of us.”

Her voice dropped further, laden with a confession she had barely admitted to herself. “So, yes, perhaps… perhaps I did use it. Knowing you were not truly my sister, but pretending you were, acting as if I believed every gentle word, every kind smile… because it seemed to make you kinder, to allow you to be softer. It made everything… better.”

She closed her eyes, a tear escaping to trace a path down her cheek. “But my heart, Sister Amelia, my desire to be close to you, to see you happy, to have you be a part of our family… that was true. Every bit of it. I did care for you. I do. I wanted you to be happy too, not just Mother and Father.”

She imagined Amelia’s face in that final moment in the study, the gentle smile vanishing, replaced by that stunning, cold shock. “You must have been so surprised,” Freya whispered. “After all that time. After I… after I let you believe.” 

A pang of regret shot through her. “I… I had wanted to tell you properly, to explain everything, to be truly honest with you before I left. But when I saw your face change, when you looked so… so surprised, and then so suddenly, terribly angry… I couldn’t find the words. I was afraid.” 

She sighed. “But even if you are not my sister by blood… in my heart, you were like one. You guided me, didn’t you? You listened to me read. You told me stories of the stars from your strange books, even if I didn’t understand them all. You even helped me choose that new velvet for my winter gown, remember? You said the sapphire would suit my eyes.”

A fond, if wistful, smile touched her lips. The memory was clear, Amelia’s cool fingers brushing the fabric, her head tilted in that imperious yet strangely attentive way. It was a small thing, a fleeting moment, but it had felt… real. Like a sister’s advice.

Freya sat up, a new resolve firming her expression. She dipped the quill into the inkpot. “Now,” she murmured, her voice regaining a little of its usual brightness. “Let me write.”

She began, the scratch of the quill a steady rhythm in the quiet room. First, she penned a letter to her parents, filled with details of her lessons, questions about their well-being, and assurances of her own affection.

Then, she took a fresh sheet, addressing this one simply to “Sister Amelia.” She wrote carefully, choosing her words with a mix of practiced cheerfulness and underlying caution, mindful of the delicate balance she had always tried to maintain. Both letters, she decided, would be sent in her father’s care; he would know how to deliver Amelia’s.

She was just sanding the final pages when a polite, firm knock sounded at the door. “Freya, my dear?” It was the Dowager Countess. “We must discuss the fitting for your gown for the Ambassador’s reception. Young Lord Harrington will be there, you know. Such a promising connection.”

The complexities of home, a place of shadows and carefully constructed happiness, were distant for now. Here, the path seemed simpler, laid out in a succession of lessons, and social engagements.

“Coming, dear Countess!” she called, her voice clear and bright. She carefully folded the letters, sealing each with a drop of wax, her heart surprisingly light. She couldn’t wait for the future, for the day she would return to the Valerius estate, her education complete, a young woman ready to take her place. She imagined walking into the East Wing drawing-room, her parents’ proud smiles, the familiar scent of home.

And Amelia. A worried frown creased Freya’s brow for a moment. That last moment in her study… Amelia’s stunned face, the way her surprise had hardened so quickly into anger, was still vividly etched in her memory. A shiver of apprehension went through her. But then, a familiar, stubborn hope surfaced. Their bond, the one she had nurtured for so many years, surely it was strong enough to overcome this. It had to be. 

They had shared so much, laughed together, found comfort in each other’s company – in Freya's heart, that was the truth of their sisterhood, a truth that could heal this wound. With these letters, she prayed Amelia might understand her heart, might see past the initial shock, and accept her deepest apologies.