Chapter 4 #2
Thelma met the housekeeper’s sharp gaze.
“I understand that you are responsible for the smooth running of the entire household, Mrs. Ames. I am responsible for the baby. I am to use the servants’ stairs, stay out of the family’s private rooms unless I am invited, and do my work quietly.
If I do my job well, no one should notice me. If I do it poorly, everyone will.”
Mrs. Ames remained silent for a long moment, those hazelnut eyes assessing her carefully. Finally, she gave a small, satisfied nod. “You learn quickly. That is good.” She reached forward and pushed open the nursery door. “The baby is in here with Mrs. Cooper. I will leave you now to settle in.”
Thelma stepped inside the nursery and stopped just past the threshold.
She took a moment to take it in. Earlier she’d been so focused on Liliana that she hadn’t paid enough attention.
She hadn’t realized then that the room was not at all what she had expected.
She had pictured something cold and bare, a space that treated a child like an unwelcome obligation rather than a person.
Instead, she found it to be a warm, thoughtfully prepared room.
The walls were painted a soft, gentle cream that caught the afternoon light beautifully.
Blue curtains hung at the windows, and a comfortable rocking chair sat near one of them with a thick knitted blanket draped over its back.
The crib was made of fine, polished wood that looked brand new.
Against the far wall stood a small bookshelf already stocked with colorful picture books, a wooden train set, and a stuffed rabbit that looked remarkably similar to the one Liliana had left behind at home.
Someone put all of this together almost overnight, Thelma thought. Someone chose the curtains, the blanket, the books. Someone cared enough to hurry.
The realization unsettled her. She had not expected this level of care from a man who had received an unexpected baby on his doorstep.
Mrs. Cooper was sitting in the rocking chair with Liliana on her lap.
The baby was awake but quiet, her gray eyes fixed on the window with a distant, overwhelmed expression.
Her small face looked tired, the way it always did when too many changes had come too quickly, and she no longer knew how to handle them.
“Miss Hartley,” Mrs. Cooper said, rising to her feet. “I hope your tour of the house went well. The baby has already been fed and changed. She has not cried much today, which is a definite improvement. Yesterday she cried for nearly three hours straight, and I nearly lost my mind.”
Thelma crossed the room before she could stop herself.
She reached out and gently lifted Liliana from Mrs. Cooper’s arms. The baby melted against her chest immediately, going soft and heavy in that familiar way she always did.
Liliana’s small fist curled tightly into Thelma’s collar as she let out a tiny, contented sigh, the sound she only ever made when she felt truly safe.
I am here, Thelma thought, pressing her cheek lightly against the baby’s soft hair. I am here now, and I am not leaving you again.
She lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged right there on the rug instead of taking the rocking chair or the small settee.
Liliana settled happily in her lap and looked up at her.
For a brief moment, Thelma thought she saw a spark of recognition in those gray eyes.
Then Liliana reached up, grabbed a handful of Thelma’s hair, and gave it a firm yank.
“Ow!”
Liliana let out a delighted gurgle. It was not a full laugh yet, but it was close, a happy, bubbling sound that warmed Thelma straight through. It was the first truly happy noise she had heard from the baby in days.
Mrs. Cooper stared at them in open surprise. “She has not laughed once since she arrived here.”
“She laughs when you make funny faces at her,” Thelma said without thinking. “And when you tickle the bottoms of her feet. And especially when you pretend to eat her toes.”
Mrs. Cooper blinked. “How do you know that?”
Thelma’s heart stuttered. Too much. You are saying far too much.
“I have worked with many children before,” she replied quickly, keeping her voice light. “They are all quite similar at this age, more or less.”
Mrs. Cooper seemed to accept the explanation. She gathered her belongings and gave a small shrug. “Well, I am off then. Good luck to you, Miss Hartley. You will certainly need it with this one.”
She left the room and closed the door softly behind her.
Thelma let out a long, shaky breath. For the first time since she had stepped into Langley Hall, she was completely alone with Liliana. She hugged the baby closer, breathing in her familiar scent, and felt some of the tight fear in her chest finally begin to loosen.
Thelma sat on the floor of the nursery and held her niece close.
She did not cry, even though every part of her wanted to.
She wanted to sob until her chest hurt. She wanted to scream at the walls.
She wanted to find her father and shake him until he understood exactly what he had done by sending Liliana away.
But she did none of those things. She stayed very still and let Liliana play with strands of her hair, twisting them between tiny fingers. All the while, she tried to figure out what she should do next.
Leave tonight, she told herself. Take her and slip out through the service gate at the north end of the garden. No one will see you in the dark.
Yet the nursery was so warm. The new crib stood polished and ready. Someone had chosen those soft blue curtains, the thick knitted blanket, and the stuffed rabbit that looked almost identical to the one Liliana had left behind. Someone had gone to real trouble.
Someone cared, she thought. Someone who did not have to care at all.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. They were a man’s footsteps, steady and unhurried. The door opened.
The Duke of Langley walked in.
Thelma noticed against her will how handsome he was. She had seen it briefly when she first arrived, but she had been too nervous then to truly look. Now she took him in more carefully.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark chestnut hair that looked as though he had run his hands through it more than once. His gray-green eyes watched her with an expression she could not quite read.
He was carrying a book under one arm.
“Miss Hartley,” he said.
“Your Grace.”
He took in the scene. Her sitting on the floor. Liliana comfortable in her lap. The baby’s small fist tangled tightly in Thelma’s hair. His expression remained mostly neutral, but she noticed a subtle shift in his posture.
“You are on the floor,” he observed.
“The floor is comfortable, Your Grace.”
“It is a floor.”
“It is a very clean floor. Your housekeeper is quite thorough.”
He studied her for another moment. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself into the straight-backed chair by the window. He did not choose the rocking chair. He picked the hard, formal one that faced the crib. He opened his book and began to read as if he had every right to be there.
Thelma stared at him in disbelief.
What is he doing?
She had expected him to inspect her work. She had expected questions, perhaps even suspicion. She had prepared herself for him to hover and watch her every move to make sure she was suitable. She had not expected him to simply sit down and read as though he had all the time in the world.
Liliana made a small sound. The duke glanced up from his pages. His eyes moved from the book to the baby, and his face softened just a little. The change was subtle, but Thelma noticed it immediately.
He loves her, she realized. He has only known her for a few days, and he already loves her.
That was a problem. A very big problem.
She had come here expecting a man who did not want the child. She had pictured someone cold and careless who would hand Liliana off to servants and forget about her. Taking the baby from a man like that would have been simple. She would have felt justified, even righteous.
But this man sat quietly in an uncomfortable chair and read his book while staying close to the baby. This man had assembled a nursery overnight. This man cared.
A good man was much harder to steal from than a bad one.
She thought about the lie she had told at the door.
She had convinced herself it was necessary.
She still believed it had been necessary.
But necessity had a way of feeling much cleaner before you sat across from the person you were deceiving and watched him worry quietly about a baby he had known for two days.