Chapter 3 #2
Rebecca laughed. “You see why she exhausts her governess.”
“I think she is charming,” Caroline said sincerely. She felt something loosen in her chest—a warmth she had not expected. Elizabeth’s presence brought a sense of life to the room that had long been absent.
Mrs. Harding returned with the tea service, accompanied by a maid.
The tray was laid carefully on the table: a polished silver teapot, delicate cups and saucers edged in gold, a plate of small sandwiches, seed cake, and a dish of preserved fruit.
The steam curled invitingly as the teapot lid was lifted.
Elizabeth leaned forward, eyes wide. “Is that cake?”
“It is,” Caroline said. “And you may have some, provided you drink your tea first.”
Elizabeth accepted this condition solemnly. “I like tea,” she said. “It makes me feel grown.”
Caroline poured, offering Rebecca the first cup. “I cannot tell you how glad I am you have come,” she said serenely. “Blackheath has been…very still.”
Rebecca met her gaze with understanding. “I suspected as much.”
Elizabeth accepted her cup with both hands, blowing carefully before sipping. “It is hot,” she announced, unnecessarily.
“So it is,” Caroline agreed. “Patience is a useful skill.”
Elizabeth nodded again, then asked, “Do you have children?”
The question was innocent, unguarded. Caroline felt a familiar ache, followed swiftly by something gentler.
“Not yet,” she said. “But I hope to soon.”
Elizabeth smiled, apparently pleased. “You would be a good mama.”
Rebecca’s eyes flicked to Caroline’s face, searching. Caroline felt her cheeks warm but did not look away.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “That is kind of you to say.”
As tea progressed, conversation flowed more easily than Caroline had dared to hope.
Rebecca spoke of her home on Grosvenor Square, of Elizabeth’s fondness for drawing and stories, and—more cautiously—of her marriage.
There was no bitterness in her tone now, only a pragmatic acceptance, tempered by affection for her child.
“Nathan is not unkind,” Rebecca said, choosing her words with care. “But he is…preoccupied. With advancement. With maintaining his position.”
“And with the prince,” Caroline supplied.
Rebecca inclined her head. “Yes.”
Elizabeth, who had been busily arranging crumbs into patterns on her plate, looked up. “Papa is always busy.”
Caroline felt a pang. “Does that trouble you?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Mama is not.”
Rebecca smiled, though there was something weary in it.
The morning passed swiftly. When at last Elizabeth grew restless, Caroline rang for a maid and suggested a walk in the garden. Elizabeth sprang up at once.
“May I show you the roses?” Caroline asked.
Elizabeth grinned. “I like roses.”
As they walked together into the sunlight, Elizabeth’s hand slipped naturally into Caroline’s. The gesture was small, unconscious, and it struck Caroline with unexpected force.
The remainder of the day unfolded with a brightness Caroline had not known she missed so keenly until it was returned to her.
Elizabeth explored Blackheath as though it were a country estate newly granted to her sole possession.
She darted from room to room with breathless enthusiasm, pausing only long enough to ask permission—May I see this?
—before curiosity carried her onward. She admired the tall windows and the way the light fell across the floors, declared the staircase “excellent for echoes,” and stood solemnly before a looking-glass nearly twice her height, studying her own reflection with thoughtful gravity.
“I think this house likes me,” she announced at last.
Caroline laughed, a genuine sound that surprised her even as it escaped. “I believe you may be right.”
They took a turn about the garden after luncheon, Elizabeth skipping ahead, then doubling back to report every discovery with earnest importance. A robin hopping near the hedges. A particularly interesting stone. The soft give of the grass beneath her shoes.
“Do you walk here every day?” Elizabeth asked.
“When I am well enough,” Caroline replied.
“I shall walk with you,” Elizabeth said firmly, as though the matter were settled. “Mama says walking is good for thinking, and you look like someone who thinks a great deal.”
Rebecca caught Caroline’s eye over her daughter’s head and smiled, something like apology and pride mingled together. Caroline could only return it, her chest warm with a feeling she scarcely recognized as happiness.
By afternoon, Elizabeth had been shown her rooms and declared them “very grand, but not frightening,” which Caroline took as high praise.
She examined the small table and chairs prepared for her with delight, ran her fingers reverently along the spines of the books, and climbed onto the bed to test its comfort with a seriousness befitting the task.
“I shall sleep very well here,” she pronounced.
“I am glad,” Caroline said, touched more than she would have expected.
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Will you come tomorrow and see if I did?”
“If you wish.”
“I do.”
The day passed in this fashion—light, companionable, punctuated by Elizabeth’s observations and questions, each more perceptive than the last. Caroline found herself watching the child almost unconsciously: the way she listened intently, the care with which she chose her words, the quiet confidence that spoke of being both guided and allowed to be herself.
It stirred something deep and tender within her, a protectiveness that felt instinctive rather than learned.
By evening, Elizabeth’s energy began at last to flag. Supper was taken early and simply, Elizabeth chattering happily through most of it before yawning so enormously she startled herself.
“I think,” she said gravely, “that I am becoming tired.”
Rebecca smiled. “I had noticed.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be led away with only mild protest, pausing at the door to turn back.
“Good night, Princess Caroline.”
“Good night, Elizabeth,” Caroline replied. “Sleep well.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then crossed the room and wrapped her arms about Caroline’s waist in a swift, wholehearted embrace. Caroline stiffened in surprise for the briefest moment before instinct took over and she returned it, gently, carefully.
“I like you,” Elizabeth said, as though imparting a secret.
“I like you too,” Caroline answered, her voice very soft.
When Elizabeth was gone and the house settled into its evening quiet, Caroline and Rebecca remained together in the sitting room, the fire low and the air comfortably still.
Caroline felt full in a way that had nothing to do with food—sated by company, by laughter, by the simple presence of a child who asked nothing of her beyond attention and kindness.
“She is remarkable,” Caroline said at last.
Rebecca smiled, a little wearily now, the smile of a mother who had heard praise before but never tired of it. “She keeps me fully occupied.”
“You have done exceedingly well by her,” Caroline said, meeting Rebecca’s gaze squarely. “She is confident without being unkind, curious without being heedless. She feels…safe.” The word seemed important. “That does not happen by accident.”
Rebecca looked down at her hands for a moment. “I have tried,” she said quietly. “I wanted her to know she is valued for herself, not for what she might become.”
Caroline felt a sudden tightening in her throat. “She does,” she said simply. “It shows in everything she does.”
Rebecca reached across the small table and took Caroline’s hand. “You will be the same,” she said gently. “I see it already.”
Caroline did not speak at once. She thought of the life growing within her, of duty and distance and all that had been demanded of her. Then she thought of Elizabeth’s unguarded affection, of her certainty, of her trust.
“I hope so,” Caroline said. “Very much.”
They sat together in companionable silence for a time, the fire crackling softly, the house no longer echoing with absence but warmed by new voices and small footsteps.
When Caroline retired that night, she found that sleep came easily—untroubled, unforced. And as she drifted toward it, her last thought was not of exile or obligation, but of a dark-haired child with bright eyes who had walked into her life and made Blackheath feel, at last, a little like home.