Chapter 4
Honora had not intended to stay. That was the truth of it. She had meant to come, take Cecily, and leave before anyone had time to ask questions she could not answer. That had been the plan since the night she heard the name Belgrave at the inn.
She might have tried simply asking for the child, using her rightful claim as Cecily’s aunt. But with no proof of her relation, she knew she was as likely to be arrested as she was to get Cecily back. The only way she believed she could get Cecily and leave was by sneaking away with her.
Then, Mrs. Pritchard had opened the door and called her Miss Redmond. She had seen an opportunity that seemed safer than trying to steal Cecily and run, and she had said yes.
Two days later, she stood in the entrance hall with her gloves folded in one hand and tried very hard not to look as though she had made a mistake large enough to swallow her whole.
Mrs. Pritchard had given her the tour herself.
She was not a woman to be crossed. Honora gathered that within the first minute.
Mrs. Pritchard was neat without being fussy and brisk without being rude, with a practicality that suggested she understood that a smooth household depended on quiet authority rather than noise.
“This is the morning room,” Mrs. Pritchard said as they passed through the first set of doors. “You need not concern yourself with it unless Her Grace asks for tea there, which she often does not.”
Honora nodded, keeping her expression pleasantly neutral. “I understand.”
Mrs. Pritchard glanced back. “You need not answer every point, Miss Redmond. A nod will do unless you have a question.”
“Then I shall try to be economical.”
“A quality always appreciated in this house.”
“By His Grace?”
“By everyone who hopes to finish a morning’s work before luncheon.”
The corridor beyond was lined with portraits and dark wood paneling. Belgrave was older and larger than she had expected, and its rooms had a peculiar ordered emptiness, as if it had been long maintained by people who never quite relaxed inside its walls.
Mrs. Pritchard continued. “The kitchen is at the rear, easy enough to find by the smell of food. The nursery is upstairs, which we will get to shortly.” She paused outside a small sitting room, where a tall, bald gentleman stood just inside the door, holding a stack of papers and mulling them over with quite a bit of seriousness.
“Mr. Sayer, the steward, manages the accounts and the matters that require fewer emotions,” she said, gesturing idly toward the gentleman, who gave Honora a curt nod, barely taking his eyes off the papers to do so.
“And the Viscount Dunsmere, who is goodness knows where right this moment, comes and goes, mostly to interfere with the duke’s peace and call it assistance. ”
Honora looked at her. “I met the viscount briefly. He seems to enjoy flustering the duke.”
Mrs. Pritchard snorted.
“He is His Grace’s best friend. He manages nothing apart from his mouth, and he does not do that well.” The words were harsh, but there was a warmth that Honora did not miss. The viscount was clearly well liked, even if he could be a thorn sometimes.
Honora nodded. Had she not been so anxious, the dry humor might have amused her.
“And the duke ?”
Mrs. Pritchard’s mouth twitched. “He believes he manages himself.”
Honora had been expecting some observation like that. She said nothing.
Mrs. Pritchard glanced at her and started to look away. But she must have seen something on Honora’s face, because she paused.
“You may speak plainly here, Miss Redmond. We do not require poetry. And you have filled a position we all feared might not be reasonably filled before the poor child cried herself into sickness. You do not have to fear that anything you say will get you punished or judged.”
Honora almost smiled, though she stopped herself. “That is fortunate.”
“It is. For more than just you.”
Honora looked at her. “You are kinder than you first appear, Mrs. Pritchard.”
“Then I must be slipping.”
“I shall not tell anyone.”
“See that you do not.” Without another word, she resumed the tour.
Mrs. Pritchard introduced her to the staff one by one in the corridor outside the nursery suite. A younger maid, who was introduced to her as Susan Ross, red-haired and freckled, nodded shyly.
“I can help with laundry any time you need, Miss,” she said, her voice as soft and warm as her wide gray eyes.
Honora nodded, smiling warmly for the first time since she arrived.
“Thank you, Miss Ross,” she said.
The maid blushed bashfully.
“You can just call me Susan,” she said. “We are all servants, after all.”
Honora nodded, swallowing, testing her false name before speaking it aloud again.
“Then call me Phoebe,” she said, hating the taste of bile that followed it.
The maid nodded, then quickly vanished. A moment later, an older footman with thin gray hair and a round belly carried a stack of folded linens past them and looked at Honora as though he was trying to remember whether he had seen her before.
Honora dipped her head, hoping she was imagining the intensity with which he studied her.
“Hello,” she said. “I am Phoebe Redmond. The new nursemaid.”
The man’s eyes studied her face as understanding filled his eyes. Perhaps he had only been trying to figure out who she was.
“George Benson,” he said with a stiff nod before he, too, disappeared.
Mrs. Pritchard nodded, leading Honora to a set of stairs.
“Let me show you to the nursery.”
Honora nodded once more, the words catching before she could force them out. The thought of seeing Cecily again filled her with too much joy for a new nursemaid, so she fought herself to remain calm as she followed the housekeeper up the stairs and to the nursery.
Mrs. Pritchard opened the door. Honora had been in there previously, but she was not prepared for what she saw. She stopped in the threshold. Everything in the room was new.
There had been a makeshift crib before, and nothing else.
Now, however, there was a brand new crib, curtains, a low chair by the fire, a washstand, and folded cloths by the hearth.
Nothing looked as though it had been dragged from storage or borrowed from some forgotten room.
It had been chosen quickly, but not carelessly.
Honora stared. She had expected the duke to be like many wealthy, titled society members would be and ignore, or even get rid of, Cecily. After all, if the child’s own grandfather could send her away so quickly, why should a duke who knew nothing about her show her more mercy?
Instead, she saw care and consideration, as though the duke had not been unwilling to help the child, but unsure of what he should do until the previous night.
“His Grace arranged all this?” Honora asked before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Pritchard looked at her sidelong. “He gave the orders.”
“That is not quite the same thing.”
“No,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “It is not. He chose the crib himself.”
Honora turned back to the small bed, startled despite herself. “He did?”
“Badly, at first. He thought the largest one must be best.”
Honora almost smiled. “For an infant?”
“I corrected him.”
“Bravely done.”
Mrs. Pritchard’s mouth twitched. “Frequently necessary.”
Honora looked at the room again, at the folded cloths and warm fire and blankets ready within reach. His effort was genuine, she thought, which unsettled her more than the room itself. It was easier to distrust a careless man. And the duke was clearly not careless.
Mrs. Pritchard spoke quietly beside her. “There is a basin in the washroom if you need it, and extra blankets in the cupboard. If there is anything else you need, His Grace has instructed me to see to it that you have it.”
Honora’s throat closed again. “Thank you,” she replied.
Mrs. Pritchard gave her a brief glance. “The baby is in the crib. She woke an hour ago and has been in good temper since.”
Honora stepped toward the crib. Cecily lay there with one arm flung above her head and the other curled around a small blanket. Her dark hair was mussed. Her cheeks were pink. She was staring at the ceiling with the solemn concentration of someone considering very serious matters of state.
Mrs. Pritchard stepped back and closed the nursery door behind her without saying another word. As the latch clicked, Cecily turned her head. The baby’s face changed, brightening with immediate recognition. A little sound escaped her, soft and pleased, and both arms began to move.
Honora gave a small, helpless laugh and gathered her up at once.
“Look at you,” she cooed, grateful to finally have a moment alone with her niece. “They are taking such good care of you.”
Cecily babbled against her shoulder, gripping Honora as though she might disappear if she did not.
Honora sat down on the floor with her niece without thinking. The rug was soft beneath her skirt. The nursery fire crackled quietly. The room felt warm in a way the rest of the house had not. Cecily’s weight in her arms was solid and real and somehow almost unbearable in its ordinary comfort.
Honora lowered her head and shut her eyes for a moment.
She had planned to leave before dawn. Cecily patted her shoulder with one small hand.
Honora pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
She could worry about her next move later.
Right then, she needed to hold Cecily close.
She needed time to feel as though all was right once more.
She did not know how much time had passed when the door opened again a little later. She looked up at once, one arm tightening around Cecily before she could stop herself. His Grace stood in the doorway.
He wore a dark coat and a white shirt, though one cuff was not properly fastened, and his hair looked as though his fingers had passed through it only once. He carried a folded newspaper in one hand, and for a moment, he simply stood there and looked at the room.